Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 13, 1900, Page 6

2 ~t TOS CSCC TT TTS COCO EY Tees A SIREN’S VICTIMS By Frances Warner Walker. GAQRKA AMAA NH HHRM QA RHNHM AAAI OY CUAPTER XIX. (Continued.) Helen had seen Harvey Barclay but ence. He had made no opposition to her scheme, but had deemed the plan / wise, he said, though he should miss | her every hour. “Don't worry about the note,” he add- ed. “I think I can arrange that, Hel- en; but if the worst comes to the} worst, and the exposure must fall on | your husband or me, you will not hesi- tate my girl, which way to direct the blow? I may trust you?” | “Yes,” she answered. } But her lips were white, and involun- { tarily she felt that.in all her past no ; page was so black as yet might be in- | gerted in the unbound yolume of her future She had given the reins of her pas- sion into this man’s hands, and though She knew them black, un end relentless, sh: would not h @n them into her ow2 guidance though | | ehe cculd, On this last day he came to add his ishes with the rest. One mo- enly could s sce him alone. ‘To-morrow ?” e whispered. “I could not renew the note,” he an- swered. “The blow must fall. But,” he added, with a smile, “I scarcely think, Helen, that we shall be the vic- tim: ‘Desperate diseases require des- | Perate remedics,’ ma chere, and this disease is very virulent. We won't hes- | State at the means of cure?” Before she could reply to him Grace ; fhad cntered the room. She greeted him coldly ; but as he left, he took her unwilling hand and eid it a moment in his warm grasp, as he said, in a tone so low that only her ear could catch the words: ~-You may stand in need of the friend- ship, I fear, Miss Hawthorne, that 1 have rudely forfeited. If time should prove me right, I shall count upon your remembrance of me as the highest pledge of forgiveness for a fault I nev- @r cxun forgive myself.” Before she had realized that his sen- @ences was concluded, he bowed and Was gone. “But the memory of his words.re- mained and left a heaviness and de- pression, a sense of uneasiness, and a dim presentiment of coming evil, which had weighed upon her all the day. As Helen left the room she rose from where she had been sitting, and, cross- fmg to the fire, stood for a moment fooking into its flame-pictures; then, festing her foldei arms upon the man- tel, she bowed her head upon them with @ weary sob. She did not hear the step upon the soft carpet behind her, though its tread ‘was manly and firm, until an arm en- @ircled her waist, and a voice which | fade every pulse in her leap into life, poke her own name in tender question- “Grace, dear,” said Harry, “what is troubling you? I have seen its signs, Pussie, though I dare not speak. You have shut me out of late from your onfidence, dear—almost, I have some- times fancied, from your heart—so far @ut in the cold and darkness that IL fave had to look back on the light of the past to guide me through the -pres- €nt darkness. Won't you believe me when I si that I have never willihgly @inned against you? and that never, in @ll your child-life, dear, were you so gear to me as when to-day, before I feave you, I must risk still further your anger and estrangement by asking you to give me one promise—that you will im no way pledge yourself to Harvey Barclay before’ my return?” Before his utterance of this name his words, his caress, had been to her like fe sweet echo of a strain of music om the long ago. . The tears she had so rarely let escape their source had fallen thick and fast; but now she dashed them back, and, Hifting her head, looked full into his eyes. “Why do you ask me that?” she said. “How has Harvey Barclay sinned @gainst you?” “He is not worthy of you, Grace,” he @nswered, earnestly. It is your for- fune, not yourself, he craves. He is a gambler, my child; and, believe me, I @m not speaking without. proof and knowledge. The former, on my return, I will put in your own hands. I am to be away but a little while. Surely, he fas not grown so deat to you that you eannot brook this delay before pledg- fng yourself for life?” A shrill laugh, as much unlike her merry laughter as the cry of the night- hawk to the thanksgiving of the lark for the Gawn, burst from the girl's lips, White and Crawn with pain. “So he is a gambler?” she said, scorn- fully. “And this makes him unfit to jpire to the hand of an honest woman? i And you have proof—conclusive proof— ef his guilt? Perhaps you saw him lay. Once before, you remember, you iinted at this. But I do not take ad- , vice kindly, Harry. See to it that the , gaming tables abroad hold no attrac- . tion for you. See to it that the fault | you so pitilessly condemn in others may ' mot wreck a woman's happiness!”’ | “Grace ?’’—his voice, in its note of in- | quiry, rang out clear and stern—‘“has @ny one been maligning me to you? Is | this the weapon which this man holds?” | “Mr. Barclay never mentions your | ™ame,” she answered. “And now,” she | e@dded, wearily, “let us drop his.” j “And you refuse me the promise 1 ; fhave asked? Grace, can you my eyes and swear to me that mot learned love’s lesson?” He could have put to her no more @ruel question. Ah, was the past so ut- | terly-forgotten by him that he could. have no intuition of the pail it might , yet be to her? He who had taught her love's lesson from its earliest alphabet, | ignored his claims or passed it to an- | ether? Z i “I ‘swear not at all,’’ ‘she answered, | ith a laugh that now had lost its! rdness, but held the scund of bitter | Gears. “Better, far better,” thought the suf- ; @ering heart, ‘‘that he should believe it | ssed into another’s keeping, than i yal to the old allegiance, when loyalty | Qwas sin.” 4 : jook into | ou have ; CHAPTER XX. “Grace!” Something in the sound of her own name, as it penetrated through the closed door of Grace Hawthorne’s room, caused her to spring quickly from her chair, where she had been wrapped in idle reverie, and running across the floor, respond in person to the sum- mons. It was the morning of the day that Harry Reynolds and his wife were to sail. They had reached New York the evening previous. Had some disaster befallen them? Was their second wed- ding journey to be rudely interrupted? “Grace!” called Edgar Reynold’s voice again, and again the girl shud- dered as its ‘note of alarm, mingled with excitment and impatience fell, up- on her ear. Her guardian stood at the foot of the broad staircase, Her first glance proved to her that her fears were not within foundation. He was very pale, and a white paper trembled visibly in the trembling hand which held it. She felt the blood desert her own face as she hastened down to his side. Doubtless it was a telegram from the absent ones. Harry was ill, dying, per- haps, and she had parted from him in coldness, if not in anger. Her heart stood still as the shadow of an awfy) dread fell upon it. * “Come into my study quickly,’ spoke her guardian. Mechanically she followed him. Why did he delay by holding, back the blow? Why not let it fall at once? Another moment's suspense would drive her mad! the door, and draw the bolt, befor tell- ing her the awful truth? Must not the whole household know it soon? Harry was dead! Harry was deaa! and she had told him yesterday that it was he who, on a moonlight night, in a little, simple allegory, had taught her love's lesson, and that she loved him still. White and trembling with the awful pallor, and the nervous trembling of old age. Edgar Reynolds held out to her tHe piece of paper that he held. Why should he force her to look? Did she not know its contents? “Read!” she cried, aloud, and the young voice had lost its youth, and held only the vibration of her soul's agony. “He is dead! I know—I know! Oh, my love—my love!” She did not know that this last bitter ery would escape her. She scarcely knew she uttered it, but Edgar Rey- nolds listening, learned the truth. His fears of long ago had been no idle fan- cy. Bravely as the child had hid her heart, her heart-wound had been mor- | tal. Her betrayal, unconscious though it was, was to him so pitiful, that, for the instant, it shut out the present—its own terrible-enough realities. He hast- ened to reassure her. “My darling, no harm has happened to Harry. “I wished you, dear, on an- other errand. Read this paper, and you will understand. The bank to which it was presented for payment held no such balance, and, closely examining your signature, they send the note to me to verify it, with the usual notice accom- panying it.” His voice, as he addressed to his ward this explanation, sounded like some- one speaking from afar. Her eyes were fixed on the slip of pa- per he held toward her, but and it was a cloud of darkness. She could distinguish no line, no word. Harry was not dead; no harm had happened to him. Was she not, then, strong enough to meet whatever else fate held in store for her? Slowly the blood came back to her heart, from which it had receded; slow- ly it let the pulse once more beat under its strong tide, which for the moment its want had palsied. The sight returned to her eyes, and this was what she saw: A premise, three months from date of January 2, to pay $55,000 to one Moses Abraham, and signed “Grace Haw- thorne.” Once having read the paper, though failing utterly to comprehend its pur- port, she fcund in it a singular fasci- nation. © She read it and re-read it; but al- ways on the signature her glance rested longest. When and where had she signed such a note? What did it mean? Was it her promise to pay this amount, and to whom? But the bank, with keener eyes than hers, had doubted that her hand had traced the letters of her own name, What, then, did it mean? How came it there? If not her own, it was a forg- ery—a forgery some hardened criminal | had perpetrated. She opened her lips to speak. Her reason was returning. A sense of in- dignation at this outrage was making itself felt and inspired her with new strength. “I never saw this paper; the bank is ‘ right,” she was about to say, when her uncle spoke again, and, turning the pa- per over, revealed to her the first of the names by which it was endorsed—the signature of Harvey Barclay. To Grace the name was a revelation of the whole. All Mr. Barclay’s insin- | uations-—his threats, his proffers of aid —were explained to her. Her mind, a minute before clouded and misty, was now as clear as before it had been dark. Looking back upon the one awful mo- ment when the supposed truth had burst upon her, it seemed to have stretched itself into an eternity. She was as one who falls asleep and dreams a dream, in which they live long years—filled with incident, anll of which is fresh, and vivid and detailed, and wake up to find their slumber has | lasted but the twentieth part, perhaps, of a little period of rentless Time we term an hour. t Five minutes more, and one voiceless prayer had risen from her soul to heav- en’s throne, that her awful fear for him whom she loved ‘might not be realizec ‘Well, her prayer was answered. Har- ry lived, to bear forevermore the clank- ing skeleton of his perished honor. Who had so often traced her name but him? She recognized it now. On one letter only he ever failed. One letter bore the trace of his own charac- teristic hand. She had often laughed as it would creep in. It marked the “a” and the “r,’”” ‘ * Then, as when in old age some scene of childhood,. long-forgotten, suddenly stands out upon the retina of our mem- oreis, there came to her that scene of a long month ago, when Harry, carelessly writing her name in imitation of her own hand, had asked would she be mer- ciful, and not give him up to the law, should he make use of it? He had planned it, then—so long ago planned it, deliberately fortifying him- self with her assurance that she would screen him from the possible result of his own act. He had even sought to further guard himself by lowcring, in her eyes, the man whom, doubtless, he had deceived, and yet who suspected the deceit. “Of course it is a forgery, Grace,” said Mr. Reynolds, his whole form trembling with excitement. And then she knew that she must speak—must look into the eyes of him who watched her so earnestly and let the first falsehood which had ever sullied her lips pass them, Could she speak the truth? Better let him believe of her what he would. She did not bear his name. He should never know that priud old name was tarnished and dishonored by the son who had inherited it. It is no forgery, Uncle Edgar,” she said, bravely. Grace? Who have you been shielding? Her name was all that he could utter in reply. “It is no forgery,” she resolutely re- peated. “I must ask you to trust me, Uncle Edgar,” she continued, ‘however hard it may seem to you. And now, what must be done to meet this note? for, at any sacrifice, Uncle Edgar, it must be met.” ° “For whem did you do this thing, his life you feared 0 moment ago when on the back of the paper. “It was for she Why did he first carefully close | Grace? Who have you been shielding? It is this man!” striking the signature on the back of the paper. “It was for his life you feared a moment ago, I thought you spoke of Harry. It is he is he whom you leve!” gj “I did it for his sake, Uncle Edgar,” she answered, quietly. ‘Will you help me, and will you keep my secret? Oh, Uncle Edgar, speak to me!” But for orce her appeal to him—who loved her as a father—brought no re- sponse. White and drawn, Edgar Reynold’s face seemed suddenly to have aged ten years, as he sank into a chair and his head fell back among its cushions. Two hours tater, as Harry Reynolds and his wife were about to step into the carriage to take them to the Cunard pier, a servant of the hotel followed him and handed him a telegram. It contained this message: “Your father is dangerously ill. must return home at once. It was signed Grace Hawthorne; but this time the signature was no forgery. You CHAPTER XXI. “If Mr. Berclay calls, Andrew I will see him. Admit no one else.” The old butler bowed respectfully as he received his young mistress’ orders, but shook his head as he found him- self alone. “It is not him as old Andrew ’d like to see weer the swcetest flower that ever growed!” he muttered to himself; “and she must be mighty fend of him, or shc’d not see him when the old master’s dying.” Yes, it had come to that. In his own | room, to which he kad borne a heip- | less weight, Edgar Reynolds ley so ill that they fearel his strength would never rally. aA few hours after his seizure—doubt- less inevitable, but hastened by sudden excitemert—and the sending of the tele- gram, whch had reached Harry Rey- nolds just in time to prevent his sail- ing, Grace had written a few lines, whicl. she had dispatched by private messenger to their destination. They were addressed to Harvey Bar- clay, and they implored him to lose no time in calling upon her. ~ Up and down her room she paced while awaiting him. She row clearly urdersiood his once mysteriously-utter- ed threats. Had he, then, known the signature a forgery when he accepted the note? and if so, did his knowledge, if he chose to expose it, place Harry within the cruel pale of the law? She knew so little of the law and its working, and she could ask no one for counsel or for aid in this the most terrible emergency of her life. Afiother dread fear possessed her. If the funds in bank were insufficient to meet this amount, how should she raise the sum? She knew as little of the manner in which her money was invested as she | knew of the law, and her guardian was too ill to allow of any appeal to him. | . And Harry had fied from it all! Yes, by the light of all these latter discov- eries, the contemplated trip to Europe seemed actual flight. He had not only done the deed, but dared not face its consequences. How unlike Harry! How strangely unlike the brave, bright boy, whose honest eyes had seemed to mir- ror Py honest soul, and to whose | hand the little child, finding herself among strangers, so trustingly had clung, feeling herself strange no long- er. How cculd she reconcile the present with the past? She could not. It yet might be made clear on his return. He yet might scatter the dense mist which had settled so thickly about his honor. Oh, if he would but come! But—her heart almost stopped beating as the new possibility occurred to her—might he not refuse to return? Oh, surely, | surely he would know that he might | trust her! Why—why had she ever had | the money which thus converted it- self into a curse? ‘| i A knock came to her door. “Captain Barclay, Miss Grace,” said old Andrew, as she opened it. “Law, Miss Grace: but you do look white!” he added, as his eyes fell on her face. She made him no answer, but brush- ing past him, ran hastily dewn the stairs. Harvey Barclay stood tn the wide heh rite the doors leading into the rawing rocm and library si “g | on either side. of: cae is She turned toward the former, motioning him to follow her, and walk- ing swiftly through it into the music- room beyond. Here ske paused, standing, all uncon- sciously as she had stood on the day she had challenged him as to the in- terpretation of his threat, with one hand resting on the piano for support. She drew a long, dep rbetha n . vad Shc drew a long, deep breath, as if to inspire herself with courage. Before her was a hard task, and she must not flinch. She had played with life until to-day. Now life was about to play with her. She had need of all her strergth to meet the conflict. “We are secure from interruption here,” she said, after a very little until, almost imperceptible pause. “You see that I have sent for you, Mr. Barclay. Have you guessed why?” “T understund that Mr. Reynolds has been taken very ill, Miss Hawthorne.. I am more than honored that you should have remembered me, and beg that you will command my services in any way.” “Don't make explanations harder for me, Mr. Barclay,” she replied. “Uncle Edgar is very ill; but there is more than this. You—you accepted a note some time since for Harry which— which I signed. Will you tell me if it was to you alone he owed this large amount? or what may be the claim of this other man whose name is indorsed upon it?” Harvey Barclay’s lips trembled be- neath his mustache, and his pale cheeks grew paler. The time had come when he could no longer shift responsibility, but must act, and act fearlessly and boldly. The girl dealt with facts as facts. She had a clear, straighforward way of looking at the truth, and fore- ing others to view it from her own standpoint. In her own nature was no subterfuge—no need of subterfuge. Its utter absence disarmed her enemies. There was one tiny moment when something in Harvey Barclay’s.nature rebelled at Harvey Barclay’s self—the something which had tempted him once to say, “I was not born a villain, but fate has made me one!’’—something which cried out to him to throw off this hideous mask he wore, and, looking in the young, beautiful and anguished face before him, kneel at her feet and, avow- ing all his fault, sue for her pardon and her mercy. But, even as the thought was formed, it was scattered. Should he throw away the prize he held at last within his grasp? Once his wife, he,might avow to her the truth. “You ask me a very difficult question, Miss Hawthorne,” he said, speaking with evident effort. “Surely, when you signed,” emphasizing the word, ‘that note, Mr. Reynolds explained to you its purpose?” “No,” she answered, and the false- hood brought the color momentarily back to her face. ‘“He—he only said that he had need of my signature, ana I—I gave it to him. He knew that all my fortune was and js at his disposal. He had no need to make explanation for its use. “You dre most generous, Miss Haw- thorne," replied her hearer, with a searcely perceptible sneer. “And, pare don me, you are very young; but may I ask why you consider it necessary to come to me for explanation, since you desired none from him?” ‘Only, Mr. Barclay, because, most un- expectedly, owing to my guardian’s ill- ness, I find myself called upon to act for myself. The bank officials were foolish enough to fancy they detected some inaccuracy in the signature ot this note, and sent to make sure that it was mine. They may be reassured on that point at once. My uncle was tak- en ill while their messenger was wait- ing. I simply told him that the signa- ture was mine, and that I wished the note paid at once. He returned not long after, stating that my balance in bank represented but half the actual amount. Until Uncle Edgar is better, I hardly know how to make provision for the rest; and so I sent for you, Mr. Barclay, to ask if you were Harry’s only creditor, if there was not some way by which you could extend the time of payment for the sum I have, in my ignorance of business matters, left unprovided for?” “Suppose, Grace,” he answered, very slowly, fixing his eyes on her face as he spoke, ‘“‘that I tell you I have some rea- son to share the suspicions of the bank, and that mine are not so easily laid to rest? Suppose I acknowledge to you that I believe this signature of yours to be a forgery—a forgery cleverly perpe- trated by one who boasted, in my pres- ence, of his ability to sign your name; who, in my presence, asked you to spare him the punishment consequent upon such an act. You premised—did you not? And to-day—to me—you take the first step toward redeeming your word. But, my child, you cannot deceive me. I know the truth.” Grace’s face was no longer pale; it was ghastly. Her worst fears had tak- en actual shape. No danger threaten- ing herself could have made of her a coward; but this was danger to Harry, danger to him she loved-~danger which, to reach him, must pass through her heart. Yet, with all her soul scorning him, her love refused to lower its proud erest ever so little. Judgment, reason, alike denied him. Her heart still ac- knowledged him. A piteous expression of fear crept into her deep-blue eyes, and quivered about the corners of her lovely mouth. “It-it is false, what you say, said, at last, with a painful effort. “I- I sigred the note. I swéar it!” “Then you will not fear to avow and proye’ this fact in court, Miss Haw- thorne?” he answered, coldly. “Grace,” said Harvey, and now a new tenderness had crept into his tone, “you are deceiving yourself, child. Do not try to deceive me. You remember that, standing in this room, some weeks ago, I uttered what seemed to you a ground- less threat. Gladly would I recall it, since I would ever shield you from, not cause you pain; but the facts which made its groundwork remain. There is one way, and one way alone, by which you can save Harry Reynolds from the consequences of his act. No; do not in- terrupt.me. Later I will give you the proof of my knowledge that this sig- nature is a forgery. That proof, that knowledge, I am willing should remain forever locked in my heart, but on one condition, Grace—on one condition only.” “And that?” she questioned, though her voice was almost inarticulate, and the whisper barely escaped her lip: “That you will become my wife!” he answered. | ‘She heard him as in a dream. She had not needed the words to shape his | thought—already she had read it. Far- ther and farther she shrank away from him, and this hideous alternative he had preserited to her. f A new feeling of almost loathing took possession of her. She put up her hands as if to be sure that he would not ap- proach nearer her by.a step. “Wait! wait!” she gasped. time!” “I am waiting,” he replied. But he answered with a cruel smile upon his lips. (To Be Continued.) “Give me CLAD IN ASHROUD, HE SAT UP. How an Unconscious Contractor Came to Startle His Friends by + Postponing His Death. Henry Ganzert, a contractor thirty- six years old, was struck upon the head by a forty-pound hammer at the Richmond locomotive works early last week. He was unconscious until Fri- day, when the doctors pronounced him dead. His brother, who lives in the ° North, was telegraphed to come to Richmond. Friends went to work to prepare the body for burial, and the coffin was or- dered. While they were engaged in the work of shrouding the suppossu corpse signs of life were discovered, and very soon Ganzert was able to sit up, in a semi-conscious condition, but could give no account of the experi- ence he had suffered. He lived until Monday morning, but did not regain consciousness. The body will be buried to-morrow afternoon.— Richmond (Va.) Special to Philadelphia Record. i For Long Necks. It is no longer fashionable to have any trimming at the back of the collar, but women who have long necks, or whose necks are beginning to Iook thin, find it a great advantage to tie a piece of tulle around the neck with a bow at the back. This gives a pretty finish to a stiff ribbon stock collar, and is al- most invariably becoming. Only white or black tulle should be used. For evening, the same thing is often seen worn even with a jeweled collar or a handsome necklace, and it seems to soften any hard lines in a most satis- factory fashion. Boas and ruches worn around the neck are very soft, but not very full, unless intended for quite cool weather. A pretty one is made of liberty satin or chiffon, trimmed with bands of white lace, and with a little pleated edge of chiffon. This fastens at the throat, and has Iong ends with edged with lace that hang down in front of the gown.—Harper’s Bazar. The Earmarks of an Exquisite Giri. An exquisite young woman is she whose dress and hair and skin indicate the most scrupulous attention to the daily toilet. We have learned that bathing and rubbing and care for per- sonal cleanliness, the nicety which dis- tinguishes the lady, and adorns her for her station, are the handmaids not of health alone, but of beauty; and where is the young girl who. despises beauty? For the business girl and the girl whose daily employment is close and ccnfining, nothing can be better than that she emulate the dainty gir! in her everyday care for her dress and appearance, and in frequent cleansing of the skin by frequent bathing and vigorous friction, and by keeping her self and all her belongings as dainty as she possibly can.—Ladies’ Home Jour- nal. As a Matter of Course. “Now, boys, when I ask you a ques- tion you mustn’t be afraid to speak right out and answer me,” said a Sun- day school superintendent. “When you look around you and see all those fine houses, farms and cattle, do you ever think who owns them all now? Your fathers own them, do they not?” “Yes, sir,” answered a hundred voices. “Well, where will your fathers be thirty years from now?” “Dead!” shouted the boys. “That's right. And who will own the property?” “Us boys!” shouted the urchins. “Right. Now, tell me—did you ever, in going along the street, notice the drunkards lounging around the saloon door, waiting for some one to treat then?” “Yes, sir, lots of them.” “Well, where will they be thirty years from now?” “Dead!” exclaimed the boys. “And who will be the drunkards then?” ‘ “Us boys!” shouted the unabashed youngsters.—Scottish American. Riley’s Story of the Twins. Oliver Herford repeats with great delight a story James Whitcomb Riley tells about twins. These particular twins lived near Mr. Riley out in Indi- anapolis. Once, not very long ago, one of them was naughty, and to punish her, her mother made her stay indoors all day. To add a keener edge to her disgrace, favors were showered upon her ‘sister. Sister was dressed up in her very best. Sister was given a new parasol, and went prancing up and down the front walk in the greatest glee. Presently one of the neighbors came by and paused at the gate to speak to the child. “You're one of the Brown twins, aren't you?’ asked the neighbor. “Yes'm,”answered the little girl. “Which twin are you?” the neighbor inquired. The child gave her skirts a proud toss. “Oh,” she said, complacently, “I'n. the good little twin that’s out walk- ing.” 3 Mother’s Idea. “Mistuh,” said the colored woman, who was leading by the hand one of the tiniest pickaninnies that ever grew, “does you ’spec’ I could git dis chile a chance to work in dat census build- ing?” “Why, he isn’t big enough to earn a salary.” “I doesn’t want ’im to git no salary. It’s his smallness that makes me want- er git ’im de place. He's de backward- es’ chilé "bout growin’ I ever did see, an’ I was in hopes dat if I could git him in de hot sun under dat glass roof, I could fohce ’im along a little, same as if he was a radish or a tomato.”— Washington Star. A Winning Card. > y “The pastor of the church has been trying to boss the choir for six weeke, ““What did they do?” “Get ns whe to Join."—Harper's Letters of Introduction. | “{ aisapprove of letters of introduction,” said an elderly New Orleans business man, to the Times Democrat anecdotist, “and I won't give one under any cir- cumstances. They are bad form and border close on downright impertinence. What right have I, for example to thrust a perfect stranger on my friend John Smith of Memphis or Chattanooga, with- out having at least asked Mr Smith's permission or ascertained whether the in- troduction would be mutually agreeable? Then, again, such letters always mean either too little or too much. Most of us give them almost as freely as we give good advice, without the least idea of in- curring any responsibility; yet a letter of introduction is, or ought to be, an abso- lute indorsement of the bearer, and the recipient would be justified in holding the writer strictly accountable for any abuse of his hospitality. I believe this view is unassailable, but I must confess I stopped writing letters of introduction myself on account of a little contretemps that has nothing to do with the proprieties of the question. It happened in this way: A certain friend asked me to give a letter to a young Englishman, introducing him to a former business partner of mine, now liv- ing in Louisville. I didn’t want to do it, but lacked moral courage to refuse; so 1 wrote two letters—one the introduction requested and the other a brief note tu the Louisville man, explaiaing the cir- cumstances and saying that I didn’t really know whether the Englishman was a gentleman or a horsethief. Two days later I got a telegram from my old part- ner, saying that he had received a letter of introduction by mail and was at a loss to know what to make of if. I had put the two inclosures in the wrong en- velopes, and had given the English the private note of reputation.” “I sup- pose he read it, of course,” remarked some one in the group of listeners. “That’s just what has beeen troubling me ever since,”’ replied the old merchant; “I dont know whether he did or not. He presented it without turning a hair, and if he knew the contents he certainly made no sign. At least that ts the report of my friend, who was so surprised when he ran his eye over the epistle that he nearly fet out of his chair. All this happened four years ago, and I haven't written a letter of introduction since. I wouldn't meet that Englishman again for a thou- sand-dollar bill, because, if JF did, I wouldn't know whether to shake hands or get ready to fight.” Notes from the Paris Exposition. “The Singer Manufacturing Com- pany, of 149 Broadway, New York, show their usual American enterprise by having a very creditable exhibit, located in Group XIII, Class 79, at the Paris International Exposition, where they show to great advantage the eele- trated Singer Sewing-Machine which ts used in every country on the globe, both for family use and for manufac- turing purposes. The writer was high- ly pleased with this display and ob- served with much satisfaction that it was favorably commented upon by visitors generally. The Grand Prize was awarded by the International Jury to Singer Sew- ing-Machines for superior excellence 4m design, construction, efficiency and for remarkable development and adap- tion to every stitching process used im either the family or the factory. Only One Grand Prize for sewing machines was awarded at Paris, and this distinction of absolutely superior merit confirms the previous action of the International Jury at the World’s Columbian Exposition, im Chicago, where Singer machines received 54 distinct awards, being more than were received by all other kinds of sewing machines combined. Should it be possible that any of our readers are unfamiliar with the eelebrated Singer Machine, we would respectfully advise that they call at any of the Singer salesrooms which ean be found in all cities and most towns in the United States.” Saxe’s Mistnke Explained. Here .3 ui seis’ vs une -. nd, the poet wit: During the war Saxe at- tended a flag-raising at Greenbush, a little place across the river from Al- bany, and made a speech, in which he commended the patriotism of the young men of Greenbush, through whose exertions the flag had been pro- eured. The chairman of the meeting whispered to him that the young la- dies of Greenbush had also been in- strumental in raising funds for the purchase of the flag. Thereupon, Mr. Saxe, addressing the young ladies of Greenbush. made them a graceful and gallant apology for not including them in his praise. “I don’t know how I came to make such a mistake,”’ he ex- claimed, “save as I may have been la- boring under the impression that the young men of Greenbush embraced the young ladies of Greenbush.”—New York Mail. In a Paris Restaurant. A visitor in Paris was seated at a table in one of the high-priced res- taurants in the exhibition grounds, thinking of various things, as he read over thé bill of fare and observed the prices. - “By thunder!” he exclaimed to the waiter, “haven’t you any conscience at all in this place?” “Beg pardon,” replied the haughty servant. “Haven't you any conscience—con- science—conscience? Don’t you un- derstand?” / The waiter picked up the bill of fare and began looking it over. “I don’t know if we have or not. If we have it’s on the bill; if it ain't, you’ve got to pay extra for it. Them’s the rules, sir.’—Spare Moments. ‘The Savage Bachelor. “I know something I won’t tell,’* sang the widow boarder’s little girl, as little girls have done ever since language was invented. | “Never mind, child,” said the Sav- age Bachelor. “you'll get over that habit when you get older.”—Indianap~ olis Press, f Sartorial Art. anyway?