Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 20, 1900, Page 8

4 ! | & CHAPTER XXII. nee, but for the ticking of the n the mantel, was unbroken. { in Grace strove to think. She uld only follow the nronotonous sound which recorded that the time for which ahe had p yed was swiftly flying. She pressed her hands to her eyes to strive for calm and thought. At last she let them fall, and, with a shudder, allowed her Whose dark eyes had not for an instant been withdrawn from her face. , She had felt their glance burn even while her own eyes had beer hidden. { “You speak of proof,” she said. “What s your proof?” { “Harry Re the quiet answer. The moments for which she had leaded with Harvey Barclay had not n lost to him. He had planned his he had drawn up his forces; ds ‘confession,’ was mpaign; nd now he had given the first fire which opened the battle—the battle here defeat ment death, and victory. @ and honor. They were high stakes d not to be lightly forfeited. had’ the fire iled of its aim. t had sped straight to its r a quivered convulsively as it tore y through her poor armor and uuried itself in her shr! g flesh. “Harry's confession!” she repeated. It cculd not hy should he make confession? be, argued her reason. This }was but a new ruse to extort the truth {rom her. Fle indignation lent her mo:nentary str sth. She proudly threw back her cell you that I signed the note, Mr. What, then, could Earr on- Her listener smiled. r child! How poor were the we2- ne had at her command! Only er innocence, and youth, and candor ainst experience, and subtelty, and ile. As well might a swordsman use a wooden sword against a blade of Da- Ranacus steel, and hope to win the day “Let me tell you the story, Miss Grace,” he-said. “Perhaps then you swill judge me more fairly, and will give the confidence I shall esteem s9 high l@ gift. I have not been, I am not, a @aintly man. I have led, as perhaps you know, a somewhat wild and dissi- pated life. There has been, perhaps, |@ome little excuse for this, in the ab- j@ence of home ties and woman's influ- ice. { “But let that pass. I will not here \Make excuses for my faults, only bold- ity avow them. It is for you, Grace, to \ertpe out their record, if you will. | «Well, among them, first and fore: jmost. was the vice of gambling. First & played for small stakes, but I lost and fgot heavily in debt—so heavily that T ‘gaw no way to escape from its conse- (quences and entailed disgrace. |. “At last, one night I grew desperate, wnd determined to hazard all—to win {all or lose all. I played more recklessly \ jthan I had ever played before; but Juck fhad turned. Every card I touched j€urned into gold. SEECCS SOS TOSSES E A SIREN'S VICTIMS By Frances Warner Walker. re “Beside me stood a man who lost as | j& won. It was the man of whom we jBave been speaking. It wes Harry Reynolds. He was no stranger at the {gaming table. I had met him often be- ‘fore. But this night he was pale, and, ike myself, played with a reckiess @bandon which proved some strong ne- eessity. As the pile of gold grew at my place, from time to time he drew upon it, 1 signifying my consent by a nod. I did jmot fear him as a creditor. I rose from |the stable ten thousand dotlars richer. ‘He was my debtor half that amount. |Next day he sent me a check for the en- tire sum.” | Grace involuntarily moaned. Piece by piece the proof was fitting fnto place, and forcing out the doubt which made so brave a fight against it. “Go on!” she said. “TI will make the story short,” he con- tinued. “My, luck, from that night turned for the better—his for the worse. ¥rom time to time he borrowed money ,from me until he owed me ten thousand dollars. “Once my debtor, he seemed to_al- | most dislike and avoid me. I bore with this, for reasons, Grace, perhaps you @en understand. At last my luck, too, @menged, and I lost—lost—lost. I need- @6 the money I had loaned him. I was forced to ask him for it. He put me eff, until I threatened to demand it of fais father. He promised then to pay it !qhat same night. \ “Asain he played, and again he lost. \Be owing the bank a large sum. It {was then. that he drew this note from |his pocketbook and tendered it in pay- iment of the amount. He was well | known to the bank officials, and they fhad no hesitation in accepting it. We | were both somewhat under the influ- e of wine, and at the same time the whole transaction seemed natural ‘to me; but, as we walked out together intu the open air, the cold, clear atmosphere gobered him, and dissipated the fumes ef alcohol and tobacco which had clouded my brain. We walked a few blocks in silence, and then I turned and, geizing his arm, forced him to face me. “ ‘Barry Reynolds,’ I said, ‘that note you gave the bank just now was a \ | forgery!’ { “The moon was shining above us, and by its light I could ste the deathly pal- for his face. ¥ lie!’ he answered, “*you\shall answer to me for that,’ was my reply; ‘but first I will prove good my assertion. I will go to Grace . Sawthorne in the morning, and tell her the facts in the case.’ , ‘His whole expression changed then. | His mask of boldness fell. I never saw @ man so utterly wretched. “‘I beg your pardon, Barclay!’ he ‘I’m the most miserable man on If I weren’t, such a eaid God's green earth. cow: at ard, I would shoot myself and end little time, I But if I-nave a a8 8 a 1.” ga a ; er card. gaze to rest upon the man | DPX ML LAKMLL PVKNRVN KNOY think I can straighten matters, and, it the worst comes to the worst, I'll have | to go to Grace myself. But keep my secret, Barclay. You've got your mon- ey. Leave the rest to me.” | ““T can’t leave it to you,’ I answered, ‘for I'm in love with the woman you are robbing.’ “Well, Grace, I won't humiliate you by telling you ail the story of his pleaa- ing; but when we parted, he had sworn to me that he would never touch anoth, I could see no good in expos- ifg him to you, and so I promised to keep his miserable secret. Grace, I promised for your sake ; for your sake I will still help shield him from the consequences of his act; but I can work no longer without some reward. Again T ask you, will you be my wife.?” “Oh, spare me!” cried the girl. “Spare me, as you spared him, My need or generous pity is even greater. Ask me anything but this, and I will acknow- ledge the justice of your claim, I will make you rich and impoyerish myself; but I cannot marry you!” “You make me a Shylock, Gface, when I would be a Romeo. You force me to demand my pound of flesh, when I would sue for the fragrance of a pass- ing breath. Yet though I would be ten- der as Romeo, yet am I ynrelenting as Shylock. Promise to be my wife, and I will promise to be a truer. better man. Grace, I have had no chance in life. Give me this chance. Surround me by your love, and let my own for you es- cape its on. “It is impossible!” she answered, shuddering. “I do not, cannot love you! I cannot marry you “And of your refusal you accept the consequences?” “You will enforce them?” “It is your own act: Send me from you, with no promise for the future, and I will go to the man who accepted Har- ry Reynolds’ note, and denounce it as a forgery—denounce him as a_ forger. You say there is not money in the bank to meet it. I will make the whole transaction public. Then save him from the law if you can. You will find the law stronger than all your feeble will. But grant my prayer, and I will have the note renewed. Give me your check for the amount already in the bank, and your own note for the balance, payable in sixty days, and all shall be made smooth, the forged note in your own hands by nightfall, and Harry Rey- nolds’ guilt unproven by this living witness against him. You have now the two alternatives, Grace. Which will you choose? I give you five minutes to decide.” And he pulled his watch from his pocket, and stood holding it in his hand. “Your decision?” he said, quietly, when the appointed time had expired. “I will give you the check and note,” she answered, in a tone as cold and life- less as though the dead were speaking. “Bring me the—the note now in exist- ence, and I—will marry you!” A flash of triumph darted into the dark eyes; a lurid fire, as of a voleang suddenly emitting a sulpherous flame, long-smouldering in the very bowels of the earth. He took one step forward and invol- untarily stretched out his arms, “Grace, my darling!” he murmured, in ecstatic tenderness. But, recoiling, she held up her own hands in aversion and abhorrence. “Not that!” she cried. “Spare me that. It was not mentioned in the bond!” Pee NGS CHAPTER XXIII. The clock had struck eleven when, mingled with its last strokes, Grace ; heard, on the silent street, the sound of wheels which proclaimed the travelers’ return, Already old Andrew stood at his post beside the door, which he threw open as the sound for which he had waited so impatiently reached him as well. No bell must be rung to-night, no sound be heard within the house. Even that of the wheels was dull and muf- fled, for the street was strewn with tan, that no noise might penetrate the room where Edgar Reynolds lay fighting his silent fight with death. “You've come, Mr. Harry. Thanks to | God for that!” whispered the old serv- itor. wiping away a tear, as the young man brushed hastily past him into the lighted hall, where he caught sight of the tall, slender figure he knew so well, which seemed uncertain whether to ad- vance in the light or retreat tn the shedow. “Grace!” he said. At the sound of her name, she came forward. The night air was still very chill, and fires were lighted through the house; but as he took her hand, though coming himself from the outside air, he felt it cold as marble in his grasp, and even in this supreme moment of anxiety he noticed that she seemed to shrink from his touch. - <s Poor child! Doubtless it was owing to all the anxiety she had been com- pelled to bear alone. “Your telegram reached me just in time, dear,” he said. “An hour later, and I should have sailed. My father? How is he?” tors Hope ani Agthorpe both are with him now. They have sent for Dr. Thorne in consultation.” She turned toward Helen as she spoke, who had followed her husband into the house. She, too, was very pale, and the yellow pupils were dilated with a strange expression of mingled excite- | ment and fear, She looked about her, as if expecting to witness some transformation which had/been effected in her absence, “An hour later, and I should have sailed.” is The words which, to her’ husband, meant an interposition of Providence, to her meant the direct agency of the evil one. One hour—one little hour— and she would have left the sword of “The doctor gives us little hope. Doc-. Damocles behind; and now—now she had returned to it at the very instant when the thread might part and let it fall upon her unprotected head. Yet, a wild joy mingled with her fears. Once more she was near Har- vey! The old, jealous distrust had sprung into life since she had bade him farewell. The thought of again being near him, hearing the sound of his voice, feeling the touch of his hand, al- most reconciled her to any consequence of her return. But for this, she would have sailed alone, and let her husband return without her. This alone was the motor which had brought her back. “Your father has asked for you, Har- ry,” said Grace. “The physicians beg that you will come at once.” As the girl spoke, she looked into the face of him whom she addressed. Where was its shadw of guilt and fear? A shadow of grief and anxiety rested upon it—the shadow so natural at such a moment—but otherwise the eyes met hers as frankly, as fearlessly, as when first they had won the loving trust of a little child. “Dear old father!” he answered, while his eyes dimmed. ‘Of course I'll go to him!” Helen turned and looked into Grace’s eyes. “What has happened?” she asked. “Something has gone wrong since yes- terday more than the illness of the mas- ter of the house.” Would her question, she wondered, cut the thread by which the sword hung? Possibly it might; but her sus- pense was too unbearable to be longer borne. She must know if the know- ledge of the forged check had come to Grace. “Nothing that need trouble you, Hel- en, dear,” answered the girl, tenderly. “What brought on this attack?” per- sisted the questioner. “It was too sud- den to be without causé. Has—has any knowledge cocerning Harry reached his father’s ears?” “None, dear—none! Nor must it, at any cost. It would be his death-blow. I think the attack was inevitable; only some little business perplexities hast- ened it. I—I had rather overdrawn my account. You see, I know so little about my own money!” and she tried to laugh. The note had been presented, then, thought Helen, and Grace had taken it up. She would keep the secret. The danger was past. Grace was shielding the husband’s wrong even from her, his wife. Harvey had been cleverer than she had dared hope. She drew a long, deep. breath, as though throwing off a burden well- nigh too heavy to be borne. She had now only the spectre of her past with which to deal. Involuntarily her hand clinched, and her teeth met together. There was within her a hard despera- tion, which was coming nearer and nearer the surface with every fresh draught upon it. It would not do to try her too far, was her self-conscious thought. “I guess I'll go at once to my room,” she said, aloud. But as her foot fell on the stair, Grace spoke spoke her name. Its utterances arrested her. There was something more to hear-- something she had not yet been told! She paused, and looked backward over her shoulder, down on the young, fair face, with the light streaming from above showed bathed in a deep crimson tide. Only a minute before she had been pale as death. “Well?” answered the older woman. And in the one word rang a note of harshness, a seeming gathering of her forces to meet some blow about to fall. Afterward it seemed to her that in the simple utterances of her name she had learned all the after-story. “Something else had happened, Hel- en,” continued Grace. “I wanted to tell you to-night, and to ask you to tell Harry, and to ask him not to speak of it to me; but I suppose you both must know.” “Must know! we know?” “That I have promised to marry Harvey Barclay.” They were simple words, quietly, sadly spoken, but they wrested from Helen Reynolds’ face the mask as though they had held the force of a whirlwind. Grace stood transfixed at the fear- ful change, upon which her eyes were riveted. The beautiful woman of a minute ago seemed transformed into a fiend. Her features were convulsed with passion; her eyes flashed fire; her white teeth were firmly clenched to- gether between her half-parted lips. Involuntarily Grace recoiled, as one recoils from a serpent about to make its hideous dart to inject its death- dealing poison. “You--you are to marry Harvey Bar- clay?” at last came, hissing forth from between those closely-shut teeth. :‘You little traitress! You--” She paused. , : What had she said? Into what fatal error kad her passion led her? Yet, looking down upon this girl, she could have murdered her. All the long-smoldering fire of her hate and envy burst into flame, and carried be- fore them prudence and caution. Why should all--all have fallen to Grace Hawthorne’s lot, and only bar- ren emptiness been her portion? Yet had not Harvey promised never to ful- fill the pledge? Might she trust him, when such a prize stood ready to fall into his greedy hands? In her own soul, she knew she dared not, He would deceive her to the last. And once Grace Hawthorne ‘was his: wife, defy her. But Grace Hawthorne never should become his wife. 4 In that moment she felt herself equa) to wrestling with a world rather than have him build a victor yon her defeat. She loved him as such women only can love, with the fury and passion of a tigress. The hand that, one moment, might soothe him with a tender touch, the next might strike him to death. She had but to look into Grace Haw- thorne’s face to know that never again to her might she assume the mask that she had dropped. The dark-blue eyes were dilated in indignant anger, min- gled with an utter amaze. Horror, be- wilderment and grief were written on the young and lovely countenance. This was Harry’s wife! Had she sud- denly gone mad? i What? What must “Helen,” she gasped, “what have 1 done that you should speak to me like | this?” . § : i. “What have you done?” The question fanned the flames she fain would have hidden to yet fiercer hat. It was beyond her control; it caught up prudence and restraint, and made of them a lurid and triumphant: blaze. : “What have you done?” she repeated again. “Ask, rather, what*syou have not done. First, you tried to steal my husband; and now—now you would steal the man I love—yes, love as you know nothing of loving. Oh, do not look so shocked!’ You need not remind me that Iam a Wife. Do I not feel my chains every day? But they are gilded, and so I wear them royally. I am nw’ afraid to trust you with my secret. You will keep it. Not for my sake—ah, no, Grace Wawthorne!—but for his. You see that I have guessed your secret, too. See—you dare not deny it! How, then, am I wickeder than you?—you, who have promised to marry another man, loving my husband, or I, his wife in name alone? But listen to me. 1 am not tame enough to see you feast while I starve. Rather than see you Harvey Barclay’s wife, I would—mur- der—” The last word was but a low, sibilant whisper. As it escaped her lips she turned and ran hastily up the stairs. At their head she met her husband, coming from his father’s room. In the hall below stood Grace, mo- tionless, transfixed, but her eyes were black with horror and amaze. CHAPTER XXIV. Harry Reynolds’ handsome face was very grave as he followed his wife into their room. For almost the first time in his wed- ded life his glance did not rivet itself upon her beauty; but, throwing him- self into a chair, he bent his head upon his breast, shading his. eyes with his hand. His silence gave Helen needed time. When at last he raised his head to look at her, she was calm, composed, herself again. “Your father is dying?” she asked. “T pray vot,” he replied. ‘The physi- cians think there is a slight change for the better. They say he has been long feeble, but has undergone some sudden shock. Dear father! In the few words he was able to speak I fear I learned its cause. He could merely gasp out a feeble sentence, but it concerned Grace and a note endorsed with Harvey Bar- clay’s name. I did not learn the amount, but it must have been large. Helen, what in‘uence can this man wield that Grace should give him money for his profligate ends?” “You had better ask her,” answered his wife. Her husband started at the metallic ring in her tone. “Or, perhaps I had better enlighten you. She re quested me to do so to-night. She is engaged to Harvey Barclay—’ Harry Reynolds sprang to his feet. “Engaged to that spendthrift and that gambler! What madness has pos- sessed her? And already he makes in- roads upon her fortune! Semething never shall be made!” “Something shall be done! Leave it to me,” said Helen, with a curious smile. “Grace Hawthorne never shall become Harvey Barclay’s wife!” “Oh, Helen, save her from such fate, and you will be her guardian angel, as you have been mine! But are you sure of your power to accomplish the defeat of this man’s plans?” “Iam sure of my power,” she an- swered; and again she smiled. ‘‘Mean- time,” she continued, “say nothing to Grace. Trust it to me.” “My darling, in what things, great or small, weuld I not trust you?” ques- tioned the young husband, tenderly, rising as he spoke, to bend and kiss the beautiful womar. who had so infatu- ated him. ‘And to think,” he went on, “that once I was jealous—jealous of my Helen and this miserable profli- gate! Have you quite forgiven me, my dear, my foolish madness?” “Madness, indeed!” she answered. “Do not let us talk of it,” and she shuddered. ‘ A knock came at the door. Old And- rew opened it. “Supper is served, Mr. Harry,” he said. “Miss Grace ordered it prepared for you.” “I had quite forgotten I was hun- gry!” he exclaimed—‘and we. have tasted no food since an early luncheon. Come, Helen—you must be faint with exhaustion.” “Send me up a cup of tea,” she an- swered. “I will not go down.” The clock was striking midnight as Harry entered the dining room, and Grace was seated in her accustomed place—the place she had never sur- rendered to Helen, despite the latter’s avowed intent to occupy it. A new look of sadness, a new shade ‘of anxious thought upon the young, pale face, swelled Harry’s heart to tenderness. If he could but dissipate this cloud which,’ so imperceptibly, had crept be- tween Grace and himself—if he could but win her old-time confidence, could convince her of the unworthiness of this man she had promised to wed. What has come over the child? Be crossed the room and, bending over her, took one little, cold hand in his warm grasp. “What is this that Helen tells me?” he whispered. “I am like doubting Thomas, and must needs have con- firmation from your own lips before 1 can heed the tale.” “You speak of my engagement?” she replied. ‘Does it surprise you?” Her tone was light; but, in spite of herself, her voice quiyered, and his quick ear detected it. “Grace!” he°said, “you are not hap- py, child. Something is behind all this—something you are keéping from us all. You do not, you can not, love this man. With all his fascinations, all his subtlety, your heart is too pure, too fresh, too true, not to detect the false ring in his voice, the false look in this eyes. Grace, dear, you used to trust me. Won't you trust me still?” For a moment his voice, ringing hon- est and true, was as the sound of long- lost music. Once more the old faith rose in her heart. For a moment she was tempted to lay her tired head on his breast and sob out all her doubts of him, and ask him to dispel them. Then they rose like the subtle mist about her, and confronted her with the spectre of their own proof. This was but part of his acting, like the rest. Perhaps his eye, like len’s had discovered her poor secret, ‘and he woutd intrench himself behind Lher weakness. he | poses . | the Hawaiian islands. ES ~ / ; Fleien had called her love for him a wicked love. Was it, indeed, so? She who had given unto it no name—she who had but striven to cast the snad- ows from his pathway, to lead him on to better things, asking, courting no reward, working almost in the shadow, by the light only of her heart’s sacri- fice. Ah; in God’s sight, was this a wicked love? Py She had renounced its every fruit, but the seed was in her heart, and she could not uproot it. “Let the dead past bury its dead, Harry,” she quoted, sadly. ‘You for- get you are no longer dealing with a child, It is you who have forgotten to trust me. Oh, Harry! what ,is my money Worth, if not to help others?” “And what are others worth who would accept it? Grace, I must speak. I promised Helen just now, to leave it all to her; but I eannot look into your eyes and keep silent. Do you not know that this man is a gambler?” “Yes,” she answered, calmly. “He has told me that he gambles. Is it an unpardonable sin? Have you no pity for a man's possible weakness?” “You know this?” repeated Harry, in amazement. ‘He has acknowledged it to you, and yet you have promised to become his wife. A gambler’s wife! What possible vista of untold wretch- edness dees not such a prospect open? Already you have advanced him mon- ey for his needs. How long will your fortune last in his hands, when already he does not scruple to dissipate it?” “My fortune?” wearily echoed the girl. “What has it ever brought me but misery? Who but Uncle Edgar has loved me for my own sake? It scems to have been productive only of untold wretchedness!”” “But this note, Grace, of which my father spoke to me? What was its amount, and are there are funds in bank to meet it?” She looked up into his face. On it rested no shadow of deceit. His eyes met hers with fearless frankness. No quiver was in his voice as he put the question. Merciful heaven! Whom could she trust? Was every face a mask? Did Harry hope to deceive her to the end? Well, let him deem himself successful, if it gave him one ray of happiness. “The note,” she answered, ‘was for fifty thouSand ‘dollars. Ah, you are surprised at the amount!” as he start- ed back. “Do not let it distress you! The note is in my possession, and I have paid the price!” (To Be Continued.) WATCHING AND WAITING. Moral: Don’t Lend Money Under Any * Cireumstances—Hintoo Was Well Educated. Among the guests at the Raleizh a few days ago was a well educated ana pleasant-mannered. son of India. He had been at the hotel several times be- fore, always ordered the best, and paid his bills without complaint. On this occasion he paid for his room in advance and seemed to have plenty of money. When he was ready to de- part, however, he confided to Clerk B. A. Smith that he had lost his pocket- book and was without a cent. He did not ask to borrow money, but when he mentioned that he had friends in Bal- timore who would help him, Mr. Smith offered to lend him a couple of dollars. The Hindoo was profuse in his thanks, and promised to return the money as soon as he reached the Ma- ryland city. Yesterday Mr. Smith re- ceived a postal card from the man in India, upon which was written: : “I herewith send you $2. Thanks, very much. I appreciate your most noble kindness.’* Mr. Smith looked first on one side and then on the other of the card, and finally split it in two, but could find no trace of the $2. He'is now wonder- ing if the Hindoo is possessed of a normally developed bump of humor, or whether one of those wonderful Indi- an tricks of magic is being performed. The latter theory is the more invit- ing, and he has placed the card in a glass case and is watching it closely to see if, by some mysterious means, it will not transform itself-into a $2 note. payable at the treasury of the United States.—Washington Post. He Left Early. ‘Towne—So you called on the Smiths. There’s a young girl next door to them that pounds the piano all the time. The night I—” Browne—Yes; she was playing all the time I was there. Towne—Was she? Can you imagine anything worse than that? Browne—Yes; it would have been worse if I had been there all the time she was playing.—Philadelphia Press. Secret of His Success. “To what do you attribute your suc- cess in life?” asked the inquisitive } persen, | “Work,” answered Senator Sor- ghum, positively; “hard work.” “But you never seem to be devoting much time to work.” “No. But I’ve hired a tremendous amount of it done.’”-—Washington Stax. The Usual Ratio. FiFrst Suburbanite—How long wa¢ your last cook with you? Second Suburbanite-She was ‘with us” about two hours, and “agin us” alt the rest of the two weeks she was there.—Judge. 5 Extorted From Them. “Ferdinand sold his great-grand- father’s Bible for $15.” “How odd.” “Not at all; he said he was bouna his ancestors should help him out that much, anyhow.”—Indianapolis Jour- nal. And Willie Knew. Little “Willie—Paw, is ma a mi- crobe? : Mr. Henpeck—Why, ‘no, Willie. What makes you ask such a question? Little Wiliie—Well, the teacher told us, that baldness was caused by a mi- crobe.—Baltimore American. _ Demoralizing. “T always run from a braggart.” “why?” “If I talk to one a few minutes, I get to telling lies myself ”—Chiago Record. agricultural department pro- The ast to plant 100,000 rubber trees in ~ "= nesess g 5823828 5 2cS8558) 2 Benssss 5 BE ESZES Peck peck g oy 1OAO prt0m oq} usoug, SIT CAPITA Togs! oy ‘pajou eq pr 19449 PUTI 03 O74 41 088 gives ue) ulIey 10430 J0' 49nd pooy “Loqleqs' One Girl’s Wisdom. He—Do you believe in matrimony on the bread-and-cheese-and-kisses plan? She—Well, that depends. Some brands of cheese would bar out the kisses.—Chicago Daily News. Deafness Cannot Be Cured by local applications, as they cannot reach the iseased portion of the car. There is only one way to cure deafness, and that is by consti- tutional remedies. Deafness is caused by an inflamed condition of the mucus lining of the Eustachian Tube. When this tube is inflamed ie have a rumbling sound or imperfect hear- ing, and when it is entirely closed deafness is the result, and unless the inflammation ean be taken out and this tube restored to its normal condition, hearing will be destroyed forever; nine cases out of ten are caused by catarr! which is nothing but an inflamed condition the mucus surfaces. ‘We will give One Hundred Dollars for any case =. (caused by catarrh) that cannot e cured by Hall's Catarrh Cure. Send for circulars, free. F. J. CHENEY & CO., Toledo, 0. Sold by Druggists, 75c. Hall’s Family Pills are the best. The Entire Problem. His Wife—They are selling such love- ly bric-a-brac! The Harlemite—Well, the first ques- tion is, have we room for it; and the aecond is, can we afford it?—Puck. PATENTS. List of Patents Issued Last Week te Northwestern Inventors. Agnes Amess,. Minneapolis, Minn., permutation pad lock; Camilla M. Hirsch, New Ulm, Minn., bag holder; August P. Johnson, Ada, .Minn., dent- istry; James M. Lockey, Faulkton, 8S. D., vaporizer; Louis Olson, Minneapo- los, Minn., ice or snow vehicle; Horace N. Randall, Tracy, Minn., corn plant- er; Otto Vill, Minnesota City, Minn., metallic railway tie; Adele M. Knauff- man, St. Paul, Minn.. abdominal band (design.) Lothrop & Johnson, patent attorneys, 911 & 912 Pioneer Press Bldg., St. Paul, Minn. Clever Old Man. She—Well, Arthur, did you tell dad that little fib» about the prospective large salary you confidently anticipat- ed you would soon be earning? He (gloomily)—M’yes. She—Well? “He borrowed a couple of pounds on Sudden and Severe attacks of . Neuralgia come to many of us, but however bad the case . St. Jacobs e Oil penetrates Promptly and deeply, soothes and strengthens the nerves and brings asure cure. — or