Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, December 8, 1900, Page 6

be UNSEEN HAND # BY AN # § ‘A Story of the.Secret Society Known as + the “Ragged + ~ Thirteen” + + 2 o @ e @ By Edward Hughes. CHAPTER II. (Continued.) The fact that my father had sent me to Mr. Travers, by whom I had been so warmly welcomed, viewed in the light af my new knowledge, clearly indicat- ed that they were old friends, and this being so, then could Mr. Travers most probably enlighten me as to the origin of bis and my father’s fears—could give me, in fact, some history of the com- But dare I ask him? mon enemy. dare I stir up the past, with the sure and ce n result of clouding the fu- ture? For it was evident, from the aceful way in which he was pursuing present occupation, that he was ig- orant of the fact that the suburban outrage, which most people had long since forgotten, was an outrage com- mitted by his terrible foes. I felt that, after the way in which my father had refused to enlighten me, I had no right te trouble him who had been so kind a friend to me except under the most ex- <eptional circumstances, and I, there- fore, settled down to work harder than ever, for I was to proceed to Oxford in the October of this same year. CHAPTER III. Ie Touch With the Thirteen. E found life at Oxford very pleasant, although at first it was passing strange te me to mix with so many men of my own age, and I was at a considerable disadvantage, for my ways were not as their w , and while I might have held my own when the foils or gloves were ¢o the fore, I was, so to speak, en- at sea on the river, and all broad on the football or cricket field. Thanks to Mr. Travers’ able teach- dng, I fcund my work easy enough; but as I had no ambition to excel in the echools, and, indeed, no great ability to de so had I wished, I contented myself with just sufficient reading to pass my I made very few friends, but p exams. among them was a young Irishman ot strikingly brilliant parts, a scholar of the college to which I was attached, and one who was looked upon as likely to distinguish himself in the final achools. He worked very hard, but such leisure hours as he indulged in were spent, for the most part, in my company, and so intimate did we be- come that I went with him to his home fn the Midlands during part of my long vacation. Not wii but minor parts, I shall not further de- scribe my friend, young O’Brien, an@ he would not have been mentioned at all but that it was owing to my visit to his people that I heard something of my father’s college life, and the man- mer in which it ended, and; what was stilf more remarkable, his uncle was the first person from whom I heard my surname. I had been in the house but two or three days when I became con- scious that this uncle was watching mie very closely. In the midst of a meal, if I turned to him unexpectedly, X would find him regarding me intent- ty, and at last, one evening in the smoking-room, perhaps because I showed that his scrutiny was apparent to me, he told me the reason. “Do you know, Tremayne, you re- mind me very much of a man I knew at Cambridge a good many years ago. Strange to say, you have some of his tittle mannerisms, and, as I remember him, you are strikingly like him. His mame w Robert Tremayne Morton. Et is possible that he could have been # relative of yours?” “He may have been,” I said; “but 1 thave been abroad so much that I could scarcely tell you, off-hand, who my relatives are. » let me How long ago is it?” see. It would be about ago. Morton was a fine and everyone expected him to but he i summer about it w: men went with him. do well , and the curious that four or five what became of them, but some time afterw: particulars came to hand of the deaths of two of the men who feft at the same time as he did. One ef them was found at the foot of a cliff in South Africa, and the other died at some town in Spain in a rather mysterious manner. in the streets, I fanc fong ago that I almost forget the facts, aud—ah, yes, I recollect—they found seme cards, or dice, or something con- mected with gaming upon him. Dear me, now, what a memory I have!” You may be sure that I was deeply fimterested in his reminiscences, for, in aii probability, the Robert Tremayne Morton, of whom he spoke, was my father. It was only natural that 1 should resemble him in build and fea- tures, and it was very likely that I ad acquired such peculiarities of gmanner 4s were noticeable in him when the was my age, and that they should ‘Be accentuated in my case by reason of my tong and close companionship with him. Fi “Did you ever hear,” I asked, in as steady a voice as I could commana, “why these men left college in such a strarge way? Were they rusticated, or had they given the authorities of- fense in any way?” “Well, I could never get at the truth of the matter; but I believe there was some row or other in one of the men’s ‘weoms; but whose rooms they were or what it was all about, I could never discover. There was one man among them who, apart from what he might thave done at college, was intended for @ dipiomatic career. He was of very @ood family, and his name was—was— wait a moment—ah, yes! His name ‘was Rupert Starleigh. He was sup- mosed to be the best man of his year, #nd Royce, his tutor, made certain that ‘ike would be Senior Wrangler.” “What sort of a man was he?” I vesked. “Rather dark, medium height, with «g@rominent features—but, there, I can’t «particularize, it’s so long ago, and I He was stabbed though it is so Sec oto Re Se R AIA LAA AAS hing to cumber the narrative | with descriptions of persons who play | We never heard { should probably never have thought of him again had I not seen such a curi- ous likeness in you to Morton. Dear me, how one’s mind travels back when once it starts,” and he went on with his recollections until I was tired of listening to him. \ I had a good many questions to put to myself when I got to my.room. “Was this Morton my father? Was Rupert Starleigh the Kendal crammer? was that row in someone’s rooms the | origin of all the trouble? And what was the nature of that trouble?” To three of these questions I an- swered “Yes.” To the last I could, of course, give no answer at all. But Mr. Travers probably could, and some day the necessity of asking -him might arise. It is wonderful what results may follow one little slip. If those newspaper cuttings had nev- er fallen into my hands I should have had no clues whatever, should never ‘have identified Willie Ruddock, nor dreamed of connecting Mr. Travers with the mysteries I was now, more than ever, bent upon unraveling. I stayed some time with the O’Briens, and towards the end of my visit the uncle left us, and the morn- ing after his departure the papers were full of an affair that had hap- pened at Manchester. A man who had been a prominent politician was found dead in his bed; and perhaps this would have occasioned no surprise, for he was known to be suffering from some form of-heart disease, but that in his right hand were found five cards, exactly the same as those I had in my possession, and that there were certain marks about his throat and upon his face, that aroused suspicions of foul play. Two or three days later came the news that an eminent medical au- thority had given it as his emphatic opinion that the unfortunate man had been suffocated, and with this opinion all the other doctors that had been called in had agreed. One man could not possibly have committed the crime, if crime it were, | for the gentleman's wife was sleeping beside him, and nothing occurred to awaken her, as she must assuredly have awakened ,had her husbana struggled. Moreover, there was a large staff of servants, and none of them had heard any sounds during the night. Someone must have placed the cards in the dead man’s hand. The wife and servants were above suspicion. The unfortunate gentleman never had an enemy so far as could be ascertained, and it was not for a moment supposed that any of those who had fallen under the lash of his political satire would have proceeded to such lengths as to deprive him of what, at most, could not have been more than a few years of life. I had arranged to spend the latter part of my vacation with Mr. Travers, | and when I read the particulars of the Manchester outrage I became so curi- ous to see whether he had noticed it, that I left my friends and started for Kendal two or three days before I was expected there. I arrived late at night, but my old latch-key was still hang- ing to my bunch, and I let myself in witbout disturbing the servants. I found Hugh in the dining room, and when he had got over his aston- ishment at seeing me he told me that his uncle had been taken ill some little ‘ while before I arrived, and, on mak- ‘ing further inquiries, I ascertained that his attack dated from the very day upon which the papers with the particulars of the Manchester affair had appeared. He weuld not allow his nephew, as I shall still call Willie Ruddock, to send for a medical man, and though he tried to make light of his ailment, and at- tributed it to overwork, it was evident || to those who were nursing him that something weighed heavily on his mind. * Hugh Travers had sat up with him, but, strange to say, he (Hugh) had not read the papers for some time back, as I discovered on speaking with him. I purposely put certain questions to him as we sat smoking, questions that were of burning interest on account of the crisis through which the coun- try was then passing—questions, more- | over, that were being discussed in nearly every journal of the day; but he confessed at once that he knew nothing of the matters to which I al- luded, for he had been working even as he sat in his uncle’s room. I had the papers with me contain- ing an account of the outrage at Man- chester, and I watched him closely to see what effect their perusal would have upon him. When he came to the | paragraphs in which the cards were mentioned every vestige of colour left his face. He dropped the paper and sat staring at me, and in that mo- ment I knew that he had read the ac- counts of the Oldburgh affair in which he had taken so prominent a part, and the cards mentioned as having been found then connected it in his mind, as they had done in mine, with this | latest outrage. ' “Can you guess now,” I said, “what | caused Mr. Travers’s illness?” He tried to answer me, but His voice was no more than a whisper, and I gathered that he was saying ‘‘Yes” from the movement of his lips, rather than from any sound I could hear. “I have something to tell you,” I said “when you feel stronger—something that, I think, will touch you most nearly, for it has to do with Mr. Trav- ers’ safety. You go and have a good night’s rest. I'll sit up with your un- cle, and to-morrow morning you can hear what I have to tell you, and we can take steps as to what had better be done.” He got up from the table and went to the sideboard. He was a very ab- stemious man as a rule; but now he poured himself out some brandy, and, adding but little water to it, drank it at a draught; and presently, when he had breath to speak, he sat down and, leaning towards me, said slowly: “You don’t leave this roos until I have heard everything you have to tell. What do you know of those ac- cursed cards? What do you know of the fiends who handled them?” He rose quickly from his chair and walked to the door and locked it, and, resuming his seat, said, almost fierce- ly: “Now, go on!” “I must begin,” I said, by reminding you that only three cards were picked up at Oldburg. In this last case there were five. When I came here first I came on the evening of the day on which a foul crime had been perpe- trated in London. It was styled ‘A Suburban Mystery,’ and it is very like- ly you were so taken up with your | studies that you never read or heard anything about it. Is that so?” “I don’t in the least know what you are talking about.” “Let me tell you, then. A man was found by the police in a half-empty house. He had evidently met with a violent death at the hands of some per- son or persons unknown. That man had five cards precisely similar in all | respects to those found upon this man | at Manchester. The police know noth- ing of this peculiarity of the London case, because the cards were taken away before they discovered the body. My father took them away, and I have them now.” “Good Heavens! Tremayne!” he ex- claimed, “who are you? And what fresh horror is this?” “I am the son of a man who, I verily believe, is Mr. Travers’ greatest friend, and who is involved, just as Mr. Trav- ers is, in some terrible manner that I cannot understand. My father has left the covntry; I have no idea where he is, or by what name he calls him- self. He sent me here, and I should never have known who you are, or who Mr. Travers is, had he not left be- hind him a small parcel containing some extracts referring to what hap- pened at Oldburg, and the five cards he had picked up near the man. “He forbade me to speak of anything I saw that night to the police, or to any stranger; but I don’t look upo. you as a stranger, for you are as deep- ly concerred in the matter as I; and 1 have found out several other things bearing upon the doings of these fiends—for there must be more than one in it—and I shall put them before you as briefly as possible.” And with that, I told him what I had heard at O'Brien's, and gave him | more complete details of what had hap- pened in our house in London, not omitting to mention, also, the deaths of the men who had, as I firmly be- | lieved, been assassinated abroad. He heard me to the end without in- terruption. “TI can see now,” he said, “why nei- ther your father nor—nor Mr. Travers would let us inform the authorities. They were both convinced that the publicity would bring these—well, we can’t call them men, and they’re too bad for demons—these assassins down upon them, when the. police protection was withdrawn. What can it all mean? Why are they taking the lives of men that your father, on his own showing, doesn’t know, and that Mr. Travers doesn’t know? You say the | fellows who were here with you talked of this Dr. James, and my uncle didn’t seem to recognize the name at all? Do you really think that it was a coinci- dence that this doctor was killed in your house?” “My father did,” I said. “I saw him examine the poor fellow closely, and | I'll swear he had never seen him be- fore. Now, Travers, I'll tell you what you must do. You must get that strong brain of yours in working order. Go to bed now, and sleep as long as you can. I'll take care of Mr. Travers to-night, and to-morrow we'll put our heads together and settle on some def- inite plan of action.” I had the stronger will, and I per- suaded him to come with me to his un* cle, and when he had bidden him good- night I took him away, and having | seen him comfortably bestowed, I re- turned to Mr, Travers’ room to begin | my long vigil. Had I needed any stimulus for the eificient carrying out of my self-im- | posed task, I should only have to look | at the pinched face and the bright eyes | of the man who had been so good to | me. His voice was very weak, but so clear that one could easily hear every | word he spoke. Fy “I’m glad you’ve come, Tremayne,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you, ana you’re going to stay with me to-night. It’s very good of you, but I hope IT shall soon be about again, and not be a nuisance to you young people.” sf I told him that he could never be | that, and as I looked at his worn fea- | tures, and as the bright gleam that my coming had called up began to fade _ away, I thought within myself that | here was a man suffering from the burden of some secret that was too gueat for him to bear, and, at all hag- ards, I determined to let him know that | I was perfectly cognizant of what had caused his illness. I gave him the med- | icine that he had prescribed for him- self—and he was no mean master ot the healing art—and shook up his pil- | lows, all the while trying to think of | some orening that might give me the | chance of leading up te what I wished | to say. EB | The opening came from him. kK “I feel very restless, Tremayne,” said | he. “Would you read to me a little, or, better still, tell me how you like your work, and something about the people you were staying with? What was the name?” “O'Brien,” I said, and, though 1 watched him closely; I could not see that the mention of the name had any effect upon him, as would have had he and O’Brien been friends. So I went on: ‘They are, very nice people, Irish, of course, and an uncle of my friend, who happened to be staying with them, is an old Cambridge man, and had some interesting stories to tell ot his college days.” He was all attention now. rt “How long is it since he was up?” he asked. “Oh, about twelve years, I think— I’m not sure; but he told us one of his reminiscences, that would probably fix the date for anyone who happened to have been up at the time.” “Tell.me this story of his,” he said. ness to hear what I had to tell re- vealed itself plainly in his eyes, al- though had my back, been towards him I should have noticed nothing in his voice other than the listless tone of the invalid. I was about to put him ‘through a trying ordeal, and the fact that he had so much self-control urged me to go on. He wanted somebody to lean upon, and although my shoulders were, at the best, but very young ones, still if I could take part of his anxiety upon them, and could make him un- derstand that my inexperienced wits might be sharpened to the working out of my purpose by what he could tell me, and by his advice, I felt that I should be ‘doing what no medicine could do—that I should, in fact, be ministering to a mind diseased. And so I told the tale, not exactly as ‘twas told to me, but with such few additions as would make it easier to let Mr. Travers know, when he had heard n all, that I could answer part of the riddle, and that I looked to him to un- ravel the rest. I was careful, too, to mention no names, and although he seemed excited by the narrative, he was not unduly so. I had been leaning over the foot of the bed while I spoke. When the story was finished I sat down and took his hand in mine. “I have told you this tale of malice prepense,” I said, “and before I say why I have done so, I want you to un- derstand, Mr. Travers, that for me, ot all men on the earth, my father ana you stand far above the rest. For your sakes I would gladly run any and every risk.” I could feel his poor, weak hand tremble in mine as I spoke of danger, and then he gripped me 4s hard as his strength would allow. “Don't speak, Mr. Travers, my kind friend; don’t agitate yourself. A chance circumstance—the finding of an old paper—put me in possession of part of your secret. I know that there are demons about who are hunting for you and my father, and I know that when they take a life they leave traces of their handiwork behind, by which those they have threatened may know they are still on the trail. My father’s real name is Robert Tremayne H. Mor- ton, and yours is Rupert Starleign, and I only tell you this that you may be lieve me when I say that your safety is my one and only consideration.” I made him take a little stimulant to help him to recover from the shock I had given him. “I know the cause of your present at- tack. It was because you happened to | see the account of the case in Man- chester, and you recognized the sign of the cards. Don’t speak yet. Wait until I have finished, and if you can bring yourself to tell me the particu- lars of’ what happened at Cambridge, of what it was that has brought all this trouble upon us, I shall be the better able to help you. My father woulc not tell me why he was leaving me, but that was because I was utter- ly ignorant then of everything .con- nected with the matter. Now I know so much that I am convinced he would let me hear all. God knows, no father could have been kinder to me than you have been. Don’t speak if it distresses you, tut if you think you can tell me what I ought to know, press my hand.” He looked at me so lovingly, and so tenderly, withal, that, as I felt the gentle pressure I had asked for, I stooped over and kissed him. “God bless and keep you,” I said. “And now, my dear friend, try and sleep. and try to think, too, that a sor- row told is a sorrow shared, and to- morrow you will be stronger and better able to help me.” Ah! that to-morrow! How wise and beneficent a provision it is that we know not what it may bring forth! Had anything ben wanting to con- vince me of the terrible position in which we all—and by “we all” I mean my father and Mr. Travers, young Travers and myself—were placed, the events of this night would have sup- plied it. I sat beside the patient until I saw that he was becoming calmer, then I gently withdrew my hand, and changing my coat and boots for a dressing gown and soft woolen slip- pers, I turned the gas down and made myself as comfortable as possible on a low couch that stood in the shadow on the side of the bed remote from the door. From time to time I peeped at the patient's white face; scarcely dis- tinguishable in the dim light from the pillow on which his head lay, and I was pleased to find that presently his eyes were closed, and bending over him, I could tell from his quiet breath- ing and his restful look that he was sleeping; and I was comforted by the thought that he might have found peace from the knowledge that one who was involved in the great peril overshadowing him was watching be- side him. It was past 1 o’clock, and the silence of the early hours of the morning had settled upon the house. I was wide awake. The bed upon which Mr. Trav- ers lay was an old-fashioned, half-test- er, standing very IMmgh. I had drawn the curtains forward on my side, so that I could see his face by looking round the hinder edge. The gas jet was fixed in the side wall, and a string, one end of which lay close to Mr. Travers’ hand, haa been attached to the clip in such a way that he could, by pulling the cord, turn the gas on full if he wished to do so. The night was very warm, and since. in the old-fashioned house ventilation had been entirely forgotten, I had left the door ajar and one of the windows a little open. The gas, as I have said, had been turned low, but there was still plenty of light-in the room to read- ily distinguish the different objects, and from my position as I lay I could see the door plainly by reason of the fact that the curtain had been pulled a foot or two forward. The handle of the door was of a pe- culiar construction, and every time I glanced at the sleeper it had caught my eye, being so exactly in the line of sight. I was lying thinking, and look- ing at it, when it began to move, but so slowly that I had to take a pro- longed stare at it to make certain of the fact. Yes! surely but steadily it was ap- proaching the edge of the curtain, and as I watched, it passed out of my sight, and there could be no doubt that the door was opening. There was no draught that could have moved it, for there was scarcely “Tt will amuse me, and I have known @ good many Cambridge men.” a breath of air stirring, not even en- oubh to shake the light curtains of the I looked at his face, and his eager- | open window. It was most uncanny, > A ain; for, strain my ears as I would, I could not detect the slightest sound. I cannot explain why I lay there passive, or why I did not spring from the ccuch and see for myself what motive power was pushing it open. It was not fear that held me inert. It was, perhaps, because I was unwill- ing to move about the room, lest I should wake Mr. Travers, and I knew that in his present condition every minute’s slumber was of the utmost importance. And then another curious circum- stance arrested my attention. The light was becoming brighter, and the flame of the gas, as I looked at it, was slowly increasing. My eye travelled along the string by which, as I have explained, the gas could be turned on, and there, about a foot from the end nearest Mr. Travers, I saw a hand moving slowly over the bedclothes, It was the hand of a man who might once kave earned his living by the sweat of his brow, for it was large and showed the signs of wear, but now it was well kept, and a heavy gold ring encircling his third finger. If you were to ask me the motive that governed my next movement, I am sure I could not tell you. The couch on which I lay had no sides to it, and so, without making a sound that could be heard across the room, I slipped on to the soft, thick carpet, and, gently lifthing the counterpane, crept under the bed, and there, in the interval be- tween the overhanging coverings and the floor, I saw two feet covered with thick woolen socks. Even then I thought I had only to do with an ordinary burglar, although in that case the encounter might easily prove a desperate one, seeing that 1 had nothing wherewith to fight but my naked hands, and he, most probably, had both revolver and loaded stick. Suddenly there was a convulsive movement above me. Then came the sound of a voice, and though the words were hissed out rather than spoken, I heard them plainly: “You don’t know me, Rupert Star- leigh, but you knew Brian Lennon. The Ragged Thirteen have got you. I shall tighten the gag presently and suffocate you, and I'll leave you the cards to play with. The next man I deal them to shall be Morton, and I'll find him if he’s alive!” The bed shook again with the moye- ments of the man upon it. (To Be Continued.) Cause of Its Gloom. An elephant and a donkey were jog- ging along the road, side by side. “You seem downcast, my friend,” ob- served the elephant. “Doubtless, you are comparing yourself with me, and wondering why, relatively, you are so insignificant. Let it console you to re- flect that mere bulk does not bring happiness. It only increases the num- bed of your enemies, the parasites that may prey upon you, and makes you an easy mark for the arrows ofthe envi- ous. Think, besides, how much larger and more stately you are than the opossum or the chipmunk. To them you,are probably an object of envy.” “You mistake me,” replied the donk- ey, “if you think I am dissatisfied with myself because I am a donkey. The cause of my dejection is that I am ey- erywhere pictured as the sign and sym- bol of the Democratic party.” There could be no consolation for this palpable injustice and humiliation. and the two trudged on in silence.— Chicago Tribune. Bound to Borrow Something. In the poorer parts of some towns a very popular custom is that of borrow- ing from neighbors when short of little articles of grocery, etc. The other morning, in Reading, a child came from two doors up the street with the message: “Please, Mrs. So-and-so, mother says would you lend her a little bit of black lead and some pepper, and the big flat- iron for an hour?” Now, Mrs. So-and-so was very busy just then, and rather put out about something; so she said: “No; I haven’t got time to look for them. Tell your mother I’ve got other fish to fry this morning.” The girl went, but was back in two minutes, with a dish and another re- quest: “Please, mother says could you lend her some of the fried fish?”—Tit-Bits. Identified. oe ‘Max Muller is dead,’ remarked the Literary Man. “Who was Max Muller?” gruffly in- quired the Sordid Politician. “He was a brother to Maud Muller,” answered the Literary Man, with a pained expression on his face. “O, I see!” said the Sordid Politi- cian, “the girl that raked the hay?” “Yes,” said the Literary Man, “he drove the horse-rake while Maud was flirting with the Judge. He was the one for whom she was figuring on buy- ing a broadcloth coat if she had caught the Judge.”—Buffalo Express. Why It Was All Right. A fragment from the conversation of two Socialists: “Let us remain ever faithful to our glorious principles to divide every- thing.” “But would that be really advantag- eous to us in the end?” ‘Idiot! Of course it would be advan- tageous to us, since we have nothing.” —Exchange. Advice to Weary Willie. “IT see yer movin’ out, boss,” re- mareked a very disreputable-looking Weary Willie, | who had stopped to watch the operation. “Is dey anything you don’t need ’at' I might take?” “Yes!”" snapped the crusty suburban- ite, tossing a bundle into the van, “a bath!”—Catholic Standard and Times. Not Exactly What He Meant. ‘A member of parliament, after a long and tirescme speech, in which he went into the dismal depths of political economy, whispered to a friend: “T endeavored to use nothing but classic language throughout my entire ad- dress.” s “And you succeeded admirably,” said his friend. “It was all Greek for your audience.” —Exchange. y Fall Economy. “What a pretty felt hat that is ot Mrs. Flypp’s.” “Yes; that’s her summer hat turned around with the back to the front.” , Cleveland Plain Dealer, \_—~ ai Is Able to Help Sick Women When Doctors Fail. How gladly would men fly to wo- man’s aid did they but understand woman’s feelings, trials, sensibilities, and peculiar organic disturbances. Those things are known only to ‘women, and the aid a man would give is not at his command. To treat a case properly it is neces- sary to know all about it, and full information, many times, cannot be given by a woman to her family phy- Mrs. G. H. CHAPPELL. sician. She cannot bring herself to tell everything, and the physician is at a constant disadvantage. This is why, for the past twenty-five years, thousands of women have been con- fiding their troubles to Mrs. Pinkham, and whose advice has brought happi- ness and health to countless women in the United States. Mrs. Chappell, of Grant Park, Il., whose portrait we publish, advises all suffering women to seek Mrs. Pink- ham’s advice and use Lydia E. Pink- ham’s Vegetable Compound, as they cured her of inflammation of the ovaries and womb ; she, therefore, speaks from knowledge, and her experience ought to give others confidence. Mrs. Pink- ham’s address is Lynn, Mass., and her advice is absolutely free. _ . Memory of a Benefactor Toasted. Toasting Sir Francis Drake is an Toasting Sir Thomas tL’ etaoin interesting ceremony. The town of Plymouth, Eng., consumes 5,000,000 gal- lons of water per day, and its first reg- ular supply was given to the town dur- ing Sir Francis Drake’s mayoralty. Annually the town indulges in the quaint ceremony of toasting his mem- ory, which is done in this way: The pious memory of Sir Francis is drunk in water at the head weir. But then the company drinks in wine, to the senti- ment, “May the descendants of him who braught us water never want for wine.”—Pearson’s Weekly. fsa eR cele Oe A Wonderful Old Lady. Lord Rosebery’s mother, the duchess ef Cleveland, is a wonderful old lady. Though she is in her eighty-first year she is still full of energy, and is a de- lightful companion. The king mentions as an illustration of her activity that she did not indulge ‘her love for travel until she was over seventy years of age, and since then she has made many a journey, including a tour to India, the ‘West Indies and British South Africa. The duchess was married to the late duke of Cleveland in 1854, three years after the death of Lord Dalmeny, Lord Rosebery’s father. AN ENEMY TO DRINK. @ne Woman Who Has Done a Great Deal to Pat Down This Evil. Minneapolis, Minn., Dec. 3.—(Spe- ¢eial)—When tke Independent Order of Good Templars of Minnesota wanted @ State Organizer they chose Mrs. Laura J. Smith, of 1217 West 33d Street, this city. The American Anti- Treat League also selected Mrs. Smith @s National Organizer. The reason is mot far to seek. This gifted woman has devoted her life to a battle against Drink and Drinking Habits. Her in- fluence for good in Minnesota is and has been very far reaching. About two years ago however, it @eemed as if this noble woman would have to give up her philanthropic work. Severe pains in her back and under her shoulder blades, made life @ burden and work impossible. Physi- cians were consulted, and they pre- scribed for Kidney Disease. Threo month’s treatment however, failed to give Mrz. Smith any relief. Her hus- band was much exercised, and cast about him for something that would restore his good wife to health and strength. He heard of the cures ef- feeted by Dodd’s Kidney Pills, and ad- vised her to try them, which she did. She is now a well woman and says: “Two weeks after I commenced tak- tmg Dodd’s Kidney Pills, I felt much better, and at the end of seven weeks ‘was completely cured. I have had no recurrence of the trouble, but I take ® pill off and on, and find that it keeps we in good health.” Dodd’s Kidney Pills are for sale by all dealers at 50 cents a box. They are easily within the reach of all, and no woman can afford to suf- fer, when such a simple, and sure Remedy is at hand. Compaasless. Mrs. Hibbits—Where were you last might, my dear? Mr. Hibbits—Really, my dear, I can’t gay. I had no guide book.—Ohio Statesman. Are You Allen’s Foot-Ease? It is the only cure for Swollen, Bmarting, Burning, Sweating Feet, Corns and Bunions. Ask for Allen's Foot-Ease, a powder to be shaken into the shoes. At all Druggists and Shoe Btores, ‘25c. Sample sent FREE. Ad- _@ress Allen S. Olmsted, LeRoy, N. Y. Hard Luck. He—For goodness’ sake, what are you sighing about? She (behind the papers)—Oh, there are such lovely bargains here in Jones & Jones’ advertisement, and I t take advantage of them. _ “Bonnets, I suppose?” She—No; a complete line of patent medicines reduced one-half, and there's mot a blessed thing the matter with — Press. ni