Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, April 20, 1901, Page 6

Those Boston Women, Mrs. Smarte refers to the light she leaves for Mr. S. when she goes to bed as a “tombstone,” as it is put up for ber late husband.—Boston Transcript. Swallowed His False Teeth. A man recently swallowed his false teeth and it drove him mad. Stomachs ‘will stand a great deal, but not every- thing. If yours is weak try Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters. It cures indigestion, constipation, kidney and liver troubles, as well as malaria and fever and ague. It 4s particularly Sirpctive in all nervous af- fections, and is strongly recommended at this season of the year when the system is run-down and most susceptible to dis- ease. All druggists keep it. In Eden. Eve—Just think! T'll be two weeks wid to-morrow! Adam—Well, my dear, you don’t look ft —Puck. A Month's Test Free. If you have Dyspepsia, write Dr. Shoop Racine, ‘Wis., Box 143, for a|x botties of Dr. Shoop's Restora- tive, express paid. Sendnomoney. Pay $5.50 if cured. Ease With Dignity. “Why are each of you ladies so de- @irous of becoming president of our de- bating society?” “It saves time,” answered Miss Cay- nne. “When you are in the chair you are able to snub so many people at ‘ence.”—Washington Star. TO CURE A COLD IN ONE DAY. Take Laxative BROMO QUININE TABLETS. All @ruggists refund the money if it fails to cure, E. W. Grove's signature is on the box. 25c. An Inspiration. Mrs. Parkville—I have bought you a splendid box of cigars for your birth- day, Mortimer. Mr. Parkville-Oh, ah—er—I have been thinking what luxury that I par- ticularly enjoy, I should give up during Went, my dear, and I—er—have decided I had better give up cigars.—Brooklyn Eagle. $100 Reward $100. The readers of this paper will be pleased to earn that there is at least one dreaded disease that science has been able to cure in all its Stages,and that is Catarrh. Hall's Catarrb Cure is the only positive cure now known to the medical fraternity. Catarrh being a constitu- tional disease, requires a constitutional trea- ment. Hall's Catarrh Cure is taken internally ‘acting directly upon the blood and mucous sur- faces of the system, thereby destroying the foundation of the disease, and giving the patient esrength by building up the constitution and Qssisting nature in acing. its work. The pro- prietors have so much faith in its curative [powers that they offer One Hundred Dollars for ny case that it fails tocure. Send for list of timonials. ddress F. J. CHENEY & CO., Toledo, 0. Sold by druggists 75c. Hall's Family Pills are the best. ‘The Family Silver. “For the land’s sake!” said the wo- man in the blue “Mother Hubbard,” as a@he fastened the clothesline to the di- vision fence, “what do you think of them Jonses tellin’ around that the burglars got in their house an’ stole the family silver? Family silver! Huh!” “It’s so, though,” said the woman in the next lot. “They had a dollar an’ a ‘quarter piled on the mantlepiece for the grocery bill, an’ it was all in sil- “ver.”—Indianapolis Press. PATENTS. ‘Mist of Patents Issucd Last Week to Northwestern Inventors. Peter N. Angsten, Burlington, Wis., ‘panoramic camera; Christopher G. Burdick, Antigo, Wis., fifth wheel; Ed- ward F. Butler, Whitewater, Wis., cov- er for cooking utensils; Charles B, Gar- rett, Minneapolis, Minn., thermostat; John H. Michelson, Butte, Mont., ore concentrator; Richard F. Pearce, Butte, Mont., ore roasting furnace. Lothrop & Johnson, patent attorneys, 911 & 912 Pioneer Press Bidg., St. Paul, Minn. The Effect of Overcrowding. “Yes, I took that fat pug dog of mine en board one of the Euclid cars at the @quare the other evening.” “Well?” “Well, the car filled up and ran over, and men and women hung on to the rear platform.” “Well?” “Well, when I finally emerged from the car at Lake View and drew that fat pug after me, by Jove, I found that he had been squeezed into a dasc- hund!"—Cleveland Plain Dealer. jennings, | soutir via Santa Fe, Ll. C Hiram C, Wheeler, Gaivaston, Tex 3 So. Pac. 34 rate. In 1800 the total exports of the United States were $31,000,000. Last year they were $2,000,000,000. Mrs, Winsiow’s Soothing Syrup. For children teething, softens the gums, reduces {rr Gammation, allays puin.cures wind colic. 25c a bottle. “The dancing Christian” has a sound ke “the holy devil.” FREE A Full-Size $1 Treatment of Dr. O. Phelps Brown's Great Remedy for Fits, Epilepsy and all Nervous Diseases. Address ©. PHELPS BROWS, 98 Broadway, Newburgh, NT. “HANG-IT-ALL” I want to send you my circulars; send your name and Se stamps to pay for packing and postage and | will mail you this latest li-cent PUZZLE FRI Ad- 4. WEIS, enix Building, Minn. successful Send description; and get free opinion. MILO B. STEVENS & CO., Estab, 184, Div. % 8i7—14th Street, WASHINGTON . Branch offices: Chicago, Cleveland and Detroit, and Expenses, G1G 80 AWEEK 325, Foe ———e weoxly pay, for men with rig ell Poultry Mixture inthe country. We fur- ish bank roference of our reliability. REKA MPG. CO., Dept. %4., East St. Louis, DL The Man Was Satirical. P. P. Haskins of Cincinnati told the following anecdote at the Everett house, to illustrate the phase of hu- man nature which leads people to claim to possess knowledge on any and all things: “At a dinner party given some time ago in a Western city,” said Mr. Has- kins, ‘‘cne of the bachelor guests turned to his very beautiful hostess and asked: “‘Mrs. Blank, Go you know what) causes the milky way in the heavens?’ “Why, I did know, but I've forgot- ten,’ was the answer he received." “That's a great pity,’ said he, sadly shaking his head, ‘to think that you, | the only person in the world who knew the cause of this phenomenon of the heavens, should have forgotten it!’” “And he actually Lad the cheek to feel injured because the woman took him off her visiting list.”"—New York Trib- une. It Wouldn’t Do. Baron Munchausen had just written a letter to a friend. He closed it with a flourish, a “yours truly,” and signed his name, Then, with a melancholy smile, he erased the word “truly.” “It would merely move him to de- risive laughter,” he said.—Chicago Tribune. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. The Wife and Mother-in-Law of Mr. Charles Keys. Clasissa, Minn., April 15, (Special.)—- No family in this vicinity is better known or more universally respected, than Mr. Charles Keys’, the local School Teacher, and his estimable wife ; and mother-in-law. For a long time, Mrs. Keys has been in ill-health. Re- cently, however, she has found a cure for her ailments in Dddd’s Kidney Pills. “I cannot speak too highly of Dodd’s Kidney Pills, or what they have done for me,” said Mrs. Keys. “My life was miserable, my back al- ways ached, also my head. I was troubled with Neuralgia in the head ind face, and suffered extreme pain, but thanks to Dodd’s Kidney Pills, all those aches and pains have vanished like the morning dew, and it now seems that life is worth living. I consider Dodd’s Kidney Pills a God-send to suf- fering humanity. They may rightly be named the Elixir of Youth. “While speaking of my own case an¢ the wonderful benefit I have received, I might also add that my mother, who is now an old lady of 74 years and who lives with me, has been troubled more or less with aches and pains, as is nat- ural with one of her advanced age. When she saw what Dodd’s Kidney Pills had done for me, she commenced to use them herself, and she says that they have done her more good than any other medicine she has ever tried. “This testimony is given in the hope that others who may be afflicted as we were, may see and read it, and be ben- efited by it.” What Mrs. Keys states in her letter can be verified by reference to any of her many friends in this neighborhood. Dodd’s Kidney Pills have already 2 wonderful reputation in Todd county. Nothing has ever cured Bright’s Dis- ease, Diabetes or Dropsy but Dodd’s Kidney Pills. “Practical” Art. Critic—Not a bad stretch scape, but haven’t you laid than enough of it in water? Artist—Not a bit of it. The picture is for a client who has made his money in stock-watering operations.—Boston Transcript. of land out more Pile and Fistula Cure., Sample treatment of our Red Cross Pile and Fistula Cure and book explaining cause and cure of Piles, sent free to any address for four cents in stamps. Rea Bros. & Co., Minneapolis, Minn. Apt Iustratiou Teacher—Of course, you understand the difference between liking and lov- ing? Pupil—Yes, miss; I like my father and mother, but I love apple pie,—Tit- Bits. Millions of sufferers use Wizard Oil for pain every year and call it blessed. Ask the druggist. he knows. Unanimous. Mrs. Eldersole—Oh, well, there’s one thing I’d have you know. I remained single from choice. Mrs. Tainter—Yes; the choice seemed to have been unanimous, didn’t it?— Boston Transcript. Ptso's Cure for Consumption is an infallible medicine for coughs and colds.—N. W. Samuri, Ocean Grove, N. J., Feb. 17. 1900. Impossible. Fond Father—Johnny, you must nev- er talk when your mother is speaking. Johnny Jumpuppe—I know; there ain’t no chance, then, is there paw?— Ohio State Journal. Some articles must be described; White's Yucatan needs no description; it’s the real thing. A ‘Traveler's Opinion. Mrs. Quizzer (who wants to know ev- erything)—Now, what do you consider to be the most curious thing you ever saw, professor? Prof. Trotter—A woman, ‘The Maker's of Carter's Ink Say: “We can’t make any better ink than we do; we don't know how to. We can make poorer ink, but we won't.” Carter's Ink is the best. madam.— That which has been thrown away has often to be begged for again. PUTNAM FADELESS DYES do not stain the hands or spot the kettle. He who takes the child by the hand takes the mother by the heart. Any Doctor fs wiiling to treat you for rheumatism, if your credit is good or you pay his fee. But only one doctor will cure your rheumatism, and he charges nothing for advice. This physician Is Dr. Greene, the discoverer of Dr. Greene's Nervura. If you will write to him at 35 West 14th Street, New York City, he will tell you exactly how to get rid of rheumatism for good and all. Itwon't cost you anything to get his advice. Why don't you write to Dr. Greene to-day? IN THE WEB OF x. A SPIDER. CHAPTER XI (Continued.) “Ye have a noose about my neck, have ye, my fine gentleman? It’s true enough; but take care that I don't slip in yours with it before we're done with each cther! You can trate a man like a dog, can you? Well, dogs have been known to turn and bite before now. They shoot the dog, but the bite makes a worse death than the gun. 1 never liked ye, Master Randolph Ches- ter, and I hate ye now; and if ye doubted my word to-night, maybe an- other time I'll give ye fine cause.” But of the menacing fist, the mut- tered threats, Chester knew nothing, as once again alone he sank back in his easy chair. Yet his face was pale and his eyes troubled. “T let my anger master me,” he pon- dered, with a vague prescience of re- gret. “But—pshaw! The cur is in my power. He dare not stir hand or foot against me!” And, abruptly rising, he crossed the hall to his own room, his words already forgotten, and all unconscious that— that they had sown the seed for the harvest to be reaped by—Nemesis! CHAPTER XII. Not until another hour had passed did Beatrice venture to uplift the lounge, and whisper to her lover that the road was free for his escape. “My brave darling!” he exclaimed, “you have saved me, that I, in turn, might save you from the power of that dastardly villain. How can I leave you here? Are you sure, my love, that you will be strong enough to resist his machinations—his toils?” “The memory of this night will give me strength,” she answered. “Besides, Bertie, you have restored to me my faith in my father’s honor, my moth- er’s purity and my right to my own name. Yet that faith must be proven before the world. With such an in- centive, can I let any obstacle weak- ness may impose be a stumbling block to my feet? No! They may be bruised, and torn and bleeding, but they will ever press on to the goal where you and I, dear, are to meet!” “My noble girl, I will not fear for you, and always, though months should pass, and I should give no sign, remember that I am not far off. This man is playing a desperate game. He has tied my hands at the very outset, so far as open warfare is concerned; but I will meet him with his own cun- ning. We play for the same stake. We battle for the same prize. If neces- sary, I will borrow his weapons. Cun- ning alone can meet cunning. I dare trust my cause to no man but myself. Only, my darling, if most unexpected- ly at times you should find me near you when you imagine me far away, be very careful that you do not let sur- prise master you; that you do not be- tray us*both by an incautious word or glance. Be ever prepared—ever watch- ful!” “I will, Bertie—I will. But you must not lose another moment here. My door is unfastened. At any moment Randolph may return. If he should find ycu, all would be lost. Go, dar- ling, and may my love, which goes with you wrap itself around you in links of steel, against which, by day or by night, sleeping or waking, the weapons of your enemies will find themselves foiled and blunted.” ‘With rare unreserve, she threw her arms about his neck as she spoke, and of her own sweet accord, lifted to his her fragrant lips. He stooped to meet them. “My love, my love!” he whispered, low, as he strained her close to his heart. For a moment the world was forgot- ten by them both. The ecstasy of love’s passion enchained them. Past and future.alike here merged in the ex- quisite and intoxicating present. “Good-night!” she murmured. “Good-night!” he answered, once more catching her to his herrt, and raining mad kisses on her eyes, lips and hair. A minute later the-branches of the tree beyond her window rustled as if some sudden breeze had moved them; put Tyrrell’s master had summoned him from the watch, and as a dark figure glided down its trunk and dis- appeared in the darkness, there was no one to question or intercept its retreat; and only a girl's sob followed it as one of the echoes of the quiet night—an echo caught by God's listening angels and carried by them to the great white throne as a wordless prayer. ‘The next morning, pale, but calm and composed, Beatrice met her cousin at the breakfast table. It was the first meal she had taken with him since her father’s death, and, already seated, he sprang up, surprised at her entrance. “An unexpected honor dear Bea- trice!”” he exclaimed, courteously. She bent her head in silent recogni- tion that she heard, and moved to her place beyond the urn, His own face looked haggard and gray in the clear morning light; but its expression had lost no whit of its relentless and implacable resolve. When the meal was ended, he mo- tioned the servants to withdraw. “TI wish to apologize to you, Bea- trice,”” he said, when they were alone, “for my enforced entrance into your room last night. Knowing, however, your infatuated belief in Bertram Tal- bot’s innocence, I could well imagine you furthering his escape from justice. The résult did not warrant my zeal, but I was evidently falsely informed. As I am ready to forget the bitter words you addressed to me in your anger, so, I trust, you will forgive the cause that inspired them.” “Tt is so small a portion of my debt to you, Mr. Chester, that we need LILLIAN GILLIN. scarcely put it down in our reckoning,” she answered, icily. “Am I, indeed, so far removed in your eyes, Beatrice, from any claim of kinship that you address me thus?” he asked, in tender reproach. “You forget that it is you who as- perse your own clalim, and render it impossible, since you deny my title to my father’s name. But listen to me, Randolph Chester. All—every word— that you have told me I believe to be false; and though I am a weak help- less girl, I will yet pro ve it false!” “You are wrong, Beatrice, and you misjudge me,” he answered, quietly. “If you will use your reason, you will understand that I could scarcely invent such a tale, or support it without truth as its foundation. If it were not so, you could bring a hundred witness- es to combat it. You could prove your father’s marriage, bring forth his wed- ding certificate, and attest your own le- gitimacy of birth. As it is, you natur- ally refuse to believe the painful story necessity has compelled me to unfold to you. Beatrice, I offer you once more peace between us. Will you still choose war? Once again I ask you to become my wife, and thus forever put an end to any questioning. Why should you hesitate? I will not force my love upon you. TI will leave it to time and my own earnest effort to slowly win it. Oh, Beatrice, must you always hate, al- ways distrust me?” Genuine feeling rang in his tone. It was a new phase to her in his charac- ter—that of pleading and self-humilia- tion. Could it be that she had wronged him? she asked herself. Could it be that, his horrible tale was true—that she, indeed, only held the birthright of a father’s dishonor, a mother’s shame? The night before she had been buoyed up by Bertram’s faith. But, like herself, he had no proof to sustain it. Again the terrible doubt came creep- ing in to palsy her strength and chill the life-blood in her veins. Gut, resolutely, she nerved herself against tke betrayal of any sign of its existence. “What you ask me is impossible,” she answered, gently. “I can never marry you. I do not love you. If I have mis- judged you, you can prove it to me now by letting the matter rest. So far as the money is concerned, take it all. Only—I beg—I implore you, let the dead rest in their graves. Do not dishonor them. I will not dispute your claim.” “But, Beatrice, what you suggest is impossible, else I would gladly accede to it. The world believed you to be my uncle’s daughter, born in wedlock, and, as such, his heir. I can not step in and take possession of this property without proving it otherwise. One way, and only one, lies out of the difficulty— and that the way I have just suggest- ed. Become my wife, and the world need never know. Beatrice, could your dead mother speak, what, think you, would she plead? Can you not guess, too the reason now ycur father was So anxious for this marriage?” “Oh, God, send me a sign!” burst from the tortured girl's lips. And, as she spoke, unconsciously rais- ing her eyes, they rested on a portrait of her father, hanging against the wall of the room. The gaze of the portrait seemed di- rected toward her; the clear eyes, frank and honest, and true, appeared to het imagination to hold an expression of reproach; the lips about to open, as it to ask: “Beatrice, can you doubt me?” Impulsively, she sprang from her chair and knelt beneath it, extending her arms toward it. “Papa, give me strength!” she cried. “Almost have I doubted you, but nev- er again—never again! You hear me swear it! Let him wreak his worst, papa. You and mamma are dead—it will fall on me rather than on you. Only forgive me that I could ever listen to so cruel and foul a lie against your honor and my mother’s purity!” Then, rising to her feet, she turnea toward Randolph. “Do your worst!” she said. “The only elternative you offer me I refuse. What else is left me?” “Srkame, poverty and the world’s scorn!” he answered. * Then I accept them all. There could be no shame like that of an unhallowed marriage, no poverty so great as that the starved heart knows, no scorn of the world to equal the lashing of an ac- cusing conscience!” “You are brave!” he said, sarcastic- ally. “Will you always be so? Nursed in luxury, do you dream what terrible definition the word want can hold? You are beautiful. Oo you know the curse that beauty unprotected may preve to you? You have lived in the sunshine of the world’s smile! Can you imagine the blackness of its frown?” “T leok at you—I listen to you—anc, looking and listening, I need no imag- ination to see the picture you so graph- ically paint.” His face grew paler as she spoke. “T refuse to accept your decision as final until you have had twenty-four hours for reflection,” he replied, with forced calm. “If, by then, you still re- fuse the offer I have made you you will understand that you are living under my roof and on my bounty. I shall al- ways be most happy to offer and secure to you the charity of both.” His words did not fail of their effect. White and trembling, Beatrice moved toward the door. “I take not one minute—not one hour —for thought!” she said. “You say that it is owing to your charity that I am here—here, in my father’s house! Oh, God, .you may be right, but only in my ignorance have I accepted it. If you turned me from your doors the world might censure you. Is this your fear? So, you entrench yourself be- hind your charity, and bid me stay? | The world, then, will applaud your gen- erosity. Ah, you drop your mask soon. A little moment ago and I was ready— weak, credulous girl that’ I am—to be- lieve that some strata of real feeling and honest truth lay beneath the sur- face of your cruel, stony heart. To- day, Randolph Chester, is yours. But there may be a to-morrow. You put faith in the devil, whom you Remember this your serve—I, mine, in God! and good-bye!” She moved toward the door, but, quickly placing himself before her, he intercepted her passage. “Listen, Beatrice! Do not act rashlyl Take the time I have allotted you for thought. What would you do, alone and penniless, in the world?” “Sir, your interest is charity—your charity, insult! What will I do? When the mask is torn from your face, you will see the fruit of my work. I go to rebuild my father’s honor, which you would wreck; to,re-establish my mother’s purity, which you would as- sail; to prove good my right to the name of which you would rob me. Ah! smile in your stronghold of security! A mouse has been known to gnaw away the stoutest rope. It is my weak- ness pitted against your strength. Yet heaven will one day accord me the vic- tory. Will you now permit me to pass?” Mechanically he moved aside, and she swept by him and from the room. He stood motionless a moment, as if weighing her words. “T ean afford to be patient,” he mur- mured to himself. “I can afford to wait. The world is on my side. When poverty has bowed her proud spirit, and the world’s lash scarred her flesh, she will sue where now she scorns. Besides, am I not learning to hate where once I loved? I wouldl make her my wife, that she might call me master—that I might make her slave? Ah, my haughty cousin, you yet shall wear my chains! And whether they prove heavy or light, rests with your- self.” CHATER XITt. Like some hunted thing, Beatrice flew to her rooms, as if their very walls might give her protection. But, on-the threshold, the door, shat- tered of its fastenings, met her as sad proof that not even here could she be secure. Indeed here as elsewhere, she was no longer mistress. Hastily she made her preparations to leave Grey Oaks, to return never again, unless with her disputed right established. Not until all was in readiness did she remember that she had given to Ber- tram the evening previous, all her re- serve of ready money, excepting a few dollars in her purse. Her valuable jewels were locked in the bank vault. For a moment her heart grew sick with this new and unexpected obsta- cle; but her courage soon returned. ‘Taking in her hand her little satchel, filled with a few needful things, she made a movement as if to touch the bell. Then she remembered the servants were no longer hers to command; and so, drawing her crape veil over her face, with one low, stifled sob choking its way upward in her white throat, she turned from the rooms which she might never see again. The house seemed deserted as she de- scended the broad staircase. The door of the library stood ajar. She shud- dered as she passed it. No one met her as she opened the great hall door and glided swiftly down the avenue, between the grand old oaks, which were donning themselves in their brilliant autumn gerb. Suddenly from behind one of these shuffled the unexpected figure of a man. He touched his hat with awkward deference. Again she shivered, as she recognized Tyrrell. Was it an evil omen that, at the very outset of her new life, again he crossed her path? He started perceptibly as his glance rested or her bag. “You'll let me carry it for ye, Miss Markham?” he said, stretching out his hand to relieve her of its weight. But she shook her head and walked swiftly on. To her surprise, he fol- lowed her. G “You're not l’'avin Grey Oaks for good, miss?” he added, with a certain deferential anxiety in his tone. But Beatrice vouchsafed to the ques- tion no reply; save in a single haughty glance. The man stood still, looking sullenly after her retreating figure. “She has her father’s eyes,” he mut- tered. “And her father dismissed me from his service—to starve, for all he cared. It’s her turn now. Why should I care? We all have our turn. The next one, my fine gentleman, will be yours! And, with a swift change of expres- sion he glanced toward the stone tur- rets of Grey Oaks. An hour later, alone and unprotect- ed, Beatrice, with her veil stilt tightly drawn over her face but the elegance of the slender, youthful figure clearl; apparent through its folds wended her way through the busy throng pouring from the Central Derot of the great metropolis. The afternoon had not yet waned, and the sun was shining brightly. ‘The year previous she had graduated as Madame Clair’s pet pupil from Ma- dame Clair’s well known and fashion- able school. How could it be otherwise when Madame Clair’s bills, let her swell them to what amount she would, were ever undisputed, and when the mere fact that she numbered among her scholars the heiress of Grey Oaks made many desirous that their own daughters might also enjoy the same privilege of a residence beneath her roof, 3 It was to Madame Clair that Bea trice’s thought now turned. She well remembered that lady’s honeyed smiles and whispered flatteries. Let there be as little of sincerity as there might be in either, she would not refuse to re- ceive her now—at least until she might be ablé more clearly to decide upon her future course. From the depot she had but a few blocks to walk; but as she mounted the steps of the elegant brown-stone man- sion, she staggered with weakness. Scarcely recovered from her recent ill- ness, the terrible excitement of the night previous and to-day’s fatigue be- gan to tell upon her exhausted frame. A strange servant opened the door in answer to her ring, but made no effort to take her bag from her tired hands, as, murmuring Madame Clair’s name, she tottered across the threshold and sank down on a chair in the hall. Leaving her sitting there, the man disay peared, to return in a moment fol- lowed by his mistress. The latter gave one quick glance at the motionless fig- ure, draped in its heavy black, then, with a little cry, sprang forward. “Beatrice—my dearest Beatrice! is it you? Ah! mon enfant, ma chere en- fant! what has happened?” The retreating servant, consciows by his mistress’ effusion that, spite of the fact that the young lady had come O& foot and carrying her own luggage, he had made an error of calculation con- cerning her, zealously stepped forward to officiously lift the small bag and ask madame’s orders concerning it. “To my own apartment, Eugene,” she commanded, throwing her arm about Beatrice’s trembling figure and assist- ing her into the reception room, the door of which she carefully closed. What rare fortune, she thought, had brought the young mistress of Grey Oaks to her? Her father, she knew, was dead. Perhaps his daughter had come to ask her to preside over her home, and act as guide and chaperone to he: youthful inexperience. Well, her love for Beatrice—her pure, disinterest- ed love—might prompt her to accept such a post. It would be far less ardu- ous than her school, and, of course, her future would be properly provisionea against any emergency. But her speculations were cut short as Beatrice wearily threw back her veil, and the young, haggard face, all eolorless save for the great gray eyes, burst upon her as a revelation, that no such errand had brought the girl hith- er. “My roor child, you are ill!” she ex- elaimed. “It—it is nothing contagious?” the latter question inspired by a sud- den fear. A mere ghost of a smile touched Be- atrice’s lips. “I am not illl,” she answered, “but I have been very, very ill. Poor papa! You knew, madame “Ah, yes; I knew—so noble, so gen- erous, so handsome a man! Ah, my dear how well I remember the first time I saw him! I could not believe when I heard that he was dead. But you eame alone to-day, my dear Be- atrice! Ah, you impulsive American girls—you do such strange things!” “I came to you for protection, ma- dame. I—I am homeless! Grey Oaks is my home no longer!” “Homeless, my child? But with your wealth, you can make a home where you will.” “This is my wealth, madame—all that I have in the world. Will it buy me a home?” “I—I do not understand!” stam- mered the Frenchwoman, thinking re- gretfully of the effusiveness of her wel- ecme. “My father died, madame, without a will, or at least, we have been able to discover none. Therefore my cousin, as the next heir, succeeds to the prop- erty. I am disinherited. “Your cousin is the next heir? My child, you do not know the law. There is some strange mistake!” “A mistake, indeed, madame, but not such a one as by any stretch of imag- ination you could guess. From you I must conceal nothing. You shall know all, and you will understand then my unhappy position. . Ah, madame, it is not alone of my money that they would rob me, but of my name! They are wicked enough to say that my mother never was, in reality, my father’s wife! That I—that I am but the heritage of their dishonored shame!” Madame Clair’s grasp of the little, cold, gloved hand relaxed. She threw up her own in horror, while visions of this story getting afloat, and the effect produced upon the public by the knowledge that such a spot should have blemished the reputation of her school, fairly chilled her blood. “My dear,” she remonstrated, “your illness has affected your brain. Young girls should not even dream of the ex- istence of such wickedness, yet you calmly confess yourself to be a child of shame!” “Am ¥ ealm, .mademe?” asked the girl, wearily. “When heaven launches its thurderbolts with stunning force, and they fell to the earth their unhap- py victim, do you call him calm be- cause he lies where he has fallen, care- less where the next bolt may strike? If so, then am I callm. Rut you knew my father. You like myself, can know that this story is a lie—a false, foul lie! as false, as foul, as he whose brain gave it its hideous birth. It remains for me, madame, to prove it so; and so I have come to you, to ask you, for a little while, to give me home and pro- tection, until I can expose the truth.” Madame Clair hesitated. If there should be a mistake—if Beatrice’s faith should not be misplaced—it would serve her wel? to befriend her; but if, on the other hand, she had no right or title even to her name, how could she allow. her to breathe the same atmosphere with those young, tender lambs, con- signed to her special care and guid- ance? For a little while longer she must rest neutral and glean all the truth. “Does your cousin in no way sub- stantiate his assertion, Beatrice?” she asked. “Only by his story. He says that papa met mamma abroad; that—that she had just gone on the operatic stage. He fell in love with her, and wished to marry her; but she was already mar- ried, and so he ran away with her and brought her to America as his wife Oh, madame, it is false—false!” But the wily Frenchwoman could not echo the sentiment prompting ‘the girl's belief. To her the story suddenly as- sumed a most natural and probable as- pect. Moreover, who would dare fab- ricate such a tale without foundation?” “But, surely, Beatrice, you have some proof of your parents’ marriage—the certificate, legal or religious—as well as that of your own birth?” “None, madame—nothing! Together with the will, nothing can be found. but my mother was a saint. As such my father eveh hegarded her; as such, he has always taught me te revere her memory.” “What do you propose to da?” Stranger—Could you direct me to the Carnegie brary? Citizen—The Carnegie library? There is none in this towa, “What!"