Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, November 15, 1902, Page 6

nrc VVVVVYVVYYN NAVD ONY A Daughter of the Beach Y RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANA AAAAAAA N CHAPTER I. (Continued) The sky was now so clear that he could distinguish prominent objects with tolerable ease. He saw some- thing, dimly, shaped like a horse, lying on the pebbles, and he stumbled along toward it. His surmise was correct. It was a horse, fallen prone upon the ground, and the rider’s leg was pinned down by the fall. “Hello!” said Burt, as he reached the man’s side. “What have you done to yourself? What sent you down to such a place as this on horseback?” “That the devil only knows,” was the grim reply. “I’m rather glad some- body has come to help me, for I’ve been shouting myself hoarse, and I’m soaked through with rain.” “Where are you hurt?” asked Dick, as he took hold of the bridle and tried to make the horse rise. “My arm is broken, for one thing. About my leg, I don’t know; it may be nothing Dut a mere jelly by this time.” Burt coaxed and scolded until he succeeded in making the horse scram- ble to his feet. “He is not hurt, is he?” anxiously #ked the man. “No—apparently not. Now, let’s see about yourself,” was Burt’s response. After gaining his footing the horse towered his head and smelled of his master, whinnying gently. “All right, old boy, aren’t you?” ex- claimed the man, reaching forth a hand and stroking the animal’s soft nose. “I hope your knees are not cut on those stones.” Burt assisted the stranger to rise, feeling his curiosity greater with every moment. “Thanks—a thousand thanks!” the man said, as he stood upon his feet once more. “If you hadn't heard me [I might have lain here until morning. Is there any house near here where I can get shelter? And is there a surgeon who can set my arm? I want to get on my journey in a day or so.” “There's a house but a little way from here,’ ’Burt answered. “I be- lieve they will shelter you there.” He was thinking of Purcell’s. “Let’s go on, then,” was the impa- tient reply. “I’ve no time to lose now. I'd like to get these wet clothes off be- fore they give me a fever. Il’ve no time to spend on a fever now.” “But can you walk, or will you mount your horse?” asked Burt. “’'m as well able to walk as my horse is to carry me now, I fancy,” was the answer. “But before I go we must rig some kind.of a sling for this arm; the pain is too sharp. Gad! It’s enough to make a fellow faint if I move on!” Burt assisted, and the two tied a handkerchief, so that the arm was sup- perted and the stranger could go on. They, necessarily, went slowly, and, before they reached their destination Burt had half-repented of his resolve to take the man to Purcell’s. Witiin the last few minutes he had thought he would rather not have this stranger see “Kate Purcell, Then he told himself he was very silly to think of that. His companion was evidently in a very different walk in life from theirs. He would s2e them but a day or two, at longest. Yes; Purcell’s was the handiest place—of course, he should take the man there. Burt had counted with surety upon the thought that Purcell would stiil be up, poring over what they had found, and he was disappointed when he came in sight of the house and saw no light there. “He'll be awake, at any rate,” he thought, and pounded heavily on the door. In a few moments he heard a move- ment up stairs; then a light gleamed behind the windows, and footsteps heard. stranger had sat down on the p, and was waiting in silence. He was shivering in his wet clothes, and he was longing to lie down somewhere where it was warm. “Who is it?” asked a woman’s voico from behind the door, while a hand was busy undoing the fastenings. It was Kate’s voice, and even then there flashed through Burt’s mind the thought that he would take the strang- er away immediately; but he rejected the idea, and believed himself pos- sessed of some superstitious folly. “It’s I—Dick,” he replied, “and a xean who has been out in the tempest ard broken his arm. Call your father, and ask if he can shelter the man until morning.” “I need not call him to know that,” was the hospitable reply, and the door was opened and the two men entered. Both Dick and Kate, looked swiftly and searchingly at the stranger as he entered the little room, and the light of ‘the lamp in Kate’s hand fell full upon him. He was plainly a gentleman, both in dress and bearing. He was dark, slen- der—perhaps twenty-five years old. His eyes were brown, and as they wandered about the room, Dick fur- tively watched them, that. he might eatch their expression when they looked at Kate, and he saw®surprise ani admiration in them. . fi “Where is your father?” questioned Burt, in a slightly-vexed tone. “I wouldn’t have come here, only I thought he might be awake.” “He is sleeping heavily; he has been home but a short time,” said Kate, ina eeld voice. “Will you assist the gen- tieman up to the south chamber?. He ‘sbould go to bed directly, or he may be ill. wer “But that is your room,” began Burt, quickly. % Kate flashed a glance of anger at him and said: “I have other accommodations for myself.” ‘The young man, who had heard the ‘talk. rose hastily, from the seat where he, had sunk down, exhausted, and said: “I beg you will not inconvenience yourself. The house is small. It is very thoughtless of me to ask shelter, but if you will let me lie on this lounge until to-morrow—until I can get where I can have my arm set—” “Do not speak thus,” interrupted Kate, her face flashing as she spoke. “We should be churlish, indeed, to re- fuse anyone in your position what comfort we can afford. You are almost ill now. Will you follow me up stairs?” The stranger, looking at Kate as she | spoke, could not refuse to accede to her request. Without saying another word he rose and followed her. His head was light and dizzy, and he was obliged to lean against the wall for a moment on his way up the stairs. Dick Burt stood in surly silence as the two left the room; he could not make up his mind to lend his help. He almost wished he had left the man out qn the beach alone. “But he may have a fever and die,” he thought, with a bitter smile. “It’s plain it was a surprise to him to see a girl like Kate in a place like this.” He stood silent while he heard Kate ge into her father’s room and rouse the old man. Then she came down stairs, and, without looking at Burt, she asked: “Will you go over to the village for a doctor, Dick? The gengleman’s arm must be set immediately; and I’m afraid he’ll have a fever.” Instead of replying, Dick came near- er, and said: “What do you think of him?” She loked at him in astonishment. “What do you mean? What do I think of him?” “Yes. Exactly that. me?” persisted Dick. “I don’t think anything of him, save that he seems like a gentleman,” she said, and added: “Will you go?” Something in her manner reassured Burt. He moved toward the door, say- ing: “Yes, lll go; but, if I don’t mistake, he'll want his horse taken care of first.” “Father will attend to the horse; do go, directly,” she said, earnestly. Dick turned back from the door. Emboldened by her kind manner, he came near her and took her hand. Had he possessed a trifle more pene- uration, he would never have said what he did. if “Before I go, Kate, just give me a kiss—only one. You always are so awful hard to me, Kate.” The girl gazed at him in astonish- ment. She withdrew her hand, but tot abruptly. She almost thought he had been drinking. Can’t you tell “No; why should I kiss you?” she said. “You talk strangely; I’m not bard to you. Will you go now?” Dick looked at her hungrily for a mo- ment, then turned away and left the heuse without saying anything more Meanwhile Purcell had risen, had listened to his daughter's hurried words of explanation, and had gone into the room into which she had shown the stranger, while she made a fire and heated blankets and drinks, knowing well that the man slood in great danger of a fever. The girl had not been in bed that night. She had sat up waiting anx- icusly through the storm for her fath- er’s return. She distrusted Richard Burt’s influence, but she could not tell why. She had no idea of the business that led them out so often in the mid- dle of the night. All these thoughts, mingled with some curiosity concerning the strang- er, were in her mind, as she rapidly prepared a hot drink. In a few minutes her father came down stairs after the blankets she had by the stove. “Has Dick gone for the doctor?” he asked. “Yes. Will the gentleman be ill?” “I’m afraid so. Bring up that drink in a few minutes. Did you say he knew who he was?” “No—nothing about him.” “Nor where Dick found him?” with a quick hope in his heart that it had not been near that oné spot which was so in his thoughts. “No—only that it was on the beach somewhere.” ‘ Purcell went up stairs. When Kate followed with the steaming herb tea, the young man was lying in bed wrapped heavily in blankets. There was a deep flush on his face and his eyes were unnaturally brilliant. s He drank the tea without a word, and spoke only to ask about his horse, whereupon Purcell immediately left the room to attend to the animal, which he found standing close by the door. When Kate turned to leave, also, the stranger said: “Have you any objection to coming close to the bedside? I have a fancy that the pain will be easier with you near me, and my arm aches intoler- ably.” Kate was surprised at his words, but she already regarded him as ill, and one treats a sick person much as one dces a child. She approached the bed and bent over him, saying, softly: “I wish that, in truth, there was healing in my presence. You must suffer much. The doctor will be here within an hour, and your arm will not pain you after it has set.” While she spoke, he looked at her so intently that she blushed again. “Is this your home?” he asked, ab- ruptly. “Yes,” she replied. “Pardon me, but it seems to me that yeu must have lived in the—” he smiled, sarcastically—“in what we call the polite world.” . “K have lived here ever since my re- membrance,” she answered. 2 “That is very strange. I thought, perhaps you might have met with scme reverse of fortune, and e come here in consequence, not that this was your home. Have you never, then, been out in the world?” Kate smiled as she replied: “Beyond an occasional trip to. Bos- ton, I know nothing experimentally of what you call the world. I have been there for books. I have seen pictures. I have had a glimpse of the beauties of culture.” She saw that it amused him to talk with her, and she sat down by him. 'The time would seem very long to him before his arm could be set; she would do what she could to make the mom- ents more endurable. There was something in the gentle and unassuming simplicity of her man- ner that was very refreshing to him. And it put him at his ease to see that she treated him just the same as she would have treated a strange lady, who had béen thus brought to the house. pb: “But you love art—all that is beauti- ful and refined?” he said. “Oh, yes, that of course! But I find it is not wise to indulg2 in dreams that I shail ever live in any other world than this.” “You do not look like a philosopher.” he returned, noting the eager look in her eyes, the tremulous movement of the lips, as she spoke so earnestly, “I am not; but one is obliged to get accustomed to one’s life.” There. was silence for a while, dur- gin which the man lay looking about the little, unfiinished room, and won- dering how a girl like this could be even tolerably contented there. Suddenly he asked: “Does your father think I shall be ill?” “He fears you may have a fever.” “Impossible!” he exclaimed. ‘I can’t spare the time now. I must go on my way to-morrow.” ~ She said nothing, and he added: “I claim your sympathy, Miss —— But I do not-know your name.” “It is Kate Purcell.” “Miss Purceli, you will be doubly sorry for my mishap when I tell you that next week I am to be married. I was taking a little equestrian trip along the coast—one that I had con- templated for some time—and next week I was going to Philadelphia to }. my wedding; and now—Well, I Imust be well, that’s all!” There was something boyish in his words and manner—a kind of frank- ness, that was very winning. Kate made some reply, and then he said: “Was that man who found me your brother?” There was something so penetrating in his glance, as he asked this, that Kate averted her eyes as she said: “No; he is not a relative.” “You called him Dick, I noticed.” “He is a friend of my father.” Somehow, the subject was very dis- agreeable to Kate. She felt that there was almost impertinence in the strang- er’s questioning her thus, and in a mo- ment she rose and left the room. The man lay thinking of her. “I hope that fellow is not her lover. A coarse fellow—not half worthy of her. Jove! it’s not right for her to marry that man; but she will, of course, and he will drag her down to bis level. What is it Tennyson says about that?” He tried to while away the time in recalling the quotation, but he wished Kate had remained with him. CHAPTER III. Dick and Kate. Fortunately, the doctor was a toler- ably skillful surgeon, and the young man’s arm was soon bound up in splints and carefully suspended in a handkerchief. “He'll have a fever—there’s no doubt of that,” said the doctor, when he came down stairs; “but he seems a robust fellow. His strength may take him through easily. Who is he?” Purceil looked at his daughter, as if waiting for her to reply. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seems a stranger here. I have not even learned his name.” “Dick should know,” said Purcell, turning to Burt, who had returned with the doctor. “Don't know, I’m sure, unless he’s some prince in disguise,’ was the sneering response. “At any rate, whoever he is, he can’t be moved from here at present,” the doctor said. ' “It'll be some trouble to you, Purcell.” “One must be hospitable,” was the response. And the doctor and Dick left the house. “Rather odd about him, isn’t it?” said the doctor, who was something of a gossip, “The man seems to have dropped from the clouds.” “Or come up from below,” temarked Dick. *The doctor looked sharply at his companion as be returned: “Well, we shall find out who he is in time. Meanwhile, he'll have a capital chance to become acquainted with ‘Our Lady of the Beach.’ That girl must be an ‘earl’s daughter,’ from the refined gentleness of her bearing. The young man will see it, probably. How muck will you bet, Burt, that this stranger falls in love With Miss Purcell?” “J don’t know about his falling in love with her; but I'll lay you a hand- some sum that she never marries him, if you like to bet in that way.” “Ah, ha!” the doctor laughed. I see you know something of Kate Purcell’s heart. I suspected as much. Ket us hope, then, the young man will see no beauty in the girl. But he must be a flinty fellow if he is insensible to the charms of-such a nurse as he will have.” id When Dick Burt left the doctor and walked on alone, it was already a cou- ple of,hours after sunrise; but he no mind to go to his lodging house for breakfast. He did not wih to see anyone until he had gained more con- trol of the tempest of anger jealousy raging within him. . He walked on, without the direction in which he a until he found he ben auproset the spot where, a few hours re, he had found the stranger. 7: As he became aware of the fact he man’s history. A handkerchief was lying near where the horse and rider had lain. He picked it up quickly and turned it over eagerly. He thought it rather a dainty handkerchief for a man to car- ry, and uttered an exclamation of con- tempt for the swell who would carry such a thing. Then he found the name, “Laura Lauriat,” and a smile came to his lips. “Tt may be his sweetheart’s. In that case, he may not condescend to admire Kate. “I'll ptt her a bit on her guard, and show her this, at any rate; it'll do no harm.” He went directly toward Purcell’s, actually going out of his way to avoid going near the spot where he and the old man had found the mysterious chest the night before. “It’s illluck about that place,” he muttered. “I can’t help having’a feel- ing that we shall get into trouble about that affair. Purcell is mighty simple- minded about some things.” In a few moments he reached the house he sought. Kate was outside the door picking up chips for the breakfast fire, and betrayed some sur- prise at seeing Burt again. . Something in the expression of his face, much as he attempted to con- ceal his feelings, made her feel like shrinking a little. But she only said: “It’s time you rested, Dick; you were up all night, ! think.” “A night’s rest, more or less, makes but little difference, I fancy,” he said, ccming nearer and taking up the bas- ket of wood. “How is the stranger this morning?” “Very restless. Father is with him now. Are you coming into breakfast?” Dick entered the house, and while Kate was attending to the frying fish, Dick drew the handkerchief from his pocket, saying: i “I picked it up where I found the man last night. Do you think that’s his name?” He was surprised at the strength of the interest with which he watched Kate’s face as she took the handker- chief in her hand. But his suspicion might have been soothed by her man- ner. “Laura Lauriat must be the name of the lady to whom he is soon to be mar- ried,” she said, quietly, handing back the handkerchief. “Again a‘chill went over her as she saw how Dick’s face lighted at her words. . “What do you mean?” he asked, quickly. “That he told me he was to be mar- ried next week; that is why he is so very desirous not to have a fever now.” “Oh, what a fool I have been!” ex- claimed Dick, joyously, and his face was handsome as he spoke, his black eyes sparkling. “Kate, may you never know how jealous I have been. I quite hated the fellow. I have been a fool. Of course, you could not think of him.” Kate turned away to hide her blusi- ing face. She was coloring with in- dignation, but there was an under- feeling of fear which she could never divest herself of when with Dick Burt. She had a secret belief that he had some unknown power over ler father, and she was afraid to irritate him. Thus far she had been able to prevent any open declaration of iove from him. She went on briskiy with her pre- parations for breakfast. She made several remarks upon other subjects, but Dick was too eager now to remem- ber his resolve to woo her cautiously. “Kate, listen to me one moment!” he said, catching her hand as she went by him. “I must say something to you!” “T am so busy now,” she replied, re- leasing herself. “Don't you see I can’t attend to you?” She smiled serenely as she spoke, but she trembled inwardly. If she refused Dick Burt she knew she made an enemy of him. Yet the thought of the stranger up stairs made it seem more impossible than ever for her to love the man by her side. Ev- ery nerve in her shuddered at his ap- proach, yet she felt obliged to be civil, nay, kind, to him. Dick felt like uttering an oath. But then, he told himself, girls were al- ways offish—they liked to be followed, and urged, and courted; and Kate Pur- cell, in that, at least, was like all the rest. They would say “No,” when they meant, eventually, to say “Yes.” But, willing or not, Dick was bound to have Kate for his wife. “You know I want you to give me a promise, Kate. You know I have loved you these five years past—you must know that—and you can’t wonder at it. Just give me your promise to be mine some day, and I'll wait as long as you tell me.” It had come now; there was no avoiding the answer; and Kate Purcell was not the girl to deceive and give hope where there was none. Dick was standing by her, as she leaned one hand upon the table. She was pale, and her eyes were cast down. Never had she looked so delicate and lovely to Dick, never had he coveted her so much, and he was doubly re- solved to win her. : There was silence for several min- utes, and Dick saw how violently beat the girl’s heart—that her breath came in quick, uneven pantings. “I wish you had not spoken thus,” she said, at last, in so low a tone that he could scarcely hear her. “Why? You know that I must final- ly tell you that I have loved you so long. Surely, there is no one else—”: “Oh, no—no one!” quickly. Dick brightened. “Then you will say yes to me? I will promise to make you happy. I love you, so you must be happy. I have some money—we can start in life comfortably. Kate, I believe it will be the death of me if you refuse!” “You must not talk like that,” she exclaimed, raising her eyes to his face, and revealing that there was a mist of feeling in them. “It is impossible for me to grant what you ask. Do not no ceal doubt but she would accept him. He had always been accustomed to having his own way; and he intend- ed and expected to do so in this case. He said nothing more. He turned and left the house, and Kate went on, mechanically, with her work, a vague fear of what might happen growing stronger and stronger in her heart. Bhai eet er came aye he ; er closely, saw that some- bled her, and asked: or “Yes; Dick has just gone,” she re- plied. : ss , “Dick!” A pause, and then Purcell asked: “What was he saying to you?” Kate saw how anxious her father’s face was, and her heart sank still low- | er; but she said: “He asked me to be his wife.” Kate saw that his hand trembled as he put it on the back of a chair, as if to steady himself. What had she done? ‘What was Richard Burt to her fath- er?” Pec: you accepted him, of course?” \ “No.” Purcell sat down and leaned his face on his hand, not saying anything. Kate moved softly to his side and put one arm over his neck. “What is the matter, father? Did you care that I cannot marry him? Why do you wish it? You surely would’ not ‘have me marry a man I cannot love?” Without raising his head, Purcell said: “IT could not ask that, but I have so prayed that you might like him.” Kate grew cold as she heard the words, but she maintained an outward composure. “Can you tell me why you wished this? It is very strange to me. I have always wondered why you have chosen him for a companion. It is not from mere curiosity that I should like to know why you go away with him at such strange times. For several months back some cloud has hung over our héuse. Who is responsible for this? Is it not Richard Burt, and the strange influence he has over you?’ ’” As the girl spoke Purcell raised his face and looked at her, with a sort of frightened inquiry in his eyes. “You know nothing about it,” he said, quickly. “It’s all a fancy of! yours, and you need think nothing of | the matter. If Burt and I choose to enter a business as partners, it need | make no difference with you.” He spoke almost harshly as he con- cluded. Kate looked at him in sorrowful amazement. “Something has changed you sadly,” she said. j (To be Continued.) ONE WOMAN’S USE OF A PENNY. She Pays Her Small Son the Same Piece of Copper Time and Again. “That penny,” said the mother of a Small boy, picking up a-small copper from the floor, “has done me a great deal of service, and will do me still more, it seems.” “Yes?” her caller politely interro- gated. _ “You'see, it is this way,” responded the hostess. “Harry doesn’t care any- thing about money at all, and yet he likes to have me pay him when he does errands for me. I manage it in this way: I give him a.penny, and he holds it in his chubby little fists for a while, and then he lays it down some- where and forgets all about it. If I ask him what he has done with his money, he says he has put it away, but he is never interested enough to look for.it. I pick up the penny, and the next time I want him to go somewhere I give it to him again, and he is just as happy as if he were accumulating wealth.”—Exchange. Never Heard of Her. On a crowded trolley car the other norning two men were carrying on a conversation between glances at their respective newspapers. The older man was commenting upon some incident that had evidently occurred the even- ing previous, and his companion was listening as attentively as he could and study the market report in front of his eyes. “That speech was worthy of Mrs. Malaprop,” said the dignified old gen- tleman. “Ah,” replied his companion, look- ing up with sudden interest. Is she a friend of yours? Do I know her?” With a peculiar expression on his face the older glanced at the bland youth as he answered: , “No; she’s a myth.” Then he gave his undivided attention to the newspa- per.—Brooklyn Eagle. Big Monument Kills Birds. Every spring and fall large numbers of birds are killed by the Washington monument. The city of Washington scems to be directly in the route taken by many of the migratory birds in their flight between the North and South, and twice a year thousands of feathered songsters meet their death by flying against the tall marble shaft| be in the night. Just now the fall slaugh- ter is at its height, and every morning many dead birds are to be seen about the basé of the monument. The dogs and cats of that part of the city have learned that the base of the monu- ment is a good place to get an early meal in the morning without trouble, and many of them are regularly on hand. Most of the birds killed are yel- low and black-throated warblers and small thrushes.—Brooklyn Eagle. “A Nail in Disguise.” Mark Twain spent much of last summer at one of his summer homes, Quarry Farm, at Elmira. One day he went into one of the local book shops and looked over the line of fountain pens offered. Selecting one, he took it home on trial. While most fountain pens are practicable, some few are not, and the proprietor of the shop concluded that Mr. Clemens had in- advertently taken one of the latter when he returned it, a few days later. with the brief comment: “A nail in disguise.”—-New York Times. In the Boarding House. Landlady (in surprise)—Why, Mr. Muggs, you are putting butter in your Mr. Muggs—Yes; but I am trying to strike an average. Landla Whatever idy—An average? do you mean, Mr. Muggs? Mr. Muggs—Well, you see, the coifee is so weak and the butter is so strong. How to Have Only Two Grandparents. A strange case has presented itself hereabouts of a man who had only two grandparents instead of four. A wid. ower and a widow were married, and) their children by their firsi were in tinfe united. Their cl children thus had one 1 father and one common —Boston Evening coffee, and here’s plenty of milk. be ALMOST A MIRACLE. Case No. 49,763.—Mrs. M. Isted, ot 1207 Strand street, Galveston, Tex., who is proprietor of a boarding house at that address, numbering among her boarders a dozen medical stu- dents; says: “I caught cold during the flood of September, 1900, and it ‘set- tled in my kidneys. Despite the fact that I tried all kinds of medicines and was under the care of physicians, the excruciating twinges:and dull aching across the small of my back refused to leave, and trouble with the kidney secretions began to set in. From _then, ordinary Anglo-Saxon fails to describe the annoyance and suffering I endured. The fearfu! pain through my body, loss of appetite, loss of sleep, consequent loss of energy, and, finally, indication of complete dissolution compelled me, from sheer agony and pain, to either lie on the floor and scream, or forced me into spasms. On such occasions my hus- band called in a physician, whose mor- phine treatment relieved me tempo- rarily. I grew weaker and thinner,and so run down physically that nothing was left but skin and bone. All my friends, acquaintances and neighbors {new about my critical condition, and on one occasion I was reported dead and they came to see my corpse. At last the. doctors attending me held a consultation and agreed that if I did not undergo ar operation I could not live. Preparations were made, a room selected at the city hospital, and they even went so far as to have the carriage brought to the door to carry me there. I don’t know why, but something told me not to go, and I ab- solutely refused. Now I want the reader to grasp every word of the fol- lowing: A friend of ours, a Mr. Mc- Gaund, knowing that my _ kidneys were the real cause of the entire trouble, brought a box of Doan’s Kid- ney Pills to the house, and requested me to give them a trial. I had taken so’ much’ medicine that I was more than discouraged, and had little, if any, faith in any preparation. How- ever, I reasoned if they did not do me good they could not possibly make me worse, so I began the treatment. After the third dose, I felt something dart across me like a flash of lightning, and from that moment I began to im- prove. The pain in my back and kid- neys positively disappeared, the kid- ney secretions became free and nat- ural. At present I rest and sleep well, my appetite is good, my weight has increased from 118 to 155 pounds, and my flesh is firm and solid. My friends actually marvel at the change in my appearance. Words cannot ex- press my own feelings. I am not put- ting it too strongly when I say I have been raised from the dead. I am sat- isfied that had it not been for Doan’s Kidney Pills, taken when they were, I would have been either lying in the Lake View Cemetery, or an invalid for the balance of my lite. I will be only too pleased to give minuter particu- lars of my case to any one calling on me, not, of course, out of idle curios- ity, but if. they really have kidney complaint and want to know what course to pursue to get relief.” A FREE TRIAL of this great kid- ney medicine which cured Mrs. Isted will be mailed on application to any part of the United States. Address Foster-Milburn Co., Buffalo, N. Y. For sale by all druggists, price 50 cents per box. The Marriage Record. “Why did you decide upon such a sudden marriage?” “Well, you see, Arthur got one of those French automobiles, and I got to thinking that a husband in the har- ness might be worth a good deal more than a lover in the wreck.”—Chicago Record-Herald. Deafness Cannot Be Cured by local applications, as they cannot reach the diseased portion of the ear. 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 ‘ou have a rumbling sound or imperfect hear- te and when it is entirely closed deafness is the result, and unless the inflammation can be taken out and this tube restored to its normal condition, hearing will be destroyed forever; nine cases ont of ten are caused by catarr! which is nothing but an inflamed condition mucus surfaces. ‘e will give One Hundred Dollars for any case afness (caused by catarrh) that cannot be ey Ps Hall’s Catarrh Cure. Send for circulars, free. F. J. CHENEY & CO., Toledo, O. Sold by Druggists, 75c. Hall’s Family Pills are the best. His Unlucky Choice. “Miss Ginx,” began young Gaboy, “_or may I call you Ginevra——” ‘Call me what you like,” she said, with a bright smile. “Well, I like Gin,” he whispered. And then he realized, as she turned her phiz from him, that he had blun- dered.—Chicago Tribune. ITCHING SKIN DISEASES. Eczema, Tetter, Eruptions and torturing skin diseases are quickly relieved and per- manently cured by Cole’s Carbolisalve. Your money batk if not satisfactory. Alwaysget Cole’s. 25 and 50 cents, ie alvdeuneiste Escaped With His Life. “Did Biggs have any luck hunting lions in Africa?” “Yes, Great luck.” “How?” “Didn’t meet any lions.”—Washing- ton Star. ot When negroes shoot craps the for- mula is often: “Come seven, come te eer come heaven or the other wre anne | |