Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 29, 1903, Page 2

oe a Barbara Bret.t.on’s — TH CHAPTER XXII—Continued. “Give her up? Are you mad, Travis? I know now what all my theories of birth and name are worth. Perhaps, if I had known of this long ago, it might have been different; but now I have no thought that Avice does not share. This Ittle absence has taught me something of -the height and breadth and depth of my o’ermastering affection tor her. Do you think so meanly of me that were this even not so, as to suppose I would throw her over for an accident of which she is not only innocent but ignorant? It has been a cruel decention—I should have been a sharer in this secret; but, thank God, it will be my name my dar- Jing soon shall bear, and let any man resurrect this, then, at» his cost! Travis, she must never know this thing.” “Milton”—Travis cowered from the pain he must inflict, as he spoke, in that same hoarse, changed tone—“God pity you and pity us all! Avice is un- worthy of your noble love and gener- ous devotion. She has betrayed you and given her heart and hand to one whose equal treachery made him its meet possessor.” “His name?” From Lennox’s white lips the ques- tion hissed forth in the midnight still- ness. “His name,” Travis answered, “is | Richard Hayes.” | Whiter and whiter grew Milton’s | face. “Go on,” he said, presently, “I would hear it all.” But when Travis had finished the sad story that the last few hours had developed, he shook: his head. “There is double treachery at work } somewhere, and by the God above it is to me the traitor must answer! Once more will I look into the girl’s eyes, on whose pure faith I would have staked my soul—once know if indeed she is the willing instrument in this most foul wrong—once stand face to face with the man who has despoiled me, when it shall be life for life, his blood or mine!” CHAPTER XXill. Avice’s Despair. What do you mean?” From Avice’s trembling lips broke the question in answer to the strange proposition Dr. Hayes had’ made to her. “Is it so hard to comprehend?” he said. “Surely you would not wish to bury your young life in that old con- , vent? I would save you from your- | self, and have brought you here to this pretty, quiet place, that yon might learn life was not yet despciled of all happiness.” “This must not be!” Avice ex- claimed, trying to start to her feet, but sinking back through weakness. “My brother may seek me at the con- vent. What will he think when he learns I am not there?” “You forget you have no brother,” the man answered, with something like a taunt in his tone. i: “True,’ she said, wearily. “I had forgotten; but he is my brother in all that is good and noble and true. I should, perhaps, have confided in him at once. Oh, Dr. Hayes, how far am I from the convent? Take me there at nce, I beseech you.” “Avice, you are but a child, and you hhave learned the full treachery of the man who swore to you his vows of love. You would have married him in obedience to your father’s dying com- mands. You could not have loved him. Will you not let it be my pre- ious task to teach you how sweet the lesson of love. may be made?” He laid his hand softly upon hers, but she threw it off as if it had been the touch of a reptile. “Sir,” she said, “I came here trust- Yng to your honor, your generosity, your protection. If they are all worth- less, tell me so, that I may pursue my way home.” The man laughed softly. “The trail ends here,’”’ he replied. “This is your future home, Miss Mere- dith. It is for you to content yourself, or beat your wings against your gilded cage ,as it please you.” “You cannot detain me here agafnst my will.” + “It is a sorry task, believe me, but I hope in time you may grow recon- ciled. For the present, however, you must remain here.” “But there must be some people in this house. I can appeal to them.” “There are two servants, engaged by me to assist in the care of my ward, who is temporarily afflicted with aber- ration of mind, owing to an unfortu- nate love affair, and wishes at any cost “to rejoin her lover, who, by the way, has thrown her off. She must be care- fully watched, carefully guarded, all her whims indulged, her vagaries nev- er contradicted. In fact, but one ob- stacle is to be placed in the way of her ‘perfect freedom—she is to take mo exercise except in the spacious gar- den in the rear of the house. Miss Meredith, can you see any similarity between my unfortunate ward and yourself?” " The girl’s wide-distended eyes were fixed upon the man’s face, as though seeking to read there some sign of Ambit-ion~ ~ | er. | wondered how Florence had mercy, but his expression was as re- lentless as his words, A deathly faintness, which at any cost she felt she must fight against, seemed creeping over her. The beau- tiful face was ghastly in its pallor. “Have I not suffered enough,” she said, very gently, “that you, whorpro- fess pity for me, should make me suf- fer more. If you have—I will not say justice or even generosity—but one pulse such as throbs in the bodies of men, say you did but try me, and take me, while I may still hoard some of my strength, to the refuge I came to seek.” Through all his hardness, the quiv- ering tones found their way. But it was too late to turn back on the road he had marked out for himself, or, rather, that another had mapped out for him. “Calm yourself!” he said, sternly. “And listen, Avice: Do you know what the world alregdy thinks—your world and mine?” “I do not understand you,” she said, bewildered, putting her hand to her aching head, and wondering if mad- ness, indeed, had overtaken her. “Tt says,” he continued, brutally, “that you and I have run away togeth- Your honor, your reputation are at my mercy.” “Then ,if you have mercy, spare me!” she cried, throwing herself on her knees at his feet. ‘Send for Tray- is. He will forgive the share you have taken in this work, if you will but re store me to his arms. If you would not kill me, undo this most cruel, bit- ter wrong against an innocent girl!” “It is too late,” he said, lifting her to her feet.. “Why need you care, Avice? You surely had no love fer Milton Len- nox?” , “No love for him? No; none that I need sully by mention within your hearing—none that your debased na- ture could understand. Now—now I see it all!” she cried, wringing her hands. “All that you told me was false, false! false! and I, foolish, wretched girl that I am, believed you! You laid the trap, and my unwary feet stumbled in; but, oh, there is a God of mercy and a God of vengeance! May the one have pity upon me, and the other avenge my wrongs! Leave me, sir, and at least permit me the sol- itude of my own wretchedness.” “I will return in half an hour, Avice, and trust to find you calmer.” She loked about her, when alone, with wild, despairing eyes. Perhaps—perhaps there might be some chance of escape, but how far could her trembling limbs. carry her, even if her jailers relaxed their vigi- lance? She pressed her hot, burning fore- head against the window pane. Thees waved their branches outside; early spring flowers bloomed in the paths; birds sang in the boughs. Was this the same world she had al- ways known? In all her. life she had never had a care. So she had told Florence St. John. Ah, Florence, too, would believe this cruel story—Flor- ence, who once, she thought, had tast- ed the full cup of misery. She had lived through suffering, and now, beside her own, how small it seemed. Love, friends, protection, were Miss St. John’s yet. Of these, in one fell swoop, all had been taken from her and in their stead came insult, and still more cruel wrong. How could she bear it? She must make one more appeal to this man—must, in some way, pene- trate his armor. As if in answer to her thought, the door opened and he entered. “I am calm now,” she said. “I have thought, perhaps, Dr. Hayes, you might have some motive for your conduct— a price! Iam, as you know, a rich girl. I lay my fortune at your feet, to dis- pose of as you will, a ransom for my freedom.” A smile glittered on the man’s dark face. ' = “& motive and a price? Yes, Miss Meredith, Ik have both. We will be frank with each other; it is best so. I keve uttered some few words of love to you. They were false. All the love I have is another woman’s. They but served my. purpose and the utter ful-. fillment of my role. You shall, in fu- ture, be freed from them, As I said before, you shall be your own mistress —I will even intrude myself upon you as little as possible; but my motive cannot as yet be unveiled. My, price is one which all your fortune, thrice and thrice again swelled, cannot reach. It is a price for which I have toiled three long years and more. Judge, then, if a girl’s idle prayer will per- suade me to unclasp my hand and let it escape me, just when my fingers are closing upon it. You or I must pay the forfeit, Avice, and the lot has fall- en to you.” “Yes,” she answered, “the lot of death!” and she fell forward sense- less at his feet. CHAPTER XXIV. Unrelenting. “Barbara, if you would not add mur- der to this cruel wrong which I have helped you in, you must restore this girl to her friends!” It was Dr. Hayes who spoke, his travel-stained garments showing him to have come straight into Barbara Bretton’s presence from some long -|upon his brow, while Barbara’s silken ; Mame the necessity in words? ““Murder! Is there danger, tlien, of her life?” she asked. eee But neither agitation or fear was in her voice, while a slight smile play- ed about the corners of the exquisitely curved lips. “Yes,” he answered, “there is dan- ger to both life and reason. When she first thoroughly realized her posi- tion she swooned away. It was long before I could restore her to conscious- ness. When I at last succeeded, a burning fever ensued, which has Jast- ed at intervals ever. since, attended with delirium. When the fever leaves her, she lies utterly prostrate and de- spairing. It is impossible for this state of things to continue. One of two things must follow—madness or death.” “She is young, she is strong. You overestimate the danger. Besides,” a sudden energy creeping into her tone, “at any cost—Richard, do you not re- member my words?—at any cost my end must be gained. I do not poison this girl, neither do I stab her, or send a bullet into her heart. If she is ill, it is the fever, not I, that is to blame.” “Nay, Barbara, you hold in your hand the remedy, without which all my skill avails nothing. My darling, give this all up, and trust to me to make your future happiness!” “Never!—you hear me?—never? Though I trampled upon this girl’s body to reach my goal, I would not hesitate. What is she to me, save an- other link in a past which tortures me? Ihate her! She, too, has crossed my path. She suffers. I am glad; ‘et her suffer!” “Barbara!” Her listener stood aghast. . Never had the woman before shown so much of the inner passion consuming her. His voice restored her calm. She glided to his side and laid her head upon his shoulder, her hands clinging to his arm. It was an un wonted ‘act of demonstration, “My friend—my only friend,” she murmured low, “forgive me! Oh, Richard, do not judge me so harsh as I seem, but you alone know something of my agony in these years. I do not fear this girl’s death; she will live on. Besides, what good would it do to re- store her to her home? She is be- lieved to have eloped with you. They would not receive her. Wait but a lit- tle while; then, if you wish, we will advise them at the convent of where she is and let its walls open to re- ceive her forever. “Monsieur Lennox, my lady, is be- low ,and desires a few moments with you,” interrupted Feline at the door. “What can have brought him here?” Barbara questioned: aloud, yet speak- ing only to herself. “Wait for me, Richard. I must know what they sus- pect; then I will rejoin you.” The man, thus commanded, sank heavily back in his chair, an expres- sion of anfious pain and perplexity skirts rustled across the soft carpet and down the stairs to the draw og | room. With a smile on her lips and cyes, she went forward to greet him who stood, awaiting her with arms tightly folded upon his chest. “Mr. Lennox,” she said, “this is a most delightful surprise.” “That it is a surprise, madame,] can hardly doubt. It must indeed be an urgent necessity which would induce me to cross your threshold. Need I You | once threatened me, madame, long years ago. It was an ignoble, an un- generous threat. You said you wculd j strike through me at the girl I loved. | You have done so. I now throw my- | self upon your mercy and ask her back | at your hands.” A surprised, bewildered expression passed over the beautiful face. “I am very sorry,” she said, broken- ly. “I believe, in a moment of passion, I may have uttered words of such im- port, but—what do you mean? Ex- plain yourself.” “I mean that I am confident you | know of Miss Meredith’s whereabouts | and are in a measure responsible jor | them—I mean that at any cost I wiil discover whtre she is—I mean the man | who has decoyed her from her home | shall give to me his life as a forfeit | unless her lips pray to me to spare | him, her heart prove his shield!” | “Milton, you’ wrong me,” she» an- swered, in broken tones. “True, in a moment of angry passion, of outraged love, I thus spoke. But could you think my resentment would thus last? Has it not burned out in all this fire of passionate misery which has since consumed me? I am sorry if new grief has come to you. Believe me, I would convert it into happiness if I could.” Both were standing. She drew a step nearer as she spoke, her eyes resting with seemingly a divine pas- sion on his face. One hand she laid lightly on his arm. It was her last, crowning effort to waken in him one kindling spark, of the old tenderness. He drew back; her hand dropped, and she knew that she bad failed for- ever. “You refuse, then, to tell me any- thing? You would have me believe that you are in ignorance of all that has happened—that you do not know Miss Meredith has forsaken her home, and that, although a week has passed, we can discover no trace of her? For the last time, madame, I come to you under a flag of truce. Refuse to an- swer me and it shall be eternal war between us!” “Can I tell you that I do not know? But why should you seek to persecute this girl? She does not love you. She would have married you only in obedi- ence to her dying father’s wish. Sure- ly it is better that she discover the truth before it is too late.” Milton writhed under her words. They stung him like a scorpion lash, had shown him from Avice, in which recalling as they did the letter Travis she begged their mi forgiveness. perhaps it was tru e—perhaps she hac never loved him; but even at the thought, so fraught with misery to her heart, a thousand tender recollections of little, loving acts and whispers rose up to prove it false, and once again he vowed silently that only from her lips would he receive their proof. “For the sake of a better self, which must lie dormant somewhere under so beautiful an exterior,” he said in a last appeal—*by the memory of a far- off time, when a baby head was pil- lowed on your breast—I ask you once more to tell me if you can aid me in my search for this girl?” Barbara’s face grew ashen to her lips. “I know nothing—nothing!” she said tremulously. “Leave me!” ‘With a low bow he obeyed. “Richard!” One gasping cry escaped her lips, then she sank back on the couch, the strange cry of suffocation she had lately felt creeping about her heart; but the physician’s quick ear had caught her cry and i na moment he was kneeling by her side, forced some drops he had lately always carried down her throat, and slowly, very slowly, the faint color came back into her cheeks. “You are very good,” she whispered, laying her hand caressingly upon his hair. “Do you want a very great re- ward? I will go back with you to-night and help: you nurse this girl.” “My darling!” he said tenderly, “take care you do not need the nurs- ing. Once more I must leave you. Your heart is paying the forfeit to your will.” CHAPTER XXV. At the Bedside. Pale and worn, Avice, dressed in a white wrapper, sat in a large arm chair by the half-open window. A look of desperate suffering was in the sap- phire eyes, and hopeless lines had gathered about the beautiful mouth. She had been very ill during these long seven days and nights. Had they told her seven years had passed she would not have been surprised. For the last twenty-four hours her physi- cian and her jailer had been absent. The misery of his absolute presence had been spared her, though his pro- fessional skill had doubtless saved her wretched life. She was idle, miser- able, and utterly unhappy. Would that he had left her to die! The house was strangely silent. It grew op- pressive. She called the name of the woman who was nominally her maid, | but no one answered. Could she have | been left alone? Could her prison door | She was very | have been left ajar? weak. Her brain was reeling; but, rising and opening the door, she called again and again, yet received no an- swer. A wild, sweet hope, a mad impu!se, sprang into birth, which brought the color for the first time to her cheeks j; and fictitious strength to her limbs. Let it but answer her purpose and all would be well, In another moment she had thrown a shawl about her and tied on her hat; then stole softly down the stairs, car- ing not where she went so that she left behind her the house which had been made to her a prison. At last she reached the door; her hand was on tne | knob, when it turned from the outside and was thrown open by Dr. Hayes, while leaning on his arm was the beau- tiful vision whom she first saw on the | fatal day of her brother’s wedding, and | | who, she then learned, was her broth- er’s wife. “Were you going for a walk, Miss Avice?” questioned the doctor, with an ironical smile about his mouth. “I hardly supposed you strong eyough; besides, it is the rear of the house, you know, where the sun shines.” She did not turn her head as he spoke, but fastened her eyes hunger- ingly, despairingly, hopefully, blended into one, upon the beautiful face opposite her. “Madame,” she said, “I never wrong- ed you. Have you come to save me | from this man, to restore me to my friends?” “My dear,” said Barbara, “your friends, since learning the truth in ré- gard to you, decline to receive you. |They know where you have gone, They do not wish to follow. The story has been published throughout Paris. We are your only friends now. Will you not trust,us?” : But no answer came from the girl’s white, quivering lips. The full mean- ing of the horrible words gathered and grew in her brain, until something seemed to burst within it; then, with her arms raised aloft, she laugbed aloud—a laugh that froze her listeners” blood—and, so laughing, they bore her back to her room and to her bed, still with those mocking peals of mirth the only sound within the silent house, un- til exhaustion overpowered her and she slept. For three days and nights the phy- sician bent over her bed, listening to her piteous, unconscious appeals to the man she had loved; but Barbara writhed under the words which told how deeply Milton must have loved this girl—writhed even as she triumph- ed, until she grew to hope that her tri- umph might be complete and that nevy- er again he might look upon Avice’s living face. z At midnight the two were alone to- gether. Dr. Hayes, utterly exhausted, had thrown himself upon the couch in the adjoining room; Marie, who had disappeared from the house of her young mistress to return to her for- mer service, also slept, and the post of nurse had fallen to Barbara's tot. Avice’s eyes, wide open, gazed into vacancy; the rich, scarlet lips were parted over the white, gleaming teeth; all the hair lay in little clustering curls either cheek was a spot red as blood. “Call me at 1 o’clock,” the physician had said. save mine.” oy Se On a little table in the corner of the room, the different vials were spread. Barbara arose and with stealthy steps walked across the floor, lifting the vials one by one to the light. Across one was written “Poisofl.” It was this Dr. Hayes must administer, in such quantities that it should pro- duce life, not death. A fearful, overpowering temptation assailed her. Suppose she should not waken him, and should administer the dose herself? If the sequel were the result of accident, no one could blame her; and then—then this girl who had dared to cross her path would be swept from it forever. She could give as her excuse that she could not rouse him, and she thought the medicine neces- sary. “ Her face grew ghastly, her hand trembled as she glanced about the room, to make sure that she was alone. Yes, alone with the great crime she was about to commit, until it seemed an actual living presence in the cham- ber with her. Her heart beat in great throbs, which recalled to memory the words of the physician and lover in one: “Your heart will not bear this strain upon it.” “Well, let her achieve victory—let her rob life of all sweetness to Milton Lennox—and the avenging angel might then come. But this was idle folly, weakness, and the moments were precious. Ten drops, she had heard the doctor say— no more, no less. Was it only the trembling of her hand that filled the wine glass she held half full? Had the light flickered so low that she could not see? 5 One startled glance she took about her, then she returned to the bed. The girl’s face, reclining upon the white pillow, seemed of unearthly beauty. Barbara recoiled aghast. “Milton!” the sweet lips mutmured. And, at the sound, the old hate leaped into her eyes, as with jealous malignity she was blind to youth or beauty, pity or tenderness. Placing her hand under the head of the sufferer, she lifted the glass to the half-apen lips. “Drink!” she commanded, gently; when some one from behind snatched the glass from her fingers, and it fell, crashing its contents on the floor. Avice’s head sank back, while Bar bara turned to face the intruder. It was Marie! (To Be Continued.) GEORGE WAS ALL RIGHT. Such Circumstances Justified Him in | Breaking His Pledge. “TI knew your husband wouldn’t keep the pledge,” said the woman. who is al- ways trying to make trouble. “You were a little goose to believe him when he told you he’d never drink again. Only last night I saw him com- ing out of the corner saloon on his way home.” “T know all about it,” replied, her | friend. “I detected it the moment ‘I | kissed George at the door. . But it’s | all right. George really couldn’t help [ aEseking, his pledge just this once. | | You see, some one was mean enough to pass a Canadian 10-sent piece on him, and when the conductor wouldn’t {take it on the car the only thing he could do was to spend it at Kerri- gan’s.’—New York Times. | As to Its Cause. | “I am much interested in the cause | of inebriety,” said the solemn-faced | man with the white lawn and the dandruff on his coat lapell. “So’m I,” responded the individual with the purple proboscis. | “What!” exclaimed the other. “Shert’nly,” responded the man with | the breath. “Ishn’t boozh th’ cause of | inebriety?”—Baltimore American, The Sayings of an Eminent. “Bella is a great admirer of Mark Hanna.” “Is she?” “Yes. The other night Charlie Green tried to put his arm around her waist , and she cried, ‘Hands off!’” “What did Charlie say?” “He said, ‘Let well enough alonet’” —Cleveland Plain Dealer. A New England Sandwich. “How many childrem have you?” asked the friend of his*boyhood. “I have three. The oldest and youngest are girls and the second child is a boy. My wife calls them the ‘sandwich.’ ” “Huh!” said the boyhood friend. “That’s the first time I ever heard of a sandwich with the tongue on the outside.”—New York Times. Taking It Out on the Family. Mrs. Ferguson—George, what par- ticular failing of yours did the preach- er touch on in his sermon this morn- ing? Mr. Ferguson—What do you ask me that question for? Mrs.. Ferguson—Because, you have been as cross as a bear ever since you came home from church.—Chicagr Tribune. “What on earth is the matter with your husband?” inquired Mrs. Naybor. “You should have heard all the mean things he had to say about President Roosevelt this morning, and he used to admire him so.” “Yes,” replied Mrs. Childs, “poor John started to talk that way last night, after walking the floor with the baby for three hours.”—Philadelphia Press. ‘f fai a A cheerful face is althost as good for an invalid as a dose cf s:edicina. about her low, white brow, while ’on “She must then have her|. medicine; no hand must administer it WESLEY AND CHRISTIAN UNITY. Helped to Lessen Bitterness and Draw Good Men Nearer Together. It would be unjust to ignore what John Wesley did for Christian unity. Religious differences were more ran- corous in his day than in ours. Mac- aulay often exaggerates, but he did not exaggerate in describirg the old-time country squire ‘whose “animosities were numerous and bitter. He hated renchmen and Italians, Scotchmen and Irishmen, Papists and Presbyte- rians, Independents and Baptists, Quakers and Jews.” It did not re- quire much provocation fer a mob to pull down a dissentirg chapel or throw stones at a Roman Catholic priest.. In this world of fierce denunciation mov- ed a scholar who gladly acknowledged his indebtedness to good men of wide- ly different tenets. Wesley had learn- ed a good deal from the early fathers, he had read the great divines of the Church of England, some of his warm- est friends were Moravians, he admir- ed the saintly characters of the Ro- man and of the undivided Catholic church, his sympathies, naturally cuick, had been broadened by read- irg. Since De Maistre warned the Ro- man church not to forget the claims of her Anglican sister, since the Evan- gelicals gave new force to the Church of England, since the Oxford divines made dry bones live, many lessons have been learned. An increasing num- ber of persons is gradually awakening to the difference between the faith once delivered’to the saints and the opinions which merely date from Au- gustine or Calvin. John Wesley was in advance of his time. Should organic unity come within a century or two, he will be counted among those who helped to lessen bitterness, and to draw good men nearer together.—The Living Church (P. E.). BRAIN WAS STILL WORKING. Conductor’s Eyes Were Poor, But He Was Not Useless. As the conductor received the fares he gently scratched each coin on the edge with the nail of his forefinger. “Is that some now good-luck sign that you are working?” asked the man who rides on the platform and asks questions. “No; but I'll tell you what it is, though. It’s one way of beating the company. The fact of the matter is, I am getting old. The company does not know how old I am. If they did they’d fire me migthy quick. Then where would I be? I am getting so old my sight is failing fast. If I put on glasses it would be a giveaway on my age. I can’t tell by sight whether a coin is a quarter or a nickel, nor the difference between a new one-cent wiece and a dime; so I just scratch the edge.” “What good does that do?” “Why, it’s simple enough. The sil- ver pieces are all milled-on the edge, while the nickels and coppers are smooth.”-—Philadelphia Press. The Emperor and I. The German Emperor and I ‘Within the self-same year were born, Beneath the self-same sky, m the self-same morn; A Kaiser he, of high estate, And I the usual chance of fate. His father was a prince; and mine— iy, just a farmer, that is all. a a still are stars, although some 3s ine, And some roll hid in midnight’s’ pall; But argue, cavil all you can, My sire was just as good a man. ‘The German Emperor and I * Eat, drink, and sleep thg salf-same way; For bread is bread, and pie 1s pie, And kings can eat but thrice a day, And sleep will only come to those abs 0? mouths and stomachs are not ‘oes. I rise at six and go to work, Afid he at five and does the same; We both have cares we cannot shirk: Mine are for loved ones, his for fame. He may live best, I cannot tell: I’m sure I,wish the Kaiser well. I have a wife, and so has he; And yet, if pictures do not err, far human sight can see long odds twice as fair. I trade those eyes dark Not for an empress and her crown. And so the Emperor and I Ft On this one point could ne’er agree; Moreover, we will never try. Ne His frau suits him and mine suits me. And though his sons one day may rule, Mine stand Al in public school. Se let the Kaiser have his way, Bid kings and nations tumble down, I have my freedom and my say, And fear no ruler and his crown; For I, unknown to fame or war, Live where each man is emperor. —Boston Globe. Disagreements Among Scientists. Who is going to decide when scien- tists disagree? Here we find one group of investigators, moved by recent dis- coveries, such as the remarkable prop- erties of the substance known as ra- dium, figuring out that the earth and all that is in it must resolve them- selves into their original elements or confusion of elements and that we shall have chaos come again, Another group of scientists declares that this is utter nonsense and those who enter- tain such theories are dreamers. So it goes. Every discovery is met by scientfic doubt as well as scientific be- lief and the unlearned is to be forgiv- en for not knowing where he is “at,” But he can probably rest his soul in the calm confidence that the old world will go on for some time to come at least much as if there were no scien- tists and no new and startling theories, —Troy Times. Extravagance Begets Extravagance. “Madam, can’t you gimme a nickel?” asked the tramp, with his eye on the brindle pup. > “Why, sir,” exclaimed the lady of the house, “I gave you a dime yester. day. What did you do with it?” “I bought a auttimubble, leddy,” re- plied the migratory genius, “but now rT ithe a tenant . pay de fambly of a leman wot I run over keer- less ways.” de: asa ¢