Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 12, 1903, Page 2

Barbara Bret.ton’s oe Ambit.ion= ~ CHAPTER XXIX.—Continued. “Ah, monsieur, money is the lever -on which men hang their souls! But money does not always buy womens ‘hearts ,or unseal women’s tongues. I vhave warned you not for gain, but to show you the only way po #ible for ~you to achieve your end. If you really loved this girl, you would not hesi- tate.” “I love her so well that 1 would hes- itate at nothing, but Barbara surely ‘would discover this sham, this part.” “A woman who loves madly is blind. She would be delirious with happiness and doubt would have no place with cher.” “But you, who are in her employ— 4f money is not your object, why do you turn traitor to your mistress?” The French woman laughed. “T turn traitor? Monsieur, when the rattlesnake is: bitten by one of its kind the poison, deadly to others, is in itself harmless. Can ‘one play traitor to a traitor? I do not love madame, my mistress. I said women who loved risked all for that love. How is it, then, think you, with women who hate?” In a tone of deadly, concentrated passion she asked the last question, and Lennox realized that in all she «said, so deep was her hidden motive it -was at least worthy of the effort, dis- “tasteful, almost impossible, as it Was sto his open, honest nature to carry out ‘her designs. “You have shown me the way,” he eaid at last.“ Now show me the means. How shall I approach madame?” “Let her approach you. Call upon *her on some obvious errand, and if, | vas heretofore, she tries her wiles upon you, do not grow hardened, but let “them seemingly take effect.” 7 “And Avice—is she safe? For God’s *sake tell me, and relieve the suspense ‘that is consuming me!” “Ah, Monsieur, consult the doctor as to the welfare of madame, his ~wife!” retorted Marie, with a little mocking laugh, gliding away as she spoke, and hastily traversing the -street with a swift, graceful tread. He made a movement to follow her, ‘but checked himself. Bah! How could he know she was mot in nadame’s employ? What more lkely? But one thing barred this be- ‘ief—the tone in which she had said, “How is it, then, think you, with wom- en who hate?” But he had other business on hard just now. He must seek a second for tto-morrow’s duel. Travis Meredith would be most fitting, since he fought it for Avice’s sake; and should’he fall, Travis could avenge her still. Milton had not seen Travis for forty: eight hours, and now hastened to his house and found him sitting, dejected. ly, in his library, his head upon his folded arms; but he spang up witi a faint smile of welcome at his friend’s entrance. “Any news?’ he asked eagerly. “None, my boy, except I have goad- ed that villain to a challenge, and you must be my second.” “With all my heart. When where did you see him? Does he re- fuse to speak? Milton, let me ta’ your place—let me avenge her first!” “No, no! I am the one. But who knows, Travis. We may be robbing her of the only comfort life now has in store for her.” “True! Oh, how intricate is tais problem! But yet, Milton, we cannot ‘oth live afd let him walk the earth without wringing this secret from him. Tf all were well he would not refuse to aanswer us. We are not brutes that and; bird caroled forth its song upon the trees, whose branches saw their re~ flected images in its clear waters. Through the leaves came the glint- ing rainbow tints of the dying sun. 'To-night it seemed dipped in blood, and cast its red embrace upor all na- ture, as though prophetic of the com- ing struggle, when stern, resolute and silent, two fellow creatures moved to their appointed places on the daisy- strewn sod. No attempt at reconciliation was made by either second. One had the casual expression of an indifferent on- looker; the other the set, white look which showed him equally interested with his principal. The distance was marked. A hush as of death followed. Even the brook ceased. “One, two, three!” rahg out upon the stillness. Two shots, a blinding flash, followed, and one man fell to the earth. A bullet had pierced Richard Hayes’ lung, while Milton Lennox stood unhurt. E “Have I killed him?” Milton in- quired of the surgeon in attendance. “He is not yet deac, but there is a very narrow chance of life. Your aim was deadly, and I would advise you to leave Paris without delay.” “No, sir, I will face my action, if it comes to the knowledge of the law; but unless Dr. Hayes dies I think it will hardly do so, and even then | fear nothing. My ection was justifia- ble, in the eyes of men, at least. In to stand alone at his tribunal.” The wounded man moved and groaned teebly, as the surgeon probed for the ball. “Answer me, Richard, burying tor the moment our animosity,” Lennox said, almost gently, stooping beside the prostrate form of the man whose moments had perhaps been cut very short by his hand—“answer me before death seals your lips. Where is Av- fee?” “She is—” i Milton bent closer, but the red life- blood gurgled up, flowing in a critason stream from the white lips, and the sentence remained all unfinished as the speaker relapsed into unconscidus | ness. CHAPTER XXX. By Passion Swayed. Driven rapidly in his carriage to- ward Paris, Milton Lennox for the first time remembered a note that had béen handed to him as he was ‘about to leave for the scene of tife contest. He now drew it forth, and by the light afforded by the carriage lamps, read these lines, in a hardwriting he knew but too well. They were from Avice: “Milton: I hear you and Richard are to fight. For my sake desist from your intention. I know how greatly I wronged you, but spare me _ the wretchedness of robbing me of my lover. I deceived you all. Forgive me | and forget me. —Avice.” tco late. He was perhaps her lover’s murderer. | Obeying a sudden impulse, he di- | rected the driver to take him to the house of Mme. Meredith, as Barbara publicly had avowed herself. After all, the position had awakened but a ten days’ scandal; then her beauty, her wealth, her luxurious apartments, her Avice need fear us. Why does he jot ‘say boldly, ‘She is my wife,’ and giv us the certificate of their marriage?” “That is true. It takes away “he fast lingering doubt remaining in my ! mind.” ; Then, as concisely as possible, Mil- | ‘ton recounted the interview with Ma husband’s silence, had glossed it over, and she could have thrown open her dcors to have had socicty at her feet, had she so willed it. But for a time she preferred soli- tude; so it was that she sat alone in her drawing room when Milton Len- nox was announced. A wave of crimson surging over her sang less loudly, and the birds’ notes that of a higher power, I am confent- Lennox greaned. The note had come | tie, and the singular plan she had pro- | cheeks and brow was the only evi- yposed to him. dence of the agitation slie otherwise “Barbara loves you?” Travis said, | so successfully edlicealed. amazedly |. What had he come to tell her? Had “She once loved me, I believe, but | ‘that she still loved me I never dream ed. As it is, I believe it to be more ‘hate than love, more baffled vanity “than affection.” . “But if she in reality knows of Ay- ice’s disappearance, can we reach her in no other way? Can we not force ‘her to divulge what she knows?” “I fear‘not. But wait until to-mor- ‘row; much will depend upon its se quel!” It was daybreak ere the two men ~separated, first Milton having sent ta ‘his rooms and the messenger return- ‘ing with the expected challenge in due form, naming the time and place. The duel was to take place at sunset, just out of Waris. at a quiet spot, where ‘they might be secure from the myr- «midons of the law. Both Milton and Travis had ar ~ranged their worldly affairs, for both thad determined that Richard Hayes should answer to them equally for their mutual wrong. Let him but tell them where Avice “was, let her but plead for his life, and ‘he might go scot-free; but otherwise “they avenged her silence. The day wore slowly on to its close. “The place chosen was a thick wood, through which sang a little murmur- ‘ing stream, whispering its gladness to the tiny pebbles one could count at its bottom. Now and then a little 8h 4arted timidly up to its surface, or a he and Dr. Hayes met, or had the note, to whigh she had forged Avice’s sig- ' nature, done its work? Suppose ne j bad killed Richard? What could she do without Richard’s strong arm to help her? All this flashed through her mind as lightning illuminates the dark storm- cloud, yet she stood waiting for Mil- ton to break the silence, a little, cour- teous, ironical smile about her mouth. “Barbara, have you no welcome for me?” Had the cloud burst and the thun- ders swallowed her up? She had hum- bled herself for the last time in ap- peal, in effort, to win him back! So | She had sworn. Could it be that some whirlpool had borne him back in its weturning eddy to his allegiance? It was like the delicious strain of some long-forgotten music. She had stood so long in her attitude of Neme- sis, that suddenly the ground seemed giving way beneath her feet. A thou- sand tender memories swept over ler. She forgot the man who had gone forth perhaps to die for her sake. She remembered only him who had scorned and repulsed her—who now asked her the question, “Have you no welcome for me?” With all others she was the actress: With him she was the woman! ‘ “A welcome, Milton!” she mur- mured. “Car. it be that you plead for my welcome?” “I am a-weary and dtsacouraged| her. No one was in sight. Except the man,” he answered. “I may have been | watchers, all had unjust to you in the bitterness of a Dit-| ter past. Let the future atone “But you have loved another?” “Hush!” Oh, what desecration ‘t| she inserted a small key. It noise- Up the stairs she glided, until she reached a long and seemingly deserted hall. Ina door at its furthest end seemed, that this last course she had | lessly turned in the lock and the door Avice’s name into this mouth. “We will not speak of her,’ he continued, with forced calmness. some assurance that she. was un- worthy of me. If I could know this, I would forget her.” “You are sure—sure of that?” Bar- | erature. bara questioned, speaking in a low, in- tense tone. “Suppose I prove it you—what shall be my reward?” “Whatever you may ask. But you— how can you prove it? nothing.” “You are right,” she replied, “I adopted, in his despair, should drag] flew open. ‘woman's | behind her before procceding on her “She has deserted me. Ali I now care | from a tiny reception room, luxurious- to know is where she may be, to have | ly fitted up. She carefully fastened it ‘way. A smaller hall divided the entrance It was empty. The piano was closed. Every book was in its place. The misery that dwelt here could not forget itself in music or lit- ‘The room beyond was a sleeping ‘chamber. She entered, shad- to | ing the candle with her hand. On the bed, fallen asleep in an atti- tude which showed the abandon of You know | grief with which she had flung herself upon her pillow, lay Avice. The thick lashes were still fringed know nothing; but with such an end | with their weight of tears; the lovely in view I may discover much. She is | lips quivered; a sob rose in her throat but a girl; children cannot thus cover | and echoed through the room, even in their tracks in a great city. I will find her dreams. But no pity was in the her for you, or, if she is married to} glance of the woman watching her— this man—this Dr. Hayes—I will show | though a physiogamist would have you the certificate of their marriage. said there was a strange likeness be- Perhaps the ceremony has not been | tween the two beautiful faces, though performed as yet. If I find her I will | one was distorted with passion and the see that he thus rights her without de- | other refined by suffering. lay.” “It would be so easy!” muttered she Her voice rang with triumph. She who watched. “It would be so easy! remembered a white, despairing face, Who could know? who could suspect? worn and thin, with eyes that seemed | Why should I hesitate?” to her seeking to recall a past buried Hark! what was that? Something in oblivion—remembered how easy it | sounded through the-room. Again that would be to force this poor, helpless | child’s wail. Was she, too, going mad? girl to do her will; and as for the man, she knew what arguments to use with him. But what was Milton Lennox | heart. saying? . “Unless he has already righted her, I fear it will be too late in this world.” What could he mean? note she had sent had done its work. “What do you say?” she gasped out. Her hand trembled—the same dead- ly sense of suffocation stole about her In that moment Avice’s eyes slowly opened and rested upon her ashen face. “Quick! water!” she gasped, sink- Surely the | ing beside the bed; while Avicé for- got her own misery in fighting off the deadly faintness that had overcome “Only that Dr. Hayes and I met, not | Barbara. two hours ago, in mortal combat, and that it was he who fell.” “Dead!, Is he dead?” “Did you know him so well that you | tly. thus ask me?” “No,” she replied, forcing herseif to calmness, “except in that far-off time when he and you were friends. You have killed him, then?” “He was alive when I left him. How long he might live the surgeon could not say.” “Why did you fight?” In the midst of his trouble, Milton could but admire the simulated inno- cence with which she framed fhe question. Surely, to this woman, all the world was a stage, and all man- kind but puppets in her hand. “We fought,” he answered, ‘very slowly, “because we both loved the same woman. Can you guess who it was?” Ere she could answer the questiona loud peal from the bell had startled them both. In a moment Feline appeared at the portiere, and in obedience to a,mys- terious summons she followed him into the hall. Several men stood there, bearing a litter they had just brought in from an ambulance at the door. “The gentleman is sorely wounded, and bade us, before he was hurt, if ne survived the duel to bring him here.” “See that he is made comfortab!e at once, Feline. He will occupy the east room, and call Marie to assist you.” Then, without one glance, even of pity, for the unconscious form of the sufferer, she retraced her steps arnd-— that the sound of the might not arouse suspicion in Lennox’s mind—careful'y closed the door threugh which she had passed. Milton had risen to go. The part he had assumed was intolerable to him. | The very beauty of the woman nause- ated him. He felt as though some deadly weapon were coiling itself | about him. “Milton,” she said, coming close be- side him and lifting her face to his, “will you not kiss me once—just oxce? It has been so long since your last kiss rested on my lips!” “I dare not,” he answered. “Find out for. me all I would know, and you shall then forget the past in the pres- ent.” Long after he had left her she stood living over the memory of those words. Her youth seemed to have returned to her. If only this girl were swept from her path—were dead—if she could prove it so—perhaps the old dream might meet with its’ fulfillment. Ah, what was that?—a baby’s wail that echoed through the room? No, no! ‘ She cowered back on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. She was innocent of that far-off wrong. Her child was dead, but she had not killed it. But—oh, that this girl had died in infancy and her own baby had lived! Perhaps her life might have been different then. Feline’s entrance aroused her. She for the first time remembered the sick man’s presence in her house. “He is not dead, Feline?” she ques- tioned, springing to her feet. “No, madame, but the doctor says there is very little hope. He has been wounded in a duel. Will madame see him?” 24 “Not to-night. My nerves are over- strung, and I have another visit to make. How is she, Feline?” _“The same, madame, like some poor bird beating its helpless wings against the iron bars of its cage. Part of the time she seems to remember and grows frantic in her efforts to escape; at others she is passive and despair- ing.” ; “She will soon grow reconciled. I will goup and see her when the house is quiet.” “An hour later only a light shone in the sick room as Barbara, with can- dle in hand, her beautiful hair un- bound, stepped lightly out into the Be a At last it passed away and Barbara rose to go, “Sleep well, my child,’ ’she said gen- “Remember you are in my care, and try not to be unhappy.” “But my brother—why does he not come for me?” “You forget he is not your brother. Have I not told you before? They have all given you up to me. When rou are satisfied and céntent, I will give you your freedom. Until then, I cannot.” nd “Then I shall die a prisoner,” the girl answered, wearily, listening drear- ily as the key turned once more in its lock. “Alone again—alone!” she sob- bed. “Oh, God, why can I not die?” “Because you shall live and because I shall save you!” answered a voice. She turned. A woman she did not recognize stood beside her. CHAPTER XXXI. A,Newspaper Notice. “I did not know you,” Avice repeat- ed, gazing at the woman, who seemed to have sprung from the very ground at her feet. Poor girl! For days she had been delirious, and the mist had as yet scarcely lifted from the clouded brain. She remembered only that she was a prisoner and unhappy, and she knew that she longed for the sunlight and for freedom. “You do not know me, mademoi- selle? Wait!” and the woman disap- peared in the adjoining room. In a moment she returned, but so changed that Avice could scarcely Le- excitement lieve her the same. A red wig, surmounted by an ugly | cap, with a huge pair of spectacles, al- most concealing the piercing black | eyes, and a few lines carefully and skillfully inserted about the cheeks | and mouth, rendered the transforma- tion complete. She recalled toghe girl’s mind some half forgotten dream. “Surely you know me now, made- moiselle?” “Yes, yes, I know you!” cried Avice, with gladness in her voice. “It is my | good, my faithful Marie! Oh, Marie, | save me—take me from this place! | How came you here?” “Hush, mademoiselie! I am in madame’s service. I will aid you, if you will be patient yet a little while.” \ “Tam very patient,” Avice answered, passing her slender hand across her forehead with a bewildered air; “be- sides, where could I go? I have no | home. Travis has cast me off. Miiton has deserted me. Ah, I remember! Florence will receive me. She was to have been Travis’ wife, you know. I will write her a little note. Oh, will you see that she receives it?’ “Give it to me, mademoiselle. She shall have it. And now,” Marie con- tinued, when the note had been penned and confided ‘to her keeping, “good night. Try to sleep and regain your strength. Before many days you may have need of it.” “Ah, madame,” the maid murmured to herself as she slowly and cautious- ly descended the stairs, her disguise once more removed, “the web is being woven about you, cunning though you be, and through this girl, whom you have such reason to hate, shall the last blow be struck. Pierre, Pierre!” she added, in an awe-struck tone, as though addressing some visible pres- ence, “Marie has not forgotten. Sleep quietly in your grave my friend. You shall be avenged!” F A moment she stood without the threshold of that one room in all the house where sleep had not entered, then she softly opened the door and stole in on tip-toe. Two surgeons stood by the bed, one with his fingers resting on the pulse of the unconscious Richard Hayes. Bar- bara knelt at the foot of the bed, her eyes resting with an anxious expres- sion upon the faces of the men who were to render a verdict of life or death. | i Not so loud. | reg to her own room, that anxiety had ban- ished sleep, and so she had come to hear the worst. It might be that she needed him yet a little while, although the present into the delicious bliss of an almost forgotten past. — It was as Marie had prophesied. Bar- bara’s passion blinded her—no doubt crossed her mind, And,’ looking on the helpless form outstretched before her, the long, faithful years of his service were obliterated, the very fact that the life-blood the surgeons in at- tendance struggled so valiantly to stanch in its death-bearing flow was poured out for her sake she ignored. She saw in him only a tool, valuable in the past, perhaps useful in the fu- ture. At that moment his eyes opened for the first time since his hurt, and rest- ed with wistful entreaty upon her face. It was the glance a dumb animal might send to the soul of the master whose hand had slain it. “He recoéghized you, madame,” said one of the surgeons. “It is a favorable symptom. With great care and watch- ful nursing he may recover.’ The next morning, before she had left the room, Feline requested admit- tance at her door, He held a newspa- per open in his hand. “There is some news here I thought might be of interest to madame,” he began, respectfully, “if she will per- mit an allusion to the past.” “What is it, Feline?” she asked. He placed the newspaper on the ta- ble before which she was seated and pointed with*his finger to a column ex- tending down the page. It was a flattering obituary notice of the Earl of Bertram. She glanced at it indifferently, and from it with an air of surprise at the impervious face of the valet. “How does this interest me, Feline?” she asked. “More closely, perhaps, than you imagine. The Earl of Bertram was once known by another title, before by the death of his father he came into possession of the earldom.” A dim perception of his meaning stole into her brain. “And that title was?” she questioned breathlessly. (To Be Continued.) REGARDING. SCHOOL BOOKS. Farmer Children Need Farmer Studics, It Is Claimed. Our educational system has been made by city people, and the country school finds it second-hand, ill-fitting and unattractive. To this fact more than any other, perhaps, is due the backwardness of education in agri- cultural states. The school has not taken hold on farm life. Plants, soils, animals, insects, flowers, the weather, the forests and the sky, from all these things it has stood apart, while it has babbled of subjects unfamiliar and un- interesting to the country-bred child. All rural education has been hacked and hewed to fit the Procrustean bed of the city medel. x present methods, but it is not a whit too severe, To find proof you have only to examine the text-books in use in our rural schools. Apparently they have been written solely for city chil- dren, sons and daughters of clerks, merchants, bankers and traders. They do not even suggest to the farmer’s child the possibilities of science and training in agricultural work. On the contrary, the natural and logical infer- ence from our general scheme of rural instruction is that education is not indispensable to the farmer, but is in- tended chiefly for the commercial and professional classes.—World’s -Work. SHAKESPEARE IN SCOTCH. How the Master Would Sound in the Kailyard Dialect. In the August Reader, Bert Leston Taylor makes a suggestion for a ver- ; Sion of Shakespeare in Scots, and gives up portions, of Hamlet just to | show how delightful it would sound in this “lilting language.” ACT I.—SCENE V. Mar.—Laird Hamlet! Hor.—Heeven be wi’ him! Ham.—Aweel. . Mar.—Hoots, toots, ma laird! Ham.—Hoots, toots, callant! burdie, coom. Hor.—Whit news, ma laird? Ham:—Och, uncos. Hor.—Gude, ma laird, tell’t. Ham.—Nae, ye’ll let bug, if ah tell’t. Hor.—Ah’ll nae let bug, ma laird. Mar.—Ah’m doom, ma laird, 3 Ham.—Cros syer hert? Mar.—Ay, cross ma hert, ma laird. Ham.—Aweel, aweel. Wisht! There’s There’s nae nae veelain in a’ Den- mark but he’s a leean knave. D'ye ken that? Hor.—Ay (to Marcellus)—He’s daft, ah’m thinkin’. a Coom, A Misnomer, A very pompous woman attempted to leave a car while it was in motion and the little conductor detained he» with the usual— “Wait until the c-a-r sthops, Ieddy! * “Don’t address me as ‘lady,’ sirt* she said, haughtily. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but we are all liable to mek mistakes,” wax the immediate reply.—Lippincott's Magazine . ———— Regular Paydays. “Young maa,” said the earnest min- ister, “you are a hard worker. You serve this corporation faithfully. You give it your time and labor and thought to the exclusion of higher and better things. Reflect a moment, Does it pay?” “Sure,” replied the young man brisk- ly. “I get my money every Saturday | night.” Physicians are not the only men whe Milton Lennox’s words had merged | This is a severe indictment of our | THE STOKER’S PERIL LIFE IN THE DEPTHS OF AN AT LANTIC LINER. Accidents Almost Unavoidable Con front the Workers at Every Turn— “Delicacies” Sent Thm From the Cabin. Life among the stokers on board ap Atlantic liner is described by a con tributor who put in a voyage as an amateur coal trimmer. As a coal trim- mer, he says, I had to wheel my bar. row through a narrow tunnel, fill it with coal from the bunker, wheel it back again, empty it at the stokers' feet and keep on until the watch was over, but this apparently simple oc. cupation was not without its perils. The glass cylinders which show the depth of water in the boilers may burst twice a day, but save for an o¢- casional scalding a man is not often injured by this. Far more serious are the consequences of his opening the doors of his furnace without first shut- ting off his forced draft. A careless man—perhaps one who has boarded the ship the worse for liquor—may, on starting his watch, forget to shut off the three checks at the side of the fur- nace which regulate this detail. On opening the door a blinding draft will fly into his face and probably scorch him frightfully. There is no limit to the number of minor casualties. As I trimmed at my barrow the ship would give a sudden lurch, and my spade would fly out of my hand. If I wheeled it through the tunnel without knocking my head against the side I considered myself fortunate. With the roll of the ship tools would fly about in all directions A rake which had been lying idle at one side of the stokehold, would come violently sliding toward one. If, you stood in the neighborhood of a hatcn anything might come suddenly down on your head, Perhaps a shovel has been mislaid somewhere above, sa down it would come with a crash. During a gale it was no unusual thing for a miniature Niagara to rush down the ventilator and drench any- one who happened to be standing near. A sea, too, will sometimes alight on a mass of clinkers and save the trimmer his task of extinguishing them, scalding him and his neighbors the while by an upward rush of steam. The stock dinner dish tn the stokehold is “hoodle,” a mixture of méat, pota: toes and soup. For breakfast, hash; for tea, meat—of a kind—and bread, At 8 every night the chief steward sends the men on the watch just over a huge tin containing the leavings from the saloon passengers’ dishes. It is received from the steward by a trimmer—who no doubt gets his first whack at some dainty morsel. Meat, fish, mayonnaise of lobster, green vegetables, pastry, tarts, fat from joints are all jumbled together in a mixture of gravy and soup. As to who gets which is a matter of phy: sical contest. The “blackies” simply rush for the pan, and sometimes topple over the trimmer in charge be fore he has had a chance himself.— Royal Magazine. WAS THEIR CHIEF FAULT. Whistler’s Idea of the Trouble With Modern Pictures. ~ James Abbott McNeill Whistler was a man who lived to see the full devel- opment of the myth about himself. His name is linked with endless good stories, many of them, »f course, apocryphal, but nearly all worth the telling. Here is one of them: When the artist was requested ta paint a portrait of Carlyle for one of the leading cities in Scotland, a deputation of citizens called to confer with him with regard to the work. They first asked him how much he wanted for it. “A thousand guineas,” he replied promptly. “That’s a braw price, Mr. Whistler,” said the spokes- man with great earnestness, “a braw | price for a moodern pectur. For the | coolors in your moodern pectures Goon’t keep the coolors like your an: cient pecturs, mon; the coolors in your modern pecturs fade, they fade, mon, they fade.” Whistler looked at the group for a moment, then he shook his head sadly and replied: “No, my dear sir, you are mistaken; the colors in the modern Pictures don’t fade. And therein lies their damnation.”—Philadeiphia Press. Odd Cure for Rabies. Hydrophobia is treated in a highly origina) manner by Chinese doctors. Two sand-stone bottles half-filled with wine or spirit are heated until the liquid boils. The contents’ are then enmptied and the redhot mouth of the bottle is applied to the bite and held there until it is filled with blood, when the same process is gone through with the other bottle. A decoction is made of glutinous rice, called kian-mi-ou-lou, in which seven cantharides are boiled. The flies are taken out and the ric: is given to the patient, who is kep' quiet. The celestials have no less than sixteen kinds of cough—the cough from cold, damp, heat, grief, anger, fatigue, indigestion, the obstinate cough, the night cough being among them. Before a limb is amputated the member is dried up by exposure to the sun. ‘Improved Boilers. In Sibley college work boilers stand- ing a pressure of 1,000 pounds per square inch have been used, and Prof. Thurston expresses. the view that twice that pressure may be sucess- fully used eventually, or with suffi- cient experience in its management. These factors would raise the effi- ciency nearly 50 per cent and reduce the coal per horse power per hour to » She had not meant to, see Richard | follow the medical profession; the um | about three-quarters of a pound. {corridor and’ peered anxiously abdut | to-night, but she had found on going | dertakers are not far behind... ‘ = % \ a | } i) { | i T | it