Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 17, 1903, Page 6

The ~- + CHAPTER III. “My only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late!’ —Shakespeare. But no answer came to the terrified cry save the song of a thrush in the elm without. “Papa, papa!” in a frenzy of fear. “Speak to me—speak to me! Oh, my darling—my own darling—just one word! Papa, papa!” She dashed to the table and, seizing a carafe, drenched her handkerchief. She bathed his forehead, his iips; she rubbed his thin, stiff fingers with her Uttle, loving hands. At last the fair head moved with a restless gesture, the heavy lids lifted themselves from dim, unseeing eyes. Slowly the girl rose to her feet! Slowly in her face dawned a pallid horror. Something in the countenance before her had frozen the warm blood in her veins. He had been subject to attacks of weakness of late, but not like this— oh, not like this! As in a dream she heard the latch of the garden gate click—heard some one coming up the path. She staggered to the casement. Her visitor, an intimate friend of theirs, and a retired physician, caught sight of the girl’s white face. “Why, my dear Miss Laurie—” he cried, in surprise, coming up to where she stood, and then, catching a glimpse of the other occupant of the room beyond, he sprang over the low window sill. “What does—it—mean?” Laurie moaned, brokenly: “He never looked like that before! See his eyes! They are quite vacant, quite sightless. Oh, what can it mean?” “Quick!” the doctor commanded; “call the servant. We must get him to bed at once, for I fear this means— ah, little one, be brave—I fear it means—the end!” Her lips twitched painfully, but no sound came from between them. “We have been trying to deceive ourselves of late—we who loved him; but we knew it was coming. Now, Laurie—Laurie, for his sake! Don’t give way, my dear—don’t, for his make!" They bore the stricken man up to ‘his room and laid him on his bed. “They did all that loving hearts could wuggest and skillful hands could do, and then they went away and left them alone together—father and child. The last ember of sunset had died grayly in the west, the first purple shadows were dusking the quiet room, when he moved and spoke. “Laurie!” “My pet!” And in the inflection of the young voice there was something pathetic— something just a little humorous, be- cause of its implied protection. “I have been ill? Since when? How long? “Ah! I remember! I had told you—” “Yes,’ soothingly, “I know, dear. You told me. Now drink this and go to sleep!” “He swallowed the cordial she of- fered him, and it seemed to endow him with new strength. He strove to sit upright. id “Put the pillows at my back, Lau- I had told you— tie. There; it is better so. Now I must finish the story I began. When ‘was it, how long ago?” “This morning.” “So lately? Only this morning? Bring a light. I can’t see—I can’t | see anything—not even you, dear. | Light a light.” | And when it was brought he clasped his daughter’s hand and fell back on his pillow. “How white you are!” And his voice was very low and faint. “Were you nervous about me? Ah!” with ten- der concern, “how your hand is trem- bling! Do not be afraid; 1 am not dying—not just yet—not till I finish my story.” “Oh, no, no, no! My dear, no! You must not! You—” “I must, Laurie! Listen!” The new, imperious ring in his voice awed her to silence. He began to speak, and his words came between the gasps of his labored, painful breathing, hoarse and broken. “When I left my prison, a wreck of the man I had been—hope, energy, ambition all dead and empty words— I came to England. And then it was I met Margaret Atherton. How or where,” with a long drawn breath, “matters little now. It was the old, old story. We loved, and she was in a rank above me; for I—what was I at my best?—a big-hearted, credulous Bo- hemian, who had never learned the trick of making money. And at my worst—ah, there I winced—a branded thief! Well, I loved her—that says all. . Curse - Carrington By K. TEMPLE MOORE. MAAK HAAS HHI IAEA SSS SISA H OR. years ago. Those three years I can- not reveal, though this I will say— they were stained by no crime of my committing.’ And she answered me: “Love, I would not know if I could. Let me prove how wholly I trust you.’ “So we were married; and one year after, you were born. For a time I thought that gaining my daughter I had lost my wife, so ill was Margaret. But at last, by slow degrees, she be- gan to improve. “One night, hurrying homeward, hopeful and joyful, I met in the surg- ing crowd my old Parisian roommate, face to face. I had barely time to note the strange triumph in his eyes, the exultant smile on his lips, when he had dashed by me and was lost in the busy street. “I went home, chilled with a strange forboding. My wife was awaiting me. Standing erect in the little room, her eyes ablaze, her cheeks aflame with excitement, she held an open letter above her head. “She held it out to me as I entered, with a look’in her eyes which will haunt me dead. She did not speak a word. I took it. I read it. It was the story of the three lost years of my life. It was a minute and most hor- rible account of the theft, the trial, the galleys. It was signed,-boldly and legibly, with the old, familiar name. Besides, I knew the writing. It was that of the friend of my youth. “When I had finished reading it I looked up at Margaret. Whether it was the prolonged strain of suspense, or something she read in my face, I know not, but the feverish light faded from her eyes,the bright flush from her cheek, and she reeled and fell like a log at my feet.” “Well,” Laurie gasped—well?” “There is no more to tell. The ex- citement brought on fever—fever, death!” The clock on the mantel tolled, sil- very, ten. “It killed her, papa?” “Aye, it killed her!” The night wind stole in, soothing the sick man with his touch—cool, caressing, infinitely refreshing, till he fell into light sleep. The night was passed. A chill wind swept by the window. A cold gray- ness crept into the air. The light of morning was deepening in the East when Laurence Lisle woke from his restless slumber. He started up in bed with strange, fierce, restless energy. And you knew his trouble had been with him in his dreams—so quickly, so impulsively he spoke. “A life ruined,’ he cried—“blasted and ruined! A fair life—a goodly life —blasted and ruined! nd all be- cause of one boy—ah, no, no! one man. He is a man now. All because of him. He sent me to the galleys! He murdered my wife, my darling! He murders the future of my child. Revenge! Revenge!” His daughter flung herself on her knees beside the bed. “No,” she pleaded. God’s. No!” But life was strong in him; the flame was flaring luridly before it went out forever. “Swear!” he cried, passionately, his voice ringing and resolute and hor- ridly distinct in the solemn dawn. Swear! Swear if ever he should cross your path to deal to him, as far as is in your power, the merciless rigor of the old Mosaic law—‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!’ Swear!” “He is delirious; his mind is wan- dering,” the girl murmured, piteously, “Vengeance is | looking up at the doctor, who had just entered. He shook his head gravely. “No,” he answered, “he is quite con- scious.” “Swear!” repeated a hollow voice, with passionate vehemence. Slowly Laurie rose to her feet. was shuddering sharply like one chilled to the heart. She had not tak- en time to change her dress. She still wore the soft white lawn, with its gay, rose-colored ribbons, she had donned the previous morning. “Oh, I cannot!” she murmured, faint- ly. “It is too dreadful—I cannot!” A dark flush, born of irritation, surged over her father’s face. The physician started forward in alarm. She “You are hastening the end by this contradiction!’ ’he cried impatiently. “You may never meet the person of whom he speaks. Promise—gratify him! It is his last request!” His last request! And how he had loved her! How he Lad worshiped and adored her every word and look and action since she was a wee, motherless child. And this was his last request, and she—yes, she would grant it. What was this man to her that she should spare him? this man who had wrought her such bitter, such irrepar- able wrong? The imploring lips were growing rigid; the wistful, hungry eyes glazed in death. “And one day, all unaware, I be- trayed the passion honor bade me trample. And in that instant her heart was revealed to me. What could I do? I dared not speak the truth, onvinced as I was of my own integ- tity—I dared not! But before she promised to be my wife I said to her, 4m cowardly fashion, I confess: “I will tell you my life up to three “Laurie!’ "he entreated. Was it a sense of foreboding of the infinite evil to be that made the girl pause in that blind, bewildered way, and put up one hand to her throat, as if the coming words were choking her? “I swear!” she panted. A swift, strong joy flashed over the face already damp with the dews of death. He fell back on his pillow, For one moment he held her in a flerce, straining clasp. He had not told her yet the name of him who had wronged him so cruelly. Oh, pray heaven he might forget—forget! \ A quick gleam flashed into the dim eyes—the light of remembrance. “His name,” he gasped—his name She clasped her hands with a quick gesture of dismay. Rosier and more golden grew the distant east. “His name!” And then he strove again to sit up- right. i His name is Carrington—ah, I ought to know it—Clive Carrington.” He fell back heavily. “Clive Carrington!” The words were a shriek—a hoarse, stifled shriek. She stood erect in a flash, rigidly erect; her whole face white ,and blind with helpless horror. She flung her arms above her head, with a great. ery: “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!. I take it back—oh, I take it back! No he, not he! He is my lover, my husband—not he! Oh, listen to me,” desperately— “papa, papa!” And she reeled and fell across the foot of the bed, not more conscious than the dead man who lay thereon. And, as though in derisive mockery, flooding them both in its mellow light, through the open casement streamed the sunlight, gleaming, rose-hued, bril- liant! CHAPTER IV. “For Your Sweet Sake.” “Listen!” she whispered, and bowed her dark, stately head. “Do you hear carriage wheels? Listen, Cynthia.” “Not yet,” laughed the girl at her ladyship’s feet, “not yet; the train is barely due now. Patience, patience!” It was such a pretty room whtre they sat, these two women, It had velvet carpets, all cream and rose, and chairs that were miracles of ease and beauty. It had painted walls, and glittering chandaliers, and curtains of flushed silk and delicate lace.. It had in rich profusion; and over all their reigned a rosy twilight. And they were worthy of the room, its occupants. My lady, seated in her carved, medieval chair, as quaintly pic- turesque as any of her painted ances- tors in the grim gallery above; my lady, with her proud repose of bearing, her fine old face, with its delicate, aquiline features, its thin, haughty lips, its air of indomitable determination and invincible pride. And Cynthia Lennox—ah, there was a subject for the brush of a Titian! A girl of twenty-three or there- abouts, tall, graceful, well developed, with a face that dazzled you at first sight, that puzzled you on closer study; a face low-browed, regular- featured, olive-skinned; a face with great brown, Southern eyes, flashing from under a dusky fringe, with white teeth gleaming between portals of scarlet, with a throat like a marble column, and a coronet of raven hair. She had been sitting so long, with her splendid eyes fixed on vacancy, and her slender, brown hands clasped in her lap, that she started at sound of Lady Carrington’s voice. “Cynthia!” “Ma mere!” A quick flash came into the elder ‘woman’s eyes. “That is what I am anxious to be in deed as well as in name. You know —you must have discovered ere this —the one ambition of my life.” A crimson color crept into the girl’s olive cheek. . “I can guess, madame.” “Ah, and your feelings! Need I ask them? Whosoever my son marries”— proudly—“will be honored among women. But let me see your heart, dear. What are the words it speaks?” “Only these!” She flung up her head in sudden, swift defiance. “It is an honor that I dream not of.” Something in the tremulousness of the bright lips, in the very resonance of the clear voice, made my lady shake her head in smiling incredulity. “Ah, my most unkind Juliet! know my boy is to love him.” The flush deepened on her listener’s cheek, but she answered never a word. They say Love is blind. Is it not oft- ener dumb? “And he is going away,’ Lady Car- rington said, “to that hateful India. Well, when he comes back—ah, it will To be a joyful time for us both, dear! For, then shall a new mistress—a fairer, younger, sweeter mistress, reign at Blackcastle.” And she bent and pressed two thin, kindly lips to the hot cheek beside her. “Hark!” There was the sound of carriage wheels up the avenue. Cynthia Len- nox sprang to her feet; a stately, im- perial figure in her trailing, rose-col- ored negligee. “It is he!” she cried, in a burst of excited, unconscious joy. “Yes, it is he—it is he!” A moment more and he was in the room—had dashed in like a veritable schoolboy, home on vacation. Such a young Hercules of a_ fellow, lithe- limber, muscular, full of grace. “Mother!” he cried—“mother!” And then he had the stately old lady in his arms, his splendid, proud face all alight, his black eyes flashing be- neath their straight, dark brows, his lips, under their sweeping military mustache, tender and sweet as a wom- an’s. “Oh, my boy!” she whispered. “Clive, my boy!” “Cynthia!” he ejaculated, catching sight of his mother’s visitor and go- ing forward with hand extended, “I did not see you before. You will don me!” Malf an hour later as they rose to /dress for dinner, Lady Carrington turned to her son: “You will come to me in the library, Clive, this evening at nine. I wish to speak with you.” He kissed his mother and bowed to Cynthia, and went away to dream of Laurie Lisle. And at dinner he looked across at his vis-a-vis, radiant in rose- pink silk and sparkling diamonds, and saw—Laurie Lisle. And later he lay back in a low chair in the drawing room and listened to Miss Lennox’s rich contralto, singing a sweet Italian song, and all the time through his soul went ringing— “My gentle, bashful, Nora Creina!” When he opened the library door he found his mother awaiting him—such a haughty, handsome figure, in her rich black satin and old point lace. There was a shadow—the faintest shadow of apprehension—on the stern, commanding brow. “Ah, Iam late! Forgive me! this chair, mother. Well?” He had flung himself into a great Jeathern arm chair and had clasped his arms above his head. i In after years she remembered with a fearful pang the face of her son, as he looked at her then—a face of honor, of manliness, of quiet joy. “Can you guess why, or about what, I want to speak to you, Clive? He shook his head brightly. “On my word, no! I am in densest, darkest, most lamentable ignorance.” *“Well, it is this: I am growing old; Iam aging fast. I want to see a new mistress at Blackcastle before I die; I want you to win a wife; I want you to give me a daughter—” The great Gothic casement was flung wide, and through it they could see the silver moon, slowly climbing up the sky. Clive Carrington laughed—a good laugh to hear, ringing and boyish, de- | spite his thirty odd years. “Whenever you say, mother mine. Be sure I have no objection.” The faint cloud on her brow disap- peared. Take “Why not now?” in swift elation. |, “Why not take your bride on a wed- | ding trip to India? Why not now—if Cynthia would only consent to such | haste?” “Cynthia? What has she to do with it?” “What has she to do with it?” Lady Carrington repeated, in slow dismay. “Why, everything. I am sure the wom- an whom you are about to make your wife—” “Mother, one word!” He had risen from his lounging pos- ture, and was facing her, erect. In her face was something not pleas- ant to see—something which spoke of a latent will, passionate, unbending. “Let me tell you of her,” be said, in his quiet, determined way, which in- variably tommanded audience—“let me tell you of her whom I am going to make my wife.” “Then,” slowly, “I am to understand you have chosen your wife without reference to me?” “No,” he answered, with his rare, sweet smile. “Remembering all that was noblest in my mother, I found it mirrored in one worthy to be her daughter.” My lady’s sharp, white teeth closed tightly on her under lip. “Who is she?” she questioned. “What is she?” “Her name is not in the peerage,” he said, that wonderful smile of his again lighting his face. “She has no | houses, no gold, no lands, but she is | good and beautiful, and—she loves me! Her price is above rubies!” “But her name,’ ’in -reathless, que- rulous impatience—“her name?” “She was called after her father. Her name is Laurence Lisle.” “Laurence Lisle!” And the words were a wild cry of fear and horror. She reeled and stag- gered back, her face grown ashen. “Mother!” He sprang forward in alarm; but | with a swift, imperious gesture of com- mand, she lifted her hand and waved him back. “Not one step!” He dashed the crisp, dark hair off his brow in boyish fashion. Something of the sternness of his own voice rang in his when he spoke. “What does this mean? What is there in the name of the woman I love to terrify and dismay you? Tell me! I must know—I will know!” “Oh, wait! .Be patient!” she moan- ed—wait!” The shaded lamp burned low; but through the open window the moon- light streamed, a river of silver, and in its mellow light they stood there— mother and son—he so tall, so erect, so haughty, so rigid with self-repres- sion; she with nerveless hands, loose swaying in restless misery. Perhaps he did not know. When he did, would he not— Oh, yes, yes! All was not lost—it was not too late. The thin old hands locked them- selves nervously together; a wave of exultation swept over her face. She lifted her head and looked straight at her son. “Do you know who and what her father is?” she asked, slowly. “He is a scholar and a gentleman.” “Aye!” sardonically, “And what else? Do you know what?” Her eyes were flashing and triumphant. “He is a criminal, a thief, a branded galley- slave! And his daughter—his daugh- ter,” with slow, stinging scorn, “is the woman my son proposes to make his wife!” For a little while there was silence, unbroken and intense. Then Clive Carrington spoke: “You are my mother; therefore am step nearer—not one I silent.” “But it is true,” she said—“oh, my son, believe me, it is true!” “Well,” his broad chest rising and falling in the moonlight, “be it as you say, I am not going to marry her father; I am going to marry her!” “You are going to marry her?” in sharp, startled fear—“afser this which ry her?” “Mother,” he cried, passionately, “how do I know this is true? Wha can I do if it is? What would I do if I could? She is above suspicior. She would do honor to a king on his throne, and—I love her—I love her—I love her!” “So,” cried my lady, white with rage and quivering in every limb, “you will be the first Carrington who ever dis- graced our family—the first of your house to bring dishonor on a most honored name! And all for this daugh- ter of a scoundrel—this child of the galleys—” “Stop!” he thundered. He had taken one stride forward, his eyes blazing then his head fell upon his bre: “Forgive me!” gently. I have been discourteous. Bui you must remember that she of whom you speak is my promised wife.” Now her stern old face did not belie her. She was quite ghastly in the moonshine. Her lips were set in one pallid line. Her eyes were glittering ominously. “Then, she cried, fiercely, you are no son of mine! Your title I cannot take from you, nor Blackcastle. But what I can take from you, I will! And what I can give, I will—my—” “Not that!” wildly, piteously— “mother, for God’s sake, not that!” “Then go!” She lifted one white, old hand, that blazed with jewels, and pointed to the door. There he paused and looked back. My lady had sunk down on a low chair, a pathetic, lonely-looking figure in the vast room. A moment, and he had strode back—was kneeling beside her. “Mother, if I must go—if you drive me out—say good-bye!” She was on her feet in an instant, rigidly, haughtily erect, cold as ice. “Go!” she said, “before I curse you! Go!” As in a dream he went. As in a dream he spoke to his valet, whom he met in the hall. Still as though in a trance he reeled, rather than walked, bareheaded, out into the moonlight. “Oh, my love!” he murmured, “for your sake—for your sweet sake!” “Hark! what was that? A laugh— a hoarse, screeching, mocking, unnat- ural laugh—that froze the very blood in his veins. He looked up. From the deserted, disused eastern wing, high up in a narrow window, gleamed a face—dis- torted, elfish, horrible to see. Clive Carrington staggered on down the avenue like a man drunk with strong wine. “Oh, my God, have I seen it—have I seen it?—the curse of Carrington, our omen of all evil—or am I going mad— am I going mad?” (To Be Continued.) ae Blow Nearly Killed Father. He was a son of a worthy citizen, and had just returned from college. His father was a brusque, matter-of- fact man, who had no liking for any- thing pronounced, and he _ noticed with surrow that his son returned with the latest thing in collars and various ether insignia of fashion. The old gentleman surveyed him critically when he appeared in his of- fice ,and then blurted out: “Young man, you look like an idiot!” Just at that moment, and before the young man had time to make a fit- ting reply, a friend walked in. “Why, hello, Billy!’ Have you re- turned from college?” he asked. “Dear me, how much you resemble your fath- er!” “So he has just been telling me,” re- plied Billy.—New York Daily News. She Knew Herself. The story is told of an old lady who has lived all her life- in Germantown, as have generations of her family. The other day she is said to have consult- ed a young physician, fresh from his honors at the University of Pennsyl- vania. “What do you think is the matter with me?” asked the lady. “I am inclined to think your blood 1s not pure, madam. I'll have to give you something to purify it—” “Sir,” said the old lady, with dig- nity, “you are probably not aware that I belong to one of the oldest families in Philadelphia!”—New York Times. Stupendous Enterprise. “Rafferty,” said Mr. Dolan, “are yez payin’ attention to the trusts?” “T am that.” “Do yez think they’re goin’ to swal- low up the country?” “I had me suspicions. But I’ve been lookin ’at the map. There’swatermel- ons in Georgia, an’ peaches in New Jersey, an’ California pears on th’ Pa- cific coast, not to mention the mineral products, such as coal, iron, copper, lead an’ prairie dogs. An’ I’ve con- cluded that any wan trust that tries to swallow the intire outfit is in line for wan o’ the biggest attacks iv indiges- tion on record.”—Washington Star. Ta ES SEER ae Came Down Hard. Freddie is a Germantown boy of five years, and he has a little brother who is just beginning to walk. The younger brother’s name is Frank, and while Freddie likes hith i na certain way, his nose has been rather out of joint since his arrival. The other day he said to his moth- er: “Ma, did our baby come right from heaven?” D “Yes, my son,” replied his mother. “Well. then,” said the young hope- ful, “I guess he must have lit on his feet; that’s what makes him so bow- legged.”—Philadelphia Public Ledger. A Natural Sequence. “They say the tariff is the mother of the trusts.” “That is why the trusts are such dutiful children.”—Detroit Free Press erybody who taxes the kid- neys. When the kidneys are over- worked they fail to perform the duties nature has provided for them to do. When the kid- neys fail danger- ous diseases quickly follow, urinary disorders, diabetes,, dropsy, rheumatism, Bright’ disease. Doan’s Kidney Pills cure all kidney and bladder ills. Read the fol- lowing case: Veteran Joshua Heller, of 706 South Walnut street, Urbana, Ill., says: “In the fall of 1899 after getting Doan’s Kidney Pills at Cunningham Bros.’ drug store in Champaign and taking a course of treatment I told the read- ers of the paper that they had re- lieved me of kidney trouble, disposed of a lame back with pain across my loins and beneath the shoulder blades. During the interval which had elapsed I have had occasion to resort to Doan’s Kidney Pills when I noticed warnings of attack. On each and every occa- sion the results obtained were just ax satisfactory as when the pills were first brought to my notice. I just as 4 emphatically endorse the preparation y to-day as I did over two years ago.” A FREE TRIAL of this great kidney medicine which cured Mr. Heller will be mailed on application to any part of the United States. Medical advice free; strictly confidential. Address Foster-Milburn, Co., Buualo, N.Y. For sale by all druggists, price 50 cents per box. Diplomacy. “At what age do you consider wom- en the most charming?” asked the inquisitive female of, more or les? uncertain years. f the question,” answered the man, who was a diplomat from Diplomacy- ville—Chicago News. " The School Girl Who “Has French.” An ingenious and fond parent whose young daughter is studying French with a German governess at a West side school asked her the other even- ing—he had taken her to dinner at Partin’s as a Saturday holiday treat— what the mystic phrase “Ris de veau, a la jardiniere” meant. The dimpled linguist looked blank for the space of, an instant, and then blithely replied: “The smile of the calf at the garden- er’s wife.” “Hum! Let’s have some of it!” said papa.—Commercial Advertiser. a a “The age of the woman who asks * ' o Japanese Lovemaking. They certainly do things pictur esquely in the far East. When @ young Jap has made up his mind as to the maiden he desires to wed his next step is to fasten a branch of a cretain shrub to the house of the lady’s parents. Should he prove a welcome suitor the branch is cut down and taken in, while if unacceptable it is left to wither and die. What a lot of trouble such a system must save. There is another custom which, we think, might find less appreciation in Western countries. -The Jap bride- groom, as in duty bound, offers the most costly gifts he can afford to his bride for their wedding day, but she, instead of treasuring them for herself, gives them to her parents as a slight acknowledgement of the care and love they have bestowed on her from inty fancy. The actual wedding ceremony takes place in the evening, and the bridal robe consists of a long white silk ki- mono and veil. ORIGIN Of a Famous Human Food. The story of great discoveries or in- ventions is always of interest. An active brain worker who found himself hampered by lack of bodily strength and vigor and could not carry out the plans and enterprises he knew how to conduct was led to“ study various foods and their effects upon the human system. In other words, before he could carry out his plans he had to find a food that would carry him along and renew his physi- cal and mental strength. He knew that a food that was a brain and nerve builder, (rather than a mere fat maker), was universally needed. He knew that meat with the average man does not accomplish the desired results. He knew that the soft gray substance in brain and nerve centers is made. from Albumen and Phosphate of Potash obtained from food, Then he started to solve the problem. ‘ Careful and extensive experiment evolved Grape-Nuts, the now famous food. Grape-Nuts contain the brain and nerve building food elements in condition for easy digestion. The re- sult of eating Grape-Nuts daily is! easily seen in a marked sturdiness afid activity of the brain and nervous system, making it a pleasure for one to carry on the daily duties without: fatigue or exhaustion. The food is in no sense a stimulant but is simply food which renews and replaces the daily waste of brain and neryes. Its flavor is charming and being fully and thoroughly cooked at the factory it is served instantly with cream. The signature of the brain spoken of, C. W. Post, is to be seen a each genuine package of Grape. juts. z if Look in each package for a copy of the famous little book, “The Road Wellville.” : wo! » &