Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, November 14, 1903, Page 6

| | : / B | ' 5 ‘ | : f _ = Curse « Carrington By K. TEMPLE MOORE. CHAPTER XI, Stark, Staring Mad!"’ She bought a paper from a newsboy nd looked through it. An advertise- ment caught her eye. A lady wanted @ governess capable of teaching her ehildren French and Italian. She set out to walk to the number ne am She asked her way fre- quently; she lost it sometimes. It ‘was almost noon when she arrived at the house. A formidable-looking mansion of Pillared and porticoed stone. She lifted the polished, knocker and rapped. A powdev-ed footman admitted her, brazen ‘ut it was some time before the lady { came | of the house appeared. She feisurely down stairs at length—a thin, angular, cold-faced woman. She looked at Laurie from head to foot. Nothing escaped her piercing @ilance—the “worn, dark clothes, the | deautiful, sensitive face, the general air of delicate and most exquisite re- finement. You desire a position as gov-; ep toi han! “Your references?” Her references! erness,’ she said. The girl started. fier head dropped. “T have none!” “You have none!’ ’shrilly. your presumption in applying is pos- ftive impertinence. Go!” “Oh, madam, I pray you, let me tell you why. I am fully competent for the dutnes you require. Let me ex- plain. understand!” piteously. “James, the door!” “One, two, and still through the etreets of London the girl wandered on and on in aimless fashion. Once she found herself in a familiar neigh- horhood. It was near Lincoln’s Inn. Would she again endeavor to see Lawyer Bowers—again attempt, by cool, rational argument, to convince fhim of her identity? A bolder woman might have ventured; but she was lit- tle more than a child as yet—a child ‘whose young life had passed, shel- tered and sacred, in the sanctuary of home. “I dare not—I dare not! He says aurie Lisle is dead! Perhaps she is! _ Oh, my head! How it throbs and burns and aches! Oh, Clive, Clive! he whom you knew and loved is dead —dead beyond all hope of resurrec- tion!” The snow had begun to fall softly, oftly, like a shower of rose leaves— the first snow of the year. She walked lowly westward. Hark! What was that? Singing. _* ®he was passing a church, and they ‘were singing within. It was a Cath- lic church, and being November they were holding services, as is their cus- @om in that month, for the souls of their dead. She went in and sat down. The yplace was in darkness, save for the ‘ghts on the altar. From the dusky @allery above the music wailed—a wild, despairing dirge. She sat down on a bench in a dim corner. How long she sat there, with clasp- ‘ed hands and throbbing brain, and burning, sightless eyes, she could meyer have told. Here, for however brief a space, there was rest and se- <elusion and security. Her whole life passed in review before her—all its ‘aimple joys and sweet remembrances. Her father’s tender care and adora- tion, her lover’s— Ah, she could not think of him! ‘Ghe dare not—she dare not! He was ‘tthe man she had sworn to hate; he was her father’s deadliest enemy; he ‘was all that was cowardly, and vile, and base, and—she loved him! How long ago was it since he had ‘went his dark head and whispered, “Laurie, Laurie, Laurie, I love you—I ove you!”—how long? August, Sep- ‘tember, October, November! Four wonths! Oh, no—four years! Such wmisery could not be compassed in so hort a time, and yet again— Aye, it ‘was only four months! And in that @pace all gone—all lost! Home, name, @ather. lover—all lost—all lost! “Clive, Clive, Clive!” A great choking sob burst from her Wps—a sob that shook her slender frame from*head to feet. But further up in the church the devotees were wesponding to the litanies, and in the murmur of their voices that chord of gain was drowned. She had not tast- ed food since the day before. Her fhead was aching like a thing of fire. Hark! She put up her hand as though listening. What was that air they were piaying? What was that familiar, half-jubilant music? Over the low, reverent voice of the priest, “.@ver the drone of prayerful voices, ‘over the mournful chanting of the choir, she heard or seemed to hear, clear, triumphant, resonant, the sound of fife and drum, the braying martial music of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” She covered her face with her burn- ang hands. Now a fierce fever, born of exhaustion and lack of food, was throbbing through all her veins. Ah, ‘was there in wide London to-night a ereature more destitute, more lonely, more deadly heart-sick, than the girl * Clive Carrington had left behind him? _ “Requien aeternam dona lis Dom- ane!" chanted the choir “Then | You are a woman—you will | clear light and neither spoke. pure snow fell around them. She repeated the words over slowly to herself. Requien aeternam—rest eternal. Ah, that would be sweet in truth—rest eternal! The congregation were leaving. She rose and went out with them, the words of the psalm still sounding in her ears. Requiem aeternam! Rest eternal! Ah, they held it, her dear ones! Her father dead, Clive dead, and she— Had they not told her she was dead? But she did not know. Oh, God of pity, would she never know rest eternal? The streets were covered with snow when she emerged from the church. It was falling in great, velvety flakes. And now that fierce, subtle fever in her blood was flushing her cheeks, and kindling her eyes, and making her step weak and unsteady. She walked stumblingly on through the busy, brilliant streets, where tram- ways jinglei and carriages whirled, and the people surged and jostled and jested—“gone mad with the joy of the snow coming down.” And all the time a resolution was taking slow shape within her brain. “I will go down to him—yes, I will He loved me so dearly! And I will kneel down beside his grave and bend and whisper to him. I will say, ‘It is I, papa—your little Laurie! I could not keep my vow, dear—I would not if I could. For I love him—that is all. I thought I could crush my heart to scorn him. But you know what a woman's love is, dear. It is that within her over which | she has no control. It clings closer in misery, is grander in dishonor, tri- umphant in death itself. I am van- quished!’ Yes, I will go to him; he will be glad to have me; he can hear my voice, I know!” She was passing a pawnbroker's. She went in and hastily unclasped a slender chain from her neck. To it was attached a ring her father had given her when she was quite a little | child—a tiny circlet, with a deep | purplish stone—a sapphire of purest luster. “You want to sell it?” “Yes.” She heard him talking but she did not hear the words he spoke. She took the money he pushed toward her and went out of the store. She remem-; bered the railway station she had passed earlier in the day lay but a little way from here. She hurried eagerly on, down the block, under a street lamp. Some one stopped before her—a man. He caught her by the shoulder as she strove to rush by, and wheeled her around. She lifted her eyes to the dark, sin- ister, thin-lipped face above her. Then she reeled backward and stood star- ing at him like a thing turned to stone. For her glance had met full the | vindictive, glittering gaze of Cuthbert | Bracken! For a moment both stood in the The “Let me go!” she whispered, hoarse- ly, her face quivering with fear and loathing. His hand fell heavily on her shoul- der and rooted her where she stood. He was in full evening dress. His furred overcoat falling away showed a glimpse of snowy linen, a dazzle of diamond studs. “So!” and his face was livid with vague, apprehensive fear—“you are | here—you are living!” | She shuddered, erect before him, ter- rified, but defiant, like some beautiful, hunted creature at bay. Her face was full of burning brilliance; her cheeks were scarlet; her eyes wild and blaz- ing. “No, no, no!” she cried, frantically, “I am not living; I am dead!” The first delirium of fever was upon | her. He released his hold; he stag- gered back. What had come to the girl? What— All at once she broke into a laugh— a weird, exultant, hollow laugh, inex- pressibly awful to hear. “Yes, 1am dead! I am dead! dead!” And then she turned and fled, and the surging crowd and the blinding snow shut her from his sight. There was to be that night a recep- tion given by his club to the great po- litical leader of the day. He went with a smile on those lips that looked made for sneers, and a demon joy in that blackened heart. “Not dead, but as good as dead,” he told himself, triumphantly—“she is stark, staring mad!” . > . s s s . Through the throbbing streets, through the white night, through the blinding, whirling snow storm, she fled along, till before her glowed dully the huge red lamp of a railroad depot. Past the iron gates, on to the waiting room—a gaunt, vast barn of a place, Tam astir with rushing porters, twinkling lanterns, bewildered travelers, all the indescribable confusion that marks a station at night. And without whis- tles shrieked and bells clanged, and engines clamored. The glare of gaslight dazzled her. The sullen roar of action confused her. She fell back against the wall, pant- ing and exhausted. The crowd surged by her. Two men were passing. One, comrade. “Look at that girl! What a picture!” And she was a picture! figure, which, in its robes of soft, clinging black, stood out in startling contrast against the white wall. One hand clutched her bosom convulsive- ly as though to calm its fierce pulsa- tions. A shower of burnished hair had slipped from beneath her veil and drifted over her shoulder in shining waves. Her face was uplifted—an exquisite face, infinitely pathetic in its childish dismay. The great, dark- fringed eyes were burning and bewil- derd, the soft cheeks fever flushed, the young, half-parted lips parched and quivering. She roused herself at last and pressed on to the ticket office. She laid down her money. a Ther was a strange sound in her ears. She could not hear distinctly. His words sounded dull and unmean- “Yes,” she said vaguely, quite un- conscious of the import of her an- swer. And at last she was in the train, and speeding away—away! The snow ceased falling.’ It began to freeze. The stars came out in the winter sky, golden and _ glittering. Morn broke. The train stopped. Laurie rose and went out into the chill dawning. “Cragton?” an official cried, sur- prisedly, in answer to her question. You took the wrong train. The one for Cragion went by an hour ago! No other passes till night.” “Then I shall walk!” He looked at her in amaze. All that glowing fever had burned itself out in her face. It was drawn and rigid and awfully corpse-like. “It is impossible—simply that!” he said, and strove to dissuade her. But she did not seem to hear heed him. She went out of the station and walked on in the direction of Cragton. Hight, nine, ten, eleven! And the snow began to fall, soft and dense. H Twelve, one! And still she stas- | gered on through the rifting drifts. | Two, three! Kindly country people | passed her and spoke to her. But she looked at them with such a_ wild, } white face, that they shrank by, in! half-superstitious terror. j Four, five! And the short winter | day closed round her. : | | | or | | | | | She had not tasted food for forty-eight hours. She was trembling in every limb. i “I must keep up,” she told herself, ; feverishly—“I must! I am comins, | papa—I am coming! You will hear my | steps; they could dig no grave so) deep that my, voice could not Teach | you!” i See! A little way ahead lights were flashing—twinkling and flashing like a swarm of fireflies. Were they the lights of home? | A peasant was passing. | “What place is that?’ ’she_ whis- | pered. H “That house, ma’am? That is the Carringtons ’place—Blackcastle.” i He went on, and she sank down in the road, weak and shaking. “Carrington!” hoarsely—Carring- | ton! The name I hate most on earth. | That name around which the wrongs | of a lifetime center, ton” and now each word came in a thick, gasping whisper between the | gasps of her labored breathing—‘“mur- | dered :my mother! He scorched in | my father’s flesh the brand of Toulon! | And with that same red iron of in- | | | Clive Carring- | 1 famy stamped and branded me!— made me a thing to be hunted and de- | spised, beneath and apart from all | other women. And, oh, my God!”— her voice shuddered’ out through the winter night in a desolate, awful, un- earthly cry—‘“I love him, I love him! To my shame—to my most bitter and | undying shame—I love him! I must go on—I dare not die here!” She stumbled to her feet. For a few steps she battled with the storm. Her | strength failed her. A great blur came | before her eyes. The sound of mad | waters was in her ears. “Merciful God,” she panted, ‘‘not here—oh, not here! Clive, Clive, Clive, | not here!” And she reeled and moaned and fell. Oh, the cruel irony of fate! Fell on | that one fragment of the wide world where centered her wildest love, her deadliest hate! At the very door of the Carringtons —at the very gates of Blackcastle! On the threshold of the future. CHAPTER Xil. A Ghost Story. “How it snows!” said Cynthia Len- nox. She walked over to the window, her | crimson cashmeres trailing behind her, and looked out. “It is a wild evening!” assented lit- tle Vera Cassard. And it was a wild evening. The snow fell steadily, purely, ghostly. | The wind whirled through it, and piled in pallid drifts, in frantic, spectral frolic. But here in the great drawing room of Blackcastle were warmth, and ease, and luxury. Just now the vast, state- ly room looked rarely cosy and home- like. A huge fire blazed in the steel grate, and its genial, flooding light fell upon the rich, dull, Turkish carpet—upon the lofty walls, draped with pictures hallowed by the brush of men immor- tal!—upon curtains of ruby velvet and priceless lace—upon gold-wrought tap- estries of Persia and deep-toned rugs of Smyrna; and upon chairs—such chairs!—a whim of my lady’s they, all exquisite, though no two alike, Just now they were drawn round the hearthstone’s polished marble in a social crescent. One, modern and puffingly inviting, stood beside anoth- | what is the authorized term? an artist of celebrity, nudsed his,[ er medieval and rigidly repallant, which in its turn was next a fragile structure of gilded wood and pale blue A slight | satin, that had for its neighbor a ver- itable Sleepy Hollow of warm-hued plush and carven ebony. A pleasant room, truly, beautified with those exquisite trifles which in our cultured day make perfection. But the blaze which upleaped in the somber dusk fell on a picture fairer than any which hung on the proud walls of Blackcastle. For just now the old place was packed with guests from cellar to at- tic, faded Londoners, most of them, who had come to spend Christmas in hearty, authorized English fashion. it was the hour for kettledrum; and about a dozen of the lady visitors lounged around the bright, good-tem- pered fire, in the vague enjoyment of the discomfort without, and in dim satisfaction of the gracious security within. “And now we can’t have our skat- ing party to-night,” said Miss Lennox, as she turned from the window, with a slight shudder. “This wretched snow.” “Let’s ring for lights!” suggested practical Miss Cassard. She was a plump, pretty little blonde, who passed for a beauty. She had a nice complexion, imnocent blue eyes, and a cable of soft, fair hair. Her proposal was received with lan- guid but decided disapproval. “What!” cried Della Dent, a tall, | him in his arms and dragged the life- dark-browed, sentimental young lady, “shut out—or rather, stare out—the gloaming? What is prosaic, critical gaslight to this? Just look at those distant corners! How mystically dim!” “Yes,’ pityingly, “you rather like this sort of thing, Della!” “This sort of thing!” in low-voiced disgust. “Oh, you little Goth—you Vandal!” “What shall we do? How shall we amuse ourselves this dreary night?” asked Miss Lennox, coming across the long room to her seat by the fire. “Let us tell ghost stories!” cried Baby Earle, rising, to lay aside her fragile morsel of Sevres. A slender, impulsive, willful sprite, this child of sixteen—this young heir- ess of Starbury. She had a dark, saucy, mignonne face—a crop of crisp, short curls, like a boy’s, and a pair of big, mutinous, wine-brown eyes. “Yes, let’s all tell ghost stories,” Vera laughed. ‘‘Baby’s suggestion is good. You first, Miss Lennox. They say you have a genuine, bona-fide ghost as a lodger at Blackcastle. Please!” “Hush! not so loud,” Cynthia said, holding up a slender, jeweled hand in warning. Lady Carrington must not hear you. And though it sounds like ia laughing matter, she is extremely and most unreasonably nervous on the subject. Wait! What time is it? Five! Draw your chairs closer and I will tell you all I know of the Demon of the Tower.” There was a faint, amused laugh. “What a name!” Baby cried, ex- plosively. “You do bravely, Cynthia! The title should be good for three volumes of blood curdling sensation. Please go on. We are waiting with— Bated breath—that’s it—bated breath!” “Baby,” protestingly, “do be sensi- ble—just for once! Go on, Miss Len- nox.” Cynthia laughed. “Well, you know I was quite a little child when I first came to Blackcastle, and the servants used to tell me such tales of the disused eastern wing! And how I would listen! laughing, yet half-afraid to hear. Many a night I lay awake from dark to dawn, quak- ing with fear. But I was too proud to let Lady Carrington see my terror. So shé knew nothing of the stories I had heard, and of the fantastic fancies which fevered my brain. This was the legend they told me of the Demon of the Tower.” This time there was no mocking laughter. Cynthia’s voice had grown so grave that even Madcap Baby lis- | tened in silence. “It seems that once upon a time— and not a very good time it was, I should judge—there lived within these very walls a young fellow, wild, handsome, hot-headed—a Carrington, of Blackcastle—and he fell in love, as,” with a faint laugh, “I believe, only a Carrington can fall in love— madly, passionately, insanely. She whom he loved was-in rank beneath him—the daughter of a peasant, pos- sessing grace and beauty above her order. And she cared no more for | him than for the bronze Apollo in his library. She had given her heart to a cousin of his, a penniless young guardsman, who had been a friend and companion of the lord of Black- castle from their earliest childhood. But one evning, quite by chance, Ru- pert Carrington saw and overheard a meeting between the lovers. They | were arranging the hour and method of their flight. “Then, for the first time, the knowl- edge that he was supplanted, the con- viction that the woman he loved was lost to him forever, the whole strange, miserable truth, came home to him with overwhelming force. He shut himself up in his own apartments and would see or speak to no one. He was plotting. “The night they had named for their elopement arrived—a black, tempes- tuous, stormy night, with rumbling hoafsely and rain falling in a very deluge, and howling winds which lashed the writhing trees into a dense and shapeless tangle. “The girl's cottage stood a little be- yond the extreme eastern portion of the park. To reach her house, Claude Carrington would be obliged to pass the eastern wing of Blackcastle. The place had fallen out of repair years before and was used now only as a re- ceptacle for rubbish—that is, all ex- thunder | cept oe room in the great round tow- er which flanks it. This Rupen tar. rington, when quite a boy, had c--tm- ed as his own particular den.. and titi to-night, he sat’ brooding, brood. ing. “His plot had taken definite shape within his brain, and he was gloating over it. He was about the same stat- ure and build as his cousin, and his plan, to his own heart, seemed plaus- ible. “He drew a huge, soft hat over his brows, flung a great mantle around him, and hurried down the winding stairs out into the furious night. He crouched down behind a marble Diana and waited for his prey. “He came at last, dashing down the great avenue with his swinging, eager tread. Without a word, a sound, a breath of warning, the other was upon him. Like a flash he had flung his rival backward, and stood erect be- fore him, shaking and panting, with demoniac rage. “‘Rupert,’ his cousin cried, ‘Rupert, what are you trying to do?’ “Ha, ha!’ laughed the lord of Blackeastle. ‘Your bride is waiting! Why don’t you go to her—your beau- tiful bride? What am I trying to do? Take this! It is my answer!’ “He flung up his clenched fist. Then there was a dull blow, a stifled cry,a crashing fall. Bleeding and senseless at his feet lay the friend of his youth. In a wild frenzy, he bent and clutched less body across the sodden park, be- neath the dripping trees, into the eastern wing. “Still, with strength that seemed su pernatural and exhaustless, he hauled it up the winding stairs—up, up, with many a bump and fall and sickening thud—into his own room. There he flung it down and rushed away, slam- ming and locking the door after him. “Through the drenching rain, through the blinding storm, he tore on like one possessed till he reached the spot where a girl stood waiting for her lover. i “‘Come!’ he whispered, and bent and kissed her. “They hurried back across the park, and her steps were winged because of the love which urged them on. (To Be Continued.) NOW IT’S ANGLEWORM OIL. An Ancient Ohio Remedy Which Cures Strains and Sprains. A correspondent recently inquired as to where she could get “angleworm oil,” and the editor of this department had to pass on the inquiry.as a conun- drum that he could not solve. How- ever, there are very few questions that some of the numerous readers of this department cannot answer. It is, therefore, not surprising to find that no less than seven answers have al- ready been received to this corre- spondent’s question. F. S. sends the following from Santa Monica: “I noticed in the ‘Care of the Body’ department to-day that some one from Santa Monica asks about angleworm oil, and that you say that you do not know what it is. I will offer a short incident which happened in my boy- hood days in Ohio. My folks owned a valuable horse, which slipped on the ice and strained the tendons of one of its hind legs so that it could not put the heel on the ground and had to walk on the toe for several months, when an old farmer told us to rub it with angleworms, putting them in bot- tles and hanging in the sun until the oil was tried out of them; then strain it and use as a linement. We did this, and it effected the desired result, and I will say that after that we were nev- er without this oil, as it is good for so many strains and sprains, and it no doubt will help the inquirer from Santa Monica.”—Los Angeles Times. BEST FED SAILORS. How the United States Looks After the Diet of Its Jackies. The navy ration is of course provid- ed for by law, and the daily diet of the enlisted man must conform, in some degree, to this regime; but infinite is the variety and ample is the dietary realm of Jack the sailor. As com- pared with the daily bill of fare of the workingman on shore, the odds are | greatly in favor of the sailor. Should he be inclined to grumble at his daily fare, it must be from caprice of appe- tite, for what laboring man enjoys | better and more wholesome food? His fcod must be well cooked, for no bad cooks are allowed in the navy. Where a cook is incompetent he is reported, | for Jack Tar’s stomach must be kept in a healthy condition, if our ships are to be manned with a sturdy lot of sailors. His food must be of the best quality, for it is no secret that Uncle Sam demands the best article in the market, and gets it.—Gunton’s Maga- zine. One of Her Own. Chauncey M. Depew was recently telling a good story with a gusto when a girl in the party laughed. He stopped with a frown. What’s the matter?” he asked. “It is one of the last stages,” said the girl. “You are telling me a story of my own that I told you only half an hour ago.” Whereupon Senator Depew, sudden- ly and ominously quiet, walked to the extreme rear for the first time in his life and took a seat there—New York Times. A Correct Surmise. Seribbler—So your rich Uncle Jack is dead at lest? Spacer—Yes; know? Scribbler—Why, I see you have tak- en down his picture from above your fireplace and put up Dolly Shakea- legg’s—Judge but how did you A VOICE FROM THE PULPIT. . Rev. Jacob D. Van Doren, of ‘67 Sixth st., Fond du Lac, Wis., Presbyterian _clergy- man, says: “I had at- tacks which kept me in the house for days at a time, unable to do anything. What I suf- fereé can hardly be told. Complications set in, the particulars of which I will be pleased to give in a personal interview to any one who requires informa- tion. This I can con- Scientiously say, Doan’s Kidney Pills caused a general improvement in my health. They brought great relief by lessening the pain and correcting the action of the kidney secretions.” Doan’s Kidney Pills for sale by all dealers. Price, 50 cents. Foster-Mil burn Co., Buffalo, N. Y. bei Wye aantity i V Trying Times. “It must be very trying for a mod- est girl,” he remarked. “Why?” she asked. “She cannot turn from the naked truth without running into a bare lie.” Heart Disease Relieved in 30 Minutes, Dr. Agnew’s Heart Cure. This remark- able preparation gives perfect relief in 30 minutes in all cases of organic or sympa- thetic heart disease and speedily effects a cure. It is a magic remedy for palpitation, shortness of breath, smothering spells, pain in left side and all symptoms for a diseased heart. It also strengthens the nerves and cures the stomach. At Druggists, $1.00, or direct from Anglo-American Med. Co., Chi- cago. We must learn to bear and work be- fore we can spare strength to dream. —Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Stops the Gough and Works Of the Cold Laxative Bromo Quinine Tablets. Price 2S. It is better to write one word upon the rock than a thousand upon the water and the sand.—Gladstone. Piso's Cure cannot be too highly spoken of as cough cure.—J. W. O’Brien, 322 Third Ave, N., Minneapolis, Minn., Jan. 6, 1900, There should be a law against shoot- ing hot air during the heated term. Mrs. Winslow's soothing syrup For children teething, softens the gums. reduces t» dammetion, allays puin. cures wind colic. 25c a bottle. Hope for Him. “Ah!” he said, as he led her back to her seat after the waltz, “I just love dancing.” “Well,” she replied, as she attempt- ed to repair a torn flounce, “you’re not too old to learn.”—Philadelphia Press. She Couldn’t Speak. Tess—Miss Passay has such an un- fortunate disposition; so disputatious and so sensitive about her age. Jess—Yes, she was in perfect agony the other day when Maj. Bragg was telling some reminiscences. She knew he was wrong, but it was something that happened thirty years ago—Phil- a delphia Press. BLEAR AND BUSINESS, Advice of an Old Bank Clerk to a Young One. Never but once did I go to my task with a blear. That morning my com- putations were so riotous and I was so set on distributing my checks into the wrong pigeonholes that I went to the cashier about 11 o’clock to ask permis- sion to go home. He looked at me keenly, and said, not unkindly: “Last night is responsible for this morning. Let me tell you right here that you can’t do that sort of thing and make a banker of yourself, no matter what your name is. No; keep at your work to-day, make your errors, face the consequences of them, even if you are fined for them. I guess your mor- tification will be the best cure for you.” What a wise man he was. I never presented myself in that condition again. It was paying too much.—Ey- erybody’s Magazine. HAPPY DAYS When Friends Say, “How Well You Look.” What happy days are those when all our friends say, ‘How well you look.” We can bring those days by a little | care in the selection of food, just as this young man did. _ “I had suffered from dyspepsia for three years and last summer was so bad I was unable to attend school,” he says. “I was very thin and my appe- tite at times was poor, while again it was craving. I was dizzy and my food always used to ferment instead of digesting. Crossness, unhappiness and nervousness were very prominent symptoms. “Late in the summer I went to visit a sister and there I saw and used Grape-Nuts. I had heard of this fa- mous food before, but never was in- terested enough to try it, for I never knew how really good it was. But when I came home we used Grape- Nuts in our household all the time and I soon began to note changes in my health.’ I improved steadily and am now strong and well in every way and am beck at school able to get my lessons with ease and pleasure and can remember them, too, for the improvement in my mental power is very noticeable and I get good marks in my studies which always seemed difficult before. “Tt have no more of the bad symp- toms given above but feel fine and strong and happy, and it is mighty pleasant to hear my friends say: ‘How well you look.’” Name given by Postum Co., Batile Creek, Mich. Look in each package for a copy of the famous little book, “The Road to Wellville.”