Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 6, 1904, Page 8

bt 4 The > « o CHAPTER XXXVII—Continued. “We did no such thing. How could we drag our name through the public courts, and have it mud-splashed and tarnished, because of a man who was nothing to us? How could we tear up the grave we had so carefully clodded for a chivalrous impulse—a mere Quixotic resolution? Besides, we were not smart enough, or bright enough, to cope with him. Young as he was, he could baffle us and beat us with our own weapons. To be brief, in consid- eration of a certain sum of money, he went away, and for years we lost sight of him—to be exact, seven years. “My husband had come into my room—this very room—to consult me about some matter of importance, when suddenly the door was flung open and he walked in. However he managed to enter the house and reaca our room unobserved by the servants I never knew, but such he apparently did. He was looking old and seedy and dissipated. There was the strang- est look in his face I had ever seen on any human, countenance. He seemed to enter the place as a matter of course and with the air of one who had met us only yesterday. “How dare you come here in this state?’ my husband cried. ‘You are drunk, sir!’ “But he did not appear to hear or heed the words. He sat down and burst out laughing, as he had done that other night in the library. “*You remember that fellow I told you about,’ he said—‘Laurence Lisle? Well, he’s clear of Toulon. He has a wife and youngster, too. I found out he had told her nothing about the three years spent at Toulon, as a guest of the French government, so 1 thought I would enlighten her. I wrote the story of the theft, arrest and im- prisonment out in full, signed my name and sent it to her. Oh,’ and he laughed again gleefully, and rubbed his hands, ‘it was a grand joke on Lau- rence!’ 7 “When did that happen?’ I asked. He put his hand to his head, in con- fused recollection. “It was a few days ago, a few weeks ago, or a few years ago,’ he an- swered, gravely. “A dim suspicion of the truth began to break on us. “He got up and commenced walking on tiptone around the room, peering everywhere. ! “‘T want him,’ he said, ‘the lad who fills my place at Blackeastle. I have stood this quite long enough. I am going to kill him and assert my rights!’ “TI laid my hand on the bellrope, but paused as he spoke: “Don’t ring! I'll turn your precious son out sooner than you dream, if you don’t take care! Oh, this is no idle threat! I’ve been to France, and have brought from there copies of the cer- tificate of my mother’s marriage and of my birth. I dug a hole in the park and hid them there. Where can he be?’ “He was taking up little ornaments, end statuettes, and toilet articles, and was looking under them for Clive. “My husband looked at me, and I at him, in nameless terror. He made a sudden bound to reach the bell-rope and arouse the house. But the crea- ture, creeping stealthily around, with trembling hands and glittering eyes, saw the motion, and was upon him like e flash. ‘ “Ha, ha!’ he erjed, ‘you would, would you? You don’t want me to find him! Well, I will! But I'll begin with you!” “I uttered a scream of terror as a degger flashed in the lamplight, and made one more frantic effort to reach the bell. “The moment you touch that bell,’ he shouted, ‘this goes into his heart— you hear?’ “His threat overwhelmed me. 1 senk back, half-swooning with fear. Then began a terrible struggle. Clive fought against fearful odds, for he fought against a madman! He had in- herited his mother’s insanity—hi mother’s murderous mania. } “I have a dim remembrance of see- ing those muscular, writhing figures, reeling round and around in frantic combat. And all the time the maniac’s wild, discordant laugh was chuckling out in hideous exultation. “Tt would be as good a joke as that on Laurence Lisle, wouldn’t it—if I— succeeded in—killing you? First you —then your son—then—take that, and that, and—’ ‘I saw the dagger flash upward, and descend—upward again. “Open the panel!’ Clive panted. ‘I staggered forward—I pushed the spring—it slid back. He heard the sound. It seemed to give him renewed vigor. With a strength which appear- ed superhuman, a strength born of des- peration, he fought the madman back —back into the narrow, dark passage- way the open panel discovered. He tbrust him in. The secret door slam- med to its place. He was a prisoner in the eastern tower!” She paused. A coal fell from the grate. The clock above the stables struck one. A ray of ghostly moon- light filtered in between the curtains and blended with the dying firelight. Then, for awhile, no sound broke the atlence, heavy with its freighted hor- vor. “How—long ago was that?” Cynthia asked at last, in a voice hoarse with “repulsion. “About twelve or thirteen years.” Curse 2 Carrington By K. TEMPLE MOORE. NEFECTIVE PA + “And he has been, there—ever since —till last night?” “Yes. He has been well treated. The very next day we had the most famous physigian in London on dis- eases of the Drain come down and ex- amine him. He pronounced him, from hereditary causes, hopelessly insane. We could not\send him to an asylum; it would create too much curiosity and comment, and there was something re- pelling in the idea. Besides ,if the affair got into the papers, troublesome Gallic friends might be turning up. So, acting on the doctor’s advice, we had a room in the tower secretly fitted up. Two confidents I have had—the old butler and Guieletta. They have cared for him and treated him kindly. Now —now it is all over!” “Yes,” Cynthia cried, with a strong shudder, “it is all over, thank heaven!” She rose slowly to her feet, her face white as death, with a great indigna- tion and a great scorn. “And you,” she went on, her earnest voice quivering through the room clear as a bugle call—‘you would not allow your son to marry the woman he loved because she was the daughter of a gal- ley slave, when, you knew that her father nad been unjustly imprisoned— that he, an innocent man, had been persecuted for the crime of another— that you, by your silence, when you first learned of it, connived at that im- prisonment and that disgrace. Oh, it was atrocious, it was inhuman!” “Cynthia,” my lady cried, piteously, you are very hard on me. You know why I told him that! I thought it would dissuade him. It wa sa fear- ful shock to have my son come to me after so many years and say, ‘I am go- ing to marry the daughter cf Laurence Lisle!’ I cried out in horror when he spoke the name—I remembered it so startlingly” well. I reasoned to’ my- self that whether her father had been unjustly conaemned qr otherwise, the fact that he had been a galley slave remained!” “It was barbarously illogical reason- ing,” the girl said, cuttingly. “It was such an argument as the world would have used,” she answered, quickly. “Do you suppose it would have accepted the simple assertion of his innocence, without proof? And to produce proof would be to drag into garish daylight the story of that old Parisian misalliance. Bah! what a feast that woulc be for the vultures of scandal! So, in a moment of blind passion, I drove him from me. If he persisted, exposure would have been inevitable, and exposure would have killed me.” Cynthia nodded slowly, her lips com- pressed, her eyes still flashing with honest anger. “I wonder,” she said slowly, “if you realize how darkly—in at first denying your husband’s eldest son, how much more dark.y in later blasting a love which might have redeemed and puri- fied the wretched past—you have sin- ned!” “Oh, I do realize it!” she moaned, with a bitter cry. “I do realize it now, when it is too late! I plotted, suffered, sinned for him! He is gone from me! is lost to me! * He is dead! My pun- ishment has been sore and heavy. Oh, my boy, my boy, my darling!” She bowed her haggard old face in her trembling hands and burst into great, panting sobs, heartbreaking to hear. But the girl, leaning upon the low mantel, and gazing down jnto the dy- ing fire with wide, somber eyes, said never a word. A thought, a suspicion, dark, trag- ical, fantastic, growing momentarily in strength and volume, was seething to life in her brain. CHAPTER XXXVIII. “It Was Not He!” Day broke over Blackcastle—a raw, disagreeable winter day, with ominous clouds lowering darkly along the hori- zon, and a chill easterly wind rattling the leafiess branches of the trees. It was 9 o’clock when Cynthia Len- nox awoke from a deep, troubled sleep —awoke to a sharp sense of misery and desolation, and the remembrance of the tale Lady Carington had told her. % She sprang up, surprised at the late- ness of the hour, and began hurriedly to make her toilet. She rang the bell and drank the cof- fee the servant brought her. No, that was sufficient. She could not go down to breakfast. She started as she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Was she going to be ill? How frightful she looked. She had grown white, and thin, and hollow-eyed. Her pallor was intensi- fied by the dress she wore, of tight- fitting black serge, absolutely unte- lieved by any scrap of color or adorn- ment. But all the time she was dressing, all the time she was braiding her heavy, dark hair with swift, deft fin- gers, one thought, one suspicion, which had had its birth during the re- cital of my lady’s story, was molding itself into position and definite shape. “I wonder how much she knows?” Cynthia deliberated ,as she walked to the door of an apartment opening off her own room, and knocking softly.. “She should know all—she must know! Lady Carrington says I may tell her in secrecy. How difficult she seemed to find it to give that permiseiot Weil, in secrecy I will!” r < ————————— GE Hearing none, she turned the handle and went in. How warm and cosy and bright it looked, despite the dreary day without, this dainty nest of blue and silver. The long, shining curtains were still undrawn.» A subdued light still fell from a rosy globe and left the room in soft semi-shadow. She went softly across to the bed— the pretty, snowy bed, with its bars of polished silver, its azure canopies, its linen and lace and delicate embroider- ies. She started as she drew the curtain backward. Asleep? Aye, asleep as no criminal ever slept since the world be- gan! “Such a child!” Cynthia whispered. And she did look a happy child as she slept so calmly. One little, slender hand lay on the rich coverlet, the other rested lightly on her bosom, which rose and fell with its soft; even breathing. There was a gleaming tangle of sun- ny hair curling about the white fore- head. ‘Che long, black lashes lay upon a cheek just faintly flushed with rose. The exquisite lips were half-parted, half-smiling. Even as Cynthia stood regarding her, a strange radiance seemed to flit across the sweet, young face. She moved as she spoke. “Clive,” she murmured, tenderly, “she—is true to you—the girl—you left—behind—” And then, the dark lashes lifted them- selves languidly, the blue, beautiful eyes looked up like morning glories in the summer time. ° As Cynthia met their glance, she smiled back the happiness she saw there. “Get up!” she laughed. lazy Laurie!” But the girl put up her hands and covered her face ,with a shiver of pain. She remembered! , For a moment neither spoke. she sat suddenly erect. “I remember,” she said, slowly. “I am under surveillance for the crime of —murder. How strangely it sounds 1" . “Hurry and dress!” Miss Lennox commanded. And the girl looked up in quick amaze as she noted the repressed excitement in the usually grave voice. “TJ have something to tell you—some- thing very important!” “Miss Lennox,” Laurie said, some minutes later, turning round from the mirror before which she had been brushing out her masses of sun-bright hair, “you have twice called me by my name. Do you believe me—that I am she whom I say I am?” Cynthia did not shrink before the gaze of those clear, questioning eyes. “Yes,” she answered, “I do!” “Thank you!” she said, quietly. And Cynthia noticed that she ac- cepted the admission with the gracious but unelated pride with which a queen might have accepted the surrender of a rebel whose homage was her simplo due. Something in that easy grace of bearing touched her generous spirit with a sense of intense pleasure. She went swiftly up to the girl and took the face, all framed in loose, feathery hair, in her hands and kissed it. “Yes,” she said, heartily, “I believe you. You are such a wife as Clive Carrington would have chosen among a thousand. You would have honored Blackeastle and honored him. Come! you can finish your toilet later. Sit right down here. I must tell yoy!” Wondering a little, she did as she was bidden. ‘ And Cynthia, standing before her, pale and handsome, and absorbingly eager, began to speak. She talked well, rapidly, earnestly, as she told the story Lady Carrington had so lately told her. Her dark eyes dilated as she pro- ceeded; a hot glow came into her cheek. And when she reached the tale the maniac had recounted in the libra- ry of Blackcastle, her auditor sprang to her feet with a sharp cry. The faint rose in her cheek had deepened to crimson. Her eyes were flashing like blue flame. The light of a great joy—wild, wonderful, sublime —was breaking upon her in sudden splendor. “Then it was not he!” she cried, and flung out her hands in swift and pas- sionate ecstasy. “I have not sinned against my father in loving him! It was not he! Oh, how could I have been so base as to doubt you, my own leve—my dear love? Forgive me, for- give me!” “Whom did you doubt?” Cynthia asked. “Whom did you think had wronged your father?” She lifted her face, still all alight with that glorious radiance. ry “Whom?” she panted. “Why, Clive! I swore to hate him; I strove to hate him—the man who had made my father and me things to be shunned! I thought it was he—God help me! But I could not—ah, I could not! Nev- er for one moment did I cease to love him—never for one moment. Oh, thank heaven, it was not he—my lover, my darling!” ‘ “Sit down,” Miss Lennox said, gen- “Oh, you Then tly. “You are shaking like a leaf, child. Sit down! Let me tell you the rest.” “Oh'’ no, no!” she murmured, dream- ily. “What is the rest to me? I am happy, happy—so blissfully happy!” She walked over to the window, her hands clasped above her head, and looked out. A uniformed official was staring up at the casement. She start- ed back with an exclamation of dis- may, dropping the curtain. “Again I had forgotten!” she said. “There is a man out there watching my window. The very idea is so strange, so incredible, I cannot believe or remember that I ar a prisoner and under arrest. Well, it doesn’t matter much,” relapsing into her tender trance of a few minutes previous, and smiling brightly up at Cynthia. “Noth- ing matters much now, since I know not he—that he was always ‘noble, and good, and grand!” “Yes, it does matter, Laurie!” in her quick, imperious way—‘it does matter agreat deal! You must hcar me out— you must help me! I have a suspicion. You must tell me what you think of itt”, So, in words brief, explicit and well chosen, she told her the rest of my lady’s story—told her of the madman in the tower—of the laugh which had so terrified her—a human laugh after all; of the fire, of the discovery of the murder, and lastly of her own dark sus- picion. “Now,” Cynthia said, when she had finished, “what do you think?” The girl looked straight at her friend, a dawning, horrified conviction blanching her glowing cheek. “T think,” she replied, earnestly, “that you are right. (To Be Continued.) The Bonnet. “T see you have a new bonnet,” said the president of the literary club to the secretary of the same. “Yes,” cooed the secretary. you think it is a poem?” “Humph!” sniffed the president. “If I am to judge by the materials used and the general style of the plot, I should say it was an historical novel.” And then. they glared and glared and glared.—Judge. “Don’t The Sultan’s Expenses. The yearly expenses of the sultan of Turkey have been estimated at $30,000,000. Of this $7,500,000 alone is spent on the clothing of the women, and $400,000 on, the sultan’s own ward- robe. Nearly another $7,500,000 is swallowed up by presents, $5,000,000 goes for pocket money, and still an- other $5,000,000 for the table. Parental Training. Smith—How old is your son, Jones? Jones—He’ll be twenty-one to-mor- Tow. Smith—He’s certainly a credit to you. Jones—Well, he ought to be. I spent fifteen years in bringing him up and six more in calling him down.—Chica- go News. The Ruling Passion Strong. Napoleon. was being taken to the island. “I suppose,” he said bitterly, “that: history will now say I deserted Jose- phine for the Black Maria.” Herewith it was plain to be seen the critics had made him touchy.—New York Tribune. Its Great Drawback. “The only trouble about our family tree,” mused the hatchet-faced lady, as she gazed on, her sisters and her cousins and her aunts, “is that too many wall flowers bloom on it.” And she pointed her nose at the ceiling—Judge. Rather Pessimistic. “This is a tough old world,” re- marked the anvil in the blacksmith shop. “I get nothing but hard knocks all day long.” “Right you are,” rejoined the bel- lows. “I’m always hard pressed to raise the wind.”—Chicago News. Breaking Up an Industry. And now Omaha proposes to have a graft investigation. The way this fad is spreading is actually ruining poli- tics as a business, and there is appre- hension in some places that lifelong politicians may yet have to go to work. » Not Likely. Dogrel—The editor was good enough to glance over my poem, so I hastened to assure him it was entirely original. Friend—And what did he say? Dogrel—He said he knew that at once. He didn’t suppose I had ever seen it in print anywhere.—Philadel- phia Press. Financial Flurry. The goddess of liberty on the Amer- ican, coin uttered a hasty exclamation. “My land!” she squeaked in a shrill voice. ‘“‘They’ll be calling me a Pana- mama next!” Whereat the George Washington on the 2-cent stamp continued to smile inanely.—Chicago Tribune. Valuable Knowledge. “For clearness read Macaulay, and for logic read Bacon,” said Mrs. Bond- clipper, who is literary. “And for valuable information read Bradstreet’s,” added Mr. Bondclipper, who is not literary.—Detroit Free Press. A Flippant Child. “Jane, you vex me dreadfully. When that very rich Mr. Squintum tried to talk to you last night you gave him the cold shoulder.” “Well, the other shoulder was no warmer, ma.”—Cleveland Plain Deal- er. Why Take Them? “Mr. Kammerer has been quite suc cessful in taking photographs under water.” “For goodness’ sake! What’s the use of that? Why not tie a stone to them and let them sink themselves?” —Philadelphia Public Ledger. Her First Dish. Silas—Zeke got an economical wife, all right. Cyrus—That so? Silas—Yes, she actually collected the rice that was thrown at the wed- ding and made a rice pudding.—Chi- cago News. “I believe he made a fortune out of fiction. “Indeed? What kind of fiction?” . “Wall street rumors.”—Puclé _ EAGLES OF THE ALPS, They Killed One of Their Hunters After a Desperate Battle. The Maritime Alps of eastern France have long been noted as being the haunt of the most ferocious and powerful breed of eagles in existence. Children innumerable have been carried off by them, and they even at- tack adults on occasions, sometimes with dire results. A postman named Gustave Silva, who carried the mails on foot between the® villages of Sospello and Puget Theniers, was set upon while cross- ing the pass by three large birds, and frightfully injured. He managed to drive off his winged assailants with the aid of his alpen- stock, and eventually reached his des- tination with his bag of letters. But his case was from the first regarded as hopeless by the local doctors, and after lingering in indescribable agony for six days he succumbed to his wounds. Meanwhile two young French tour- ists, Messrs. Joseph Monand and An- toine Neyssel, went up into the moun- tains to try to kill the birds that had done the damage, and were savagely attacked in their turn. Both men were armed, but the sudden onslaught of the huge-winged creatures com- pletely unnerved them, and after fir- ing only one shot they tried to escape by running. The birds, however, struck them down ere they had gone many yards, and they would have doubtless been both torn to pieces where they lay but for the opportune arrival of a party of shepherds. % These succeeded in rescuing Mr. Neyssel alive, but terribly injured, he having sustained no fewer than ten severe wounds in the head and back, besides innumerable minor lacera- tions and abrasions. His companion, Mr. Monand, was killed outright early in the fray, and his body, when recovered, presented a most shocking spectacle. Mr. Neys- sel recovered after six weeks in bed, but is disfigured for life—Stray Stories. Bound By His Reputation. Oliver Wendell Holmes discovered that “it is a very serious thing to be a funny man,” and one of the younger New England poets is said to have warned a beginner in literature never to publish humorous verse if he wish- ed to make and keep a reputation as a serious poet. A story which is told of Mark Twain illustrates the theory that a humorist’s reputation debars him from other kinds of credit. Mark Twain is a lover of Browning and reads him aloud with excellent power. Once he read several passages to a company gathered in the honse of a friend. Among the guests were some young ladies. One of them laughed during the reading. Afterward she condoled with Mark Twain for the soberness of his audience. “I was so sorry for you!” said she. “The others did not seem to see the joke in it. I suppose you wrote it yourself; it was a skit on Browning, wasn’t it ? I understand about as much of it as I do of most of Brown- ing.” The humorist explained humbly that he had tried to give the words as Browning wrote them.—Montreal Her- old. The Scotch Sabbath. The earl of Aberdeen recently had a practical experience of the grim observance of the Sabbath in Scot- land. He arrived in Edinburgh from London at 7:30 in the morning. There was not a single public conveyance in the station, and, leaving his valet in charge of the luggage, his lordship wandered out in the raw, cold weath- er, and walked along Princes street in search of a cab, but to his dismay every cabman was keeping the Sab- bath. Afterwards his lordship met a milkman, delivering milk in a side street. A bargain was struck, his lordship got into the milk van, was driven back to the station, where his luggage was put into the vehicle, and then he rode in triumph to his club. Water for Wyoming City. In sinking an artesian well on the ranch of John W. Griffin, six miles west of Cheyenne, Wyo., the other day, the drill at a depth of 265 feet, penetrated a vast underground lake or stream, and a column of water six inches in diameter spouted out to a height of forty feet. Soundings were made which failed to find bottom. The flow is so great that it is more than ample to, supply the entire needs of the city of Cheyenne, and it is possi- ble that a pipe line will be built to furnish the city with water from this source. The Wild Duck. You love the mud-flats where the wave- lets break, The blue of sea, the green recess of river, The flashing mirror of the silver lake Where in the breeze the golden reed beds quiver. Like fie 3 id, a change of wind will mak: You coast, But lusty strength your whistling pin- ions boast As through the clouds your marshalled flight you take. To your staid brother of straw-scattered au e ‘haste to travel inland from the ' Scavenging placidly the livelong day, How like and yet how different you are! Your twinkling eye is ever on its guard, A distant human speck and you're ay, While The ‘searce waddles from the scur- rying car. —Westminster Gazette. Has Held Honors Long. Joseph S. Miller of Bridgeton, N. J., has just been installed for the forty- first time as secretary of Brearley chapter, Royal Arch Masons. The installation was marked by the pre- sentation to Mr. Miller of a beautiful jewel of rich workmanship and appro- priate design. J CONSTANT ACHING Back aches all the time. Spoils your appetite; wearies the body, worries the mind. Kidneys cause it all, and Doan’s Kidney Pills re- lieve and cure it. H. B. McCarver, of 201 Cherry st., Portland, Oregon, inspector of freight for the Trans - Continen- tal Co., says: “I used Doan’s Kid- ney Pills for backache and other symptoms of kidney trouble which had annoyed me for months. I think a cold was responsible for the whole trouble. It seemed to settle in my’ kidneys. Doan’s Kidney Pills rooted it out. It is several months since I used them, and up to date there has been no recurrence of the trouble.” Doan’s Kidney Pills for sale by all dealers. Price, 50 cents per box. Fox ter-Milburn Cu., Buffalo, N. Y. i i In Kansas. We found the native taking great strides toward the cyclone cellar. “Why are you going in there?” we asked, “My wife is coming-” he gasped. “She isn’t a cyclone.” “Isn’t she, now? You don’t know my wife.”—Chicago News. Catarrh Cannot Be Cured with LOCAL APPLICATIONS, as they cannot reach she seat of the disease. Catarrh is a blood or const!- sutfonal disease, and in order to cure {t you must take wnternal remedies. Hall's Catarrh Cure {s taken in+ iernally, and acts directly on the blood and mucous surfaces. Hall's Catarrh Cure is not a quack medi sf It was prescribed by one of the best physicians n this country for years and {s a regular prescription it 1s composed of the best tonics known, combined vith the best blood purifiers, acting directly on the nucous surfaces, The perfect, combination of the wo ingredients is what produces such wonderful re- jults in curing catarrh. Send for testimonials, free. F. J CHENEY & CO., Props., Toledo. 0, Sold by praees) price 75c. ‘Take Hall's Family Pills for constipation. I believe more in the goodness of vad people than I do in the badness of sood people. The Wonderful Cream Separator. Does its work in thirty minutes an@ leaves less than 1 per cent butter fat. The price is.ridiculously low, accord- Ing to size, $2.75 to $6.00 each, and when you have one you would not part therewith for fifty times its cost. JUST SEND THIS NOTICE with 5c stamps for postage to the John A. Salzer Seed Co., La Crosse, Wis., and get their big catalog, fully describing this remarkable Cream Separator, and hundreds of other tools and farm seeds used by the farmer. (W. N. U.) PATENTS. List of Patents Issued Last Week to Northwestern Inventors. John Daniels, Minneapolis, Minn., gopher trap; Charfles Foglesong, St. Paul, Minn., electric blanket; Hollis Granger, St. Paul, Minn., shaft straight- ener; Robert Hunter, Minneapolis, Minn., fishing rod; Joseph Ley, Kel- logg, Minn., pneumatic stacker; Caesar Wilson, Greenleaf, Minn., seat for farm machinery; Arthur Dixon, Rolla, N. D. self-cleaning harrow, Lothrop & Johnson, patent lawyers, 913 and 912 Pioneer Press Blidg., St. Paul. Pull. The doctor was sanguine. “We're going to pull you through,” quoth he, “By the leg?” querulously demanded the patient, a sordid man, whose soul, even in that extreme moment, brooded on the question of expense.—Puck. Quit Coughing. Why cough, when for 25c and this notice you get 25 doses of an abso- lutely guaranteed cough cure in tablet form, postpaid. WIS. DRUG CO. LA CROSS#, WIS. (W. N. U.) How It Was. Dauber—Has your family been done {n oil? Putandcall—No; Times. steel—New York Neighbors. The neighbors called forthwith. “You and your husband have differ- ences?” they suggested, tentatively. “None worth talking about,” replied the woman. ba The neighbors knit their brows. “That is for us to decide,” said they, severely.—Puck. Advice. “De man dat kin profit by good ad- vice,” says Uncle Eben, “has to be about fo’ times as smart as de man dat gives it.”—Washington Star. Big Risks Loss of Time, Loss of Money, Loss of Place, Loss of Comfort, sil follow in the train of not using St.Jacobs Oil For Rheumatism, Neuralgia, Lumbago, Sciatica, Sprains It has cured thousands, Will cure you, Price 25c, and 50c. ; et repent