Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 25, 1904, Page 7

By Tom Gallon A Woman | of Cra | LJ CHAPTER XI. The Beggar Maid. Grace had been deep in the woods that day. It seemed as though she could never have enough of this bless- ed, peaceful, beautiful England, of which she had dreamed so often in the wild parts of the earth, and for which she had so passionately longed. Only, like many another who has gone to Na- ture with the hope to find her all-suffi- cient and with the desire to be alone with her, there had entered in another element—as shall be shown. With the best desire in the world to carry out her original intention and stick to Nature, and with the whole range of woods to choose from, it was surely quite unnecessary for Grace to go again to that stream, on the other side of which the young man Raymond Hawley had stood. But there was a fascination about that which drew her in spite of herself; a double fascina- tion, because, apart from the fact that Raymond Hawley was really very nice in himself, there was the other feeling that she held a secret, at which he did not eyen attempt to guess. She was actually wandering, poor and shabby, on her own land; and she was actually talking to a young man on the other side of a stream, and that young man was her own cousin. It all seemed so romantic—so utterly unlike anything she had anticipated. She had thought to come in triumph into her kingdom —to be received decorously, as a great heiress. Instead, she wandered for- lorn in the woods and met by stealth the man who was designed to marry her. She had not understood, until he told her, that there was any condition attaching to the fortune. She began to see new complications, and to see, above everything else, that the condi- tion he represented was rather a de- lightful one than not. On the other hand, her one desire was to keep him in ignorance as to her identity. It was repulsive to her to think that this bright-faced young man represented an easy method of gaining what was hers; for he already showed so deep an interest in an unknown poor girl, who lived in a gipsy camp, that she might, perhaps, secure his al- legiance, and so give herself a double claim to the fortune when the time came for proving who she was, if ever that time came at all. But she tola herself, and blushed at the thought, that she did not want that at all. So she wandered on, happily enough, through the woods that morning, dreaming dreams of all that was to happen; and feeling quite certain in the bright sunlight that all would be very well and her troubles soon at an end. She was to reign in the great house, from which she had been turn- ed so ignominiously; common justice demanded that she should be put right in time and the usurper vanquished. ‘Then, in some splendid, impossible fway, she was to let this young cousin come into her life; some romantic way, fbecause that would suit the situation Dest. And after that, search was to be made for her father all over the world; and he was to be brought back, not only to ease and luxury, but to some etter understanding of what his man- hood meant; he was to forget the mis- takes and horrors of his wandering life. In a word, it was all to end hap- ily. ? She heard the rustling of the trees above her as she walked along a nar- now footpath; she turned quickly and stood still. Out from among the trees came the figure of a man; and the man dropped lightly down until he stood beside her. She saw that it was the young gipsy—Will Ormany—who had looked at her so curiously in the light of the fire on the night of her coming into the camp. She was not best pleased at seeing him there, be- cause she wanted to be alone, but she smiled cordially at him and wondered what he wanted. He looked handsome enough, even in his weather-stained clothing; and there was a rough courtesy about him as he pulled off his cap and stood shame- facedly before her. A richer color than usual stained his sun-browned face; he looked at her shyly, and she thought at that moment how like he was to his sister. He spoke after a pause, and ina hurried, awkward fash- fon. “Tt ask your pardon, miss; I hadn’t meant to startle you,” he said. “I wanted to speak to you.” “To me?” she asked, drawing back from him a little. “It’s hard and difficult for me to speak to you,” he went on, raising his @ark eyés to her face for a moment, nd then lowering them again—‘and yet there is that in my heart that cries out to be spoken of and won’t be si- lent. From the time you first came to the camp below there—and I saw you in the firelight—something entered into me that never was there before— something you put there. Lydia—my sister, you know—told me once, when ‘1 was a little fellow, of a story she had read somewhere, in part of a book that a OOOOCOOOOOOROOOOOoOo0o0oOS to have me in it somehow, when I thought of it yesterday.” “Won’t you tell me what it was?” she asked, gently. “It was about a man—a clown, they called him—a poor fellow who came from a poor and common stock. And he loved a great lady—so great that to look at her was like looking to the stars on a night in June; she was so far away—so far above him. Of course she never thought of him—in the story, I mean—and her heart was giv- en to some one else—a knight, they called him.” “Why do you tell me this?” she asked, seeing that she must say some- thing. “Because it seems to me that I am like the man in the story—the first man, I mean—the clown. “You needn’t be afraid, or turn away from me like that,” he said, sadly. “Just as far as the lady in the story was above him, so far are you above me.” “But I am not a great lady,” said, smiling. “You are—or you have a right to be,” he replied. “And it’s all like the she story, too; for the other man—the knight—has come; you have seen him,” “You have been spying on me,” she exclaimed, blushing furiously and draw- ing herself up. “If you had a dog, and he followed at your heel, would you say that. he spied upon you?” asked Will Ormany. “Count me'a dog, if you like—some- thing that crawls to your feet—some- thing that would die gladly to serve you. If I spied, as you call it, it was only to know that the man who might be to you what I couldn’t ever be was worthy of you—not for anything else. That's what I wanted to say.” She was silent for a moment or twa; it was so difficult to know what to say. Then on an impulse she put out her } hand and touched him on the arm. “JI think I understand, and I’m sorry,” she said, gently. “You have spoken so nicely that it is easy for me to know what you mean. And, so far as any one else is concerned, please don’t speak of that—because it’s noth- ing. I am not a great lady; I’m only a poor girl, homeless and friendless—” “Not friendless,’ he cried, eagerly. “Never friendless while I am_ here. That, too, was something I wanted to say: that if, in any time of danger, you should want a friend—some one who would do anything for you and ask for no reward—count on me.” “Because of what the poor clowa dreamed in the story?” she asked, softly. “Yes; because of that,” he replied. “I forget what the end of the story was. Perhaps some day I shall re- member.” Before she could stop him he had turned and plunged up the bank at the side of the path and had disappeared among the trees. Grace went on, a little saddened by the encounter. She had not known that her meeting with Raymond Hawley had been ob- served; that chance reference to the knight in the old story had revived the romantic dreams she had had of the cousin who looked upon her as an ut- ter stranger, and yet had already in- terested himself in her, and claimed her friendship. She was thinking about him somewhat deeply when she came again to the bank of the stream and sat down there to look at the flowing water. It was natural enough that Grace Yarwood should be insensibly drawn to that stream; it was natural enough that she should be interested in that young man, her cousin, who had so ro- mantically been designed for her, and who might, after all, be induced to marry some one else? in ignorance of the identity of the girl he had met While she would have combated fierce- ly, and with justice, any suggestion that she had gone there to meet him, she yet hoped in a vague way that he might wander down to that stream again. She was not in the least surprised. therefore, when, on looking ‘up pres- ently, she saw him on the opposite bank. There was only a pleasant flut tering at her heart as he bowed across the stream and smiled at her, and yet did not know her, in the heart of the woods that really belonged to them both, had he but known it. “Good morning, my wood-nymph,” he called. “You don’t mind my calling you ‘wood-nymph,’ do you? because, you see, I don’t know what else to call you. You are always appearing and disappearing; and I am always look- ing for you—that is, at least, since yesterday; and it’s years since yester- day, isn’t it?” ‘It has seemed rather a long time,” she admitted; and then corrected her- self hurriedly, “at least, I don’t quite mean that. Have you—have you mar- ried your cousin yet?” She spoke mischievously, and glanc- ed at him across the stream. He came down near to the water’s edge and looked across at her anxiously. “I say—you don’t really think that I ever meant to marry her—do you?” he asked. *“‘Not for all the fortunes in the world would I do it; I practically told her so yesterday—I told her after I’a seen you,” he added, as an _ after- was given her. And that story seemed| thought. . “Not a bit,” he said. “She asked me, you know, and I had to say ‘No, thank you.’ You see, I might have hesitated before,” he added, blunderingly, “but after I’d seen you—” She rose hurriedly to her feet, as if to go. He called out at once in an agony, and she stopped and waited. “I say—I’m sure I beg your pardon; it’s all the fault of this beastly stream which divides us. If I could only be nearer to youl could explain—quite easily. Wait a moment, please!” While she hesitated, Raymond Haw- ley ran back half a dozen yards, gath- ered himself together and ran full tilt at the stream. As she gave a hurried ery of fear at the thought that he would in all probability land in the water, she saw him spring in the most scientific manner from the opposite bank and land, with a rush and a scramble, on the one on which she stood. And thus the stream no longer divided them. “That’s better,” te exclaimed. “You can’t say things nicely to people when you're bawling at them like that. I dd hope,” he added, wistfully, “that you won’t run away. I’m not at all a bad, sort of a fellow when you know me, and, as I said just now, it seems years, since we first met; so that we may call ourselves quite old friends, mayn’t we?” ‘ “If you think so,” she replied, de! murely. And, of course, there was ev} ery excuse for her, because one has perfect right to talk to one’s ow! cousin. “But what about that cousin! of yours?’ She would have every right, to object, you know.” “T have already told you,” he replied, seriously, “and I mean every word o! it, that I have fully decided not t marry my cousin. Grace Yarwood it not a nice person at all, and I do not wish to have anything to do with her.”t “Oh, perhaps you will change yow mind later on,” suggested Grace. “Yor might marry your cousin, Grace Yard wood, after all,” she added, wondering a little at her own boldness, yet feel- ing* secure in the thought that he did not know her. “Never!” he exclaimed, as he seated himself beside her. “I have finally made up my mind to renounce the for- tune and to renounce her. If I cared for her it might be a different matter; but there’s something mean about pre- tending you like anybody for the sake of what you can get out of them, isn’t there? So now I have made up my mind to start the world again. I’ve a great mind to be a gipsy, like you, and live in the woods always.” “But I’m not a gipsy,” she replied. “TI came from nowhere, and was be- friended by the gipsies. Why, you don’t even know my name.” “ll wager it’s a nice one.” “Tell me the name you dislike most in the world at the present time,” she said, solemnly. “Grace—because it belongs to that odious cousin of mine,” he_ replied, promptly. “My, name is Grace,” she said, with- out looking at him. He was quite taken aback for a mo- ment; but only for a moment. “Of course, there’s really nothing in a name,” he said, with a laugh. I’vd heard of some really. very nice Graces at different times; it all depends on the person it belongs to. Now the name seems to suit you perfectly, dey lightfully,” he added. ' “T see; it’s not a question of the name, but of the person to whom it be- longs, eh?” she asked. “®xactly,” he replied. “I want you to answer me one question,” he went on, unexpectedly. “I want you to teil me if you believe that any one may meet—some one else—and may know in a moment in his heart of hearts—or her heart of hearts, as the case may pbe—that somebody else is all that they want them to be—kind and true and good and altogether desirable. Do you think that is possible?” (To Be Continued.) PATRIOTISM IN JAPAN. All Classes Contribute to the Mikado’s War Chest. ; And then the stories I heard of the devotion and sacrifice of the people who are left at home! The women let their hair go undressed once a month that they may contribute per month ‘the price of the dressing—5 sen. A gentleman discovered that every serv- ant in his household, from the butler down, was contributing a certain amount of his wages each month, and in consequence offered to raise wages just the amount each servant was giv- ing away. The answer was: “Sir, we cannot allow that; it is an honor for us to give, and it wotild be you who would be doing our duty for us to Japan.” A Japanese lady apologized profuse- ly for being late to dinner. She had been to the station to see her son off for the front, where already were three of her sons. ‘Said another straightway: ‘How fortunate to be able to give four sons to Japan.” In a tea house I saw an old woman with blackened teeth, a servant, who bore herself proudly,-and who, too, was honored because she had sent four sons to the Yalu. Hundreds and thou- sands of families are denying them- selves one meal a day that they may give more to their country. And one rich merchant, who has already given 100,000 yen, has himself cut off one meal, and declares that he will live on one the rest of his life for the sake of Japan.—Scribner’s Magazine. saa Her “Because.” Mrs. Rubberton—Why. did you with- draw your application for divorce? Mrs, Gayboy—Because I found that I wouldn’t be able to get enough ali- mony to support another husband.— Columbus Dispatch. Set te Philanthropists Seek to Save Poor Children of Great City A tent hospital for tuberculous chil- dren has been opened at Sea Breeze, Coney Island, New York. It is under the management of the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor, being a part of ‘their summer colony of homes. It is the first hos- pital in America to be maintained in winter as well as in summer for the exclusive purpose of seaside treat- ment of the non-pulmonary forms of the disease, such as scrofula and tu- berculosis of the bones, joints and lymph lobes. It has been shown in France, Eng- Jand and other countries that this pe- culiar form of tuberculosis can be cured by sea air. In France, where there are the most successful tent hospitals, girls and boys suffering trom tuberculosis are kept as near the water as possible, some living on ships anchored out at sea, while in other cases ambulances are employed to carry the children to the ocean edge every day. I The tent hospital, though the idea of scientific men, is partially the out- growth of the intuition of nurses. A large number of tuberculous children have been coming to the Sea Breeze colony every year, and the effect of the salt air upon them so impressed the attendants that they recommend- ed an ocean hospital, to be kept open the year around. Some $15,000 was appropriated in February and _ the work started. Other help has been given, and the sanitarium is now com- pleted. The institution is not an ex- act copy of any European beach hos- pital, but represents the best ideas of all sanitariums of its type. The camps are as picturesque as they are useful. Built on a gigantic octagonal plan, the ocean home seems a veritable nest of tents. Each sep- arate one rises from a point of the central platform, and is devoted to a special purpose. The platform is generous and comfortable, and encir- eles an open space of sand. The whole is just above high water mark. One tent is the office, another the Hospital For the Treatment of Pulmonary Diseases Es- tablished on the Sea Shore —Has Been of Incalculable Benefit in Short Time. ters were changed from darkened places to those where there was plenty of sun. We furnished: woolen clothing and nourishing food and in- creased the heating arrangements. In one branch of the work we added a corps of disinfectors to our staff. These trained visitors went directly to the homes of diseased children, cleaned every room, disinfected all furniture and clothing, and gave lit- tle talks to members of the family on how to prevent the spread of the disease. “Our tent hospital will first of all At Play. try % cure the little patients who have been carried through the winter by our workers. We will then take in convalescents from other sources who would in the general run of things have to go back to sweltering tenements and perhaps undo all the good they had received at the sani- tariums. “The tent hospital is the climax of our fresh air work for tenement chil- dren. In the tents they will practical- ly be living outdoors. There is very little hope of recovery for a tubercu- lous child who is obliged to sleep in departments, police headquarters, houses and parks are made of sand, shells and pebbles, agd the children mimic the ways of the city in a very lifelike manner. The seaweed fioat- ing in with the tides is a constant joy. ‘The kind that snaps is called firecrackers. The feathery sort trims little sunbonnets, and the brown coral types make wonderful dress _trim- mings for miniature dames. The fid- dler crabs, jellyfish, and all small dwellers of the ocean are captured and made friends with. Often they are swapped to the orphans at the St. John’s home next door for more con- crete objects, such as pink candy sticks or marbles. When the wild roses come, rose parties are the order of the day, and the home can hardly hold the flower treasures brought in by the little ones. September ushers in the gold- enrod, the favorite of the east Side mothers, and bundles of it are sent home by the day parties to the neigh- bors who can’t get a vacation. For the boys there is nothing like base- ball. Teams are gotten up by the youngsters, and called after all the colleges, the boys even assuming the names of the big players. The chil- dren dance on the piazza, and the mothers rock back and forth, hum- ming and crooning in their willow chairs. Other fresh air societies are watch- ing the work being done by the as- sociation in its tent hospital, and no doubt ere the season passes by plans will be made to dot the ocean front with tents for the isolation and cure of tuberculous cases among the poor children of the Greater City—New York Times. Status of the Sun. “The sun should be regarded as an incipient binary star,” says Prof. Bigelow in the Weather Review. Re- cent scientific work in investigating the circulation of the solar atmos- phere in accordance with the laws governing the convective and radia- dining room, a third is devoted to rec- reation, and the rest are dormitories. The furnishings are not only scien- tific but dainty as well, white being the prevailing color. Over the can- vas tops and sides is stretched wat- erproof khaki. Instead of. glass win- dows there are wire screenings, let- ting in plenty of air and at the same time keeping out all insect life. The doors are of glass. Over the platform canvas and khaki are stretched, so that the little patients may have their outings even on rainy days. The very delicate will be carried or wheeled about. All sorts of ingenious things have been done in the way of ventilation, so that’as one sits in a tent he feels as if he were in the open air, though there is ro draught and no shock from sun or wind. In front of the nest of tents and nearer the roadway are others devoted to medicinal work. The association has felt the need of such a sanitarium for some time, as its staff has been unable to treat in their other homes the many chil- dren suffering from the disease. Tu- berculosis has been one of the great- est hindrances to the labors of the summer colony. It is the terror of the tenements—a monster the doctors Interior and workers are always at war with. Dr. Herman Biggs of the health de- partment estimates that some 3,000 or 4,000 children under fifteen years of age suffer from it. “In our work at the seaside home,” said William H. Allen, general agent of the association, “we are confront- ed with it on every side. Last sea- son we fought it in many ways. We raised $1,000 to relieve families where there were bad cases. An item was to present beds so that members of the household suffering from it would not ve to asleep with well ones. Quar- Sketch of Tent Hospital. an overcrowded tenement house when the temperature is at 100 degrees. Quiet and nourishment are also two items to be taken into consideration. “The superintendent, Miss Higgen- botham, is one of the most successful trained nurses among crippled chil- dren. She has made a life study of their ailments and needs, and besides the scientific knowledge necessary, possesses a sympathetic nature that binds the little folks to her. They have all possible faith in their re- covery if she says so. Special sup- plies have been furnished for these patients. They include flannel coats, trousérs or petticoats, sweaters, wool- en bathing clothes and eiderdown capes. The treatment will include special exercises. A novel set of games has been adopted that will add to the children’s pleasure and instruc- tion and not fatigue or injure them. “In this work action is the thing. Delay means death sometimes. A sick mother and languishing babe often have to be sent to the seashore the very day of the visit. Here is another point in our method—that is, we take the family, treat it as a unit, and do not separate mother and children. We even try to have them in a little room of their own at the ocean home. of a Tent. Sometimes this is difficult, families are so large. Our experience proves that there is no danger of race sui- cide among these people. Families graw larger instead of smaller, if we are to believe figures. Six children is the usual number, eight no novelty, and ten general.” Teaching the children how to play is one of the pleasant tasks of the kindergartners. Many a tenement child knows nothing of amusement. Sand games are perhaps liked best, and the youngsters are very original. Subways, elevated roads, stores, fire tive action of a large mass of matter contracting by its own gravitation, have led Prof. Bigelow to the hypo- thesis that “the single fiery envelope conceals two disks,” a series of ob- servations extending over many years on the period of solar rotation at various points in the surface shows that “the same meridian of the sun is seen twice in a single rotation of the entire mass, first as the Eastern limb, and second, thirteen days later, as the Western limb.” Therefore the sun has a dumb-bell figure of rota- tion. Preserving Ancient Costume. The ancient Roman amphitheater of Arles recently witnessed a strange festival, quite Provencal and half Pa- gan. Mistral, the poet of the Pro- vence, lamenting the gradual disap- pearance of the picturesque feminine costume of the region before irresist- ible “Paris fashions,’ has succeeded in organizing a provincial movement for its preservation. This was pub- licly launched at a “maidens’ festi- val,” in which Mistral himself, as “Emperor of Provence,” publicly em- braced every Provencal maid who having completed eighteen years, had first signed a “vow” never to discard the traditional dress of her ancestors ior new-fangled notions from the cap- ital. The Light Over There. Forevermore when Sorrow came thorny crowned an’ gr: When the black storms hid the heavy we Poca ia light ine: the way, r him singing—smging in valley: of desnalie ging—singing in valleys “The bells—the bells are light ‘is over there!” 1S, ringing—the The deep voiced Dark wailed as, "and not a star unfurceds; une US Like a lost soul sent fi heaven back to a homeless world! But still that singing—singing, sweet as vm, 2 Love thrilled prayer: ‘The bells—the. bells “are light is over there!”” ringing—the And the weary world low list’ning to _ heart and courage strong, oO And blest him for that ray of light thay ‘Ana “immered in his song.” id an echo to h | Singing’ came from ia dim vales and drear: ‘The bells—the belis are light is over there!” Gaeta L. Stanton, in Atlanta Constitu- ringing—the Is Deserving of Monument. It is proposed to erect a monument at Washington to the memory of the late Major Walter, Reed, U. S. A. whose labors demonstrated that yellow fever is transmitted by mosquitoes and who died in Cuba of the disease while conducting his investigation. It is said that Major Reed’s discovery made it possible to stamp out the disease in Havana. , SE Turning Turtle. The old salts are laughing at Sena- tor Hale’s remark about battleships turning over like a turtle. What he meant to say was turning turtle—a very. different thing from turning over like a turtle, inasmuch as turtles do not turn over. When a vessel turns turtle it turns over and resembles a turtle right side up.