Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 10, 1904, Page 6

CHAPTER X1X—Continued. The rain was coming down heavily and darkness was drooping steadily over the landscape as the incongru- ous pair trod a narrow lane and then turned into a narrower one branching from it. Above the noise of the rain pattering on the leaves Grace heard the roar and rush of waters in the distance, and saw, looming up before her, a great, square wooden building, with no light showing, and apparently desolate and empty. She drew back for the first time and looked fearfully all about her. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, in a frightened whisper. “What is this place?” The man had left ber twice upon the road, since that visit of his to the public house ,to enter other public houses; and he had spoken more thickly as he came ouf from each one. Now, as she asked the question, he suddenly caught her wrist and leaned down and whispered huskily in her ear. “The place!” he said. “This is the spot they was bringin’ ‘im to; they goes on to London to-morrow. You've got nothin’ to be afraid of; I'm ‘ere— an’ you know you can trust me.” He must have used the place at some time or other for some of his many villainies, for he evidently knew it well. He kicked open a door, which thudded back against a wall, and sent a crowd of echoes sounding through the dark interior of the place; then, still holding the girl's wrist, he drew her in and closed the door again. “Stand still a minute,” be’ said. “Tl get a light.” She waited, trembling, in the dark- ness, hearing nearer still the rush and roar of the waters close at hand; it almost seemed as though whatever water it was ran past the very wall of the house in which she stood. Then she saw the face of Neal Ormany ap- pear above the faint glow of a match, and she saw him set a stump of can- dle against the match; he looked at her over that bigger light. “We'll go up aloft,” he said, in a husky whisper. Searcely knowing what she did, and being dazed and frightened and utter- ty worn out with all the tramping of that long day, she went after him up the stairs, noting the little patch of light thrown from the candle on the wooden walls of the place. They gained one floor, where she heard rats scampering and scuttling about among shadowy lumber in the dark recesses of the room; then he began again to climb a narrower stair yet. ‘And still, with that faint, mad hope in her heart, she climbed after him. They came into a room where a couple of rough packing cases set on end had been made to form a table; on these he firmly fixed the stump of candle by the simple expedient of al- lowing the ‘grease to drip from the lighted end for a moment, and then sticking the other end into the little mold of tallow. Aud then he gave a backward kick to the door which closed it. “Where is my father?” asked Grace, looking quickly all about her. “’Qw should T know?” he asked, in- solently. “If you're so soft as to fol- ler a man about all day, thinkin’, be- cause ’e ’appens to say ‘e's lookin’ for yer father, that ‘e's certain to find ‘am, that ain’t my fault, is it? You and your father!” “Why have you brought. me here?” she asked, getting away from him as far as she could and looking eagerly round for a way of escape. “Ah, now we come to the real cards,” he replied, with a laugh. This ‘ere place, if you want to know, was once a mill—on’y it ’appened to stand too far away from anyw’ere to be of much use. The mill-wheel ’as drop- ped down long ago an’ won’t work; it’s on’y the water that keeps on workin’—day in an’ day out—without stoppin’. That’s the on’y thing you've got to think about, my gal—the swift runnin’ water that never stops-—tbe mill race, my dear. An’ presently that’s where you're goin’.” “Then you've brought me here—"” “Never to take you away again,” he broke in. “The young lady up at the big ’ouse is a bit upset because you've been sayin’ you're Grace Yar- wood, an’ because you've bin a bit in ‘er way; me bein’ a friend of ’ers, I promised you shouldn’t be in the way no more. It’s a warm night, my gel; the water may cool you.” She looked wildly all rotnd aboat her for some way of ,escape—there was none. A shuttered window near at hand, but that was too far from the ground to be of any use to her in this extremity; behind her a door, and for that she made straight. Bursting it open, with her whole weight against it, she faced black darkness again, and heard only the scampering and scuttling of the rats within. She drew back in terror, and the man laughed. “It’s no good,” he said; “you might shout the place down an’ not a soul ‘ear you. ‘Ere’s your health—os as much of it as there is left for you to enjoy!” * She noticed, as she had noticed be- fort, that he drew a flat bottle from one of the pockets of his worn vel- veteen coat, and drank long at it. And very time he drank his face deep- ened in color, as his purpose deepened too. He dropped the bottle back in his pocket for the last time, and tossed his cap in a corner and came straight at her—as a westler might do—with his body bent and his eyes watchful, and his arms held low ready to grasp her. As she evaded him and fled, shrieking round the wall, a_ terrific burst of thunder seemed to shake the erazy old building from the roof down- wards, and a flash of lightning seemed literally to cut its way through the chinks of the shutters. Then another and another. Ormany had dropped back, with an arm across his eyes; then, with an oath, he made for her again, while the storm outside drowned the shriek she gave. He had pulled something else from his pocket—a length of cord; and as he caught her he wound it deft- ly round her arms and pinioned them. While she sobbed and shrieked and struggled he tore a light shawl from her shoulders and wound it about her face, stifling her cries. “We don’t want to ’ave the neigh- bors called in,” he remarked, jocosely. “Now, if we once get these shutters open, you'll drop out as clean—Great heavens, what’s that?” There was a lull in the storm for a moment; and, coming straight on top of that riot outside and in, and break- ing in, in ghastly fashion, on the si- lence, there came a step on the stairs. Then a voice called out and the steps ceased. , “Who's up there? Is there any one there?” They both knew the voice. The man muttered an oath and looked about him quickly; the girl struggled fran- tically to ery out and to release her- self from her bonds. While she struggled the man stoop- ed suddenly and caught her up, burst- ing with her into that dark inner room, laid her down there, and came out-again. He advanced to the door of that outer room and called down the stairs: “"Alloa, there! What is it?” The steps began to sound again on the stairs, and presently the head and shoulders of a man came into tbe light which streamed through the déor- way. Then the man stepped into the room and looked quickly around; it was Will Ormany. Father and son faced each other for a moment; both were breathing heay- ily. The father was panting after his struggle; Will was breathing hard with excitement. For a moment neith- er spoke; then his father, passing his hand over his forehead; laughed and said, uneasily: “Alloa! ’Oo’'d a though of seein’ you ’ere, in this part of the world? What’s amiss?” “I came in—out of the storm,” pant- ed Will, staring at his father with a white face. “Are you alone?” “'Oo’d yer expect to find with me?” retorted the other, savagely. Will Ormany saw that something had happened outside his calculations. Obviously the girl was not there; per- haps the tragedy he dreaded had al- ready occurred. He stood stupidly looking round the place. while his father kept watchful eyes upon him; the only sound was of the distant thunder and the rush and the roar of the waters belo wthem. “I know what your game is,” said Neal Ormany at last, with sudden fierceness. “You come spyin’ on yer father, do you? ‘E can’t go about like any other man an’ earn a honest livin’ but what you must come tryin’ to find out all about it. You must ’ave fol- lered me all day. So you won't speak, you young dog—won't you?” he asked, as Will remained obstinately silent. “Then get out o’ here, storm or no storm, an’ find yer way ‘ome again, you unnatural rip. Come--out o’ it!” Baffied and ashamed and _horror- struck at the thoughts in his mind, Will Ormany stumbled down | the stairs and ont into the rain. His fath- er took the precaution to go down with him and see him set off in the direction of the road. Then he went back again into the mill and raced up the stairs. “Never guessed—never thought she could be there; the young fool,” he muttered to himself. “Now, my gel, we'll finisb you, an’ ‘ave done with it}? But Will Ormany had not gone. Dreading, he knew not what, and yet fearing. always that he had failed, he went back and ran round the mill to see if by any chance he could get in and watch his father’s movements. He came to where the broken, silent millwheel leaned heavily against one side of the mill, with the water tear- ing past it and dripping in melancholy fashion over it. b Active as a cat, he drew himself cautiously onto its slippery surface and climbed up that natural half-cir- cular ladder, looking always about him as he went, in the endeavor to find a window in the black wall of the mill. He could see none. flame of lightning showed him the top of the wheel and the heavy beam which went across above it, jutting out from the wall of the mill itself. With a last spring he got onto the beam; a flash of lightning had shown him a shuttered window quite near to where hé@ stood. Even as he debated A sudden. in his mind how to reach it, the shut- ters were flung back and a stream of light poured out. He was outside the very room in which he had left his father. He saw the evil face look out; he drew himself up close against the wall of the mill and ‘waited. Then para- lized with horror, he saw his father lift something in his arms—some- thing which drooper against his shoul- der; saw him thrust it out through the window; heard it fall with a splash into the stream. Just as another blind- ing flash of lightning lit up the mill and caused Neal Ormany to bang the shutters back into their places, Will Ormany took a flying leap from the beam on which he stood straight down into the water, and felt himself car- ried swiftly away by the stream. He came up and struck out, like the expert swimmer he was; saw something floating just ahead of him, and with a desperate effort reached it, kept the head of the girl above water as best he could, and guided himself to the opposite bank and drew her up beside him, then sank down beside her. His hand upon her bosom as- sured him that her heart was beating, CHAPTER XX. The Last Witness. After a time Will Ormany was able to struggle to his feet and to make some preparation toward restoring the girl. He cut away the cords that bound her hands and loosened the shawl from her face; delicately as a woman might have done, he opened her dress, the better to give her air. Presently he had the satisfaction of hearing a sighing breath flutter through her lips, and of seeing a faint flicker of her eyelids. When she was a little restored, for the deadly peril through which she had passed had done her more harm than her immersion in the water— Will Ormany almost ronghly got her to her feet and, steadying her with his arm, iusisted that she should walk. She leaned heavily on him and prayed to be !et alone; but he was merciless. Encouraging ter and at times almost carrying her, he got her along by the hank of a stream »ntil they came on the out_kirts of a ¥il- lage, with no lights showing and xo one to be seen; and *here be looked about for shelter for them both. He dared not go to a house because he knew that questions must be asked at once, seeing the vedraggled condi- tion in which they both were. But he lighted upon some outbuildings and crept with the fainting girl in there, and induced her to lle down upon some dry litter. Truth to tell, he was i na dilemma; it was much that her life bad been saved but be did not know what the next move was to be. She was in too exhausted a condition to be capable of speech; there was no possibility of his discussing the situation with her. One thing, however, became obvious: she must be got away from there, and she must have warmth and nourish- ment. He went to the door of the outhouse and saw that it was raining even more heavily than it had before, and the rain gave him an inspiration. With difficulty he roused up his com- panion again, and once more forced her to walk. Getting out into the vil- lage street he looked desperately about him and saw a substantial look- ing cottage standing a little apart from the others and showing a faint light through the shutters; it was evi- dent that some one was up very late and that Will had not noticed the light before in his first hurried inspection of the village. Supporting the girl, he went up the little path to the door and knocked loudly. There was a murmur of voices in- side and then a shuffling of feet; the door was opened, and a very tall young man with a curious stoop in his shoulders looked out at them. Behind the very tall young man was a little slip of an old woman with a startled face. “If you can give me shelter for this —this lady,” said Will, “I shall be more than grateful. “‘We’ve been out in the storm a lon gtime; we're drenched to the skin. It doesn’t mat- ter about me,” he added quickly, “but Tm afraid she’ll die if she doesn’t get warmth somehow or other.” “You’re very wet,” piped the old lady from behind the tall young man. The tall young man turned solemnly and looked down at the little old wom- an. ‘“You’ll remember, mother, he said, patiently, “that it has been said that they were out in the storm. Con- sequently, as it has been a rainstorm, they would be wet.” “Of course, you always put things so clear, said the little old lady, looking up at him admiringly and taking no notice of the visitors. “A good many people wouldn’t have thought of that, would they?” “Possibly not,” said the young man, speaking always in that slow, deliber- ate fashion. “I’ve been trained to it. You may come inside,” he added, after a thoughtful pause, as he turned to will. Will Ormany gladly availed himself of the invitation, and supported Grace into the house. It was a small place, comfortably furnished, and of quite an ordinary appearance; but, as late as it was, a good fire burned in the grate (unnecessary as it seemed at that sea- son of the year) and a lighted lamp stood upon a table. On the table were spread out writing materials and a few books and newspapers. “If you could let this lady take off her clothes here,” said Will, “I could go somewhere else, and perhaps get dry also, It’s very good of you,” he ‘| added, lamely, “to have let.us come in at all.” “It’s all on account of my son,” said the little old lady, as she assisted Grace to a sofa. “Everything depends on my son—it means what he calis in- spiration—or it don’t. If it ’adn’t been inspiration, you wouldn’t ‘ave been let come in.” While she spoke she was busying herself with the fire and with the girl, and was stealing a glance at the tall, solemn young man from time to time. “I can see mystelf in this,” was the extraordinary remark of the tall young man. “ ‘Saved From the Storm’ will be the title—and it ought to run to about thirty verses. I can see myself sitting up over this.” Without another word he led the wondering Will Ormany away to a sort of kitchen at the back of the house, a room still warm, doubtless after the cooking of the day, and with still a scrap of fire in its grate. He went away, and returned in a few min- utes with some clothing thrown over his arm; this he deposited on a chair, and recommended Will to undress ana dry himself. While the latter did so the tall young man explained the sit- uation. “I am doing all these things accord- ing to regulations,” he said. “It you’re anything of a reader, sir,” he went on, speaking always tn that slow, deliber- ate fashion, ‘you will understand that when people come in like that—from a storm—or from the sea—the first thing is a fire—the next thing is bor- rowed clothes, which invariably don’t fit °em—and the last thing is hot spir- its; I leave the hot spirits to mother.” “You seem to know all about it,” said Will, with a smile. “T have to, sir; it’s my business,” said the solemn young man. You can make a business of anything, and I’ve made a business of poetry—thanks to mother. I’ve been in the corner of the local paper more than once; they don’t pay anything, but they speak in. high terms of what I shali do in the future. Uyve been rather busy to-night.” “Indeed!” said Will, politely. “Yes. First of all, a chimney was struck by lightning; I got forty-four lines out of that. Now you’ve come in, and I shall make a bigger job of you. You don’t happen to be in love with the lady, I suppose?” “What nonsense!” exclaimed Will, blushing furiously. “Ab, that’s a pity,” said the young man. “If you had been I could have nm it so much stronger. I might have got another title out of it: ‘Saved From the Storm; or, Love and Light- ning.’ ‘ut, of course, poetry being, ac- cording to my theory, always true, I can’t put it in; you've got to be so ex- act in these matters. It’s a pity, all the same.” Meanwhile Grace, in the little sit- ting room, had. been warmed and com- forted and wrapped in blankets. From the lips of the little old lady she heard the continuation—or perhaps the be- ginning—of the story that had already been related to Will by the son. “Fortunate for us, ‘is father left a bit of money out of the undertakin’ line—and so James has been able to devote ‘imself to verse,*so to speak. It’s wonderful ‘ow ‘e does it; if a saucepan boils over he can dash off a line or two on it; nothin’ comes amiss to ’im. I must take his papers out to ’im; ‘e’ll be up ‘alf the night over this. You might tell me your age, miss—an’ the color of yoér eyes, please. ‘E’ll want to know that for certain; the color of the dress an’ the material I'll take the liberty of tellin’ ‘im my- self. You needn’t be afraid, miss; ‘ell be most delicate in speakin’ of you, and I’m afraid, in any case,” she added, with a sigh, “it won’t never get further than the corner in the lo- cal. Make yourself comfortable, miss.” They stayed at that bouse until late the following day, by which time “Saved From the Storm” was com- pleted, and was even longer than had been at first anticipated. With all their oddities, however, the mother and son were kindly people, and ut- terly refused to accept even the small payment Will Ormany was able to offer. “Tt ain’t often that James gets sich a subject—unexpected like,” said the little old lady. “Shouldn’t be sur- prised if it ain’t the makin’ of ’im; it’s "about the longest thing ’e’s ever done—an’ the writin’ beautiful.” Will found that there was a railway station comparatively near at hand, and that the distance to London was short, for Grace had made up_ her mind at last to go to London. As a matter of fact, she was desperately afraid of returning to the gipsy camp; she shuddered at the prospect of meet- ing Neal Ormany again. Only one thing troubled her at the moment, and that was the impossibility of com- municating with Encch Flame. How- ever, she felt that the time was com- ing when all these difficulties and dan- gers would be smoothed away and done with, and when she could do something to show her appreciation of what Enoch Flame had sacrificed on her behalf. Most of all, of course, she wanted to get to London to find her father, because she had a vague idea that Neal Ormany must really have known something about her father, and that there must have been some truth in his assertion that the old man had gone to London, no matter with what purpose he had made the asser- tion. In her ignorance Grace Yarwood imagined that in London she would soon comes across the object of her search; at all events, it could not be so large but that she could find her father by inquiring for him. Will Or- many, for his part, although he knew London to be a large place, had no idea of its actual size; more than that, he was, of course, only too willing ta go wherever the girl might suggest; his greatest happiness lay in the thought that she depended naturally upon him and looked to him for help. So they came to London, and walked into its vastness like two wandering children. They had not gone half a mile through its endless streets with- out discovering tr vor; but the girl, obstinate in her love for her father, would not turn back. Any face that flitted past them niight be his; they could walk from one end to the other of the great city and they must surely find him. Darkness closing in at last taught them that they must seek shelter, and that it must be a cheap shelter at that; Grace had no money, and the shillings in Will’s pocket were dwin- dling. He told himself that he could manage easily enough; a lodging must be found for her. In a small street not far from Waterloo station he found a small, respectable house with a fur- nished room, paid a shilling or two in advance, and secured it for the girl. When she eagerly questioned him as to what he was going to do, he airily told her that he was going elsewhere. “You see, miss, the time is coming,” he said “when you will be a great lady, and it will never do for any word to be. breathed against you. You've journeyed about with me as it is.” “And you have been like a dear, good brother to me,” she broke in, with tears in her eyes. “And so I shall go and find a lodg- ing somewhere else. I'll come early in the morning,” he said, as he left her. It, is scarcely necessary to say that he did not find a lodging that night, for the simple reason that he could not spare the money. But he had been used to the open air all his life, and the night was fine; he formed one of that great army of houseless wan- derers and trod the streets till day- light. Indeed, he spent some part of the night outside the house wherein she slept, to be certain that no harm came to her. That went on for two days—two days during which the strangely as- sorted pair wandered the streets, peer- ing into the face of every elderly man they met, dnd hoping always that the next face would be a familiar one. And at the end of those two days the boy had not dared to tell her that ev- ery penny was gone and that there was even rent owing for her lodging, (To Be Continued.) SPIDERS AS BALLOONS, Outwit Man by Building Airships That Will Fly. There is an American spider which haunts evergreen trees and catches its prey by means of a lasso. The web of this spider is triangular in form, consisting of four longitudinal lines and a large number of cross fibers connecting them. Two cor- ners of the triangle are attached to twigs, but the other corner, which ter- minates in a single thread, is held by the spider, perched on a neighbor- ing twig. When a fly strikes the web the spider loosens his hold and the elastic threads instantly entangle the victim. If you anchor a pole in a body of water, leaving the pole above the sur- face, and put a spider upon it, he will exhibit a marvellous intelligence by his plans to escape. At first he will spin a web several inches long and hang to one end while he allows the other to float off in the wind, in the hope that it will strike some object. Of course this plan proves a failure. He waits until the wind shifts, per- haps, and then sends another silken bridge floating off in another direc- tion. Another failure is followed by several other attempts until all the points of the compass have been tried. But neither the resources nor the rea- soning power of the spider are ex- hausted. He climbs to the top of the pole and energetically goes to work to construct a silken balloon. He has no hot air with which to in- flate it, but he has the power of mak- ing it buoyant. When he gets his bal- loon finished he does not go off upon the mere supposition that it will carry him, as men often do, but he fastens it to a guy rope. He then gets into his aerial vehicle while it is made fast and tests it to see whether its dimen- sions are capable of bearing him away. He sometimes finds that he has made | it too small, in which case he hauls it down, takes it all apart and con- structs it on a larger and better plan. A spider has been seen to make three different balloons before he be- caem satisfied with his experiment. Then he will get in, snap his guy rope and sail away, to land as gracefully and as supremely indifferent of his surroundings as could well be imag- ined.—Lippincott’s Magazine. An Actor’s Way of Saving. According to the money order de. partment of the postoffice, actors have saved but little money this year. Last year great numbers of them came down town to cash money orders. Money orders are the provincial ac: tor’s rock of salvation. When he gets paid in Podunk he goes and buys a money order on New York so that he can’t spend his money when tempta- tion comes. Thus an actor may pre sent from two to thirty money orders at the window when he finally strikes New York. This year only a very few such orders have been presented.— New York Sun. Trouble in the Air. Bronco Bill—What did Tough Tomp- kins die of? Grizzly Peter—Wel!, the poor guy needed a change of air and couldn’t get it. Bronco Bill—Lung trouble? Grizzly Pete—No; he was lynched —Judge. Accommodating. “Pat,” said the proprietor, “it is an honest fact that you are saving more money than | am.” “Well, sor, you’ve been too good a boss fur me to sthand thot. Oi’ll take the bus’ness, pay yez the wages Oi’m now dhrawin’, and make it two hours less for a day’s worruk.”—Detroit Free Press. = ——— = | WASH BLUE. } Costs 10 cents and equals 20 cents worth of any other kind of bluing. ‘Won’t Freeze, Spill, Break Nor Spot Clothes DIRECTIONS FOR USES’ Wiggle-Sticks Ground in the water. At all wise Grocers. He Was Going to Be Something. A colored man in Philadelphia re- quested his employer to release him so that he could go South. “What do'you want to go for, La- fayette?” j “Cos I’se called to a church down ar.” “Called to a church? going to be?” “T’s goin’ to be sumfin. I dunno whed- der I be de pasture, or de sextant, or de vestureman, but I’s goin’ to be sum- fin.”—Success. What are you Allen’s Foot-Ease, Wonderful Remedy. “Have tried ALLEN’S FOOT-EASE, and find it to be a certain cure, and gives com- fort to one suffering with sore, tender and swollen feet. I will recommend ALLEN’S FOOT-EASE to my friends, as it is certainly a wonderful remedy.—Mrs. N. H. Guilford, New Orleans, La.” Not to Be Repeated. She—His automobile bumped into the fence, you say? What then? He—I can’t tell you what followed. She—You were there, weren’t you? Can’t you tell me what he did? He—Oh, yes, I can tell you what he did. I thought you wanted to know what he said.—Philadelphia Press. Famous Peal of Bells. Exeter cathedral, in England, con- tains the heaviest ringing peal of bells in the world. The tenor bell alone, including the box girder, stock, wheel and clapper ,weighs nearly five tons, and as arule for safety sake, two men are put on to ring this ponderous bell. The bells at Exeter cathedral were re- paired some years ago, the cost of the repairs amounting to.over $10,000, and they are now one of the most perfect sets of bells in existence—Chicago Journal. SHE GOT HER ANSWER. School Teacher Who Went a Step Too Far. “Who can tell me who our first pres- ident was?” recently asked a teacher in the primary department of a Phil- adelphia school. “George Washington,” answered a bright boy. “George Washington was our first president,” replied the teacher, “and this is what you should have said. Never reply to such questions in mon- osyllabies. I want all of you to re- member this. Now, who can tell me what I have on my feet?” “Shoes,” spoke up one boy. “You have not answered correctly,” replied the teacher. “Who can an- swer that question in a correct man- ner?” “Stockings,” suggested another boy. “No, no, no! That is not the way.” At this a diminutive boy in a back seat began to eagerly wave his hand. “Well, what have I on my feet, John- nie?” “Corns,” repiled John, triumphant ly.—Philadelphia Public Ledger. instantly BUILDING FOOD To Bring the Babies Around. When a little human machine (or a large one) goes wrong, nothing is so important as the selection of food which will always bring it around again. “My little baby boy fifteen months old had pneumonia, then came brain fever, and no sooner had he got over these than he began to cut teeth and, being so weak, he was frequently thrown into convulsions,” says a Col- orado mother. “I decided a change might help, so took him to Kansas City for a visit When we got there he was so very weak when he would cry he would sink away and seemed like he would die. “When I reached my sister’s home she said immediately that we must feed him Grape-Nuts, and, although I had never used the food, we got some and for a few days gave him just the juice of Grape-Nuts and milk. He got stronger so quickly we were soon feeding him the Grape-Nuts itself and in a wonderfully short time he fat- tened right up and became strong and well. “That showed me something worth knowing and, when later on my girl came, I raised her on Grape-Nuts and she is a strong, healthy baby and has been. You will see from the little photograph I send you what a strong, chubby youngster the boy is now, but he didn’t look anything like that be- fore we found this nourishing food. Grape-Nuts nourished him back to strength when he was so weak he couldn’t keep any other food on his stomach.” Name given by Postum Co., Battle Creek, Mich. All children can be built to a more sturdy and healthy condition upon Grape-Nuts and cream. The food contains the elements nature de- mands, from which to make the soft! gray filling in the nerve centers and brain. A well-fed brain and strong, sturdy nerves absolutely insure a healthy body. Look in each pkg. for the famous little book, “The Road to Wellville.”