Ligonier Banner., Volume 36, Number 11, Ligonier, Noble County, 13 June 1901 — Page 3

e B bsdies 985 Tfl : ’ZQ‘T@,N i _ o 8 " \4‘?\‘@ L h Es ¥ N \\ i STILLWrT 1 iy HARRY WELL, > Copyright, 189, by J. B. Lippincott Company. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ll.—Continued. “This bandage,” said Brodnar, “seems to imply a doubt of you, Dick. but believe me it has its proper use. In the future, if accident should confront you with the—woman. neither of .you will be embarrassed. She will. it is true, know your name, but unless she :should look you up in days to come she will never see your face. Is that comfortable>—yes? Well, a moment and we are gone. Your hand. my friend, mow, and your word of honor. You will not ook on this woman's face. nor seek in any way to discover from her, from me. or from anyone aught thatl am seeking to conceal; under all circumstances you will yourself conceal from everyone the facts of this night’s ‘business; and you accept the woman to whom we go as your wife with all the limitations I have outlined." I know that in your own heart you are resolved, but the honor of a woman is at stake, and you must promise me as man to man.” : ' *As man to man, then. and upon the honer of Richard Somers, I promise. Lead on!” THe chance passer-by who saw a blindfolded man led from the elegant apartments of Dr. Francis Brodnar was not surprised. The explanation was easy. But Somers himseif was distinetly surprised at the length of the ride and the number of <corners turned. It seemed to him that the carriage traversed more than once the same road, for in spite ef himself he could not but take notice of such things. Dr. Brodnar descried the drift of his thoughts. ' “For a man to note the direction of a journey.” he sai® “is a natural, an almost automatie, actipn of the braincells—an inheritance from both animal and human ancestry. Therefore. Dick, if I have sought to confuse you by my «qqueer route, it is only through distrust of the original and savage Somers, and to save all parties embarrassment. I, trust few people. Here ‘we are at last.” Dismounting. he led his companion on a pavement. through % narrow ‘@ateway, the gate of which he unlocked, along a gravel walk with shrubbery on both sides for about 69 paces, up two stone 'steps toa door that kad neither bell nor knocker, and into a woman’s room. :

How weak is human invention. { Richard Somers gathered these facts without mental effort from small signs. The footfall upon the pave- ‘ ment, the search for the key, the clicking lock, the erowding, the gravel i under foot, the touch of shrubbery, two steps at the door, and the indefinable air of every lady’s room—the faint, blended odor of powders, toilet waters and pressed flowers. That it was the room of a refined woman he was sure in advance. Had he not been, there was the deep carpet into ~which his feet sank noiselessly. And it was plain that he had come into a garden from a side street, since no residence would have opened from .a woman's room into a walk that led directly to a main street. Here, then, was a woman=vho lived | upon a first floor with a private gar--den at her disposal. He had heard the gentle plashing of water outside; } there was a fountain in this garden. ‘On the morrow he had but to walk% the city until he found the premisesy if he would. So much for the secrecy of his friend Brodnar! | By this time Richard Somers was a l deeply interested man. Despite hisi Tesolution to carry off the affair lightly, lie began to feel the presence -of something like a tragedy. Where was the woman who was to make use of him blindly and go through the form of a marriage? Dimly at first, perhaps as a matter of logic. he was -conscious that she was in the room and near him. Then without more reason he became certain of it. The Toom was not dark, for he felt light apon his bandaged eyes. Instinctivedy he stretched out his hand. Then there was laid within it an--other as soft as silken velvet and smali and tremulous. The touch ¢hrilled him from head to foot; it was the hand of a young woman—the timidity belonged to girlhood—and instantly a «deep sympathy moved him. It was indeed an urgent cause that forced her into this situation—forced her,because now she was softly crying, and her emotion shook thelittle hand. InstantIy his own hand closed above hers. “Be not afraid, my child,” he said; “‘all will be well.” His voice, low and sympathetic, was the first to break the silence of that room: The girl ceased «wrying and her hand lay quiet within his own. Then the doctor spoke in a whisper: “We are ready,” he said to a third person; ‘“make the ceremony as brief - as possible.” The other began:. “Richard Somers, do you take this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live ‘together after God’s holy ordinance in ‘the holystate of matrimony? Wiltthou love her, comfort ber, honor and keep ‘her in sickness and in health, and, for.saking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” = There was silence, and then Richard ‘Somers said gravely: “l take this wom. an to be my lawful wedded wife; and I i :shall comfort her, honor and keep her | in sickness and in health, to the best of any ability, as long as I shall continue ‘to be her wedded husband. Is that! :sufficient, sir, to answer all legal re--quirements?” o “That is sufficient,” said the unknown -speaker. “Frances, wilt thou have this iman to be thv wedded husband—" “To honor him at all times and in all shours while life shall last?” said Som--ers, interrupting. *“I ask no more, no fenn . - Then upon his hearing fell a clear, .musical voicé, flawless as the note of a dove, plaintive as the wind-harp of: ~ “Yes,” it said, “to honor him at all ‘times and in all hours while life shall ‘last, whether in th g&;s to come we ‘meet again-or we meet no more.” He e uatvoicel” he said, deeply affected.

sank upon his breast; “it cannot be.” He caught the words of the unknown speaker beginning the invocation. “No! no!” he cried, almost fiercely, “it is a sacrilege!” - “Then,” said the speaker, “it is sufficient to say that under authority vested in me by the state of Virginia I pronounce you man and wife.” Somers stood silent and depressed. There was a whispered consultation; the in)er door opened softly and some one passed out. The scene and circumstances had powerfully affected the doctor. “There were difficulties I had not foreseen,” he said, gravely, “but you have safely passed them, my friends. And now I must leave you. Dick, I have placed in your hands the honor of a woman—and my own. I will return for you before it is light. Remember! The gas is now extinguished and you may remove the bandage.” He drew the girl towards him tenderly. “You may trust him implicitly. For the rest, all is now safe. Good night, and God hless you both.” He laid his hand reverently upon the girl’s head, clasped his friend’s hand and would have passed out, but the hand he clasped restrained him, and Somers spoke feelingly as he drew him aside: : : “Is this necessary—this remaining? Think how—" “Absolutely! I read a decision last week, and I must have a marriage that will stand the test of the highest court.” “You read a decision? Are you not acting under the advice of your lawyers?” “Lawyers be hanged! I know Virginia law. A simple acknowledgment before a witness, with this addition, fixes everything. Don’t sulk now, Dick; it won’t be long.” “I was mnot thinking of myself,” said Somers. ‘“Good night.” He stood a moment in thought, then turned to his companion. In the darkened but not dark room he saw a slender, girlish figure near him, the face bent forward and hidden in her hands. “Come,” he said, cheerfully, ‘“let us sit down and talk it all over. It is true we are married, but that is no reason why we shouldn't be friends, I suppose. If you will find me a chair, I am sure you will confer a great favor. By the way, what shall I eall you? ‘Madam’ or ‘Mrs. Somers’ sounds too awfully formal. Shall I say—" . “Call me Frances,” she said, simply. She understood without analyzing that he was trying to make it easier for her, and was grateful. ' “Frances! What a beautiful name! I like it already because it is the

: o :“\” [_s / "'.5 : »[g [ 8 = _ : & - i ]@ v B! / Q;'\p‘:' ) e / V) Qi 2’ \‘,‘ ¢/® v' )?“'39. } 3 o it ‘ \‘fi / ’ (:\‘v' T Wy ) X, RIS =\ J 4 , - : ..._/ X ‘{i\‘\\___’_[_ | ~N ,//)73 SNE » : i')eé L&{ / 5 M 9 < ' SHE BENT FORWARD SUDDENLY, AND, HIDING HER FACE IN HER HANDS, RESTED THEM ON HIS' KNEES.

feminine of Francis. Yes, the armchair will do, and I shall sit here by 'the table. And you? Oh, I seem to 'see you snug in the rocker in front This, I suppose, is the proper arrangement for a family party when the meter isn’t working; but I know very little about it. I never was married before, and I suppose you are equally iin the dark.” It made him happy to ' hear her friendly little laugh, even though it was instantly checked. l “By the way,” he continued, “do you know anything of me? I am to ask .no questions concerning you, but I suppose we may talk about me, may we not?” : “I know that you are a friend of Dr. Brodnar, and what he has told me. You are a stranger in Richmond and a gentleman. But I would have known that you are a gentleman anyway.” “Thank you; Miss Frances; that was nicely said.” ' “Frances!” - “Miss Frances!” he insisted. “I am sorry,” said the girl, after a moment’s silence, “but if you wish, let it remain that way.” “But I am curious to know how it was that you so quicily decided in my favor the question of géntility.” “My mother told me, when I was little, that any man in whose presence a girl or child feels at ease is a gentleman at heart, and somehow I trusted in you from the moment you spoke. But Dr. Brodnar told me—"" - : - “Well 2 “Told me such beautiful things—stories of your life; I seemed to feel, sir, that I had known you always.” “And what has Brodnar been saying of me?—l can blush unseen.” + “He told me you were brave—" “Most men are. And at times all animals.” . . “That you loved flowers, birds, horses, children and old people—" ) “Objects that can’t get away from e, *Go on.” ‘ “That you are generous to a fault—"" “Especially my own—or his.” l “And that no woman on God’s green earth, those were his words, ever appealed to you for helpin vain. He told me once he saw you get out of your carriage in Paris in your evening suit, "pick up a drunken old woman who had fallen, and carry her to a house of refuge—and, oh, sir, you did it because you said the noblest, the most sacred image on earth to a man should be “a woman’s form, the form like unto that of his mother—too sacred for the laughter and jeers of a city’s idlers—"' “lindorse the sentiment, whosesoever it is. But what a sad gossip Brodnar el o . : - “But you did do this, didn’t you?” - “Would it please you to think that Lo s | - *Would it! Why, sir, it was that that mademe trustyou!” ~ “Trust me?’ You were crying!” - “Because—because—this is a most stra 2Gm ysition for you to find we in, Mr. Somers. I thought that I wouldn’é

care; and I did not, until you came, But I did then. And thatis why leried. Somehow, I felt that in spite of all at stake, it ought not to have happened this way.” “I understand. But in my estimation, my child, you have sacrificed nothing.” “You did not think so—but—but—" He took up the thought. e “But you are grieved because you are saying: ‘Now here is a gentleman who, I have suddenly discovered. I wish to respect me for myself, and as a refined, modest girl; and what must he think of one who is willing to be tocked up here in a room with him all night!’ ”—the girl caught her breath and half rose from her chair—* ‘and for what? I cannot even tell him. lam bound not to tell him. I must sit by and see him sacrifice himself to friendghipl'” ' “Oh, sir, do you think—" She bent forward suddenly and, hiding her face in her hands, rested them upon his >l::nee.s. He placed his own hand lightly upon her head and wondered if it were treason to have discovered that her hair was a mass of curls-and clustering ringlets. o “That is only what you were saying to yourself, not what I am thinking. When I called you ‘child’ I absolved you from all the crimes of womanhood.. There are many actions that flow naturally from childish hearts which carry not the slightest flavor of immodesty; and. yet a woman may not copy them. So in this, my young friend.” “Ah, you do not say-‘my child’now!” “No, you have passed into womanhood with the consciousness of this error. 1 say error, because it is a sitnation that you should not have been placed in—no, not to saye human life—not even to save your own; for the unscarred whiteness of a woman’s soul is the priceless pearl of eternity, and not to be staked on earth. But the thought behind it all was not your own. You yielded under the pressure of fear and advice. Your objections were overcome, and you obeyed an elder person in whom you had implicit confidence. That is all, and I understand.” “Then they did not tell you about me!” she whispered, breathlessly. “No; vou have told me all that T know of you, here in the dark. You are tender, modest, true and pure; and were you my wife in truth, I would not be ashamed to tell this story to the world myself and own you as such after.” The words fell from his lips so tenderly. so kindly, she took his hand in both of hers, and laid her face upon it, crying silently. “The blame of it all is on our friend, the doctor.” he continued, deepiy touched. and his voice alittle unsteady. “What a tumultuous, headlong, hurricane sort of fellow he is! There is no ‘blame for you; for look, if T am here, L how could you have resisted him? And it is only his judgment that was at fault, after all—only his judgment. Why, a truer heart never beat than Brodnar’s.” “Would it offend you if I ask a question?” She had waited for composure, i and now did not lift her head. : " L SWhy, no,iof course.” . “You are right sure?” - “Risht sure.” \ “Then, how could any gentleman consent to be placed in such a position as yours? You must have known how embarrassing it was to be for me.” His first inclination was to whistle out his astonishment, but he restrained himself. “Yquforget, my child—ll see you have backslided into childhood—you forget that in the first place I was appealed to in behalf of a woman and no gentleman may resist that. And thenlhadno reason to suspect that I was to marry a girl. It might have been an experienced widow. Indeed—" “But you are glad it wasn’t, are you not?”’ she asked, anxiously. ; £Xes. my child.” “Does my question thex indicate that I am a child?” *Yes, my child.” “I don’t see why.” “Because you are still—a child.” She was not satisfied. '

’ “Mr. Somers, I want you to think well of me always, and the thought that | I may meet you sometime doesn’'t em-= barrass me now. It would not embarrass me if I did meet you—even if'l should meet you to-morrow. But I wish you to know all about nje, and I am going to tell you everything from the beginning.” “No. indeed, you shall not,” he said, quickly. She lifted her head, startled. “Why not—if I choose? I am not afraid to trust you.” “No! no! Miss Frances.” “Ah, T am a woman again!” “Yes, a woman of a charm so sweet and a heart so true that Richard Somers must arm himself. Not your hoxor, but mine, the honor of your husband, is at stake, and you promised to regard that always.” “And I shall, sir; only tell me how.” “Why, I have promised my friend not to seek to find out, or permit anyone .to tell me anything about you. I may not let even you inform me. You must not.” ' She was silent, disturbed, and won'dering at his intense earnestness. Then she said, in awe at the mystery of it all: “When we part to-night we } are to meet as friends no more? You may never take riy hand in yours and speak kindly to me again? Oh, sir, you do not know, you do not know what your tenderness has done forthe girl—no, the woman you call a child. You do not know what it is to have missed ‘a father’s care, a mother’s—" ‘ “Hush!” he cried, “not one word ~more. You are making it hard—hard for me to keep faith with my friend. 'You are betraying his secret.” She threw off his hand and arose suddenly, 'with an abandon of passion that over- ' whelmed him. = . “What a mockery! what a mockery! I am ashamed—ashamed! It is I who ‘\am betrayed!” He had arisen also, Hull of emotion and almost unmanned. l “Never—at my hands. I chose the words deliberately. I will honor and protect you—to the best of my ability; but my ability ends where my promise began. All is based upon my contract with Francis Brodnar, my friend.” ~ “Friend—friend!” she said, bitterlys “in God’s name, sir, what afig Itoyou?” He was too deeply affected to answer at once. When he did his voice was unsteady. : [To Be Cantip\:ed;] g i o ; . Peeps. i ~ England says she is under no obliga~ ‘tion to Ireland, says the St. Lois Star, and the green isle sends to her 640,000,

B T e e et e e o e SR s ' i THE LOST LETTER : g By Anna Pierpont Siviter. % (From Good Literature, Reprinted by Permission.) 6§ Y IMMY!” called Frank Hepburn, J the handsome Yyoumg bookkeeper for Wade Brothers. Jimmy, the effice boy for the same frm, as is usual in such cases, did not hear. It isa singular fact, not yet explained, that deafness is more prevalent among office boys than among any other class of wage earners.” “Jimmy!” Frank Hepburn called more sharp1y this time, and Jimmy relinquished his favorite occupation of drawing cats with red ink on the firm’s noteheads, and slowly approached Mr. Hepburn’s stool. “TPake this letter to the post office and drop it into the box marked ‘City,’ and be quick, please.” ; Jimmy took the letter, placed it carefully between his teeth while he put on his hat and coat; he then surveved the envelope closely, and asked: “What is that mark in the corner for, Mr. Hepburn?” “Clear out, you rascal!” laughed the yvoung man, slightly coloring. “It’sa secret society sign. Now go!” As the boy passed from the office, Weaver, the cashier, looked up and yawned: “Well, it’'s my lunch time,” and a minute later he was hurrying after the leisurely Jimmy. “I'm going past the post office, Jim,” he remarked, as | he overtopk that youth; “give me Hepburn’s letter and I'll drop it in for you.” Jimmy, glad of an opportunity to engage in an interesting game of marbles he saw, being played round the corner, willingly gave up the letter, and Weaver passed down the street. “Ah, that's the way the wind blows, is it?” he thought, glancing at the address. * ‘Miss Bertha Willey, 219 Madison Avenue.” 1 thought that that engagement was entirely broken off. This doesn’t look like it; but I mean to know for certain.” Weaver had long been Hepburn’'s most persistent rival. The lady in the i case was a prize well worth any man’s earnest efforts to win, and when ‘ Frank Hepburn’s engagement to her was announced, none of her admirers felt half the chagrin that seized Weaver. He had felt almost certain of winning her himself at one time, and, in | the expectation of handling her snug fortune, had incurred -certain debts‘ which, according to the rude fashion | of debts, were now “staring him in the face.” Great, then, had been his satisfaction when a report reached him of the broken engagement, and he immediately called on Miss Willey. She received him cordially, and in the two succeeding weeks he frequently repeated the call. “I will strike while the iron is hot,” he said to himself, and, on this very evening, had determined to know his fate, when the sight of Hepburn’s letter upset his plans. ¢ “I will know what is in it,” he thought, desperately. “I can open it—‘it’s very carelessly sealed. Hepburn shall not come between us again if I can help it!” ' He hurried home, and holding the envelope over a steaming kettle in his mother’s kitchen, soon had its coveted contents in his hand. It ran thus: “Bertha, Dear: I was wrong and you were right. Can I come and be forgiven? I have a fine business cffer from a house in St. Paul; if I do not get a favorable reply from you to-morrow I shall accept it, and g 0 immediately. Life without you is unendurable here. FRANK.” “You will get no answer to-mor-row,” Weaver muttered; “and once safe in the west, my coast is clear. What an idiot to intrust all his happiness to a letter! But, then, he’s so terribly proud; he thought it would hurt his dignity less to write a note than seek an interview.” Yes, Weaver was right; Frank was proud and so was Bertha. A trivial lovers’ quarrel had come between them, and Bertha, feeling sure Frank must see in time he was wrong, did not try to right herself. She would* gladly meet him half way in any effort at reconciliation but farther than that her womanly seif-respect would not let her go. Meantime her evenings were lomely; and when Mr. Weaver called he found her very Teady to be entertained. - On the day after Weaver obtained this letter, he watched Hepburn narrowly, and saw he was restless and ‘nervous, and by night that he was pale and wcax. The next day he did not appear at the office, and word came that he was sick. | “Packing up for St. Paul,” VVeaver‘ sneered to himself. “It’s just an excnse But Frank Hepburn’s was no assumed illness. “A bad case of brain fever,” the dcctor said, as he gazed with more than professional interest on the young man lying before him. His brown eyes were wide open, and restlessly flying from one face to another, as if in search of one that never came, while his parched tongue constantly formed the word “Bertha,” gently and pleadingly spoken as long as his strength permitted him to utter it. Then, as he became weaker, only a half inarticulate murmur greeted the ears of th= anxious watchers who bent above him. “Who is Bertha?” the physician at last asked the weeping, gray-haired mother, who had come from a distant city to care for her only son. “We must find her. T have done all I can for his body, but only her coming can relieve his mind. And,” he addaed, softly, “she must come soon.” “It T only knew,” the mother answered, “how I would fly to her! It is breaking my heart to face those cager, longing eyes; but I do not know. Among my boy’s papers are | several notes signed ‘Bertha,” but no other name is given, and ail are dated ‘Home.” Oh, doctor, it is hard to know a woman holds my beautiful boy’s life in her hands, and I cannot even plead with her for it!” And, with a passionate gesture, she turned away. e B : At the office things went on as usual. Weaver noticed Frank’s desk re‘mained vacant, but he said to himself, ‘when the clerks spoke of his illness: “Men don’t die of broken hearts, and he will recover, cured of his He could lnot, however, bring himb e

self to destroy the stolen letter, bnut, when alone, constantly took it from his pocket and glanced at it. One day, while doing so, Mr. Wade suddenly entered the room. Hastily slipping it under a pile of bills, Weaver looked up. “Mr. Weaver,” his employer said, “let me come to your desk. I want to glance over Frank’s papers. lam afraid the poor boy himself will never do that again. Sad, isn’t it?” And Mr. Ward’s kindly voice grew husky. “Is 1t so bad as that, sir?” Weaver murmured, while a deathly faintness seized him. ' | “So bad as that, I fear,” Mr. Wade answered, mechanically taking up a pile of papers and running over them. Suddenly he execlaimed: “What's this?—a fetter written by Frank himself and never sent?” The pity that a moment ago had filled Weaver vanished, and a fierce desire to escape detection had taken its place. z “Why, yes,” he said; “I remember Frank intended to invite Miss Willey to the opera for Thursday, but changed his mind, and, I suppose, did not send the letter. However, I am going down to inquire after him at noon, and if you will give me the letter, I'll leave it with his mother.” . “Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Wade; “that’s a good idea.” ' But he still held it in his hand, while Weaver could hardly restrain his desire to snatch it away. - “If I get the cursed thing in my own hand once,” he thought, “it will never be seen again.” Just then Jimmy entered. Catching sight of the lgtter in Mr. Wade’s hand, he exclaim:‘a: “Why, Mr. Weaver, you didn’t mail that letter that day.” . Weaver turned pale. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, as Mr. Wade gianiced up, inquiringly. “Yes,, I do,”” Jimmy persisted; “that’s the letter Mr. Hepburn gave me to mail the day before he got sick. Don’t you remember his saying that little cross was a’ secret sign?” ' “Why didn’t you mail it, Jimmy 2" Mr. Wade interrupted, sternly. “Why, sir, on my way to tne office Mr. Weaver took it from me, and said he’d mail it himseif.” Jimmy had taken the letter from Mr. Wade’s hands, and, turning it over, exclaimed: _ _ “It’s opened now!” There was no need to question Weaver; the look of bitter hatred he turned on Jimmy told his guilt more eloquently than any words. “Mr. Weaver, I am sorry for this,” Mr. Wade said, simply, and left the room. : His heart was very tende~ towards the poor boy he had seen that morning tossing restlessly from side to ‘side, and still trying to murmur: “Bertha.” “The name is the same,” he commented. “I’ll take her the note and explain its delay. There may be a connection between this and his brain fever., God grant there is.” Hurriedly calling a cab, he drove to the address on the envelope, and was soon greeted by a young lady, who reponded to his inquiry for “Miss Bertha Willey.”

| “Is this your letter?” he asked, ab- ! ruptly. : She looked at him rather haughtily an instant, then her whole air changed to one of intense eagerness as she caught sight of the address. ‘ “Yes,” she breathed, and in a mo‘ment had taken the note and deivou‘red its contents. ~ “Where did you get it?” she asked, looking up, the pretty . color that tinged het cheeks as she read dying out, and her little air of hauteur returning, though her eyes still danced, and there was a glad ring in her sweet voice. ~ Ignoring her question, Mr. Wade ‘said, sharply: “Do you know its writer is dying?” ~ “Dying! Frank!—oh, my darling!” There was no need to ask if this was the Bertha. Only one woman can ‘utter a man’s name in that tone. The light and the color died out of her face in an instant, and a hard, strained look came in their place, more pitiful than any tears. She put her hand on her heart a moment, and then said, simply: “Take me to him, please” , “Get your hat,” Mr. Wade answered. But she only looked at him again and whispered: “Take me t> him.” Without a word more, he led her to the still waiting cab. , On reaching the house, Mr. Wade left her in ’‘he hall and hurried upstairs. A 'few, swift words explained to the doctor who was below, and he hastened down. “You must be very quiet,”-he said, gently, though the charge seemed unnecessary in greeting the almost stony figure that awaited him. “Sleep must come within an hour, or death or hopeless insanity will result; but go to him, look and speak quietly and naturally, and if it is you he is dying for (a shudder ran throuzh th: girl), we may save him yet.” The doctor led the way to the sickroom, opened the door, and stood aside as she entered. Bertha swayed for an instant as she caught sight of the pitiful, wasted form extended before her; but love triumphed, awud, swiftly advancing to the bedside, she. bent above the wistful eyes and said, clearly and softly: “Love, did you call me?” “Bertha!’” the pinched lips tried to say. L “Yes, Bertha,” she. cooed, softly laying her cool lips on his; “and now, darling, shut your eyes. 1 will put my cheek against yours and we will Peßbl: Rciioari - Like a tired child, he obeyed her, nestling his head on the cool—soft arm she slipped under it, while the peachy cheek that lay on his seemed to possess an almost magic power. “He is saved!” the doctor murmured to the happy, bewildered mother; and so it proved, for Frank Hepburn awoke—very weak, indeed, but rational, “ready to drink a gallon of beef tea, and be married that very afternoon,” he whisfleredfainilr ~ When Mr. Wade returned to the office, he found Weaver had drawn his ~ “He knew I wouldn’t keep him an hour,” Mr. Wade said, while relating time at he Hepburn-Willey wedding el el S e e

Q) § E;%%’}C@ n %g@ Wl oD o EE "~ pece )@ e

AAAA A A I A A AAA A A A I I I I A HOLIDAY SONG. : The green wood from the hilltop looks,” And waves its hundred hands to say: “Now lay aside your tiresome books, Dear children, come to me and play, And scamper through my shady nooks The livelong summer day.” ' The brook that by the schoolhouse ran Now calls you with a merry shout: “Come pull my lilies, little man, And wade and swim ard splash about, And catch my fishes, (if you can!) For school at last is out!” : —E. H. Thomas, in Youth’s Companion. THE TOOTH OF BUDDHA. Strange People in the Far East Wor= ship a Yellow Piece of Ivory with Strange Rites. % In Ceylon, the Isle of Flowers, the Buddhist religion is so amalgamated with the Hindoo mythology which Buddha sought to obliterate that the practical result ef his teaching has been to add one more god—himself—and innumerable objects to those already so numerous. The Singhalese still place a servile reliance in, their devil priests and many barbaric practices are indulged in in the name of religion. , There is a curious blending of faiths supposed to be entirely an-“ tagonistic one to another. Especially is this brought out at the greatest annual festival of Kandy, assumed to be a great Buddhist ceremony, whereas it is really all in honor of several Hindoo gods and goddesses, the Buddhist’s part being simply the nom-. inal loan of a relic—in truth, the loan of an empty shrine, But seeing that the relic in question claims to be no less a treasure than that of a veritable tooth of Guatama Buddha, and is the object of unbounded reverence to all the many millions (somewhere about 400,000,000)° who worship him, and a relic for the possession of which bleody wars have been fought; and dncredible sums of money offered, it is perhaps not to be wondered at that the priests took good care to lock it up securely before allowing its shrine to join in the procession of relics of the Hindoo gods. ' It is said that Kandy, where the sacred tooth is preserved; owes its very existenee as the mountain capital to the fact of this precious bit of bone having been taken there for safety in the sixteenth century. The Dalada Maligwa, the Temple of the Tooth, has been year by year enriched by the offerings of the countless throng of pilgrims who do homage to the relic by offering gifts of gold and silver ornaments, coins, jewels, vestments for the priests, fruit and flowers. The latter are at all times a graceful feature of this worship, for as none care to appear empty-handed before the altar of Buddha, there are few in all the throng of worshipers who have not somep flowers to offer. Among . the legerdary acts of devotion we are told of one who is said to have offered 6,000,000 of blossoms in one day

e e S T ) e TR e == === e ————— s T e e “ A 27— iR — /I’ e ' THE TOOTH OF BUDDHA.

to this rapacious tooth. Another daily offered, it is said, 100,000 blossoms all of one sort and a different flower each day. : Externally the famous Temple of the Tooth is not conspicuous, being within the precincts of the old palace, and partly concealed by the Audience hall and the Pattipuwa, but the whole is inclosed by a 4 moat, with some very ornamental stone. Buddha’s tooth is the central shrine 'of the great altar in the temple. Upon the altar stands an octagonal cupola of solid silver and gold, supported by slender pillars. In front of this are three miniature crystal dagobas or bell-shaped relic shines, each resting on a square base, and two golden candlesticks with lighted candles. In the small dagobas on either side are displayed priceless jeweled objects—royal gifts. Within the central shrine, which is of the purest crystal, lies a large golden lotus blossom, from the- heart of which, upheld by a twist of gold wire, is upraised the worshipful piece of yellow ivory, which to the unquestioning eye of faith actually passes for a human tooth. E ' Topsy Regained Her Seat, l Sometimes there arises a discussion 1 as to whether or not dogs can reason. Here is a story which seems to argue strongly for the affirmative. A little terrier mamed Topsy was veryl much annoyed af the visits of another dog which used to usurp her chair. One days when the visitor was ‘there, Topsy stood it as long as she could, and then suddenly flew into the street, barking furiously at some ‘chimerical object. Of course, the other dog ran out to see what was up, and back came Topsy, quickly regaining her coveted seat. : : . The Bible as & Civilizer, - Wken the first missionaries went, | ‘more than 40 years ago, to the thousand islands that constitute Mieronesia there was not in'all that region a single book. Now hundreds and thousands of {he natives are intelligent church members, owning and Pricing their Biblem . oo M G e s REt Ll

STORY WITH A LESSON. How an Old Cat Saved the Life of & Cruel Boy Who Had Determined to Drown Her. A Baltimore boy who : tried to drown a cat recently was saved from sinking forever beneath the river's waters by his intended victim. Genevieve was the name of the animal. A cat with such a name should have been entitled to a pension in her old age, especially when she was a grandmother, great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother, and had hundreds of nephews and nieces and other relatives throughout the city, but Genevieve was old and scrawny and toothless, her once melodious voice

L= % [ o S =Q g I {M| ML ' ik f( | S|l (M = A = HOW JOHHNY WAS RESCUED.

had failed her, she was blind in one eye and deaf in both ears and she had a furrow half an inch wide the whole length of her back where a bloodthirsty bullet had cut a swath.” This old grandma cat lived at the residence of John Wilezsvarski. All previous attempts to get rid of Genevieve had failed. She always bobbed up serenely and sang her ballads on the back fence. So Henry Wilezsvarski, ten years old, was especially detailed to drown Genevieve in the river, all }Jaws and city ordinances to the contrary notwithstanding.Henry put Genevieve in a sack and tied it with a string. By the time he reached the foot of Blanche street the old cat had got her good eye to the peephole to reconnoiter. Then she fought for her life. Henry tried to throw the sack in the water, but Genevieve’s single claw was deep in his coat, and a moment later Henry, Genevieve and all went in. It was lucky for the boy that the string around the sack broke. He couldn’t swim a stroke, but @&enevieve hadn’t forgotten. hew. With her one claw imbedded in the piling, she clung on for life, while Henry ‘seized her tail and yelled for help. " A policeman from the Rawsom street station pulled Henry and Genevieve out and took them home. Let us hopa that this proved a lesson to, Henry and that in the future he treated all members of the feline race with more respect and consideration. - . BIRDS AS SURGEONS. In the Repairing of All Sorts of Phys- | ical Damages the Snipe Is With- . out an Equal, 5" { Some interesting observations,’ made by M. Fatio, on the surgical treatment of wounds by birds, were recently brought before the Physical society of Geneva. In these it was - established that the snipe. had often been observed in repairing damages. With its beak and feathers it makes a very creditable dressing, and even has been known to secure a broken limb by means of a stout ligature. * On one occasion M. Fatio killed a ‘snipe which had on the chest a large dressing composed of down from other parts of the body, and securely fixed to the body by coagulated blood. Twice he had snipe with interwoven feathers strapped on to the site of ‘a fracture of one or other limb.

The most interesting example was that of a snipe both of whose legs he had unfortunately broken by a misdirected shot. He only recovered it on the following day, when he found that the poor -bird had conitrived to apply dressings and a sort .of splint to both limbs. In carrying out this operation some feathers had ?become entangled around the beak, and not being able to use its claws to get rid of them, it was almost dead from hunger when found. - In a case recorded by M. Maginn, a snipe which was observed to fly away with a broken leg, was subsequently found to have forced the fragments into a parallel position—the upper fragment reaching to the leg joint—and they were secured there.- by means of a strong band of feathers and moss intermingled. Brave and Fearless Boy. Eddie Ryan is a Boston boy who possesses a fearless heart. A short time ago, while standing near the foot of Liverpool street, he saw a runaway horse dashing down the street, and knew that in a moment it would endanger the lives of two small boys. Without assistané¢e he rushed to where the boys were sitting, near the curb, unconscious of danger, and pulled both just out of the course of the runaway. The act was bravely done, and none too soon, for the vehicle attached to the runaway passed over young Ryan's foot. The injury was slight, however, and in a short time the young man had recovered. His action was witnessed by only a few people, but those who saw it say that Ryan is a young hero. \ Culture and Edueation, - Wunn—What is the difference between culturé and education? - Tuther—lf you are cultured you are acquainted with the latest novels, and if you are educated you are acquainted with the latest microbes.—lndianapolis mfis feok W j:',f:fiv 3l y;*i’flt"n))&{h} _ Poet—Did you get my book of som~ nets that I sentyou? . . B Sarsdsll o i e e s e