Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 January 1891 — Page 6

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHAPTER XV— CONTINUED. •Trelawney, one moment, ’’ he said, ‘■Yes, sir.” ••Miss Graham wishes to go down the mine. I tell her it is Impossible, What do you say? Is it fit for a lady?” I wa« nbo Lt u> reply, when Madeline j interposed. ••Don't worry about it George; Tve abandoned the idea.” she said. Then, stepping up to me, she held forth her little gloved hand. I bowed over it, but did not take it, giving as an ex. cuse that I was not fit to approach her. . “I dare say you were in quite as for* , loro a condition the other morning j when you snatched me from the wreck,”she said; “yet you did not hesitate then, when your own life was in peril. Mr. Trelawney, take my hand. 1 did as she requested. I clasped the little hand in both of mine and raised it respectfully to my lips. In doing so I caught a glimpse of George Cedruth’s face; it was black as the pit’s mouth.

•‘Now, my dear Madeline, shall we go back?” he said Impatiently. But Madeline was not ready, or perhaps she was too imperious to be so ordered by her cousin. She had abandoned all intention of descending the mine; but she was, nevertheless, anxious to inspect the outside of it “But you can go; Mr. Trelawney will escort me.” she said. ■•Nonsense!" returned her cousin, “Trelawney has got his work to attend to, I will stay.” And he did stay, for fully two hours; at theend of which time she allowed him to take her away. Three other days passed without a sign from her: then I encountered her again. It was in the evening, and I was walking home. This time she was alone, except for the servant, who was following her at a respectful distance. She came up to me unreservedly, and again held forth her hand* Having shaken hands with her I paused, not very well knowing what to do, when she helped me. “I came to walk back with you,” she said; “do yon mind?”

•I m:nd?” I repeated in amazement. ••You forget. Miss Graham, it is an honor, for me to walk beside you. ” She r a re a little impatient toss of her head, and we walked on together. For some time not a word was spoken, but I felt-that she was watching me keenly. Presently she said: ■•Do you know what I have been doing, Mr. Trelawney. ••No.” ••I have been trying to find in you one trace of the boy 1 knew years ago at Munster’s—and I have failed.” ••I don’t understand,” ••No? Well, I will explain. The boy I knew was kind to me; frank, open-hearted, generous. You are somewhat unfriendly; reserved, harsh; and, if I may'say so, churlish. Why are you so changed?” ••I am not changed, Miss Graham; or. if I am, it is but with the tide of fortune, which has ebbed and not flowed with me since we met before. When we were at Munster’s I believed we were equals; but now—” “Yes; now—” -You are Miss Madeline Graham; I am the overseer of your cousin’s mine.” ••Then you wish us to remain strangers?” “I think it would be better.” •’Ah! you are crueller than I thought; if you will not accept my friendship for the sake of the old days when we were boy and girl together, you will; -at least, have-some pityupon me. Lam lonely and among strangers here. You seem like an old friend. If you will suffer me to talk to you sometimes it will make my stay more pleasant ” _ Her pleading won the day, and we became friends. I never went to Redruth House, and she never came to the boitage. I never sought her, but quite Innocently and frankly she sought me. We often went on the moos when,after my long day’s work, 1 was making my way home, and I coul<| not regard these meetings as purely accidental on her part. She was always accompanied by the black girl, until one evening when she appear-'d alone.

“You are looking for Anita!” said! Madeline, noting my glance. “She] has gone to London with my aunt's 1 ■laid, and will not return till close on midniglft. My cousin counselled my' staying at home to-night, or allowing him to accompany me. I knew II should not lack for company, so re-1 fused to submit. I' may not enjoy these walks much longer.” “Whatl are you going away?” I asked, in some alarm. She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps. I don’t know; certainly I shall have to go sooner or later, but I trust it may hot be sooner. When I was shipwrecked here I was on my way to London to take up my abode with some other re ations. They are troubling me with questions, so I have sent up Anita to satisfy them as to my sa ety. Yet I Suppose I shall some day havetogo.” ... *■ g

She tried to speak carelessly, yet 1 1 fancied I detected a ring of regret in her voice, and I quailed before the feeling of uesolaiiou which her words! brought to my heart. In that one sentence she had unwittingly shown to me myself—revealed to me the terrible secretwhich I had i been vainly trying to crush from my ’ heart. Even as she had influenced my boyhood. 60 she influenced my man- i hood! I loved he’’ with the same unthinking love which bad tilled my soul as a boy—loved her even while feeling that such a love might be the means of: blighting my life- 1 knew that no good could come of it, for was she not

as far removed from me as the mourn was removed from the sea? and yet 1 felt that moment that to love her so, be It only for one hour, was worth whole centuries Of pain. She walked with me as far as the cottage, and pausing at the little wicket gate, gave me her band.>—* “Good -night. Mr. 'fretawMy,” rite said softly; “it is not good-by yet.* Again I raised her hold, and pressed it to my lips; then I dimly remembered entering the*, cottage; but all | seemed upreal—eave the one overmastering fact that, fool that I was, I was the slave of Madeline Graham. CHAPTER XVI. BY THE SEA. The next day was Suftday. I rose early and put on my idling clothes, a dark suit of tweed. That I took more I than usual pains with myself may be I assumed from the fact that my aunt, as I strolled In to breakfast, started, and looked at me from head to foot In no little surprise. Then she sighed deeply, and glanced at my uncle, who, also dressed for the day, in a suit of solemn black, was sitting moodily by the fire. For many days passed there had been noticeable a curious change in ml uncle's manner. I carcely observed it at the time, for my heart was too full of other pleasanter impressions, but afterwards, when I came to think it over, I remembered vividly what had previously passed without remark. To begin with he looked at least ten years older.. His old chery laugh had gone and his eyes bad a hard, far-away look, very different to their former happy brightness. Sometimes, as we sat to-

gether, he would rise abruptly and pass out of the house, leaving the meal on the table untouched. My aunt seemed to forget her own trouble in watching his; and nothing could surpass the silent tenderness with which she waited upon hta, never breathing I a word of her solieitude, but showing iin a hundred gentle ways her wifely sympathy and devotion. On the present occasion we breakfasted very late; and as we sat, there came to us, faintly wafted over the distant moorland. the sounp of the church beds. My undo started, lis.ened, and drew back his chair. Then, before we could say a word, he seized his hat, and left the house. “Gaw after him, Hugh!” cried my aunt—adding quickly, “Na.stay! Maybe ’tis better to let ’un be. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, he’s never been the same man since our Annie went fra hame!" And the tears streamed down her worn cheeks as she spoke, ank her voice was broken. “Don’t fret aunt," I eaid gently. “I’m sure Annie is all right—indeed, you know from her own letter that no harm has come to her.” “I’m not for Annie,, it’s for father!” was the reply. “1 dawn’t knaw what there be upon his mind, but he’s tarrible changed; and what be warst, he won’t speak o’t even to me; but keeps it like a cankerwarm, a-gnawing and eating out his life. I were watching him just naw. and I knaw’d well what what was passing through un’s mind.”

“What?” ••First he saw thee dressed and smart, and he thought haw hie Annie, too, would be sitting ready for church o’ Sundays: and the bells sounded.and the happy time came back upon pear father’s heart. Oh, Hugh! if you and Annie had been different to one another, father would ha’been happy still; but 1 dawn’t blame ’ee, lad—it were no fault o’ yourn!’ But though she acquitted me in words, thero was in a manner a certain affectionate reproach. ■Aunt,’ I said, •£ would cut off my hand to put things right; But Annie never cared for me, and I —-’ I paused awkardly, knowing well that I had never loved my cousin. •The Lawd will punish her!’ cried my aunt bitterly ‘l’ll ne’er forgie her! If she had stayed at hame like a decent lass, it would all ha’ come right i’ the end. But she went wi’ scarce a ward, and wherever she be, the Lawd will punish her!’ ‘Nay. nay,’ I said, rising and putting my hand on my aunt’s shoulder, ‘don’t be hard on poor Annie! She’ll soon come back, and then all will be explained.’ My aunt’s manner changed again, and the tears streamed from her eyes anew.

‘Oh, Hugh, my lad, think you our lassie will ever come back?’ “Of course. ’Twas but a lass’s whim for. change; she’H soon tire and return, I’m sure no harm has happened to her, and she was always kind ! and loving.” I • ‘Saw she were, Hugh, saw she were! ' Hugh, will ’ee speak to father and try to cheer ’un?” I nodded, then stopping, I kissed my aunt on the cheek. The Sabbath bells still rang from the distance clearly and sweetly. The sun looked in through the window, and a sunbeam trembled on the paven floor. “Shall you gaw to church, lad?” ' asked my aunt as I moved to the door, i “Not to-day,” I replied. “I’m going for a walk on the moor.”

She looked at me and I saw that she guessed my secret; for the truth was. 1 was hoping and praying to meet with Madeline. With a heavy sigh she turned away and began removing the breakfast things. Once outside I breathed again. It ! was a calm, beautiful, sunny day, with just a touch of frost in the clear sparkling air. Far away the sea shone like silver. i I hesitated a moment, then walked down the road towards the lodge gate —towards the very spot where, yea -s , before I bad first met George Red- ■ ruth. No one was about; a Sabbath stillness lay everywhere; and the faint sound of the far-off bells only renders ed it deeper. j I paused at the gate, and looked up . the avenue. There was no sign of , anyone. I longed to walk right up to

the great bouse and inquire for her I sought, but I lacked the oovvaged. What was I, a common overseer of the mine, to go following the footsteps of a proud lady? If 1 could meet her by accident, good and well; but I did not wish even her to suspect that I was so anxious for the meeting. Perhaps she had gone on to church. If so, doubtless George Redruth was in her company. I fretted at the thought and turned away. At last, very weary with waiting, I determined to seek forgetfulness in a long walk across the moor, such as I told my aunt I had Intended to tate. Quitting the road, I followed a path which led right over the open moorland in the direction of the sea. The air was full of lightness and sweetness; but my spirits by this time had sunk to freezing point As to forgetting the one object of my thought, that was simply impossible. My soul was full of one image, which went with me at every step I took.

I had wandered about a mile when I perceived, by the side of a lonely moorland tarn—one of those dark, turf-stained pools which cast back the light like polished ebony, and are often mysteriously deep—the figure of a man. He was sitting on a fragment of rock and looking at the water? Coming up quickly, I recognized my uncle, Our eyes met, but he did not spsak. Turning his head away, he looked down at the tarn.

“Why, uncle," I cried, “I thought you were at church?” “Naw, lad,” he answered, still with his head averted: “naw, lad, I were in no mood for to kneel and pray. I cq,me out yar on the waste land, and I sat down yar a-thinking. ” I put my hand upon his shoulder. “Uncle, you’re not angry? With me, I mean?”

“Naw, lad,” he replied, in the same low, listless tones. “I ha’ no call to be angry, least of all wi’ thee. Don't ’ee mind me—gang your gait, and lea’ me here alawn.” But I rememljered my promise to my aunt, and was determined not to leave him so. So I sat down by his side, saying: “You’ve no reason to take it so much to heart: it’s making trouble, I

think, b afore it comes. I know well why you’re fretting yourself so much. It’s about Annie; but, take my word for it. Annie’s all right, and will soon come back home.” He turned his face towards mine. How strangely wild and weary it seemed, set in its iron-grey hair. •‘Sometimes I think, lad, as she’lL never coom back; and if she do, will she e’er again be the same little Annie I used to knaw?' But it’s nawt that, my lad, it’s nawt that as is on my mind.” “Then what is it? Annie, I am sure, is well and happy: so what can it be?" .

He looked at me long and steadfastly before he replied. “If my lass went away, it mun ha’ been because o’ trouble; and if ’twere trouble, 'twere a kind that she were feared to tell even to her awn father. That letter my Annie writ came from a sore heart—maybe a heart some villain had broken; and what 1 think, lad. other folk think, too—l ha’ seen them whispering it to one anawther, and looking at me.”

Of course I understood him well ’ enough; for the same thought bad often enough been in my own mind. ’•Whatever has happened,” I said, ••be sure of one thing: Annie is not to blame. Uncle, do you know what I have often suspected? My cousin left' us only for a little while, because she wished to be out of George Redruth’s ••What d’ye mean?” he cried, starting, and trembling violently. “There was something between them. He had won her heart, perhaps. Then, distrusting him, and knowing the great distance between their stations, she said to herself, ■"T Will go away for a time till I am oured, or till he has left the place.” My uncle frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. “Naw, Hugh—there be more in’t than that; but whate'er it be, I’m sure the young master had no hand in it. I know you never liked un, Hugh, but Master Jarge has a kind heart and would never do a dirty deed. Why, I ha* knawed him an’ served him ever since ho were a boy, and I’d trust un wi’ my own life.”

In pity for his trouble I forebore to tell him all I knew. Even had I done so I believe his simple faith in the master would have remained firm. “It’s of summat else I’m thinkin’, lad,” he said, after a pause; “summat that were tawld me t’other day by John Rudd. Three or four days arter Annie went away John Rudd saw her in Falmouth, along with that Yankee chap, Johnson, the overseer.” He noticed my start of surprise, and continued:

••They were standing talking together on the quay,and Annie were crying. Maybe there's summat in it. and maybe nawt; but since the night she went the overseer chap has been away—folk -ay in London. Putting this and that tagither, Hugh, my lad, what do it all meaq?” I was as puzzled as himself, but I hastened to assure him of one thing—the utter impossibility of there being any intimate relationship be,weed my : cousin and the pseudo- A.merican. He looked somewhat incredulous, for in his simple eyes Johnson was a stylish and highly important person, very likely to find favor in the eyes of a young woman. ‘•Leave me to think it out, lad. My mind be fixed that summat's wrang, and I shan't sleep till I knaw the truth. 1 ha' been praying and praying that things be knawt as I ha* feared, for if I any living man has played the villain | wi’ my Annie, Lawd help him! Lawd

keep him from tbe reach o’ my bands!” As I looked into his face I could not i help echoing the prayer. I felt certain, at the same time, that his fears and suspicions had shot greatly in excess of the truth. I knew that scandal was busy with poor Annie’s name, and that much. of the scan dal must have reached his ears; But I could not yet bring myself to believe that Annie’s flight betokened anything seriously wrong. Of one thing I felt, nevertheless, certain—that if any wrong had been done her George Redruth was in some way responsible. I stood and watched my uncle as he wandered away in the direction of the cottage; then I turned my face again toward the sea and wandered on. As I went the moor grew opener and wilder, strewn with great stones and boulders like fragments of the wreck of some past world; soma huge as menhirs translated thither is some prehistoric period of wondrous floods—when the arid waste on which I trod was the oozy bottom of a troubled sea. Here and there fed wild cattle, blame and horned, like those that haunted the woods of ancient Britain. In solitary places the buzzard hovered, and by the brink of lonely tarns the heron waded, rising up as I approached, with sleepy waft of wing. At last, after a ramble of several miles, I approached the sea margin. My path was now on the stony edge of low-lying cliffs, at the base of which the waters thundered for ever. Here there was a lonely promontory of black granite, stretching out into the sea, and whitened at its limits by the chalky droppings of innumerable seabirds. On a rocky island a few yards from the extreme point of the promontory sat a flock of cormorants; as I approached they turned their snake-like necks, but did not rise.

The sun was warm and bright, the sea calm and shimmering like steel. I threw myself down on the rocks, and with face upturned to the clear skies, closed my eyes. A large black winged gull wheeled screaming over me, and then sailed slowly away. All I heard was the low murmur of the billows breaking sadly on the rocks beneath me—that sound which ‘deepens silence,’ and has such solemn meanings for the troubled human soul. Suddenly another sound broke upon my ear. I started, and listened. The sound seemed to come from the sea itself, and was like a mermaid singing. I rose quickly, and, crossing the rocks, walked in the direction from which the voice came. —— — Approaching the edge of the crags, I looked down, and saw beneath me, in the very shadow of the promontory, a quiet creek. The rocks fell asunder leaving a space of sandy beach some twenty yards broad, and closed by the still waters of the sea, which broke in a thin fringe of white foam on a sunny slope of white pebble and golden sand. It was a nook just such as the fabled merwomen or serene might have chosen when the world was haunted, and : such fair creations brightened the sunshine. But what am I saying? It was haunted still, and by one far sweeter and more winsome than any mere creation of a poet’s fancy! Lying like a basking seal on the loose shingle just under the rocks, and looking up at me with sparkling eyes, was the colored girl from Demerara; and standing on the waler’s edge, with her face looking seaward, was Madeline Graham. , (To be continued.)

MIRACLES IN INDIANA.

; Blind See and the Halt Walk—Mrs' Woodworth Makes a Sensation. Anderson. Ind., Special. The meetings of Mrs. Woodworth, the trance evangelist, still continue at ■ the Church of God, in this city. The , excitement has reached fever heat. Some alleged miraculous cures are said to have been effected under her ministrations. One of the most remarkable curesis that of Mollie Bowers, who lives ner Alexandria. Twelve years ago, when quite young she was attacked with measles, and the disease left her blind in one eye and the sight of tho other much impaired. She has been treated by various eye specialists, but without success. Yesi terday she and her father, a farmer, drove to Anderson to attend the meet- ' ing. Miss Bowers went to the altar, and, telling Mi’s. Woodworth of her ! ailment, implored her to join with her 'in prayer to have • her eyesight re- ' stored. ! A pathetie scene ensued. The young I lady clinging upontherostrum,pleaded I that her evesight be restored. Mrs. , Woodworth laid her hands across the ' young lady’s eyes, quoting a passage jof Scripture, and commanded her to ; rise. She did so and saw. For a few ’ moments she stood bewildered, and finally. realizing that her eyesight had been fully restored, she turhed to her father and fell upon his neck, sobbing

bitterly. Then she began to shout and praise God for the wonderful cure He had made. Several tests were made to see whether the cure was complete, such’ : as distinguishing colors, reading fine print, and so on, all of which were successful and showed conclusively that the cure was real. I Two reputable citizens declare that 'Mrs. Wool wo-th has curedthem of ; chronic deafness. William Span of : Fortville was made to walk to-night, something he has not done for years, by reason of a leg crushed in an accident several years ago.

Away From the Bargain Counter.

Detroit Free Press. I -You say you truly love me.” began ■ the young girl, ‘‘how much, sir?” But j Alfred T. Ca-dmeer was too happy for | rational conversation. “Dollar eighty--1 four, please. Shall I wrap Lt up?” ha murmured mechanically.

BADLY MIXED.

One Editor Who Had Diversified lu. teresta in the Recent Election. Mew York Sun. I was paying a call to the editor of a weekly paper in a town in Vermont, and after looking over the editorial page of a copy on his desk I remarked: “You don’t appear to have much to say about the party and candidates.” “No, not much,” he replied. “But are they satisfied ?” “They have to be. It’s pretty badly mixed around here,” “How?” “Well, this fs a Republican paper, but my son Nate, who is a Democrat, is running for State Senator against the Republican candidate. I can’t call Nate a horse thief and a liar, you know, because it’s in the familyi If I would come out and blow for the other man, then it’s agin Nate, so I sort ’o keep stilt” “I see.”

“As to the candidates for the Legislature, my brother-in-law is on the Democratic ticket against our candidate. I can’t pitch into him without making about fifty relatives mad, and so I have to go softly. 1 did manage to call our candidate a Cicero, but that’s as far as I dare go. ” “How about Sheriff?” “Well, my brother Bill is running on the Democratic ticket, and while I can’t help him any, I don’t want to hurt his chances. ” “And Prosecutor?” “My cousin Jim is after that, and if I down Jim all his branch will stop their subscriptions. Awful sorry Jim is a Democrat.” “How’s the Judge of Probate?” “’Nother Democratic brother after that.” “And Selectman?” “Father-in- law on the Democrat ticket, and I’ve got to be neutral.” “And County Surveyor?” “My uncle Tom is the regular Democratic nominee, You see how I am fixed.” , - “How’s your own politics?” “Pretty near stra ght Democratic.” •‘Then, why don’t you run a Democratic paper?" “It’s a-comin’ to that, I fear. I’ve been on the fence, or neutral, for the last ten years, and I expect to wake up almost any morning and find I’ve dropped on the Democratic side. It’s an awful thing to contemplate, but you see how it is—you realize the situation.” .

A RACE WITH IDAHO ROBBERS.

Joaquin Milter Relates an Adventure of His Youth. St. NlcholM. I was lying ice-bound at Lewiston, Idaho. Men wanted to send money below to their families or friends; merchants, anticipating the tremenaous rush, must get letters through the snow to Walla Walla. Would I go? Could I go? The snow was deep. The trails, over open and monotonous mountains, were drifted full. Could any living man face the drifting snow and find h ; s way to Walla Walla? At first the merchants had tried to hive Indians to undertake the trip and deliver their letters. Not one could be found to go. When the storm abated a little the men who kept the ferry across the Shoshone river scraped off the snow, and cutting down the upheaved blocks of ice made it possible to cross with a horse. At first I meant to carry only letters. But having.finally consented to take a little gold for one merchant, I soon found I should lose friends if I did not take gold for others. The result was that I hatTto take gold worth nearly ten thousand dollars.

A few muffled up friends came down to the river bank to see me off. It was a great event. For two weeks we had a line from the outer world. And meantime the civil war was raging in all its terrible fury. As I set out that bleak and icy morning, after I had mounted my plunging pony I saw in the crowd several faces that I did not like. There was Dave English, who was hung on that spot, with several of his followers, not forty days later; there was Boone Helm, hung in Montana; Cherokee Bob, killed in Miliersburg; and also Canada doe. The last named lived with some low Indians a little Way down the river. So when he rode ahead of me I was rather glad than otherwise, for I felt that he would not go far. I watched him. however, and when I saw that he skulked around under the hill as if he were going home, and then finally got baek into the trail, I knew there was trouble ahead. , But the Rubicon was now behind. My impetuous horse was plunging in the snow, and I was soon tearing through tho storm up the hill. Once fairly on my way I looked back below Dave English and Boon Helm were bidding good bye to two mounted cowboys at the ferry house. Ten minutes later, looking back through the blinding snow, I saw that these two desparate fellows were following me.

True, there was nothing criminal in ■ that. The two highwaymen had ai right to ride behind me if they wished. | And Canada Joe had just as good a right to ride ahead of me But to be on a horse deep in the blinding snow and loaded down with gold was bid: enough. To have a desperado blockading the narrow trail before you, with his two friends behind you was fearful. ; I had two six shooters close at hand under the bearskin flap of my sadd.ebag where the gold was. I kept my left hand in my pocket where lay a small six-shooter warm and ready. Once, as the drifting and blinding snow broke away up the mountain, I saw Canada Joe with his head bent down in the storm still pushing on ahead of me at a safe distance. A few ■Maeeats after, as I crossed and

climbed the farther bank of an ugly 1 canon, the two robber* came close enough to hail me. One of them held, up a bottle. They evidently intended to overtake me if they could, and profess to be friendly. This I must not allow, I urged my ambitious horse to> his best. But, to my dismay, aa I hastened up a narrow pass I found that I was not far behind Canada Joe, This low-browed, black fellow was re • ported to be the worst man in all that country. And that was saying he was bad indeed. I was in a tight place now and had to think fast. My first plan was to ridw forward and face this man before the, others came up. But I was really afraid of him. It seemed a much easier task to turn back and kill the two rear men and get back to town. But, no! No! All this was abandoned al. 1 most as soon as thought of. In those days even the most desperate had certain rights which their surviving friends would enforce. I was now but a few hundred behind Canada Joe. So far as I could find out the robbers were closing la on me. But we had ridden over the roughest part of the road and were within a few miles of the high plateau, so that the wind was tearing past in a gale, and the'drifting snow almost blinded me.

Suddenly I had anewthonght. Why J not take to the left, gain the plateau by a new route, and let these bloodthirsty robbers close their net without having me inside? I rose in my saddle in excitement at the idea, and striking spurs to my horse was soon climbing up the gradual slope at a gallop. Ah! but I was glad. Gallop! gallop! gal--lop! I seemed to hear many horses! Turning my head suddenly over my shoulder, I saw my two pursuers not a hundred yards behind me. They, shouted! I was now on the high pla» teau and the snow was not so deep. Gallop! gallop! gallop! Canada Joe, thank heaven, was away to the right, and fast falling behind. Gallop! gallop! gallop! I was gaining on the robbers and they knew it. Fainter and fainter came their curses and their shouts, And then: Whiz! Crack! Thud! I looked back and saw that they both had thrown themselves from their saddles and were taking deliberalßaim. •"<J- < ' ..C. But to no purpose. Not one shot touched me or my horse, and I reached the first station, and finally rode into Walla Walla with my precious burden, safe and sound.

On the Track.

So many remarkable stories are told illustrating presence of mind, says the Youth’s Companion, that a’story may be welcome which tells of the opposite quality—not mere forgetfu'ness, which, is dignified with the name of absent mindedness, but the faculty of being left, in some emergency, apparently without any mind at all. At a recent international fair or industrial exhibition in Buffalo there was shown a new sort of engine which went around and around on a circular track level with the ground. As the crowd stood hemming in the track, gazing at the queer loeoinotive, a very stout woman, who was eating peanuts from a paper bag, became frightened by a rearing horse near by and stepped upon the track directly in front of the moving engine. The en» gineer blew his whistle and this seared the woman so bally that her discretior was really frightened away. W With a cream she ran frantically along the track in front of the approaching engine, still clinging to the bag of peanuts, and swinging it in the air so violently that it sprung a leak, scattered the peanuts in a trail behind her! She was stout, and the effort 16

run made her a singular spectacle; but she was in terrors of her life, and traveled round the track at a goodly pace.’ The crowd became wildly excited. “Hooray! hooray!” men shouted. "Go it! you’ll git thar first!” “Stop your engine! you’ll run over her!” shouted an elderly gentleman, waving his umbrella at the engineer as the machine went past him. “No danger—l can’t catch her at the rate she’s going!” the engineer shouted back. Women screamed, boys cheered, and dogs barked, and all the time the engineer kept blowing his whistle. Meanwhile the stout woman had made three wild trips entirely around the track. Then, in her desperation, her absent mind came back, and it occurred to her to step off the track. She did so, and the engine went past. As she came off, red m the face and out of breath, she still grasped her paper bag firmly. But the peanuts were all gone. a

A Farmers' Alliance Movement.

RurulNew Yorker. The members of the Kansas Farmers' Alliance have decided to try a modified form of the sub-treasury scheme themselves and not wait for the national government to take it up. They have formed a stock company with a capital stock of s2.’ 0,000 and propose to warehouse their grain and hold it for higher’ppicer, advances beI ing made to the owners on their ware I house certificates. The prices of grain ’ are now so high that there is a good • dpal of risk in this Kansas project. It is an attempt to “corner” the grain i in one section and may affect prices in ; that region, but will hardly do so beyond it. It is a matter of mere specuI lation, in which untrained farmers pit themselves against trained gamnlers in produce—which side is like'y to come out ahead? A quarter of a million dollars is not. however, an excessive price for a lesson in trade for a whole community. - 1 1 1 ■ 1 A cave surpassing in magnitude Kentucky’s famous hole in the ground has been discovered in the Black hills, near Deadwood, Dak.