Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 10, Number 10, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 6 September 1879 — Page 6

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

THE LITTLE QRA VE.

"It's only a little grave," they said, "Only Just a child that's dead And to they carelessly turned away From the mo and the spade had made that day Ah! they did not know how deep a shade That little grave in our home has made.

1 know the coffin was narrow and small.. One yard would have served for an ample

And 'one* man In his arms conld have borne away The rosewood and ita freight of clay: Bat I know that darling hopee were hid Beneath thalllttle coffin lid. I know that a mother stood that day With folded hands by that form of clay 1 know that burnlng.tears were hid iXeath the drooping lash and aching lid And I know her Hp, and cheek, ana brow, Were almost as white as her Daby's now.

ITtnow that some things were hid away, The crimson frock and wrappings gay The little sock and half worn shoe The cap wiJh its plume and tassels Dine And an empty crib, with its covers spread, As white as the face of her guileless dead.

Tis a little grave but oh 1 have a care For many world wide hopes are buried theie And ye, perhaps, In eoming years May see, like her, through blinding tears, How much of light, how much of joy— In buried with my only boy. —Chicago Tribune.

Recommended to Mercy

How the wheels turned and droned forever! Ambrose Mayne, standing at his desk with an open letter in his hand, at which he was staring blankly, felt like shrieking to them to stop, to be silent for a moment, that he might think But the great dumb machinery moved on with the maddening precision that is Its characteristic, witn its stupendous indifference to humanity, to any tragedy or comedy of life, that might be going on about it. And, as if keeping time •with a sort of rythmic ryhme, a hundred wheels seemed turning in Ambrose Mayne's brain at once. firom the spot where stood he could look into along room filled with small workers, mostly little girls. The October sunlight sifting through the high windows fell on the workers' rather pallid faces, their dun-colored, scanty dresses, and then glanced off in bright contrast to the gayly colored gimpe and fringes that they handled.

Some ol the hands—men with stolid faces and mechanical movements—were busy also animated maohines Ambrose often called them, with a self-sufficient pride in his own culture. Now his eye rested on them with envy. He would have changed places gladly with the poorest of them at that moment. Not one of them lived with a sword suspended over his head by a single hair, not one of them saw fate approaching to sever even that frail guard, as be did when he looked at the open letter before him, and yet this was all it said "Ambrose Mayne, Esq.—My dear sir: owing to the fatal illness of my old friend, John Byrne, of whose efetate I shall be administrator, I have decided to give up the plan of remaining abroad another year. My health is much better. I must own I am somewhat tired of dawdling about the Continent as I have done the past two years. I can forego another winter in Paris without a pang. 1 mast own your share in this improvement. I have felt so secure that all was going on well at the mills—my mind has been in such perfeot rest, which is one great condition of oure—that I feel I should thank you for your fidelity. An honest man is at ease, and although I know my reputation for being a crusty, unfeeling, grasping old bachelor, I think I am at least worldly wise enough to appreciate integrity when I find it. I write this to say that I will sail in the "Bothnia" to-morrow, so you may see me in a couple of days after reoeiving this. Love to Dolly and Pinks. I suppose the latter has a Christian name by this time. When I saw her last her face looked like crumpled pink motto paper. But Time, that takes delight in wrinkling up the countenances or us old fogies, takes equal pleasure in smoothing out a baby's phiz. I don't like the little human animals generally but Dolly's baby, not to mention yours, is another thing. I shall see you in twenty-four hours after you read this—wind and storm permitting. Yours, "BOTHWKLU PKMBERTON."

There seemed really nothing in this paper to stir the reader's heart so terribly It was probably the nearest approach to friendliness its writer had ever made. Even Ambrose, grown ghastly in the second reading, recognized ita genial tone. Pemberton's letters had always been of the driest, but the thought of coming back to old familiar scenes and faces had touohed even him. He had never been very tender to Dolly when she had lived with him—a little wair thrown on his eharity, with a taint claim of distant kinship but now he seemed to have a place in his heart for a kind thought of her. But the moat stupendous thing was his mention of the baby. Pemberton had an unnatural Antipathy to the young of his kind, and quoted Malthua savagely to proud mothers who ignorantly displayed their Jewels.

He proved with an effective snarl that their little darliugs bad no right to exist that the world was being ruined by an undue Increase of population that there was more labor than capital, etc.

So the man who bated and feared, and went on provtng bis right to existence by making money through ihe same little feeble hands at which he had mocked. Dolly herself stood in awe of "Uncle Both," as she called him. The hands had transferred his name into the significant one of "Old Both well."

They all enjoyed his absence, and in mill Ambrose was popular not that he bad the people's good any more at heart than his employer but he had a gentle, auave way with him which captivated the tough people, a repose which stamped him as a gentleman even in their uncultured jsyes and as he stands with a broad band of that dusty sunlight upon htm, you and I, reader, would say the •am*. The face is highbred and intellectual the steel-blue eyes are full of firo and purpose, and yet there is an air of languor about him.

The met is Ambrose Mayne is indolent physically, but his mind is alert and forever urging him on, like an impatient rider on a lagging ateed. He has artistic tastes, is self pleasing, and scarcely capable of any heroic act of self-denial. He has been prosperous and happy

Three years ago be had married pretty Dally Pemberton tor love alone. It to only lately that care ha* presided like a akeleton at his feasts. He cast aglau now through tt1 window at a pretty SwtM cottage, very far off, with a blue dash of water near where a river eals by among the trees. He ~*n see the uwny spots among tbe colc I fallage on the trim lawn, and discern a fig*

•jr

floats about here and there, and he knows Dolly wore a pale pink cashmere to breakfast that morning, With moat bewitching knots of delicate satin ribbon and white lace about it. "Ah, Poor Dolly!" what a dull pain assailed bis heart as he thought of ner! How soon must ahe know How long reprieve has he Just so long as it will take Pemberton reach home, to visit his factory, to oast a keen eye over his books, to come down on the delinquent manager in the merciless fashion he knows so well There will be no appeal—Ambrose realizes that thoroughly no time, no grace will be given.

If he had time now—an? bis heart sinks at the thought. He has had time, and what has it availed. When he had purchased tbe bijou of a cottage, and filled it with treasures regardless of cost, he had thought lightly of the mortgage that was placed upon it. But tbe man who held it died bills came In from one quarter and another be held unlimited funds in bis hands, and he "borrowed" them, so he quieted his conscience by saying.

He seemed at the time to see a hundred ways of returning the money. One was by a speculation that had made many fortunes. When he risked more borrowed money in it the whole crumbled into the dust. So it happened that he stood as if stricken with sudden palsy when he read to-day that letter which seemed his death warrant. He had expected another year's grace. He was angry at fate for defrauding him of it.

What might not happen in that year to release bim He had an old uncle who would probably leave him his belongings—nothing extensive, but the liabilities would at least be covered. Who knew but what death would— here Ambrose turned away from that contemplation with a sickening qualm. Could it be that he had gone so far in sin as to count on tbe death of the gentle old man who had befriended him—

Still the maddening whir of the wheels. His brain kept turning, turning, and his whole body seemed numb. Only that center of thought and pain was keenly alive. He could not bear it. He went out the private office, which was quite a pretty little Gothic building, about twenty feet from the main edifice. He had reigned there supreme since Pemberton's departure. The sound of machinery did not disturb him there—indeed, there seemed a strange silence in it after the bewildering whir and buzz he had left.

He sat down at the desk, and mechanically laid his hands on the books —those silent witnesses whose voice he could not stifle. He turned over their pages, those white ghosts which stood ready to arraign him. What was left for him to do? He could see old Pemberton bending bis gray head over them. He could fancy the lightnrng flash of his fierce eye, and then—then Ambrose Mayne's mind went forward to the chaos which seemed to lie beyend that discovery. What would Dolly say She had looked on him with the foolish hero worship all girls feel for their'first love. Would it die in her heart when she knew he was a thief

Yes, he used plain language to himself now. He knew a prison lay before him. He remembered with a cold shudder onoe visiting one, and the bare, desolate stonlness of it, and the stolid, et despairing, faoes of the inmates, hink of his raaiant Dolly in her dainty toilets visiting him there! Of Pinks, with her little rosy hued and dimpled fingers stretched out to greet him, her father, in a felon's cell. A terrible tide of self respect swept over him, and two great tears rolled down his cheeks. Was there any way of escape—any way to gain time put the books aside. His brain seems all chaos, yet, not one dear thought to be evolved, and tbe wheels are turning, turning. The very sunshine falling in dusty bars from the window revolves before his gloomy eyes. But suddenly there comes a stop —a sort of crash in that subtle brain machinery. Tbe sunbeams are motionless his heart seems to stand still. He has thought of a way—not to escape, but to gain a reprieve. He had been honorable in his way, once, and he shudders at first when the temptation creeps from out the darkness of his thoughts and stands before him—a —a loathsome oreature that shuns the daylight. A drowning man, however, does not examine the hand stretched out to save him, and Ambrose Mayne rasped at the suggestions that came to im, even while ne shuddered and excused his weakness. After all, he had no right to be squeamish, he argued he had forfeited that long ago.

Then suddenly he remembered with a dull pang that it was the anniversary of his wedding, and he oould not shut out from his memory the pretty pageant of that day three years before. He saw Dolly, with her sweet face all rose bloom and dimples, shining through tbe clouds of filmy lace—in "gloss of satin and shimmer of pearls"—leaning on his arm. He remembered with a self pity that was pathetic in his own buoyant hopes and trust in hiB future. Now all that self righteousness had fallen from him like filthy rags, and he is facing relentless fate. All lost, even honor! So day wears on, The shadows are lengthening on that trim little lawn, with ita spots of tawny red and flecked purple and dusty white, making effective bits of color here ana there. Dolly surveys her ribbon gardening with delight each fall. It is so enduring when the delicate flowers have dropped away. There is nothing left now but some dusk red and dull brown chrysanthemums. a few vivid spikes of scarlet sage, and arose or two and Dolly had gathered them all in a lavish manner she

It is her wedding anniversary, and will keep tbe feast. And very pretty she is, a sort of autumn flower herself, for deep, rich coloring, as she stands in the full light, bareheaded, a lint of gold in the deep bronse of her tair, a sort of yellow sunlight in her hacel eyes, an affluence of oolor in tbe clear, dark skin, with tbe rose bloom on cheek and Up, Pinks, a tiny creature in white, trots by her side, holding her dress, ami grasping at everything like a flower, while Bingo, the Skye terrier, only a year old, but wiser immeasurably than tbe human creature, gravely watches the proceedings and appears to understand the festive bine ribbon that decorates bim. It is uncomfortable, he thinks, but it Is an honor and he reflects sagely, "II /out sovffrir pour eire benn." "I shouldn't wonder, Pinks," exclaimed Dolly, "If papa has gone over to Mllford to get some flowers for me for be should have been here by this time, you know."

Dolly had a great way of talking to Pinka, as if tbe baby were preternatural ly wise and oould sympathise with or advise her (and we know what Sphinx like wisdom suddenly dawns from baby eyep now and then to confound us older pilgrims on life's devious

Pinks only pursed up ber rose bod •and said, comprehensively. "FowWi*." "You know, my rose bud. my beauty," cried Dolly, snatching her upin ber

arms and kisaihg her, "I was married

iostwhat

three years ago to-day. You don't mow, of course, you wasn't there. But, oh, a happy little woman mamma was then, for her life bad not been very bright before. I would say a word against Uncle Both, my darling, but you won't repeat it. He was downright oantankerous, and I never had a real home till I came here, and now I have you and papa." "Bingo!" interrupted Pinks in the most apropos manner. "Ah, I beg Bingo's pardon for leaving tdm out, to be sure! 'What is home without a Skye terrier J" laughed Dolly, as she walked to the gate and looked toward the huge building that swallowed up her husband every day.

Margery Flynn came for Pinks, as the time sped on, and tbe light was dying away from the lawn. Still Dolly leaned on tbe gate in a sort of happy trance, thinking of those three years of tranquil bliss. "I suppose life cannot be all like that," she said to herself. "Perhaps— who knows—all the happiness of mine may have been compressed in those three years. I wonder which is best— to swallow the delicious brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life' at once, or to have but a mild flavor of it in one's goblet of lite till the last?"

But Dolly suddenly started from this reverie, with a wonder about her husband. He knew there was to be a high tea for bim at this happy festival, and it was long past the hour. She was tired of waiting, and so, walking up to the little bowerv porch, she picked up a soft, white," fleecy wrap, which she threw over her rather elaborate dress, and then she went out on the road th&t led to the factory.

It was very quiet now the hands had gone home long ago, and she met no one. Especially deserted did the great stone buildings look when Dolly at last stood near them—such a contrast to the busy, noisy life that teemed there in the day time! All the great wheels were resting now no whir of a machine, no sound of a child's laugh broke tbe stillness of the spot. Dolly turned the knob of tbe office door. It was locked. Clearly ber husband was not there. Glanoing at the great factory doors, however, it seemed to her that one was standing ajar. He was taking a last look, probably, as he usually did, to see that: all was safe, only it was rather late for that.

Dolly crossed the yard, pushed open the heavy door, asd went In. It was quite light enough to see each room with its tall, glimmering windows, and huge maohines standing about like speechless giants. It was a familiar sight to Dolly, only she had never been there at this, time before, and the dead silence seemed oppressive.

She went first into the ante-room, where her husband had stood in the morning, looking at Pemberton's letter, then hurriedly into the work room that opened from it. Piles of bright colored worsted and fancy gimps ana tassels lay about it, till the dull room bloomed like a flower garden. What could it mean? Ambrose must be somewhere, or the factory door would not be open. Ah! just as she called his name, a sound like the closing of a door came to her ears with a startling clang. She rushed out, and hurried down the passage to the door where she had entered. It was shut!

Well, here was a dilemma! She laughed at first, but her heart beat faster. She was locked in. She walked about and examined the others doors all were fast ^and she sat down with a chill creeping through her veins. Ambrose had gone home, of course but they did not know where she was. She had walked away without saying a word, and now—a tear or two came into her eyes. The little feast would be quite spoiled in waiting. A queer way, truly, to spend^one's wedding anniversary Perhays she might spend the night here.

Dolly was brave enough but still she did not like tbe idea. The huge black machinery took on threatening forms the looms seemed creeping nearer as if they had some uncanny secrets to tell each other. She did not fancy the adventure in the least. And what if it had not been Ambrose who had closed the door. What if some daring burglars were secreted in the premises? Dolly

Sarkening

asped, and looked anxiously Into the corners. Perhaps Pinks was crying for "Mamma" that very minute!

Slowly the moments lagged along but each one seemed to send a faint shadow to add to the gathering darkness, till Dolly made a frantic effort by tbe help of office desk, to climb up to a window. She could look from it to Ambrose's private office. There was a light in it that obeered her heart. The windows were all ablaze. The dear fellow must have some Important work in band. She called agaiu and again, but there was no sign, and as she looked at tbe red light in the window it struck her with a terrible pang that this was not the white, cold gaslight at all. It was fire!

Tbe thought gave her strange strength! She pushed up the window and climbed up in the window seat to look down. It was not so very high after all, and Dolly had been a hoyaen In her childhood. At all events she must risk something now. She made one spring and landed on tbe ground. Then, without stopping to take breath, she pushed an empty barrel in front of the office window. It was partly open, and she could see that in one oorner there was great blaze! "Thank Heaven, I am here! I can save the books!" she cried. "What would Ambrose do if the books were lost "Some one has dropped a match in the waste-paper basket," she thought, as she saw tbe origin of the fire "but, oh, bow careless in Ambrose to have left the books out of bis desk. In ten minutes more they would be on fire! "Ob, if I had some water!"

She seized the books and threw them far out of the window, where they would be safe. Then, with hurried examination, she found that there was not a drop of water in the place. The waste-paper basket was in alight blaze, and fluttering bits of fire floated here and there, fanned from tbe breeze which came in from tbe open window.

There was not a moment to lose. She must give tbe alarm at once. In a strained whirl of excitement, and calling out, "Fire! fire?" in a strained, unnatural voice, which she oould scarcely recognize as ber own, Dolly prepared to get out ss she bad come in. But ber foot struck tbe edge of tbe barrel, ber turned and she foil senseless in a swoon of twin to tbe ground.

Halt an hour afterward tbe fire gave its own alarm, a red beacon in tbe sky. Tbe first man who arrived on tbe spot found Dolly lying senseless right under tbe fiery shower of sparks. Her dainty pale blue silk spoiled and spotted, and her face white and cold as death. "Good Heaven. It's Mis. Mayne J" be cried to tbe others who hurried up. "An' stone dead she looks, too. Wot a wisitation P' "What!" cried some one with ghastly face, breaking through tbe crowd as Dolly was lifted from tbe ground. "Great God, my wile 1 What was she doing here?"

And Ambrose Mayne staggered back

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL &

like a drunken man, and would have fallen, but for tbe friendly armathat held him. "Do'nt, now, Mr. Mayne," cried a buxom female, who had elbowed her way In. "It's nothing but a swound, as I've had myself, many a time, through beln' over delicate In my feelings, an' sometimes a trifle sets you off. I'll bring the poor dear to in a jiffy, as I understand the way, as camphlre in best for some, and burned feathers for others, with the least as is of gin and sugar, warm, as settles the nerves afterward comfort' able."

Ambrose did not hear the woman's talk, but he gathered from it that Dolly was not dead, and he stood up once more, and made an effort to go to her.

He could not stop to answer the show er of questions that assailed him in fact be was as puzzled as the others for a moment. He had gone home and waited for Dolly, without a thought that she bad made a visit to the factory. In fact his mind had been so terribly preoccupied that he had forgotten everything else, and he was too weak and shaken now to do anything but follow helplessly the men who carried his wife home. He left people fighting the fire. They oould not save the office, he knew, but there was little danger of the mills themselves.

Once home and restoratives applied, Dolly opened her eyes, but, oh, how strange and sou less they seemed! A scarlet flush came into her cheeks, and the doctor, leaning over her anxiously said: "I think she has struck her head in the fall, which complicates matters."

But he left various potions to be taken and Ambrose sat down to keep the vigil, with a wan face and tear-stricken eyes.

What a strange experience to break into his smooth, easy-going life! Sometimes a wild word from Dolly smote upon bim. and he shuddered from head to foot. Oniy once he went to the window and looked toward the fire. There was scarcely a rosy gleam left now. The factory was saved and the office was gone—the office—and, of course, the books.

He had gained time, and could breath once more if only Dolly were all right. What was she doing there? What nad she seen? He began to long for returning consciousness, that he might know yet he shrank from it with a sickening fear that she might possibly know too much.

And what if she did not recover? What if the blow were fatal? Ah! at that thought Ambrose Mayne realized how poor, and vain, and worthless was 'everything compared to this one treasure. What was fortune or good name without her? With his wife and child be could have begun life in anew place, Dolly had that sort of sunshiny presence, that deft touch and talent for embellishing, that would have converted a barn into a house simply by her presence. A well-spring of bitterness sprang up in his soul. "Why did 1 not trust her?" he moaned. "I know how this happened. She went to meet me, poor little darling! God knows what she saw but I am sure that I owe it to my sin that she is lying there like a crashed flower, and If she never raises her head again I will feel like a murderer In my own secret soul!"

In the gray lights of tbe early morning Margery Flinn tapped gently at tbe door. "Sure, ther's a man below as will see you, and won't take no for an answer, the creathor. An' I towld him it was an onnatural hour to bedisturbin'avye. But he sez, sez he, 'The master'll be plazed entirely to hear the news I bring him onny hour of the day or nigbt,' the oonsate in the fool."

Ambrose rose wearily. He felt ten years older than he did the morning before. He could not think of any news which would be welcome to him just then, or make much difference, anyway. He recognized Bridges, one of the head men, and nodded to bim with an.absent air. '.'I made bowld to come here," said the man, grinning, "I've a bit of surprise for you, Mr. Mayne, as will rejoice your heart."

And then Ambrose saw that he carried a bundle under his arm, wrapped in a soiled newspaper. This package he now unfolded with considerable pride and care. "Not a one on 'em, sure not even the smell av the fire," he cried, "and the miracle is, divll a man av us knows who S8V6CL 'QCQs"

Ambrose stared at tbe books which were held up to him. Yes, the books— tbe silent witnesses of his sin. Had they risen Phoenix-like from their ashes to confront him? He had seen the building in a blaze, and no one had entered it then. He held them tightly in his hands, without one word still blankly staring. "I picked 'em up myself, jest beyant the porch," said Bridges, at last. "Sure an' things would have been in a mix if the books wasn't to be found and I hear a rumor av the master a oomin' home, too.j'

Ambrose made an effort to recall his thoughts. "Yes—certainly, Bridges thank you," he said.

Then the man inquired for the welfare of Mrs. Mayne, and went off, saying to himself: "The crethur is a'most dazed intirely, along of his purty wife's bein' so awful sick."

Ambrose walked up stairs with tbe books in bis band and a voiee echoing in his ears: "Be sure your sin will find you out."

There was now nothing more to be done. He had clutched at a straw and it had failed him. He must go down he oould not meet his wife's eye even then, although no reason lighted It. He went slowly into the room alone, and tried to think. He leaned bis throbbing bead upon bis bands in a sort of dumb prayer. "From this moment truth and honor shall govern my life. Never, never again shall I venture into crooked ways, come whatever fate may bring, so help me God!"

He seemed to bear Dolly's voice calling bim just then with the sweet cadence ot old, and be hurried to her. She was looking eagerly at tbe door as be entered. "I saved them!" she cried eagerly. "I was heroic for onoe in my life sua then fortune seemed to desert me, and I bsd a most inglorious tumble. But they are—" "I have them, dear," he said, taking her hands, "I will tell you all about it," cried Dolly, in her own impetuous way and then ahe gave him tbe recital of all we know already. "There, now, don't yon think Uncle Both should leave me a

Mwwered Ambrose, looking at

her with a sort of thanksgiving straggle with tbe remorse and anxiety in his heart "but merit is seldom rewarded in thto world." "But I wonder who shut that door?" persisted Dolly. "But then psrbsps after ail, tbe fire was the work of an incendiagr.

Ambrose felt that tbe moment bad oome. With a terrible heart-throe of anguish, he leaned over bit wife jnd kissed ber. "It was," he murmured. "What!" ahe cried In a startled voice. "Have you discovered him? Do you know him?" "Yea."

Oh, how hard it was to speak the truth —to crash out, with a few words tbe perfect belief and trust of that tender little heart. "You know bim? Then I suppose he is srrested, and in prison?" "Not yet," faltered Ambrose with a thrill of anguish. "But surely you will not allow such a fellow to escape? He is dangerous to society."

On, no! He can't escape," her husband said, hoarsely. "Ah, you are sorry for him, I do believe!" cried Dolly, seizing her busband's hand and smiling. "Ob, how good you are, Ambrose! But we must be just he is a wretch."

Well, I suppose so. Tender hearted as you are, you wonld have no mercy for him, I see. I must give him up to justice." "Ob, yes, there can be no doubt about that!" said Dolly, with a determined air. "But," said Ambrose, forcing himself to speak, with a heroic effort, "let me tell you! What If I am the guilty one? What If I, to hide continued dishonesty —I will not call It borrowed funds, as I did when I was tempted—had planned a way to destroy tbe books—to gain time? Dolly, your uncle is expected to-day—I am at his mercy."

Dolly lay as one stunned, for a few moments. Then two tears stole silently down her cheeks and she put out a hand to her husband. "Poor fellow!" she said. "And you have been fighting your battles alone. If you had only told me." "I wish to God I had!" cried Ambrose with a choking in his throat. "I saved the books!" she said, smiling faintly. "God's ways are strange, are they not? I have saved the witness which will send my husband to a felon's cell."

Ambrose buried his face in his hands despairingly. "I have nothing to hope for from our unole," he said. "You know him is hard even to his most faithful servant—what will he be to a guilty delinquent?" "We must trust in God," aaid Dolly. "I cannot believe that Uncle Both will proceed to extremities. If he will let us go away quietly we can find a home somewhere—and we will have each other. "What an angel you are, Dolly!" cried her husband. ."Not one word of reproach." "Ah, what do I know of temptation?" she said, gently.

And then they talked more calmly of the future and their plans, till the doctor came and said his patient must sleep, which she did till late in the afternoon.

What cry was that which awoke her? Sitting up in bed in a startled way, she heard the "extras" called out: "Wreck of the Bothnia! Great loss of life!"

And presently her husband came in with a damp sheet of paper in his hand. His face was very grave and pale. "Your uncle's name is among the lost," he said. "I have telegraphed to know the truth."

Dolly looked at bim with dilated eyes. It was a terrible shock but this death meant rescue and life to them, Truly, God works in a mysterious way. Time

Ead

roves the news true. The old man gone down In the crash of the wreck and all his fortune was left to DollyAmbrose Mayne was executor.

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Itching Piles,

The symptoms are moisture, like perspiration. intense itching, increased, by scratching, very distressing, particularly at night if allowed to continue very serious results may follow. Dr. Swayne% AllHealing Ointment is a pleasant sure cure.

L. Taylor, Hinsdale, N. H„ writes: For thirty years I have been greatly troubled with Itching Piles, have consulted several physicians and tried many remedies, which proved to be no remedies at all* uaUJ 1 obtained Hwayne's Ointment at Thomas drug Store in Brattieboro, Vt., which cured

mSea^r|u^yoo

any

are suffering from thU d^

treating complaint, orTetter, Itch, gaaid HeadTAing Worm, Barber's Itch, any crusty scaly skin eruption, use Bwayne* Ointment and be cured »ea by ^ail to

address on receipt of price (In currency or portage stamps) 8® cent* a boxdii|il& Add rem letter#* 5T» (Jon, 889 North Sixth street. Pbiladelr No ehaige

for

advice.

druggist*. In Terrs Haute Armstrong.

TARAX1NE,

THE GREAT

Vegetable Liver Corrector, Is an infallible remedy for all diseases arising firora an in inactive ilver. It oontains no calomel er mineral of any kind. Its main Ingredient Is the ooncentrated medical prlaclple of the ARAICUM or DAN* BELION. TARAXINE never falls to care the following diseases (every bottle warranted):

CHRONIC AGUE.

It Beats tbe Doctors—Ague Permanently Cured. CAEUCKL,Ind., October 1, 1878.

MR. A.

IETKH

—During the fall ot last

year I taok the agae so prevalent lu this country. I at ouoe put myself under the treatment of my family physician, who save me the usual remedy, quinine and cluchonidia. He hail no difficulty lu breaking the ague, but it returned again and again, and I becune so discouraged as almost to lose all hope of a permanent cure. Having paid not lees than $75 for doctor's bill and medicines, it looked hopeless, but at the suggestion of Mr. N. (it. Hanold I tried yonrraraxneand two oottlei did the work so eomple'eiy that I have had no chills since, aud I am in perfect health.

W. JBFFRIB.

CONSTIPATION.

Read the following from tbe R»T, E, Kent, a prominent Preabyte* rlan Minister of Hbelby

Ctonnty, Indiana.

About four months ago I ueed two bottles of Taraxlne for habitual constipation, with which I had been troubled greatly for many years. It gave me complete relief but I did not need to use as fall doses as recommended. It also removed a continued feeling of soreuess and oppression over the regions of the liver and stomaoh, and also greatly Improved my digestion, which had be»»n very poor for many years. I have taken none for the last two months, but my improved condition still continues. I might say I have thoroughly tested several popular stomach bitters, and can confidently say I regard the Taraxlne far superior to anything I used.

RKV.have ELIPHALET KENT,

Juae 10th, 20,1871. Shelbyville, I nd.

DYSPEPSIA & INDIGESTION,

Read What the Rev. W. W. Walden Says: BEDFORD, Livingston

00.,

Mo..

June 26, 1875.

A. KIEFER: Dear Slr—I look upon patent medicines as nostrums sent abroad merely for the purpose ot making money as a general thing. I have been a subjeot to'dyspepsia or Indigestion, and liver complaint tor years, and for five months the past winter was notable to get out or attend to any business whatever. I tried several remedies, but with little benefit. Finally I concluded to test the virtue of your Taraxlue. and feel proud to say have received j*reat benefit, and believe It to be the bsst remedy of the kiud in use and can, wlthont hesitation, recommend it to all like

Respectfully, W. W. WALDEN.sufferers.

Liver Complaint. Sick Headache

How it Effects Derangement of tbe Whole System. HOMER, 111., June 1,1874.'

MR. A. KIEFER— Dear Sir: I have been afillcted for the last four years with de-

great many preparations, but found no relief until I tried one bottle of your Taraxlne, which has permanently cured me. I also found It to be good for ague. I commend it to all who suffer with derangement of the liver Very truly yoars,

REV. THOMAS WHITLOCK.

FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS.

A. KIEFER

PROPRIETOR,

INDIANAPOLIS.

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