Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 12, Number 1, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 2 July 1881 — Page 6

[Tills irtory a^M begun In The Mall, April 2d. Back nomli

I forget my rosen in a moment when •P%Mda7H voice breaks the silence and I tarn to see her walking up the room, trncos or weeping about h*r eyes and a newspafter in her hand. "MTH. Carstaira, can I apeak to you for a f«w moments?"

Thon 1 know that only by strong selfcontrol has he kept silence. I seo tho sudden Hush in his gray oyes, and hear tho anger in his voice—yos anger, to me —his wife. "Yes, sho is going,?' ho says, with bitter emphasis "and I never thought that want of hospitality on my wife's part would have forced my old friend's sister to leave my house, for sho feels that tthe i* no longer welcome beneath its roof."

Without another word he turns on h's hoel and deliberately walks out of the room.

I have hoard him out, and he htffror knows how every word has cut like a knife he only saw his wife listening in sikmooto hi*VcmiH of wrath, and bearing the withering reproof without retort, a* wives do sometimes. In silence I listened, iiecause 1 was too hurt to spoak.

PER FOR THE PFCOPLE.

MY MARRIAGE.

"f~"« V'

TCT1I$B ''PjBNK&DPE," mt

3fT

THK

wc.

W?"

i. Back "n timber* can be bad of newsagents, or bynendlng thirtyecnjs to the office OlThe'" iMtlCD

and beaten it flat with a 4 ng torrent and in the garden the roses lie bent and broken, their sweet faces all •int ahd bedabbled with eirth.

The world 1m nailing again in the sun ihinc, after tbrnln, and ptitnle shad ow» are flitting over the changing sea. I am sorry for the roses, ana lift their bent, braised heads tenderly. Yesterday they were opening to the glowing sun-to-day they are drowned out of recogni tion, and their blood-red petals strew •the ground, and the cream and golden beaut ie* lie scattered on the earth.

She put tho question nervously, with a deprecuting look from her brown eyes, and I answer immediately: "I am nuite at your service, Felicia. .She looks down

A slight flush rushes to her cheeks, and I IKHKI ovor the rosos again. "I think, Felicia, before you decide about this, that you ought to consult my husband he is your guardian, you know."

Sho thinks for a moment, and then speaks. "Yes, I will go to him now, for I must wrilo to-day and answer this."

I know not what arguments she uses to induce Humphrey toconaont to her plan but at luncheon I hear that it is all decided, and QuUwllumphrey has writton in reply to tho advertisement. Afterwards I say to him—speaking caroloHsly: "So Felicia has made up her mind to loavo us?"

feel cjuite^^n?serable itTth«fpresent of flowers? I wonder if there is anyone on Whife l£ tanotE thin earth to whom the went of roses be petted and made and oe brought home the evening, who

bringH no sweet memory, no softer, bet •tor feeling when the dewy fragrant blossoms touch their lips.

wwt TV» »vv»

at mo Hgttin

It is because Feli |»i Irani Is going away that he cannot W kind and gentle sisti to me any more—neither kind nor just. And I love hjui: nothing can lake tho pleasure of this bitWir love of mine from me the scant, inetqpt happiness of raring for mv £vvn Thn«baml, the bitter MWWtness of loving him, wlten his paslove for me fadctl, llickerel. and Wfti

"Do you want in#, Humphrey?" I say coldly and yet I cannot look into his face, and I tremble as his hand rests on my shoulder. 1 came back," he says gently, "because I spoke harshly to my wife. When 1 returned to my painting, I thought it all over, and so 1 came l*ck to her, liecause 1 cotUd not bear that we should not lie good friends, she and I. 25ow look up, Madgie let me see my wife's ©yes."

I do look op, hut only for a moment and there is no penitence, I know, in the oyes* that only halt meet his. "l*o not distress yourself about me. io back to your painting and-—" "to Felicia" is in my heart ami almwt on mv Up* but pride forbids the wontis, »»l I sulwtit nt« another speech instead. "In what remote* haxT 1 failed in hospitality towards IOSI Omntf

He wl "»as I S|W

'You

auow

heat waif, Madgie and

thin twit Wt to goawa^i t*s

Felicia thintealt best to go cause she itmiol fall to see thai you no longer dwire her presence. I hare fet£ this more than 1 oan aav. and. If you NHwent tuv word* because they wewssevwe, remenVtar that it hurt me more to speak than vou io hear. Madgie, for Heaven ttake. tell me what hasoome t^etweeo

"ihfcbii-.1

'-lybuttiwl

words ft", u. htm: and I bsnd tuv f»oe wwMttj and hide it in my hanils. "What is the use of spetUdng abont It?" 1 cry brokenly. "We bavt^idlt oar lives, and nothing can ever make auoy difference."

"ISTotbing!" be echces, with a longdrawn breath. "Madgie, my poor little wife, it breaks my heart to hear yon speak like this, to see yon changing day by day. You were a child when I married yon—a wilful, wayward child, but very*loving and sweet withal. Ah, my dear, the petulant girl-wife who on the hillside and told me with pouting lips that I was not the sort of xnan ake could ctfire, for was easier to win thsn the wife I know now, whose lips say bitter things, and whose—" He stops, and his

riage I did you a great wrong." 1 raise my head and lift my eyes to his. "You know now that people cannot

by jendlng thirty wn»« totneomce "Yoa know now that people cannc make their hearts love whom they will, iamb** yrtmy imymjowage j^m A "Heaven help me I do!" he answers,

CHAPTER XXXIII. ^I^k^now not the misconstruction be The rain has laid the fellow corn low,

vrords, nor doT know why-

mighty, rush- £ig face hardens suddenly like flint and irden the rosea his voice Bounds so strange wher speaks. "You might have spared me this.

As the words fall from his lips, I look long and steadily into his eyes, and then

away silently. I do dot blame him. is but weak hnman nature but oh! my heart is very sore, and my head aches and throbs from the torrent ef unshed tears! r*

Oat amongst (he trampled corn der the smiling sky where rain and shine struggle for the mastery, it is cool

Nothing lastn—not even the roses I taFlX'SSj' To^ ud sw^nd'f'can^w"^and tWkand

a lai^e old-fMhi^ned cWna^l»vfl wonder how I shall live out all my life, with the blossoms. Sweet and fragrant 1 o^^^ia^Tie^ia th^deiiiions Sb'ni3' 'cM^yone

un-

Bun-

"Pending the afternoon at Ripley,

ing loath to go and be icT ne lei

fipley, ai Chris in

much of at Ri generally by listens to Leaa's chatter, but his 9«l 1 longing eyes on Bee. Dear Beel& right

aTI love'stories end unhappily

v,,v""

lL"

at the paper and thon

"There is in advertisement here that would suit me^ and I think ought to reply to ikat on*e." "Havo you suid anything to Mr. CarMtuira about it?" I say quietly and then the brown eyes look gravely ba*k into mine. "No I came to you first. I saw this only yenterday. I think I should like the plane there is only ono little girl to teach, and it is in London, which woHld be convenient to me if I mean to go on witli rny painting." i'l have been vory happy atCarstairs," she replies with quivering lips, "but I cannot live here always I must work for mynolf and become independent."

It were

well to make every book end miserably, we should expect nothing else hi real life, then for it is only in novels, after all, that it comes all right in the last line of the last chapter of the third vol ume.

The glowing poppies lie like a blood red track, beaten down by the rain, and the yellow corn lies in sodden swathes. The cliff-path is wet and depressing, and my dress is suffering from contact with soaking grass. The aea is the brightest thing to-day—'green and purple and silver—and tnere are many tops to the waves as the elonds fly over the sky and lay fleeting shadows on the swelling sea My hat hang? in my

huidt

ancUhe wipd

tosses my hair and cools my forehead. By-and-by I shall be better, and go home n, keeping all my thoughts to m~ all tho misery, all the pain and

again, keeping all my thoughts to my self, all tho misery, all the pain and shall smilo and talk, and sing, too, and only droam out here of my sorrow, and tell it to my own heart tp the music of the sobbing waves and tha wind that sighs over the sea.

Somebody comes striding through the wet corn. I turn and see Chris Delacourt and yet not Chris himself. It is the satno lace, but changed and white with sternly-set UpB sua all the light

OTTOT —%J

ght alk-

Chris is walk

one from Ids blue eyes. ng liko a man who is trying awav from himself. Blankly

at me, sees tho wonder and pity In my face, and up to the roots of his yellow looks a crimson flush ri?»es slowly. "Don'tyou know he says and no word of greeting passes between us "Can you not understand, Mrs. Car stairs I

In silence I look into'his piteous troubled evos, and note the anguish that mars the comeliness of his face. "Bee," half rises to my lips, but I say it not and he guesses what tho halfformed word would have been. "Yes," ho says—ho is calm and quiet now, but my, heart aches to see such signs of suffering on a man's face, to see poor Chris with wet eyelashes, and to know what hejmuat have passed throagh. ^Rha does not care for ma." The short simple sentence tells It all, and his wist ful smile brings the tears to his eyes. "I am not bearing it very well, am I?" he adds gently. "I shall flnfl it out by-and-by."

He goes awav, with his fair head bent and I, though* full of my own sorrow, sit down on the wet corn and cry for Chris Delacourt—poor Chris who has loved in vain!

CHAPTER XXXIV

Down on the shore, looking gravely out to sea, sits Beo a little palo and sad but her dark eyes are not smiling to-day but dreamilv pathetic. I aitr UOAvn on he stones beside her, ami Ifer gaze perriistontly out towards the dark spa-line. We do not speak to each other after one look Into Bee's face, Idream that silence for the time is best.

Sisters do not always indulge in rap tueous gushing confidences. Aa a family we were never given to telling each other our inmost thoughts and feelings. Onlv now and then, as it were, the veil

wont out long ago, when his patience i»i»iv n»« mm wou, mu wearied, and he grtnv tiretl of trying to was lifted, and for a second we«aw each win the heart of his child-wife, who |er- other's hearts and read one page of the chance loved him all the time, though sonl's secrets. Bee and I make no converilv she knew it not. Ah me, ny tidences when I married, I told not heart swells with a sense of tbe great even Bee the thoughts that I scarcely misery of it all! And yet there are no dared breathe to my own soul. If I had tears in my eyes, nothing but a calm in- spoken of it, I never could have mardiflTerenw, when a well-known step en- ned Humphrey. So now in silence I tors the room, and mv husband's voice sit liesides her, stealing a glance now calls "MadgieT

*nl

He has returned, tmrnt IfVelv, tot«pe Her long lashos quiver suddenly, and a the effect of his wortis. If so, he must tear—one large bright tear—rolls down ......— cheek. She turns her face to mine, be grievously dbanjtointod. 1 have not atirmi since he lert the room, five minutes ago. 1 am standing by the table, looking down at the roses I have gathered this moruing -Uwyr are dewy mul wet

tlien at her pale unmoved profile.

her and I see two large tear-filled wrn

brim upand overflow. "I e*uldn't help it, Madgie. sorrowfully, in a rather of an *awestricken voice. "Oh. Bee," I return, «*I am more aorrv for this than I can tell you!"

Tfien into her face comes the first Shrinking look of pain, the first sorrowful look that the world in time brings to 'all of us. "I couldn't help it," she repeats, twisting her hands together and then in a low tone—"Did you meet him, Madgie?" "Yea," 1 answer, looking into the piteous evee.

The green waves come leaping in, curling and rushing over the wet sand, and washing round the stones, and the white sea-gulls din their wings into the shining water as they fly past.

grave distress

Bee speaks again with in her voice. "I wfeh this had never happened—it make* IUC sorry and, Madgio, JLhad no kk« of tt—not the slightest. "I knew it, B. long ag«."

You don't il I encouraged him she sava, the color rising to her cheeks. "Oh. Made1?, you don't mean that?" "No. d- I only meant that poor •«"hris i: In love with TON WVMWI, 1 think, aftar vou came to C*rstalrs: and. Bee. I wish you could have cared for him."

She turns away her face, and I can a jweohif U» OilUine of ^T«»y irt fnll wall

Bee c* for Chris tVUcou... may rc*ret the reason hot speakiag of It will »o good. »JFW a ia going away," I remark id then m-n 1 r:erlv— 1 buvtr q«aii^kd about ii.

IA»H 1

presently. antT then **H««npn*e? and

-•"t v."""'•-&?>' j*

Bee speaka with her face still carefully averted. "Did Humphrey want her to stay?" "Hewanted to adopt her,"'

TEHRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL

.1 answer,

and then langh. "Never marry, Bee the beat of husbands grow into tyrants, and the sweetest of wives grow rebellious. Chris might have beaten you if you had married him and no man Is worth taring about. Write anew novel Bee, make the heroine a joyous 'faat' old mud, who kept her liberty and enjoyed her life in single blessedness."

uiit Bee answers not. Her head sinks lower and lower on her hands, and she is crving bitter passionate tears, sobbing as if her heart would break. I wind my arms tightly round her. "Bee, what is it You must not cry llke thto^Bee darling

Dinner is over—a long, dismal meal. Humphrey has reached the sullen, bearlike stage, mingled with wistful looks. I have tongotten the few repentant moments that came to me, and a reaction has set in which reveals itself in studied politeness to Felicia. I keep up a languid convereationjaartly to show how indifferent I sm to Humphrey's displeasure this afternoon, and partly to draw attention from Bee's pale cheeks and heavy eyes. But we leave the dessert at last, and go into the dimly-lighted drawing room.

I cannot talk any more and the minutes drag slowly by. Lena is at Ripley still. I am wondering if Captain Delacourt will bring her nome to-nightin-stead of Chris. I do not know wftch would be the worst one I do not want to see, the other—well, poor Chris could hardly face Bee to-night. I go to the piano and play soft dreamy things. I cannot sing to-night, for, as the soDg says,

Heart and vOice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow." Lena comes in alone after all and her bright smiling presence seems to bring a fresh, wholesome atmosphere into the room. "Chris brought me home," she begins cheerfully, in Dlissful ignorance of what has happened, "and he is as sulky as a bear. He hardly said a word all the way from Ripley and I could not persuade him to come in. Ho is quite queer tonight."

This announcement is received in solemn silence. I dare not look at Bee, and can only stare hopelessly at Lena's face. "Something must have put him out dreadfully," she g£es on, every wort! as clear as a bell. "He took no dinner, and disappeared immediately after. Captain Delacourt seemed out of sorts too. He said he had letters to write so Chris had to eseort me, sorely against his will"-—laughing pleasantly. "You could not have had a very pleasant evening,I remark and Lena laughs again. "Oh, I didn't mind, it rather amused me. Captain Delacourt is going away Jor good—he told mead himself to-night ahcThe is just as much oht of sorts a's jDbris. Perhaps the* have had a quarrel." "Perhaps they have," I say in desperation, looKiug for ono second at Bee, who has neyer »pokei since Lena came into the room j, and iii that one brief ipok I see an ©Smression coming into my sister's face which makes my heart ache. I know what Cllve Delacourt is to her now, when I meet tho wordless anguish in the startled dark ayes I hate him with a hatred that I nesrer thought I could feel for mortal mau.t

Suddenly I see Lena looking from, to another wonderingly* "Has anything happened she "You all seem so strange to-night.t

I look quickly at Bee, and meo| an Imploring, beseeching glance so I say, with assumed carelessness: "How can you expect us to be cheerful, Lena? We have been at home all day. I have a horrid headache, too. I think we ought all go to bed."

Lena looks puazled still. "Bee and Felicia can't have headaches. Bee looks cross, and I am sure Felicia is only pretending to read. Have you all been quarreling?"

Felicia looks up from her book and I feel thankful that she has unconsciously come to tho resense. "We havo Veen very silent this evening but quarreling is not the reason. I thmk we missed you, Lena."

Lena gives her shoulders a little shrug. "Where is Humphrey?", "In tho library, I suppose," I answer icily and then I wheel round on the

itiyi auu ",,vv* mush stool and begin to play again, for I cannot talk with Bee's me. ,,:m

TJ. '.1 ..^,1

I cannot talk wit to

opposij||

The liarve.s nitfthi fl rlsingln a cloudy sky, and shines down in fitful radiance on tho sea and shore. I see it from the window as I sit at the piano, and I am wondering what Humphrey is doing, what he is thinking of by himself in the' library. If I go out upon the terrace and walk round to the window where he is, I can see, and he will not know of the eyes watching him. "Sing something, Letia," I say, and slip awav during the song out into the fleeting,"changing moonlight, where the air is fresh and chill, and a cool bre«ze comes sighing up from the sea.

With swift noiseless tread I pass down the terrace, and reach the library window. A long rose branch, torn down by the rain last night, trails across the lass and taps every breath of wind, •rawing back the wet leaves, 1 press close, and gaite with longing eyes into

forehead on his face which was not there a few months ago. He-sits perfectly still, aa it completely lost in thought—not even amoklng, only thinking. What are his thoughts? Long as I may with a great iealons yearning, I can never know. The sad weariness of his face tells nothing bnt of a man to whom this life has proved a disappointment. With a sorrowful sort of interest I stand with my face pressed against the cold glass and watch him intently, note the light falling across bis broad forehead. and lighting up the fair hair, brushed carelessly back by his hand. I see that his stern rugged face is sterner and graver than it used to be in the days when his wife was all in all to him. Only a pane of glass lietween ns, and yet we seemed

farther

separated than if the

wide Atlantic rollwl between him and me! "Humphrey." I say softly—"my husband!"—the last two words whispered with a tenderness that is new to my lips.

IT 4-1—

He does not stir and I take one lo ng look and creep away again and will never know of the eye* that were watching him to-night.*

Ion i"£

.CHAPTER XXXV. 1

Cajptain Deiacoart has come ov*r lb nay good-bw. Two minutes ago we saw the dog-cart from Ripley go past the windows, (live Delaconrt driving. Chris has not ecne with him we have not seen him since the day be strode through the soaked, down-trodden corn, white and miserable with the first groat trouble of his life.

J^elida and Lena are out walking, and Beeand I have been alone si nee lundieon. Humphrey baa taken steadily to his Pointing again, and it is onlv at mealtimes that we meat now. Humphrey

^)V

and I do not walk oar drive together a8 we used to do. As Captain Delacourt is announced, I glance swiftly at Bee but her face is stony and hard. In one second all the childish look has gone out of it, and I seem to know that in all the years to coma Bee will never be quite the same again. For the first time in her life the smile on my dear Bee's face is forced it is a smile that touches the lips only, and leaves the eyes cold and hard.

There is no welcome in voice or manner as I hold ont an icy hand to Clive Delacourt. I cannot pity him, though he looks haggard and wretched, and not like the smiling handsome man of not long ago. life bites his lip and there comes a look into his face that is not pleasant to see. "When do I go?" he repeats. "Tonight. Where? Heaven knows—I don't but remember"—he drops his voice, but Bae has gone to the other end of the room ana cannot hear a word of our almost whispered conversation—"remember, if you hear that Clive Delacort has gone to. the bad, it will be your fault." "No it will be your own," I answer •oldly, not heeding his words, but looking past him at that other figure standing silent at the far end of the long room. I can only see the dark head a little bent, the curve of the long white neck but I can guess what is passing through Bee's mina. "How you hate me!"

His words recall me to myself, and I look into his face with pitiless eyes that can have no pity for him. "I could forgive all but that comes from my lips in a whisper.

He knows my meaning, and has the grace to blush beneath the reproach in my face. "You are hard, Mrs. Carstairs" he says, and then more hurriedly, "lam going away because you asked me for your sake I do this—and you think it very easy for me to go when—"

I raise my head, and there is a proud contempt and a withering condemnation in the -words I speak. "Captain Delacourt, I think it would be well for you to go now every word you utter is an insult to me. You seem to forget—" "That you are his wife. No, I am not likely to forget that!"

As the passionate words fall from bis lips, the door opens, and Humphrey himself comes in. I am glad that he has come, for his presence will be a sort of protection.

The two men talk with cold politeness on indifferent subjects for a few minutes and then Captain Delacourt says he must go-

Bee turns round from the window, and when she speaks her voice is as even as usual there is not a tremor in its smooth sweet tones. It is only a question she puts to Humphrey, something about the picture he is painting but he goes oyer to where she is standing and I gaze at Bee with mingled pity and wonder. There is a quiet dignity in her attitude, a proud graee, that makes her look at this moment a girl no longer, but a beautiful woman, with the dignity of suffering on her pale, marble-like face. She stands with her back to the light, the sun shining through the window making a dim glory on her dusky brown hair, her great dark eyes quietly looking at Humjinrey.

Clive Delacourt'8 face comes between me and her. I felt that while my eyes were fixed on Bee he was watchiug me intently and now he speaks. "How you love your sister! There are tears in your eyes for her I watched them coming. Now you most not think what I am going to say conceited but after I leave Riley—not immediatelyLbut

•*,/- l'^V.'j,'' i.r.r.. ?.... .....„, A-'l-C i.

Chris.

Will

in time—she will marry you forgive me then?" "Yes but I never wish to see you again," I said with bitterness and I hear him catch his breath suddenly. "I must speak to you before I go—remember it is forever it can do you no harm. Come into the conservatory for a second I cannot go away like this— come." "No. You shall say good-bve here."

I hope It* may never be my lot to see such a look in a man's face again. 1 turn white and cold at his passionately whispered words. "I would give all I possess to make you as miserable as myself—to make you feel a little of what I am enduring now."

In another second Humphrey will see and hear, and I do not choose that he should do either one or the other. My old nature stands mo in good stead now the little, mocking laugh that falls from my lips comes almost naturally, tho scornful words come scarcely less so. "Captain Delacourt, we are not on tho stage. I think you had better say goodbye now."

My words baye the desired effect. He is white with [Mission but lie has come to his senses, and no casual observer would notice anything strange in his mannorasbe walks quietly down the room, speaks a few words of. farewell, and holds Bee's hand in his for a second. To me it seems that the very touch of bis fingers must be contamination. Bee bears herself well it is simply "goodbye," nothing more and then ho has dropped her hand and it is all over.

I do not give him the chance for one other mad, whispered word. Swiftly I comedown to where those three are grouped together, and stand beside my husband. Captain Delacourt's eyes say, "You might have trusted me." I think otherwise, and so stay by Humphrey and do not look at be. "Good-bye," he says.

Our hands tonch—his fingers are as cold as ice—and then he is gone.

iugagain. I have often wonderedsince why he came down at that particular moment, it

not usually his custom to

appear when there are visitors in the drawing-room. Bee sits and looks at the door through which Captain Delacourt departed five minutes ago, and on the threshold of which I hope it will be long before his footsteps rest again.

We have not spoken since. I am rapposed to be working at some crochet affair, and mechanically the pattern

TOWS under my fingers. I look up to .jnd Bee beside me, a half bitter smile on bet face she slips down on the carat my feet, and rest her arms on my pet at {meet, "Madgie, I think I ought to go away from CTarstairs." "Are you tired of it already?" I say and then, aa a quiver of something more than pain sweeps across her face. I over her and add, "Bee, darting, know all about it and, dear be is not worthy of one thought. Most I say more. Bee

Her head droops, and then she raises it again, and the steady dark eyes look into mine. -I aaw bow it was to-dav, Madgie. should have been blind If I could not have found ont the troth then."

The words are calm, bat into the tearless eyes there comes an agony of suffering, and the quivering lips are sad to see. Though I make mv*eff small in my sister** eyes I moat speak now, with the bhtsheitiof shame rising to my cheeks. "Bee, yon moat not care for him any more be is not worth it. Do you understand, dear? I waa married I thought

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he was my friend and I never dreamed he could mean anything else. I suppose we were more innocent, and knew less of the world than other girls and I never thought that a man could make love to a married woman. Bee, darling, do not look like that and you must stay here dear, for I am unhappy too and you and I were always together."

I break down crying and the tearless anguish in my sister's face is more bitter than tears. "Madgie,"—and her voice has a ring of horror in its tones—"is he nothing to you ?",

At that the tears seem to dry upon my scorching cheeks, and stay unshed in the eves that look straight into Bee's. It were well indeed to speak the truth now. "Did you think that of me, Bee? Did it come into yourheart that my trouble was ly way connected with him Listen id it is only to myself that I have ever said this before—I love my husband and it was because of that peshaps that I did not deem it possible there could be other love on earth. I had better say it all now. I believe that Clive Deiacoart. cared for yon until the day of the party, when he went mad. It was then that what he said frightened me, and I started back, and lost my footing. Now you can understand it all. But remember, Bee, that it is to be between us two only you and I are to khow anything about it." "Yoa."

in an:

Only one word but I know that into her heart, like a knife, every word of mine has passed and I put my arms closely round her. "Madgie please let me go."

My Angers loose their hold, and I let her go. She rises slowly to her feet, withjft look on her face like that of a pergB who has just heard some bad uew^tnd, beyond the numbliug shock, cannot quite understand yet, and quietly she goes out of the room, shutting the door after her and it seems as if a shadow has fallen on our house.

Bee never speaks of this again and I never quite know what she passed through in the hours that followed. Byand by, when the shadows are deepening over land and sea, I creep upstairs to her room. The bed is empty, but tossed and tumbled and my heart aches to think how, with her face buried in the pillow, she must have wept the fountain of her tears dry and fought with the first groat crushing trouble of her life.

There are no tears in her eyes now, only a great Sorrowful quietness in her face as she sits at the open window looking out| at the shadowy saa. Clive Delacourt is many miles away by this would that he had left our minds as quickly as he has left our sight!

A pile of burnt papers lies in the grate. Bee has boen burning her story. Cllve Delacourt was the hero and I set my teeth when I think what poor Bee must have thoHght of him before she knew his true character to-day. "Don't|pity me," is all she says, and then cries out passionately, "OJi. Madgie Madgie, I think the shame of it will kill me—to have loved a man unasked!"

Was it unasked? Therein lies the wrong that I can never forgive. Did he not woo and win her love in his own easy fashion to blind Humphrey's eyes Ah, he might have spared himself that much wherein he sinned! Humphrey cares not for his wife now: tho days have gone by for that.

With a piteous pleading look Bee raises her swollen burning eyes to mine. "Do they know? Do they guess?" "No, dear I said you were not well, and they believe it."

She sighs along heart broken sigh. "Oh, Madgie, how shall I live?" I hold her hand in mine and whisper— "Pray to Heaven, Bee, that you may forget."

"Strangers yet." What possesses Lena to

sing

that song to-night, when Humph

rey and I are alone in the drawing room? Felicia Grant is up stairs in her room studying. Does she never tire of the toil of it, I wonder? Bee is often absent from the room now, often wandering by herself in the dim, shaded garden: and I let her bo, for it is better so. And to-night, of all nights, ju9t as Humphrey comes into the room and, for a wonder, seats himself on the sofa beside me, Lena begins the sad. sorrowful ballad that describes, after all, only the end of all married lives, I feel sure. "After years of life together.

After

fair and stormy weather, r: 1 After all, Htrangera yet."

It is dark, and I cannot see my husband's face, nor he mine. He is leaning back, and his arm lies along the bark of the sofa. I sit bolt upright, in hands in my lap, my heart beating and thrilling at Ills presence as it never used to beat in tho old days when he used to clasp me close, and kiss my reluctant lip*.

I feel a hand steal across my lap and draw one of mine into its keeping, where it flutters, trembles, and lies still for a brief space. "'Strangers yet'—is it not so, my wife?" "Yes," I whisper in the darkness, and the restless liana in his starts, and struggles again. It is released instantly, and I snatch it ba«k with a great lump rising in my throat.

Verily we are strangers. I look at him in the dim gloom and see the outline of the face that I love with the love of my life—the love that came against my will. Though I fought against it leng and sorely, yet it couqnered me at lasC utterly ana entirely. My hand lies on my lap still, he does not attempt to take it again. In my woman's weakness I move it a few inches in his direction, where it stays for a second but no loving fingers accept my little overture, and I draw it back again, with shamecrimsoned cheeks, proud and hart.

Candles are brought into the room, the song is over, and we are strangers still—or "estranged" would perhaps express it better. Truly a woman is happy until she knows what it is to love or to be beloved then come the fever and an rest, and all the yearning and long-

lee steps in at the

open

Bee steps

oftbetriulin

window, nut

shadows o/ the night her __ J. iereyea

muslin dress Is limp with dew.

are weary and sad.' In my wrath and ice I

injustice 1 could torn upon Humphrey and say, "This also is your doing. If I had never married yon, this would not have my

happened." I do not say it with lips tbey smile and langh, for no one most guess why Bee's eyes are heavy and sad, and why her smiles are forced and her merry nonsense is a thing of the past. "I do not think Bee is well," Humph* rev says to me. "She is well enough," I reply. "The bot weather ha* made her pale and languid—nothing more."

Bnt I watch her anxiously, for all that and suddenly she overcomes the depression and cornea amongst ns once more. But somehow to me her gayety is more saddening than her silent moods one is natural, the other, her mad, wild spirits, only hide the pain. [TO BE cojrnjrcKD.] -v.

THE best preventive of oonsum of the lungs, bowels or

X',J

Bit

Brown's Iron

decay.

titters. It cheek* all

,v'

MIS. LVDIA E. PINKHAU

OR LYNN, MAM.

SBCOVKBXB Or

LYDIA E. PINKHANF8

,, vmmkmp nnwwfirwn

The Positive Core

For all Female Complaints.

Thla preparation, Ka Mm Wriih ot Vegetable Frop*rUM that wr« tumalan to tha too* Mr icate invalid. Upon one trial UM N«rMa of thia Oocnpoand will be reoo«aliid, as relief la Iwnw IMa and when ita uaeia oontinuod, in ninety-nine OHM la a hun. dred, a permanent cars 1* effected,aa thocnanda will testify. On account of lia proven merits, it la to-day recommended and preeoribed by the beat pkyriciana la the country.

It will cue entirety the won* form of faking of the nterns, Leueorrhct*, Irregular and painful Xenitroation, all Ovarian Tfoahka, Inflammation and Ulceration, flooding*, all DUplaceirwnta and the oon•oqnent ipinal weakneaa, and la ecpecially Adapted to the Change of life. It will diaaotve and up«t tumors from the ateroaln an early itage of development. The tendency to oanceroua humora there la cheated very ipeedily by ita nee.

In fact It haa proved to be the greateat mod beat remedy that haa evor been dlaeovered. It permeatea every portion of the Kyrtrm, and glvea new life and vigor. It vemovea falntaeaa,flatu)ency, dortroya all craving for atlmulanta, and rellcvaa vreakneaa of the atomach

It curve Bloating, Headaches, Nervous Prostration, General Debility, Sleepleaaneaa, Depression and Indigestion. That feeHng of bearing down, causing pain, weight and backache, ta always permanently cured by Ms use. It will at all times, and and rail circumstances, act In harmony wHh the law that governs ths female lystem.

For Kidney Complaint* of eithar se« this oompouctd Is unsurpassed. Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound IF prepared atXSS and SSf Western Avenw, I^mn, Ham. Prios|LOO. Six bottlea for $5.00. Sent by mail In ths form of pills, also in the form of Losongca, oa receipt ef price, |:.00, per box, for either. Mrs. PTfTKIIArf freely anewer»all letters of Inquiry. Bend for pern phleC AUnMsabm

Mmtion

IMi

paper.

Mo famQy should be without LYDIA K. P1NKHA1P UVERPQXS. They cure Constipation, Biliousness, *dTo«vfcllty of the Lhrer. IS cents per bor

JOHN D. PARK A SON,

Wholesale Aiiontu Cincinnati, Ohio.

Ask tliorecovered Y)y«tMpUe, Billon* Huttorers, Victims of Fever m»«l Ague, the Metrtiriul 11*ensed patient, how they recovered Health, (."heerful Kplrits, ami (Jooel Appetite—they will tell you by taking

L1VEH

KEOULATOR.

For Dyspeiwiu. Constipation, Jnuiullen, Hiliou* Attack, fSldfHoiwJaoJie, Colic, Ik'pretfnion of WpirttM, Hour Hloinach, Heartburn,

IT HAB NO EQUAL.

This unrivaled Southern remedy Is warranted not to contain a HIIIKIC particle of Mercury, or any Injurious mineral substance, but Is

IT RELY VEGETAHLE.

If you feel drowsy, debilitated, have frequent headache, moutlt tastw badly, poor appetite and tongue coated, you are sulterlnu from torpid liver, or biliousness," nntl nothing will cure you so speedily and permanently its to take

SimuionsLiver Regulator

It is given with safety nud the happiest results to the most delicate Infant. Ittakes the Jaceof quinine nnd bitters of every kind.

FIiacc

the chea|est, purest and best family

medicine In the world.

Hay only the (ieir.iino In White Wrapper, with red Z, prepared only by J. H. Zoilin & Co. HOLT* llY ALL DRUGGIHTH. Aprltl.

REED'S

GILT

ISA THOROUGH REMEDY

In every case of Fever and Ague, while for Disorder* of the Htornach, Torpidity of th« Liver, Indigestion and disturbance* of the Animal force*, which debilitate, it has no equivalent and can hove no substitute. It should not be confoundcd with the triturate compound* of cheap spirits and essential oil* often sold under the name of Bitten*.

Fred H. Kat*enb«eh, Wine nnd Hplrit Merhant, wholesale agent. No. 218 south Fourth reel Terre Haute, Ind.

Asew ^a«w*»t*di»«WNy Worms, dttfrnn* (win a!! ^tlnm-it mi.'-vm IM worm iwT. "Dr. «. C. MlaliTwenty ysaW -w, has 1*4 m*uh §*rt W«r» 1 gfve th»-rr)

Ind saya:

r#with

tin i.-illn*'" nW"

sfifTiu. rnr Riwhuif* Warm lxwo*» tbe aw/ sptcillc tor warm* to*« 1»r. r. H. fUmmmm-r. Jack* •. Mt J»n. Mfs: I regard Ktn«hart'e Wrn U-- ages Uw very b^t mad®.

Fo* MLB *r all XHmlcs* 3 The K1NKHA nr MKMf IXE CO., Troy. O.