Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 1, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 1 July 1882 — Page 2

2

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE, JULY 1, 1882

MY MOTHER'S SHOES.

When but a child In mischief wild, I frolicked on the floor, Or teased the cat or lost my hat,

Or toddled to the door. What stopped my-monkey capers then, When held up to ray view, And mude me "point" around the room?

Ah'twa# my motber's shoe.

And when nt whool I played the fool, And •4fl«hed" my Ie«ou»aIl, And thought the flight of my new kite,

O'er topped fame'* mount «o tall. What made rne then, when home at night My foolish actions rue— My Ktudles, all forgot?

Ah! 'twmi iny mothers shoe.

And then, when time had rung the chime Of thirteen yean* or MO, I talked aloud and boldly vowed

To Hctjool no more I'd go, What brought ine to my senses then, And nuide feel no blue? How quick my choler wilted when

My mother raised her shoe!

Ah! Kxl oifl shoe that mother wore, And on me won them loo! Your spunking days are long since o'er,

Yet still 1 think of you And e'en now in my riper years I love at times to muse, On flsi (lhood'sdays and wrapea and fears,

Of mother'* ready Muxes.

Erica's Sacrifice.

A Question of Foregiveness or Dishonor

CII.MTKK I.

TAKING UIP THE LIFE-BURDEN. 'Erica, I say Erica! Where is Erica?'

Sharp and clear came the voice from the bed, speaking in the polished accents of gentle birth and breeding, and a thin white hand was put out, and drew asido the curtain, and the large eyes, so bright still, peered out into the half-darkened room.

A woman came in quickly from an inner apartment, and atepped up to the bed. "Miss Erica's just gone to take a bit o' rest, mistress," she said, firmly but

fiers

jentlv. putting the hand that clutched back under the bed covering.— •'What d'you want her for?" "I am going soon—very soon," the clear voice answered, but weaker was the tone. "I must see her—must! Do

Jeavehear.

rou

Joan? Go, bring her and us." She sank back as if exhausted, but her eyes wandered round the room yet. "Arnold, my best-beloved," she muttered. Yes, for thee, for thy salvation, alie is strong." "Mr. Arnold ain't here, mistress," Baid the attendant. "He's been sent for." "Yes, yes, know." said her mistress restlessly. "(»o, call Erica." "Messed lamb!" muttered the nurse as she left the bedside, "and she only just asleep."

She passed back into the inner chamber, where a light was flickering in the fresh, damp sea breeze that blew in at the open casement, carrying with it the .smell of brine and seaweed.

It lifted, too. and toyed with lightly, the straving rings of chestnut hair lying on that voung gitl's brow—quite a young girt—a child, indeed, almost, for tthe seemed scarcely more than sixteen, slender of make, exquisitely graceful in the perfect abawlon and repose of her attitude as she lay. breathing softly and quietiv yet even in sleep there lay on the broad, grave brow an anxious, sorrowful shade that told of nights of watching, of constant grief pressing on mind and body. 'Toor lassie'." said Joan, looking down on her kindly. "It do seem a shame to waken her, but I must."

Hut. either Erica was scarcely asleep, or even in sleep she was ever on the qui for she opened her eyes—great heavily-fringed dark eyes suddenly, and started up, pushing the hair from her forehead. "What is it, Joan?" she said under her breath. "Mother "She wants YOU. dear," said the nurse "she called a while back, and seems in a fidget-like for you, and keeps on about Mr. Arnold." "Til go."

The girl slipped off the couch—a tall slim tlgure clad in loose white dressingrobe—and glided silently into the next room, closing the door of communication. and came round to the bedside, bending tenderly over the form lying there.

You wanted me. dear mother, she said, gently. "I am here." Ah. vou are here you are my strong Erica,"'the mother said, and a sigh of satisfaction escaped her. "Kneel down, child, and listen to me."

Wondering a little, and fearing that her mind wsus wandering. Erica knelt beside the led. holding in her warm and firm clasp the clammy hand which already lay heavy i»» hers. "I am clear in my mind. Erica." Mrs. Vernon sj*ke collectedly and solemnly, and a strange awe crept over the girl as she listened. "I am very near my death.

and mv mind knows no Vest for the fore- as used to be out over the boding that is on mv spirit for Arnold's her time, with her pretty sake. Though he is not my son. I have a-dreamin' anil a-readin all loved him—ave, I do love'him with a strength that shall endure beyond the grave, for his mother, my darling MnbeS, put him into mv arms when she died, and bade me love him as my own. I have done that—aye, more than I have loved vou. my poor child, who are my own flesh and blood. He needed it more—he needed it more! Arnold is weak and wayward," the dying woman noon so he had eveothmg reatiyana went on, "yon are strong and steadfast sufficient for yourself, sufficient to guide and protect. "Erica, you love me? she said suddenly, half-raising hereelf and tightening her hold of the girl hand. "Mother The girl stopped, choking down the burning, passionate words that nished to her lips-could words, indeed, utter the love she bore that mother, who had given her otiljr the second place, after all? "Mother, she said. then, earnestly and softly, -vou know how I love you! I would ci've mv verv life for your sake!"

Mrs. Vernon turned aside for a brief moment. How cruelly that unselfish love reproached her now. But still, for Arnold sake, she would prove it

me: she said slowly. "I "believe you. child. I ask you to do that. Hush, bear me. I ask you to giv ing it to Arnold. You I do not mean as his wife—unless, in

future years, you both wish it—hut yon must be his protector against himself, his guide, his strength. Arnold is wayward and wild. Oh, Erica! my soul

Jor

juails to think of him left alone to fight himself in this dread battle-field of Ward roteet

temptation, and wrong, and sin. off tne consequences or his falls, pr him from all evil, whatever be the cost to you or to others!" She lifted herself now, laying an impassioned clasp on the girl's shoulder, ner eyes eager, bright with the fervor of her appeal. "Swear," she said in low passionate tones, "swear by all your hopes of Heaven, by all you value and hold dear —to love and protect Arnold Murray through evil report and good report, in honor and dishonor to shield him from all danger, however incurred to do this without counting the cost to yourself or others to suffer loss, shame, misery in his place! Swear, I say, and then— and then I can die!"

With a strange awe on her spirit, a 'ge strange power laying her soul under a "lien she yet revc of her despair,

spell,"from which she tne wild terror of her

Sly

vet revolted in fespair, the girl

by

put out her hands, as though by that

she could ward off the black cloud clos-

ing so densely around her, speaking with smothered words: "Mother, mother! spare me! Not that. I cannot do all that you would bind me to. Oh, spare me!" "Child, I am dying! I ask this last

roof of the love you say you bear me. soul is in torture—will you not put me out of pain, that I may die in peace?"

In quick, heavy sobs came the girl's breath, in wild, excited throbs beat her heart. No. it was not much—only an oath made in the presence of death, only something that should tie her with strong cordsf hand and foot.

Then she lifted her face, and slowly, in measured accents repeated the terrible words that bound her to "shield Arnold Murray from all danger, in honor or dishonor, not counting the cost to herself or others."

And then she kissed the cross she wore, and knelt on still with bowed head and clenched hands and the woman fell back with a long sigh of relief, and waited quietly for death.

And thus

den.

Srica took up her life bur-

OITAPTKB n.

"OUR" MISS EKICA.

The sea lay glinting under the pleasant warm rays of an afternoon sun. A bright, clear day in September the fresh, soft breeze blew inland, curling the tiny waves and cresting them with white as they rippled in gently on to the beach, and over the smooth green rocks that lav farther away beyoiul the limits of the straggling village of Grayle.

Grayle was not a fashionable water-ing-place nor one much visited at any time of the year. Three trains stopped in the coursis of the day at its quiet station and three went to London but it was a picturesque and delightful place, nevertheless, in which tired Londoners could recruit strength and health.

Grayle had no pier, no band, no promenade, and no promenaders. The population consisted for the most part of lishing-people and farm-laborers, and a few good families lived in those pic-turesque-looking houses perched up on the chfTs.

There was only one man who owned, and put out from June to October, a couple of boats for the use of the few who cared for the pleasure.

Sometimes ho went out with the fish-ing-boats, sometimes he did a turn at farm-work, ami sometimes he was general "handy-man" to the big houses, as they were held to be in this hamlet. lie lived all alone in a littlo cottage, away high up the cliff that frowned down on Grayle to the northward—a queer, lonely place, perched on a bit of table-land, bleak of all verdure—the onlv ascent to which was by a rough pathway but as he liked it, and in his morose sort of wav enioved his existence there, the folks left him to his taste. "He gets it for nothing almost,' they said, with knowing winks one to the other "leastways, he built the bit of a place, and pays near nought for the land."

For Nat Poynter had the reputation of leing fond of money, and able to drive a good bargain with a neighbor anil yet, withal, a man not without certain generous impulses for instance, he never could be persuaded to take money from Miss Erica, whom he had known from the time Mrs. Vernon and her daughter had lived at Grayle, nearly eight years ago. lie would take her about anywhere in his boat had taught her to row. and regarded her with a sort of dog-like affection, which was perhaps the softening influence of his rough, hard life. And when Mrs. Vernon died he was sorely grieved because Miss Erica went away to some distant relation in Scotland, and the Grayle House was shut up.

Nearly two years had passed since then, atid great'was Nat's joy one day, when passing he saw the window blinds all up, the windows open, and various signs of life about the old house, and was told that a gentleman from I^ondon had bought it, and was coming down to live there for a time. And the woman from the village, who was having a grand "clean up." tola him. with beaming face, that the gentleman was "Miss Erica's" husband. "Our Miss Erica!" said she. scrubbing vigorously. "Lord, to think of that slip of a thing being married. She ncks half bare feet, her life."

And now this particular afternoon Nat Poynter stood on the beach, one foot resting on the side of his boat, which he had redecorated for "Miss E a

She had arrived the day before, but had not been down on the beach. Nat thought she might be coming down aud want a spell on the sea this fine afternoon so he had everything ready, and as he stood so waiting, smoking his short pipe, and screwing up his eyes in the sun, he mused on the turn of affairs, and on the appearance of a gentleman whom he fancied to be Miss Erica's husband that he had seen walking down the High-street in the morning—a tall, handsome man, with delicate and haughty features, somewhat stern and grave, the boatman thought. "Hulloa. Nat!" said a voice and a burlv fisherman lounged up with his hands in his pockets. "Hulloa, Jetu!" responded Nat, without moving or scarcely looking at his mate. "Heard the news. Jem?"

Nat removed his pipe from his month to blow a cloud of smoke from his lips,

and tilted his boat backwards and for spoke. Jem was slow and rather 'News?" apathetic, as countrymen are, but the

2r\t Wk \o s'mui of news stirred him a Utile. "No bullish.* in cnlv that Grayle Hous^is look."

"That's the news. Don't you know it's our Miss Erica as is the genneman's wife?" "No—o!" said Jem. with a protracted dwelling on the "o" thsit expressed some bewilderment. "Miss Erica!— Lord! Miss Erica! 'Oo's the genneman?" "Don' know," said Nat. "If it's him I saw to-day, he looks a hanstocrat, every hinch of him."

Jem mused in silence for a moment and then lounged away, uttering anew, "Miss Erica! Good Lord!" "Nat, Nat!. dear old Nat!" cries a young, silvery voice. The shingles are scattered far and wide, and down the shelving beach comes bounding a tall, lithe figure, whose ever)' movement is grace. Her soft hair is flying about her, her eyes bright with gla'd greeting and she lays her two bare hands—on one of which gleams the golden circlet —on his, and smiles into his uncouth face beaming now with delight. "Lord, now didn't I think you'd be down? and I got the boat ready and all —and so you're married. Miss Ericahum—I mean—I ax pardin, ma'am." "Never mind, never mind that," said Erica, laughing, and coloring a little too. "I'm Miss Erica still, you know, to all my friends. How good of you to get the boat ready—oh. it's the dear old Water Nymph,—how grand she looks," and straightway Miss Erica vaulted lightly into the boat and seated herself in the" stern, leaning her elbows on her knees, and her firmly-rounded chin on her hands, looking up with those beautiful eyes which have never lost a certain sadness of expression they had even as a child. And now too, that the first gladness of this renewal of old acquaintanceship is subdued, the face loses its bright flush and gayety and settles into gravity. "I did her up for you, miss—ma'am," said Nat, pulling himself up "it does seem nice to see you settin' there quite comfor'ble like. And so you're married, Miss Erica." "Yes, Nat, I'm married," answered the girl smiling. "Weren't you surprised when you heard who had bought Grayle House?" "f was that pleased, ma'am,"said Nat with rough energy, "there, I can't tell ye, when I know you was the genneman's wife. Be you going to live here?" "Olf, no, Nat. Mr. St. John, that is my husband, is a writer—writes books, you know, and he has to live in London but he's leen working too hard, and so I asked him to come here for a time." "Aye, I expect you haven't to ask for nought but once, missy," said Nat, laughing, and Erica smiled and looked off to the sea, and went on speaking. "I've been married nearly a yearT Nat, but I've not been in London we have been mostly in Scotland, up in the north, yachting, because Mr, St. John was told he rnnst rest." "Was that him, miss—ma'am.I mean —I'm just nought but a stupid." said Poynter, pushing his hat "aft," "as I see this mornin' in the village—a tall gentleman, with a moustache, no beard, or whiskers like?" "That was my husband' Erica saidT and smiled and looked thoughtful,, again resting her cheek on her hand then she lifted her eyes to Nat's face, and half laughed, lor she could read the shade of dissatisfaction there. "What's the matter,. Nat?" said she. "Somethirig doesn't please you,". "Please me!" Nat looked rather uncomfortable at being read so, but added: "A very proud genneman Mr. St. John,. Miss Erica. Looks stern-like,, and sort

"What, Nat?" said the-girl,.curiously.. "Well, miss, I can't explain,, not being no scholard. I shouldn't like to cross him, Miss Erica," said NatPoyac ter "but Lord, what do 1 know, and a man isn't none the worse. for 'aving- a temper of his own." "No, indeed, Nat,"' said Erica, thoughfully, and half sighed. "But I know you'll like him, Nat," she added "he looks haughty, but he isn't, really."" "I'd like him for your sake, missy,"said Poynter. "Is Mr.. Arnoldi well,. Miss Erica?"

Tho girl started and.flushed suddenly over cheek and brow. Nat noticed this he was sharp and shrewd, and not many things escaped him. It seemed an effort for Erica toanswer him. "Yes," she said, "he is welL. He ia away abroad, you know."

She stopped* a moment, and then said!, looking up steadily into Nat's rough face "Nat, I think you would do something for me yes, I know you would." Thea. hurriedly, as he was alxmt to reply: "I want you never to mention Mr. Arnold at all to—to my husband, nor to anyone about here, ion see. Nat,, he doesn't even know I have a cousin. I haven't told him Mr. Arnold is—you know, Nat, you understand." "I understand. Miss Erica," smd the man, slowlv, "and I wouldn't the one to make mischief. I won't say nothin' about him." "Thank you, Nat."

Only those simple words, in which lay who knows what humiliation and pain to her to say. and she looked arain over the dancing waters, and could scarce see them for the mist that eiouded over her eves.

Nat. with a rough instinct that his affection for Miss Erica gave him, turned awav from the subject. "Don't you want to go out, ma'am?" said he "it's a nice art You ain't forgot your rowing?" "Oh, no. Nat.**

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

iss— obn.

Erica St. John roused herself spoke brightlv again. "Mr. St. John is coming down in a little while. He is a first-rate oarsman vou'11 like to see him pull. Ah, there he is. coming down the beach."

and

And with alight springing step dowrv the shingles came the man Ponvter had seen that morning, tall and lithe, with a singular grace and freedom of movement.

The eyes of these two men, who were placed in their positions as widely apart as the poles, yet whose lives were to be so interwoven, met. and each scanned the other in the brief moment that Philip St. John took to reach the boat the ?jentleman with one sweeping

face,

iance taking in the rough, untutored the shrewd eyes, the close-set mouth of the plebeian, seeing more in that one glance than Nat Poynter could read in the longer gaze of his eves. But the inward impression entirely favorable.

Philip St. John answered, with a courteous bend of his head, the salnte of the boatman, and then turned, with an instant softening of every feature, to Erica. "I knew where to look for yon. Erica," he said. "Making friends with the sea and an old acquaintance." "Ave, sir," said Nat "me and Miss Erica's old friends—leastways. I mean Mrs~ St. John. I axe your pardon, sir. Tm so used to call her Mis3 Erii». I

don't know as how I shall ever get to call her aught else." "A slight offence, indeed, friend," with a half smile, grave, yet lighting up his face for a moment with singular brightness. "Call her what you will. Hal# is a close friend. Is this your boat?" "Yes. sir. I got it ready for missy. She'd like to go out, perhaps, such a fine arternoon. Will you, sir?"

The girl glanced up into Philip's face with a mute seconding of that request but she did not ask it words.

Nevertheless, he seemed to read her eyes, and smiled again. "I need not ask you. Seagull," he said. "You are scarcely happy off the water. Will you take an oar?" "Oh yes, please, Philip." "But you had better put. in a pair of sculls, too," Philip added, stepping into the boat, which Poynter had dragged down close to the sea ready to be shoved off. And Nat. producing the required sculls, gave the "Water Nymph" a vigorous push into the waves, and she went dancing over the sparkling blue water like a thing of life, and Erica waved her hand back to him with a smile. "What a deliciously exhilarating feeling it gives one," said she, as Philip's long, swift stroke took them a little distance from the shore, "to feel the boat go off and dance like a feather on the water. Don't you seem to cut all connection with the earth and all trouble and care, Philip?"

He glanced up at her half smiling, bending lightly to the oars, and then slightly shook his head. "As we carry ourselves with us everywhere, I scarcely think we cut connection with care, Erica." he said, an almost unconscious bitterness in tone and look "but then you are young, and there are all sorts of possibilities to you." "Why. Philip." the girl said, "you talk as if you had growii old. You "are only twenty-eight now, and that is young." "Ah, yes, so it is. I was not talking of years so much as feeling, though we may be forty at twenty."

Erica for a moment was silent, then she said, wistfully: "But you, Philip and paused. "Yes, but I He rested on his oars, suffering the boat to drift slowly under the warm sunshine that lay on sea and sky. "You have no care, Philip?" she said, half timidlv.

He pulled a few quick strokes before he answered her, then once more lay to. I have none. Erica, that your bright smile and gentle voice cannot lull to rest none but what a, restless ambition for which the world is all too slow none but what my own temper of mind give me, and that, perhaps, is a legacy of wrong. Did you look for a sunny spirit in your husband. Erica? I don't think I am all you fancied when I was your lover, am I?"

The girl lifted a startled look to hi3 face, and flushed to her very brow, but she answered him steadily.

I never fancied vou other than you are. Philip. If I understand vou better, that is all the difference, if there is any difference."

She scarcely knew of any herself that undefined feeling she had for him, mingling with, and perhaps shadowing, all her deep love for him. had not arisen sfnee her marriage it had always been inn her heart.

How should I have a sunny spirit?" Philip said, leaning his cheek on his hand, and speaking, it seemed, less to her than himself. ""How should I be other than I am? I have only known what rest, happiness is Since I knew voti, Erica, and thus I could scarcely school myself to think that you really loved me." "Philip! Philip!" Erica stretched out her hands, her eyvsfullof wistful pleading. "You know it now, don't you? Why were you mistrustful of me?" "Why, Erica?" He had not noticed her movement, and her hands dropped again on her knees. "Because I had grown to think I was never meant for love. I had never told you anything of my boyhood—it is difficult to me todrag these things to light, even to you but the mood is on me now, I suppose, and I can speak. I was tho child of injustice. and you know enough of me, jerliaps, to wonder that I am not a devil, rather than a man who can love yet, I am the eldest, but I was always thrust aside and punished for wrongs I had never done rebuked for haughtiness, reserve, what not, when my heart only yearned for love. My wishes were thwarted at every turn. Perhaps it was my fault in part. I know I am haughty and passionateol* temper, that 1 am disdainful and impatient of inferiority, and I have a hundred other faults. At school and at college I made no friends, no one liked me, though everybody ^raised me some, I think now, would lave been my friends, but that I checked all advances, deeming them in my cynicism mere sycophants. There was only one being I loved, my brother Walter, though for him I was set aside, and that is because he i3 weak and clings to me as the ivy to the oak. Will his love last. I wonder, such as it is? "It is strange," he said, "how some seem marked out to take all the buffetings and stings Fate can lay on them. Why. my verv dumb favorites died or failed me. The horse I rode was killed, the dogs I petted scarcelyloved me and the dog I loved above* them all turned on me one day in some freak of temper, and wounded me in the hand. You can see the scar now." lie glanced down with a bitter, half-* contemptuous smile to the white nervous hand that lav on his knee. "I don't know why he did it I was never ftarsh to him, but he whined and fawned on me a minute after. I spurnedt him away, and never touched him again, never gave caress or look, tliough he often came about me and looked at me with those dumb brown eyes.'*

He paused, and the dark eyes drooped till the long lashes hid them, and Erica shrank back and half whispered: "Philip, how implacable you are." "I am sorry now perhaps I was too hard," he answered, lifting his head again "but I was full of bitterness then. Don't you see. Erica, it was not the physical wound that hurt me, it was the repetition of the same injustice that had ground me down through life. I don't know but what I should do the

uurira. I"** .same now if I were touched nearly of neither was ^nough." JB Never could the girl analyze the feeling that made her next words spring like lightning to her lips, and pass them ere she had time to think. "I? I. Philip—if I failed you." she said, bending forwards "if I failed in love, in duty

But she shrank back, quailing at the sudden flash that leapt like lurid light

into the brilliant eves, at the stern pasea hf up, :ip

sion that wt f'ti' "Philip, me

is very lips.

ip,"she uttered, "forgire

I—I was but in jest

"Never jest then oh such a subject that touches me very nearly, remember."

It was all he said, and then he took up the sculls again, and began pulling swiftly.

Afterwards in the long, long years that came, she could recollect that he had not answered her question.

A shadow fell on her spirit, a sort of gloom his sternness had chilled her—it seemed, indeed, to her almost harsh, and she sat perfectly quiet, looking out over the sea, which somehow had grown grey and cheerless to her yet the sun shone warm on her cheek, and the waves gl the fault lay in herself,

She could' not force herself to renew the conversation, to speak all her sympathy. the love she yearned to lay at his feet. Ah, did he comprehend how she loved him? "I should like to take an oar, Philip," she said, presently, rousing herself with an effort "I am cold."

He ran in his sculls at once, and rose up to give her his hand as she stepped to the stroke seat, and as his hands clasped hers closely, he bent his head and Kissed her forehead tenderly. "Forgive, forget my harshness, my child," he said, softly, regretfully "bear with me a little. Erica.""

She answered him only by a swift upward glance, and a tremor of the sensitive lips but he read in that that she had no power to speak, and then quietly he gave her the oar and resumed his seat.

And the light cloud passed, but not qnitev for to Erica that slight episode had awakened into life a knowledge of

one more phase of Philip's character, and her soul shrank and trembled as she thought of a possible conflict that might arise. Two duties, and which should! prevail?

CHAPTER nr.

TUB FIRST CLOUD RISES.

Tlie dusk of the short September evening was falling fast, the shadows were gathering over the sea, and turning the heaving waiters into slate-grey and a thin autumnal mist had crept up and lay like a gossamer web over every object, chilling the air which had lately been so bright and warm.

Erica sat by the window of the library at Grayle House, her hands lying idly on her lap}, her dark eyes, grave and even sad itr repose, gazing out over the expanse of'COCK-girt sea. She was musing over many things—over the glimpse that Philiph»d given her of his unloved boyhood and! early manhood, grieving over the wrong done him and the wellnigh irretrievable havoc created in a nature stilli so noble, so capable of commanding^Love unconsciously almost comparing him with Arnold, who had been loved ami petted from his birth.

And what" was lie? Weakness was the least of his faults, for lie was both selfish and headstrong, and uncontrolled. Shallow of nature, yet possessing a certain-brightness and lovableness of temperament, which blinded many to his failings, he had just passed through college-, without much credit to himself, andt deeply in debt, and he was now abroad at* far as Erica knew.

The bitterr ating that poisoned all Erica's happiness'was the knowledge that Arnold. Mnrrav was no honor to his name or UJMTS. This was what she shrank fromi telling Philip. Philip, whose notions*of honor were so sternly, fastidiously strict, who counted an infringement of honor the blackest sin, and made but Little allowance, perhaps, for temptations and who, if he knew Arnold's career would have at once routed her from him. nor have suffered lis wife to hold any communication with a man who has no high rcputatior for spotless honor. Not in his own loved brother even would he have forgiven any fail from vnblAS-.S". lie had said to him,, not sternly, but with a steadfastness* tone and look that Walter hadi understood, when the younger brother was going up to Oxford. 'You are very dear to me Walter, but on the day that you forget that you are a gentleman.and a St. John, I shall forget that I Inure-a brother."

How theiiicouk! Erica fulfil the oath she had made that day marked out in her life as iiL letters of fire? Was she not to guarrl. Arnold, to protect him? Had not alneady her duties clashed? To her the sacnedness of that oath was absolute she eo«ld conceive of nothing which should justify her in breaking it. She had bravely suffered in silence, tacitly deceiving her husband, deeming such deception the lesser of two wrongs.

So the girl mused sadly enough this chill September evening, dimly con-scious-ot the monotonous mutter of the waves- OIL the rocks, and the swift scratching of Philip's pen as it (lew over the paper. He sat writing at the table but not so absorbed in his work thatjie did not observe her silence and abstraction. Perhaps, after all, it was a d"JI U.fe he had bound her to, wedded to a- man ten years older than herself, he tjlvmght—nay, scarcely thought, for the vague suggestion of which he was simply conscious never framed itself to anything so tangible even as thought.

Ifc threw down the pen at last, and rose wp, coming over to where she sat. "5t is too darJc to see," he said, "and I am, but a dull companion for you, Erica. You are very silent and truUe tonight."

Site started from her reverie, and coloring a little pushed her hands through the wavy hair that fell about her. thought you were busy," she said, half apologetically. "Shall I ring for lights?" "No. not just yet, unless you want them it is pleasant resting thus," answered Philip, leaning against the win-dow-frame. "That manuscript can go out to-morrow morning I can po:*t it myself to-night. I am getting restless Erica, to go back to work and life." "You are a true Londoner," said Erica, laughing "you cannot be happy long parted from

beloved

pavements

ana delightful dissipations." "In which, I apprehend, my wild seagull is longing to join," Philip said with a smile. "I shall be dreadfully unworldly, I am afraid, Philip," said Erica, sighing. "That is best. Our modern young ladies are so terribly wise and preternaturally wide-awake.

She was glad that the gloom hid her deathly pallor from Philip*s eyes. 1 But he had noticed that she seemed lmmmm Qmtimtcd on Third Page.

From frank Leslie's* Illustrated NewspniM'r. A IAIY SAID

1 hone

Hvrrid

Go,

rimpk*! I Cnniiol

Plf«M Pmeul

My

IXCHKM.'

Probably two-thirds of the ladios in society and homes ot'our land areattticted with skin dfceases of various kinds, to do away with which, if it could be done with out injury, would be the happiest event of their lives. Then she would have instead of a disfigured and marred countenance, one that would be handsome, or at least good-looking, for anyone with a clear, pure skhi. no matter what the cut of her features are, hasyvi certain amount of good looks which at\ tract everybody. As it is now, she imagines every one sees and talks about "those freezes," "those horrid pi np!es,'' and other blemishes with which she is atTfieted, and this is true of either sex.

To improve this appearance great risks are taken arsenic, mumiry. or higUsound tilled named articles containing these death-dealing drugs, are taken in hopes of getting rid of all these troubles. In many eases death is the result. Nu ailevitatrfcon of tho burning, heating itching and inflammation is given. All troubled with Eczema ^ilt rher.m). Tetters, Humors, lnllammatian. Rmtgli Scaly Eruptions of any kinds. Disease of the Hair and Scalp.* Scrofula, 1'leers. Pimples-orTender Itchiugson uny parr of the body, should know that there is hope for the.Tiin a sure, perfect reniedv, known as Ir. L'. W. Benson's Ski'n Cure." It makes the skin white, soft, and smooth, removes tan and freckles, and is the best toilet dressing in the world. It i»elegantly put up, two bottles in one packsge, consisting of boll* internal and external treatment. Our renders should besure to get thisncd not some old remedty resuscitated on the success of I)r. Benson's and now advertise as '-The Great Skin Cure." There is only one—it leiws the doctor's picture ami is for sale by all druggists. per package.

A SENSATION MAS Om.N 11KEN MA OK

by tho discovery »f some new thing, but nothing has ever stood the test like Dr. C. W. Benson's Olerv and ChamomilePills.

They realv do care sick headache, nervous headache, neuralgia, nervousness, sleeplessness, indigestion, paralysis ami melancholy.

Price. f0 cents per box, two for $1, six for $2.50 by mail, postage free. Dr. C. W. Benson, Baltimore, Md. Sold.by all druggists.

C. N. CrtMauton, NVw York, i.s wiinloalu a^ent for Dr. C. W. Rw.son's remedies.

WAXTED

PKRSONHhave

nHlieteil with 1'ILKS toruldrena

me. I a nevrr failing cure, appll cation nuido hy patients without pain or Inconvenience. I'cisonul examination or visit not required. Positively uncharge for treatment until permuntlv ••ured. For Sale by AlUMsilN A KKITKNSTI KN lm. L. VOI.KKlts,

Ol-fl Main st. Torre 1 Unite, lud., or Dcnnlaon, Ills.

PILLS

A DISORDERED LIVER IS THE BANE

o. the present generation. It Is for the ire or this diReaae and its attendants, SICK-HEADACHE.

BnjOP8WESS,

Cblll«

my

DY8-

P'JP8IA. C0W8TIPATI0Hf, PILES, etc., tb»t fnfT'H PTT.T.S have"gained a world-wido reputation. No fteaae3y~Eaa over been 5i Covered that "acta so gently on tho digestive organs, giving them vigor to awsb.iilate food. As a natural result, tho N jrvous System is Braced, thoMunclou ar Developed, and the iJody Robust.

AZLd Pevor.

E. RIVAL, a Planter at Bayou Sara, La., an?* My plantation la In a malarial district For •••rat

yaara

I could mot mak« half a crop on

account of bllloua dlaMMM and chills. I wan uaar 7 dlaoouragad wl*»n I bagan tha u«i of TUTT'8 PILLS. Tha raatilt was marvel'iun

laborara aoon batmooa hnarty aud robust, aud I hava bad no furtbor troublo.

Th»r r»ll«rflh«rnaore^d Mvir, Ch Blood firom potoMoin huiiiun, itml rani# Iho bomb to art naturally, with out wtalcii no one rm f«'l well.

Try thl*rffflMlr ftilrtr,»n( yon wllUntn hMltlir DIVMlloikViloriiut

TUTT'S

(•rill

|r.

IJihIt. I'mi*

Blood, Atrontr Nfrvoa. and MOM rid 1,1«

IT.

Price,aSOnta. 35 Mart-ay Nt.. N. *.

!d#

Okay H*raor Winwirrns changed tniMMw.v Hi.ack by a «lngl« •application of thin DviImpnrtn a natural culirr.Hii'l w.'H InstiintHin.'VK'.y

Sold by Drug«1i»t«,.&r ftt nt by »*xpre** on rurnnof One Dollar. Ofrico, 88 Murray Strict, N«w York.

Tf'Trm MA XVA r? of VnlunOl* Infortnntlo** and V-e/itt litrrijitr, S bm mailerf FEB* on aynllvallon.

LIVER

TARAXINE

Tlu» G&eat Vvyrtable Un Corrector, Jt tontnlmi no Catomrl or Mlnnral of n• kirult U) Main in tin*

O«IUTUT'L

Stages.

There is the

postman he will give us something to ao." ... He stepped out of the window and took the letters from the man—two or three for himself, and two for Erica. "Walter's writing, one of mine,' he said giving his wife's letters into her hand, and she bent over them to make out the hand-writing by the fading light, and suddenly drew in her breath I with almost a zasp.

t'-on-

JIfilirut J'rlnclpt*

OF

th* Tnraj'lrmii or Lhindrlion.

TARAXINE

It a fhtrclflr for nil Mirnjft urMnfj fr' Mteranged liwr,

TARAXINE Cures Liver Complaint in all its

&plrj-n

or KUln*ry»m

TARAXIN Never fails t*» cure Cliror

Ague. Try ii

TARAXIN Cures Dyspepsia at

TARAXINE Cures Habitual Constipation.

Indigestion

TARAXINE

Jt for Sale by all and Pat Medicine Dralert.

Price, SO Cts. and $1.00.

A. KIEFEll,

Indianapolis,