Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 10, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 2 September 1882 — Page 2

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

TERRE HAUTE, SEPT. 2, 1882

LOCKING THE STABLE DOOR.

Maggie," said John, one winter night, When the weather was cold and wet, You did not shut the stable door,

I wonder you could forget You know that you went there late for eggs, And you loft the door open, dear 80 better go lock it at once, Maggie,

Or the pony will stray 1 fear r'

"Why, John, yon were In the stable last You went to give Fanny her corn And I think you had better lock the door

If you want ner tomorrow morn." "Maggieyou know you went there for eggs," "On, but that wan at four o'clock And if you're afraid of Fanny, John,

You had better go turned the lock."

"My hoots are oflTand ray pipe is lit. And I'm balancing book* tonight Go, Maggie, and lock the stable door,

Ami see if the pony is right, 1 would do it with pleasure myself, But I'm busy a* you can see And I really think you aught to learn

To rely on yourself—not me."

He looked at his pretty little wife, And she saucily towed her head "And really I think that you might see

I am making to-morrow's bread, Aral now when my hands are in the yeast! Why, John, I am i»erfectly shocked! I wouldn't go now to the stable

If the door should never be locked."

"Very well, love but if Kannv's lost You must never blame me,5'he said. Then he turned anew to the bills and books,

And Maggie to kneading her bread. But, 0I1! the evening was sad and long, And the balances all at fault And Maggie's bread did not rise at all,

It was ruined with too much salt.

Maggie was silent, busy and sad. And John could make nothing come clear, At length, he said, with a merry laugh: "Shall we go to the stable, dear?" Bo she took the light lie toek the kev

And they went through the wind and rain Hut they never for trifles qunrrel'd more, Ho the lc.«on was not in vain.

Through Danger.

A Love That Could Not Be Sold.

CHAPTER I.

PHILIP BATHURST REFUSES TO SELL

HIS LOVE.

A sweep of golden gorse, blended

A

fitirple

with purple heather. A fresh breeze from the uplands. A range of hills in the distance. A mile or so to the right, a fine old Elizabethan mansion, surrounded by dark firs, at the base of which stretched a lake into which the rocky land jutted, forming tiny headlands and deen-hlue silent creeks. Occasionally a black-cock or some other bird would rise up from tho heather and wing its way a dozen yards or so, then drop down again to earth, or at times continue its flight to the distant hills.

he uplands.

Beyond this no other moving object :aio of moor and fell, save the figures of two men who camo tramping through the heather.

Tho one who walked a little in advance was a tall, broad-shouldered, muscular specimen of tho young English gentleman, who had never done a day's work in his life but had gone through no end of labor in boating, shooting, and such like sports, llis features were handsome and manly, his complexion becomingly bronzed, his eyes of a clear blue, giving a winning expression to the wnole countenance, while glossy rings of nut-brown hair clustered round the'shapely head. His attire was a remarkably well-made shooting suit, and he carried a gun over his shoulder.

Ilis companion, apparently of his own ago, was of a lower grade in society— indeed, his dress was that of a gamekeeper. A game-hag. quite empty, was slung over his shoulders, against which also rested two loaded guns. For some time there had been silence, the blackcock:! had risen and llown away unchecked. Not a bang had disturbed tho at tuiuu air. It was doubtful if tho foremost sportsman had even seen'the birds as he strode on, one hand in the po-'ket of his shooting-coat, his brows contracted, and his eyes bent on the ground. He evidently"was lost in deep and not quite agreeable meditation.

Tho other more than once had glanced in a surprised, perplexed fashion at him, then at the birds that rose almost from their very feet.

At last, unable to kvj miiet longer, he remarked with a comical twinkle in his brown eyes: "lon't vou think. Mr. Phil, we should have had just as much sport if we'd left the Iwg and ihe powder and shot at home? And tho guns, too, for that matter. There would have been less to carry." rtiilip Hathurst burst into a merry peal of laughter. "llight you are, Mark." he exclaimed "the birds need not fear me much today. The fact is. I didn't come out to .shoot, 1 came to think, and as wo can "do that as well sitting as standing, hero goos."

So saying h»* threw himself down among the soented heather. As the gamekee{H*r followed- his example, ho said: "l thought there w*s something up, Mr, I hil." •'Something up. indeed." exclaimed the young master, his gaze fixed on the aiision nmotur the firs. "Height*'." after a pause: "I say. Mark, how would you like to go to Australia?"' "Australia! Why, Mr. Phil. I'd go wherever von go. But it aint likely you are going there." •'Isn't tt? That's all you know about it. foster-brother Mark. retorted Philip Hathurst with an assumption of gayetv. "Know that this day promises to tie one of the most important in my life, that's why I camo out to think know, Mark, that before yonder jolly-faced Mm sets and rises again, I—Philip) Hathurst, reputed heir of his nncle. Charles liat hurst-may be a homeless, comparatively penniless wanderer." "You. Mr. Phil that's one of your jokes, sir."

A joke, Mark, which I'm coining to think will turn out serious earnest. 'tViught mar se the doors of Hathurst closed on me"-I being outside, not In." "Surely, Mr. Phil, you're mad or in

•-No? more mad than man is genentfiv. Mark: as to l»ve—uel' -p'raps that's nearer Hie There, old feilotr,

don't grin. 'Pon my word. I'm not jesting listen, and 1*11 tell you_ all about it. You're aware that Six Kenyon McCrea has a daughter?" "You can't be in love with her, Mr. Phil?" "No, Mark: but my not being in love makes no difference with my uncle. He has hoarded, and saved, and made all his lifetime, and now he has set his heart on my marrying an heiress, that heiress being Miss Marian McCrea." "And if you refuse, Mr. Phil?" "Then I am disinherited. We near had high words about it last night, when my uncle gave me nntil this evening to decide. If I refuse, I am to troop bag and baggage instanter from Bathurst. Now, putting all other thingf aside. Mark, it is to me confoundedly derogatory for a fellow to let another choose a wife for him. To be^ bought, as it were. I don't like it. It's an insult to a man's liberty and independent feelings. By Jove it is." "Still. Mr. Phil, Bathurst's Bathurst." remarked Mark, scratching his ear, "and Miss McCrea isn't so very plain." "If she were all beauty and amiability it would make no difference. "Ah!" remarked the foster-brother, slyly, "because, Mr. Phil, of 'the other things?'"

Philip Bathurst again made the air vibrate with his laughter. "You're a cute fellow, Mark. But you've hit the right nail on the head. I am in love—over head and ears—up to the eves—with an angel." "Thev all are angels. Mr. Phil, till we have married them." "Hold your tongue, Mark you can't judge, for you didn't know an angel. The one I love there is not the slightest chance of my ever seeing again. She has vanished from me. as if, indeed, she had been ethereal instead of earthly. Or did we meet, and if my uncle lieeps his word there would be just a possibility—what likelihood is there that I should find her single? Soma fortunate fellow must have made her his wife long ago." "Why, then, Mr. Phil, don't you please your uncle and many Miss McCrea?" "Because I hold it dishonorable to wed one girl while my heart is full of the image of another, and I can never, never forget her." "Did she love you, Mr. Phil?" "She said so, Mark." "Then why aid she vanish away?" "By compulsion, Mark. I'll tell you all about it. You recollect when I went to Brighton? Well, one day during my visit as I was strolling near the pier, I heard the clatter of horses' feet behind me knowing it to be a riding-school I did not give it my attention until I heard the people shout. JL turned swiftly and perceived one of tho horse? had bolted with its fair rider. All the rest, not heeding the riding-master's angry protest, were screaming and galloping after her. Such a row, Mark, naturally made the horse worse. As to the poor girl, she seemed paralyzed her veil had blown up, revealing a white, set, terrified, but oh, so lovely a face, Iler eyes were fixed straight in front, until I sprang forward. Then they rested on me, and I caught the words—won like music: 'Oh, pray save me if you can.' "A moment after the horse bore down on me full butt. But I was prepared. I grasped the rein close to the bit, and swung the brute round. As I did so. the girl fell off her saddle into my arms. Bui oh, the glance, she gave mo out of her dark eyes. Mark! I was in love from that moment. I let the horse go, for tne riding-master or anybody else to catch, while I supported her who I felt was my destiny. 1 should have liked to have'sunported her until now, but I was not allowed to five minutes. A lot of women came chattering round, for the girl had fainted. At the same time a carriage halted, and the lady in it. who had seen the accident, offered to drive her home. It was quite right, but I didn't thank her. 1 managed, however, to ascertain that she whom I had saved was a pupil at a large school in Brighton, and I need not say, Mark, I did not hurry away from that town. On the contrary I stopped. Again and again I saw her who after that one glauce held such sway over mo. At the school was a good-hearted housemaid, who, taking pity on me. carried mv letters and brought me answers to tliem. Once she managed an interview Or us in the school-ground. I confessed my love, I learned that my passion was returned, then our interview was cut short bv a signal from the housemaid. "We parted. Mark, and since then have never again met." "Never. Mr. Phil? Why, that's two vears ago!" "Kxactlv. On returning to mv hotel —the Bedford —I found a telegram awaiting me. Mv nncle had been thrown from his horse. The injury he had sustained was. the doctor thought, not serious, but Mr. Bathurst wanted me to come. I went, of course, writing from Bathurst to my beloved under cover to the housemaid, explaining the cause of my absence, and. giving her my address, begged her to reply. No answer, however. came. Not the least notice was taken of my communication. A little over a week* I was again in Brighton, haunting the school. I saw the pupils start on their daily walk, but ray darling was not there. Was she ill? I laid wait for the housemaid. Again failure she too had disappeared. "Driven to desperation, finally I went boldly to the school, and asked for the principal. Then it all came out. Oh, Mark, what a row there was. Miss Dawes, a lean. long, prim woman, with etuis like a front", neaped no end of ladvlike abuse upon me. It seemed that something hail created Miss Dawes's suspicions. She had watched, intercejted ray letter, and had discovered everything. In vaiu I protested the honor of my intentions, my love it but added to her wrath. I entreated an interview with her pupil. She absolutely screamed. 'Sir." she exclaimed, 'you have done your best to ruin the moral standing of iny establishment, but, praise Heaven, circumstances have prevented your succeeding.' "She was a wicked old woman. Mark, to say that, considering what the circumstances were. "Well, she showed me the door, and for nearly another week I fruitlessly haunted the place, hoping to get news, liegardless of Miss Dawes's frowns, I made it a point alwavs to meet her pu-

Sark.

ils in their walk. Among them was a brigh -eyed. pretty girl, who appeared a perfect repository of fun. She looked at me at first coquettishiy. next curiously, next interestedly finally. I felt sure, with meaning. I watched, hoping, and one day found her walking as demurely as a little mouse by the side of Miss Dawes at the tail of the twenty yvnmg ladies. As she saw me, however, a quick meaning clance site*

from the corner of her lsughin and, as rapidly slipping her ban' her. she dropped a folded paper

rds

"Two minutes after. I had picked it up before another 1 had read written on it: "'SIR KXIOHT

OF THK

Taking out his pocket-book, he produced from it a small photo vignette, and held it to his foster-brother. "Is that her, Mr. Phil?" "That is her, Marie. Is she not beautiful?" "That she is, Mr. Phil." "Now then, confess: do you blame me for living in hope, Mark—for refusing, for all Bathurst, to put an insurmountable barrier between her and myself should we ever meet, as I cannot help but feel that one dav we shall?" "By George, Mr. Phil.'I'd go through fire and water for such a sweet face as that." "And I renounce Miss McCrea and fort une. So hey for Australia, to work, and to win. and be independent." "llev, then it is for Australia. Mr. Phil for where you go, I go—if you'll let me." "Let you. Mark?" and Philip Bathurst warmly pressed his hand. "I shall be only too'glad of your company, old fellow. We start With the same capital—health and courage—and we'll rise or fall together. Now. tako up the guns, and "baek to Bathurst. In two hours, I'nclc Charles must pronounce our sentence."

A mouth later Philip Bathurst and his foster-brother, Mark Hilton, stood on the deck of the A 1 emigrant ship Neptune, as it glided down the Mersey, outward bound for Australia.

Charles Bathurst had decided. Philip had refused to sell his right to independence and free action, and had been cast adrift.

In his hand now he held a letter. For the twentieth time lie read the writing on it: "Hear rcn»o:j, and do not lc nn idiot. Repent li-fnic 1« too !aie. Come buck, consent to this ninrrit!K»\ «tnl HatimrM i»

TERP.E HAUTE SATUBDAY EVENING MAIL.

hind

DOLEFCL COCSTB-

NAXCE:—If I am right in m.v surmise, you are searching for one who is no lonper here. Nearly a fortnight ago she was fetched away to her father, who was dying. 13. Ladbrookcrescent. London, is not a hundred miles away from her residence. Don't betray me.'

"Hardly had I finished than the girls came marching back. My kind friend sent a glance in my direction. I let my eyes answer her, and tore up her- communication after putting it to my lips, that she might see she was safe. That same evening I was in London, Mark. "And didn you find her, Mr. Phil?" "No, I was too late," sighed Philip Bathurst "I found the house shut up and to let. Inquiring, I learned that her father had died, that a week back he had been buried, and that an uncle had taken her I loved away where none could inform me, save that it was believed to Australia. For a month I searched and inquired with no better result, so gave up in despair." "But why didn't the young lady write to you, Mr. Phil?" "Because, Mark, I had never thought of giving her my address here." "Then, it's my opinion, Mr. Phil, you'd better take'Miss McCrea." "No, Mark, never," ejaculated Philip Bathurst .springing up from the heather. "I'll not sell myself and my best affections for money! I don't like Miss McCrea, and, by Jove! I will not marry her for all tlie uncles in the world. If I seemed just now to hesitate, my revealing the pffst has decided me. Let my uncle disinherit me if he pleases.— I'll be independent I'll work. I have strength and health—capital stock-in-trade. I'll go to Australia I'll go to the diggings: I'll dig up a fortune, by Jove! and I'll find her I love. She is in Australia. Why, Mark, shouldn't I find her?" "Whv not, Mr. Phil? though I reckon Australia's a big place, and you ain't likely to find her at the diggings, and if you wait to do so until you'vo dug up a fortune she may not be very young, or she may be married when you do find her." "Mark, for Heaven's sake don't be such a Job's comforter," exclaimed his foster-brother. He had been striding backwards and forwards through the heather, but now halted before the other. "Australia isn't like England. Besides, what obstacles will not love surmount, especially when the prize is so worth winning? Look, Mark, and judge."

Bvour*.

UAI:I.::S

ATHI'IIST."

"Do you repent. Mr. Phil?" queried Mark Hilton who had watched him. "I, Mark? not a fraction," with a merry laugh. "I never felt so content in my life. There is my reply to Uncle Bathurst," and he scattered the fragments of paper upon the waves washing the ship's sides. "Farewell for a space to Old England." raising his hat: "henceforth our eyes and thoughts are bent southward to Australia—the iuish and the fortune that there awaits us." "Or the misfortune." laughed Mark. "So be it. One or the other. We'll meet it bravely."

cnArTER 11.

PnADV CREEK STATIO??.

It was spring time in Australia. All vegetation was beginning to burst forth in green apparel of many hues. Dust storms, parched lands, dried up rivers, and gullies rent by large fissures, were things of the future.

A cool south breeze blew across the distant ranges the first wild flowers were visible in the bush, and the hum of waking life began to rise from Shady Creek Station, standing alone in the picturesque Australian wilderness.

First there was the lowing of cattle eager to escape from the stockyard, then the bark of dogs, blended with men's voices and the sharp crack of the long stock-whip.

As time went on the glass doors on to the verandah were thrown open. A tall, well-looking, middle-aged man of military appearance, in light, overcoat and broad planter's hat emerged and strolled round to the outbuildings.— Soon after another personage appeared —a young girl of about nineteen. Her step was elastic, her figure tall, and graceful as a willow wana. The morning dress she wore was composed of some light, simple material, fitting easily to ber shape, while a round straw hat. resting upon a rich mass of looped and braided golden hair, shadowed a face as sweet in expression as it was lovely in feature. A color as delicate as the wild rose tinged her cheek, her large .deep-violet eyes shone through the long fringe of lashes, while the small red lips were just sufficiently parted to admit of their owner humming an aria from Rigoletto. At her side marked, with stately pride, a splendid Key. She carried a basket and pair of scissors, and flitted ab» th* several flower beds gathering ii-c 1 tsoms where they showed.

It took some while before the basket

was sufficiently stocked, then the girl returned to the verandah, and entered a room nicely furnished, where breakfast was laid, and presided over by an elderly lady of somewhat prim and" precise aspect. "Been robbing the flower-beds, Flo," she inquired. "Weil, auntie, if robbers were judged by the value robbed," laughed the girl gaily, "my theft this morning would not be very great. The flowers are very late this year." "Or you are very impatient. Better have left them where thev were they'll die in a day in that vase.*' "Not so soon as that, auntie, I hope. If so, there will be more out to-morrow to renew them, and it's so nice to have flowers in the room. Uncle always likes them." "So does Herbert Archer at least I heard him say so when he was last here. By the way, Flo, isn't he coming today?" "So uncle said, that he meant to ride over to look at the new cattle. But," with a pretty toss of the graceful head, "don't imagine, auntie, I have robbed the garden for his pleasure." "I wish I could imagine so, Flo he loves you sincerely." "Then, auntie, he is wise enough, seeing I do not love him, to keep silent on the point." "But why can't you love him? What objection can you have to the young fellow?" "I have no objection. He is .very pleasant and agreeable." "And would make an excellent husband." "I have not the least doubt "of it, auntie only, you see, 1 don't want to try the experiment." "More silly child vou. He is handsome and very well-to-do, and you should think of settling. Most girls would, but—I can't make you out. Flo. If you loved anybody else", it would be a different thing." "Ah, if—those provoking ifs," laughed the girl, but as she stooped lower over the flowers her cheek had a deeper hue. "But there's 110 one here I could love, is there, without it was Steeve Boyne, the stockman or old Jeck, the native Australian or "How can you be so absurd, Flo? Let me tell you the subject is not one to jest upon". If you are so hard to suit, you'll just die an old maid." "Better that, auntie, than to marry some one I don't- love." Then gravely: "Auntie, don't be offended I'm not jesting, really, but I don't want to marry—I don't think I ever shall. There, dear, give me a kiss, and don't let Herbert Archer make us ill friends. Perhaps, when the right man comes, I'll say yes, but don't ask me to until then."

Stooping, she pressed her soft, warm lips to the old lady's cheek, then ran from the room to till the vase with water. "I can't make that girl out," murmured Mrs. Crane "I feel almost certain there were tears in her eyes. Well, it's a pity. Young Archer would be such an excellent match, and he adores the ground she treads." "Who treads, Kate? Whatever are you muttering about, eh?" And Colonel Grainger—he in the light coat and planter's liat—entered from the verandah. "That Flo treads, brother. I have been speaking toiler about young Archer: but 110, not a word will she have to say to him."

V'lx?ave

the girl alone, Kate," re­

marked the colonel, as he drew his chair to the table. "If she don't love, why on earth should she marry him? Besides, where's the hurry? She is not twenty yet, and I. for one, am in no hurry to'lose her. I should have no objection to her marrying Archer, but be sure matters will run smoother if we do not meddle. A cup of coffee. Kate."

Meanwhile Flo had run to her own room. Mrs. Crane had been correct, there were tears in her eyes: but she dashed them away as she reflected: "Auntie is right. Why should I not marry Herbert Archer? Because I'm stupid and foolish. Because I can't forget the past. As if he ever remembers me! It is not likely. Had he, never would he have been silent. Not a word from him since I saw him in the grounds. In all mv grief and trouble through tlie loss of dear papa, not a word of kindness, of svmpathy. He might have written, for I left my addre:s with Susan for him. No. he was proud to win my love—men are flirts as much as women—and once assured of it he was content, and went to woo others. Oh. it's shameful."

And Flo's.cheek flushed as she paced her pretty room. "I never would have believed it of him. though. He was so handsome, so honest, and—truthful-looking.

No,

I can't believe it. Still what matters, it isn't likely we shall ever meet again, and it's foolish of me not to be able to—to forget him. There, from this moment. I'll try—I will, I will. I will. I'll marrv IIerlert, which will delight both uncle and auntie. And then, a wife with a home of mv own. I must not remember Philip. No. I'll forget him as he has long, long forgotten me, and to make it easier I'll not keep anything that reminds me of him."

While speaking she had unlocked her desk and taken from it a small gem ring and a sprig of withered heather. "I'll lose tne ring in the bush, for I couldn't bear to give it away, and—and there goes the heather."

She made to throw it out of the window, but the hand refused to obey the will. "Forget him! It's no good. I can't. I can't. Oh, Philip, Philip!" And bending low. she pressed the mementoes of that sweet first love to her lips. Her uncle's voice calling aroused her. Hastily she returned the ring and heather to tlie desk, smoothed her hair, and ran down stairs.

As she entered the room there was the quick tread of horse's hoofs along the road. The colonel, rising, stepped into the verandah. "It's Archer." he said. "His visit is early. Make some hotter coffee. Kate. After his ride hell not mind a second breakfast."

Quitting the verandah he soon returned with his guest. It was a young man of about eight-and-twenty. of middle height, and of slender frame, the litbesomeness of which was apparent, despite the rough servicable squatter's suit he wore. If Is features were regular and handsome, his complexion of a clear white that exposure to the sun hardly darkened. 1 His hair, like his long moustache, was of a glossy black, while his eyes, large and of the same color, possessed a singular brilliance, rh as is observed at times in an aniiw«».'».

His expression was full of energy and

resK —that of a man whp admitted no t«»*.ure. He had landed in the new world when the gold fever waj at its

height, nsu had a lucky find, with which he had turned squatter. All he had put his hand to had thriven. No obstacle had occurred to arouse the evil side of Herbert Archer's character —for there was an evil side—until a year previously he had made the acquaintance of* Colonel Grainger, and seen Florence from that instant he was in love. and. as was his nature, threw himself heart and soul into his passion.

Well-to-do. a gentleman, no man near his equal, he had little fear of failure, but his assurance grew less as he knew more of Flo. Something in her manner ever kept him from making his declaration, and only the knowledge, easily ascertained from the colonel's sister, that he had no rival, kept him patient—that is, outwardly.

On this morning, however, he had ridden over to Shady Creek, ostensibly to look at a new purchase of cattle of the colonel's, but really to learn his fate. "And how can it be other than as I wish it," he had reflected as he rode.— "Is she not kindness itself? Does she not ever show pleasure in my society, sing the songs I like, or play the pieces I desire? Nonsense, my heart has no need to beat so nervouslv. Had I a rival it would be different—different and dangerous, especially for him," and the long slender hands clenched, the red light shone in the dark eyes. "But I have none. Who could rival me out here? Besides, have I not said that Florence Grainger shall be my wife, and that of no other m^n, and "never yet have I been balke in that upon which I have set my mind."

Such had been Herbert Archer's thoughts as he rode to Shady Creek through the sweet spring morning. But as he entered the room with the colonel the set expression died out of his countenance, giving place to one of gentleness as his gaze rested upon Flo.

There must have been something more than gentleness in it—something that startled the girl—something vague, undefined, vet like a presentiment of coming trouble. For the first time her color rose, and her eyes fell beneath his glance she felt constrained and restless in his presence.

As soon as she was able she quitted the table, and occupied herself at her work-basket. Whenever she lifted her eyes she found those of Herbert Archer upon her. What was there in their dark, brilliant depths that made her breath come quickly as one in fear?

To her relief the colonel soon arose, saying: "Now, Archer, my boy, let us go to the cattle. You'll confess, I am sure, I've made a good bargain. Of course you will dine here." "I fear not," was the reply "my stay, indeed, cannot exceed an hour or so, colonel." "I'm sorry, but business before pleasure, my boy. That motto builtis up fortunes. Well, the cattle will not take long then Flo, no doubt, will show you the alterations she has been making in her garden."*

The last sentence was spoken outside on the verandah. Flo was not compelled to hear she determined not to, but directly they had gone and her aunt had left to superintend some household duties, she sprang upstairs, put on her riding-habit, then slipped round to the stablo where old Jeck was dozing in the sun. "Jeck," she said, "the morning is so fine that I want a spin in the bush. Saddle your horse ami mine as quickly as vou can, there's a good Jeck."

Tes. missie Jeck very quick he

Just then Jeck came cantering up. leading a horse and riding the other. A moment Inter Flo was in the saddle and galloping down the road. At that moment Herbert Archer happened to be looking in that direction. The cattle had been seen, the colonel was giving some orders to the stockman. Herbert Archer did not hesitate nor lose a moment. he hastened to tho stable, saddled his horse, and telling a stable hand that lie was going to accompany Miss Grainger in her ride, stalled in pursuit.

He resolved not to lose the opportunity thus afforded him to speak to Flo alone, for he reckoned old Jeck as nobodv. He had noted the direction the girfhad taken, and knew a short cut by which he could readily overtake her.

It was to be an eventful day, indeed, to more than him, and even to more than Flo.

CHATTER ITT.

HERBERT ARCHER'S RIVAL. Flo Grainger bad not long enjoyed her sense of escape from a proposal which intuitively she knew threatened her. when, the sound of a horse's approach causing her to turn, she beheld Herbert Archer evidently in pursuit.

She bit her lip with annoyance, and for an instant hesitated how to proceed. Her inclination was to avoid him, but .*he felt not only would flight be undignified, but an insult to which she had no right to subject him. "A man's love does a woman honor." she reflected, "and should win her respect and consideration though she cannot reciprocate it. After all. letter that the moment when he must know the truth should not be delayed. Yet it is hard to give anyone pain."

Checking her horse, she rode at a slower pace, and Herbert Archer speedily gained upon her. As he reached the aborigine, leaning forward, he slipped some silver in bis hand. "Friend Jeck," he said. "I wish to speak with your young mistress—you understand you can drop a little back, I will be her escort, and while I am near you may be sure no harm shall overtake her." "A'right. Misser Archer. Jeck unnerstan pertly," grinned the Australian, as he pocketed the coins "Jeck not inrupt."

Herbert Archer, with a nod of approval. galloped on. "Jeck thought it strange missie should ride off d'rectly handsome Misjer Archer put.

1

"01

nose, in the ftatipn.

Continued on Third Page.

[From the Now Haven Register.]

CELERY

AS A REMEDY FOR NERYOI DISEASKS.

WHAT THK MEDICAL I'Rflt MOX SAY ABOl'T IT, A.\l T» tiVOD KESl'l, ATTEJK t»I Xt-

ITS I'SE.

HEADACHE, \El*IIAL(IA, Xt

VOI SXESS,

Ax\D DIKl'El'SIA.

"DR. BENSON'S preparation of Celery Chamomile for nervous diseases Is tin* important addition made to the niS medldn in the last quarter of a century. J. W. J. Englar.of Baltimore. "Dr. C. W. Benson's Pills, are worth ti weight in gold in nervous and sick hache."—Dr. A. II. Schlichter, of BaMmon "Those Pills are invaluable Sn nervous eases."—Dr. Hammon, of New York. "Ir Bensou's Pills for tlie cure of Ncui area success."—Dr. U. P. lloluian, Chi le burg, Va.

These Pills are a special preparation for the cure of the special diseases as mm and for those diseases they are worthy trial by all intelligent suflerers. They prepared oxpiessly to and will cure sick ache, nervous headache, neuralgia, nm•ess, paralysis sleeplessness and tly.-pti

Price, f»0 cents per box, two for £1, for $2.50 by mail, postapo free. lt W. Uensoii, lialtiniore, Md. Sold In druggists.

$ 5 I $ DR. C. W. BENSON'S

SKIN CURii

Is Warranted to Our«

ECZEMA, TETTERS, HUMORS, INFLAMMATION, MILK CRUST, ALL ROUGH SCALY ERUPTIONS, DIQBA8B8 OF HAIR ANb SCAUP. SCROFULA ULCERS, PIMPLES 1 TENDER ITCHINCSon all partaofu,,, body. It Ei&ko* tho akin white, soft and rn\ removes tun and freclUcs, and la tho EEST to' dressing ia THE WOSI.D. decuiUy )t» two bottlos In one package, oonalaUng cf iiitomrj and oz'cmai tro&tanont. Ali flrat olaoadroOTiaU bavo It. II. par ptw'Xa

& A t, it C. N. OrHtcnton, New York, Is whole* agent for Dr. C. W. Benson's remedies.

MOTHERS

Are you anxious about the precious I committed to your caro? Now tint! the. Summer months are here with all Ihe da gcru of Cholera Morbus, Diarrhea, Hunm Complaints, Flux, etc. The second Hunm with the teething-time to add to our alar As you love and value your child life dot fall to procure now a boltlo of KIN HAKTrt OMfOITft NTKDI' BLACKBRRKY HOOT. It is then sure and certain remedy that is free of opium, or Injurious drugs. It will nass child safely through the season of dmiu Good for a 11 bowel diseased. Adults as ,) children. per l»oltl«.

Bold by all Dealers.

110

sleep ever over missie's orders." "Thank you, Jeck when they nro ready, bring them down to the road by the Seven Trees. If anyone asks you where I am going, say—say, I shall bo back in half an hour." "Yes, missie: Jeck know." "I never felt like this before," reflected Flo, as she hastened to the trees named. "If Herbert thinks of proposing. why cannot I wait and refuse him, as I must? Why do I tremble and feel so nervous? Is it because of my remembrance of Philip this morning? Is it because I know I shall pain auntie? Is it because I do not know my own mind? No. it's not that. I don't know what it is. only that I don't want Herbert to propose to-day. I am weak and nervous, and fear him."

PILL

A DISORDERED LBVE. IS THE BANE

tho present gonoratton. It ia for urtTof this diseoae and its at to net ant Si ^^EADICHE, BIU5V8NE887_DY p::P8iA7C0ystrPAfl0X, PILfiS, etc., th TVTT8 PILL8 liava Raino5~ft worTd-v/i rt putation.~Ko RetnacTy fiaa eveir be Ii ioovered that acta »o gently on li leatlve organs, giving iKbm vigor to •i.illate food. As a natural rosult, jrvous System la~BraoedJ the Mns'tf ir j~Dovolopad. aDd the Body BobuBt.

Ola.ills*

and

Povox

K. RIVAI., iv Planter at Bayou Bora, Li», c., i£y plantation la In a malarial district ipvoral yearn I could not mako bu-lf a Of ijcount of bilious dlaeaaon and chills, 1 i#arly dlacouragcd when I btitfan tho .* JTT'S PIW-.8. Tho moult, wan nmrvo

ny

Inbnroro noon became hoarty acd ro.n tbtl liftvo bad no further trouble.

Titer ollrrrlhc

riitcorrod HTM.CI'T-"

'.in* lilnnd from |iol»oii«oMa iMcuMor* /-MUM- lHO ImnrU to UCT aaturnllj, tfut wliirh BOomTim fieri wll.

Trr thla romrdy fttlrly,on«l you ill ru'Hllhy »l|rr«(l«ii. vltoreu* Hoil* .I'u mood. Mtrunc wwtf •Mound Prirr.MCriila. OIUw.HaWBmyWl., f«.

furrs HAIR D¥l

NN AY HA lit or WTTi*KKn«rhnnK'-L

HI.ACK

by a alnglo application of thin

J'YI

Imparl* a natural color, mid new InNtunifliic hold bv nruKiflats, or

hunt

by exprewj on

or One Dollar. Office, 89 Murray Stroct, Knw

(tmill

Dr. TVTTH

JUAKI'AIj

Information

of ralualu

Mid R+oeipt

be r**E ammlifwtior

LIVE

TARAXIN1

The Great Vegetable Li Cor reef dr. II routnin* no Oilomrl or Mlntrnl kind, it* Mttin Infimliritt in tin central''/ M-tliral I'rlnrlplc of 11j/? Tnrtisirmn or

Dti ndtlion.

TARAXIN

J» a Sp^iflr for all arhlnff Jjcranyetl Llrrr, Itmrrli, fiplrctt or Kidney«.

TARAXINE TARAX1 Cures Liver Complaint in all its

Never fai

to cure Chr Ague. Try

Stages.

TARAXL Cures Dyspepsia lndiyentib

TARAXINE Cures Habitual Constipation.

TARAXIN

It for SaU by all and Medicine Ihralern.

Pricef no Cts. and $1.0 A. KIEFER, Indianapolis,