Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 15, Number 46, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 9 May 1885 — Page 2

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THE MAIL

A PAPER TOR THE PEOPLE?:

1BRRE HAUTE, MAT 9. 1886.

JOonsmenoed in The Mail Deo Sib. Back sambera can be bad on application at pobSeation offlce or pf new* agents.]

Wyllard's Weird.

BY MISS M. E. BRADDON.

yntSor at "Ladjr Aodley'/* Secret," "Aurora Flay*," "Tue Outcast," Ac., it*.

CHAPTBB XXIX. I.A8T LINKS.

Mr. Heatbcote was shown into a room leading out of the ball, the first of a suite el rooms opening one into another in a remote perspective. The doors were •pen, and the visitor could see to the •nd of the vista—the parquetted floors, with the cold light reflected on their polished surface from the high, narrow windows, the sculptured pediments above the doors, the crystal girandoles, the sombre looking pictures, all had an •Id-world air, ana gave the idea of a bouse with strangers visited now and then as a monument, but which bad kag been empty of domestic life and warmth and comfort. The far-off echoes ef his own footsteps startled Heatbcote as be paced the polished floor.

He bid not long to wait. The maitre J' hotel appeared after about tea minutes' interval, evidently astonished at the result of bis missiou. and informed Mr. Heathcote that the baroness would »ee him. '•Madam la Baronne is old and in weak health, monsieur," said the servant, who bad grown old in the service ef his mistress, and who worshiped her.

M1

hope your business with her is not of an agitating kind. She seemed much troubled by your letter. A violent tbock might kill ber." "There will bo no violent shock, my Mend," replied Heatbcote kindly. "I •ball oe obliged to talk to Madam la Baronne of painful memories, but I •ball be careful of ber feelings." "I hope monsieur will pardon me for making the suggestion." "With all my neart."

The old servant led the way up tbe the wide semicircular staircase to a corridor above, and to a suite of rooms over those which Mr. Heatbcote bad seen below. They passed through an anteloom, and tbon entered by a curtained doorway which led into Madam de Mausroix's sitting-room, tbe only room which she had occupied for the last ten years. Tbe salons and music rooms, the library and card room on the lower floor bad remained empty and desolate since ber son's death. Her bedchamber sad dressing room were situated behind this small salon, and another door opened into the suite of apartments which bad been occupied by ber son. These she visited and inspected daily. They were kept in the order in whicb be had left them, on bis last journey to Paris. Not an object, however trifling, bad keen changed.

There were logs burning on the hearth although the first chill winds of Autumn bad not vet been felt but tbe baroness kept a flre in her room all the year found. Tbe cheery blase and a large black poodle of almost super-canine intelligence were her only companions. On an exquisite little buhl table by ber arm chair lay her missal and her "Imiiation of Christ." These two books were her only literature.

Tbe poodle advanced slowly across the Persiau carpet to meet the visitor, and aoadrf a deliberate inspection. Tbe revolt was satisfactory, for he gave three »r four sotemn swings of his leonine tail, and then composed himself in a •lismltled position in front of the flre.

Tbe baronness, who was seated in a tleep and spacious arm chair, acknowledged Heathcote's entrance only by a dignified bend of her head. She was a woman of remarkable appearance even in the seventy-fourth year of her age. She possessed that classio beauty of feature which time cannot take away. No matter that the pale pure skin was faded trout its youthful bloom, that the iiues »f care and thought were drawn do-ply a pen the broad brow, and about tbe melancholy mouth, the outline of the (ace was suoh as a sculptor would have shosen for a Hecuba or a Dido.

She was above the average height of women, and sat erect in her high-backed thsir with a majestic air whicb impressed Edward Heathcote at ouce. Her plainly fashioned black silk gown and India tnuslln flchu recalled Delaroche's famous picture of Marie Antoinette, and her cast of countenance in somewise resembled that of the martyred queen. But the features were more perfect in their harmony—the outline was more statuesque. In a word, the baroness bad baen lovelier than the queen.

She motioned Mr. Heathcote to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "You are interested in tracing the murderer of my son," she said. "That In Strang®—after ten years—and you an Kaglisbman What concern can "yon have in tbe fate of thnt man f"

There was the faintest quiver iu her voice as she spoke of her son, otherwise ber tones were clear and self-possessed her large, dark eyes contemplated the •tranger with calmest scrutiny. "That is In somewise my secret, mad»m," replied Heathcote. "I will be as frank with you as I can, but there are motives which I must keep to myself wntil this investigation of mine has come to an end until I can tell you that I bave found the murderer of Marie Prevol that I have proof positive of his guilt.' "And then, monsieur? What then?" asked the baroness.

Madam, it is perhaps you who should he the arbiter of the murderer's fate, in the event of such evidence as may be mnclusire to you and me, being also strouK enough to insure his conviction by a French jury. French juries are so merciful, madam, and your judges so lull of sentiment. They would perhaps regard the death of those two young people—slain in the very flower of their pouth—as an outbreak of jealeus feeing for which the murderer was to be pitied rather than punished. The law )s always kind to tbe sbedders of blood. His tbe thief who steals a parse, or tbe journalist who by so me carelessly edited paragraph wounds the fine feelings of our aristocracy—it is for such as these that assail character there is no mercy. Bat in the event of my being able to find the assassin and to furnish conclusive evidence of bia guilt, what would be your line of conduct, madam?*' 'the dowager was slow to reply. She waited with fixed brows, meditative, absorbed for some moments. "There was a time,** abe said at last, "when I should have been quick to rep)v to *n/»h it onewtirm—wben I thirsted fit tbe blood of my no* mnrder. Yes,

I

sfeea mj parcbed lips loosed to drink a/ biood aa tbo savage 7aps tbe

stream of his foe. But years have worked their chastening influence— years given up to religious exercises, mark you, monsieur, not wasted upon the frivolities of this world. I have sought for consolation from tbe carnal sources. Pleasure bas never crossed the threshold of ray bouse since my son's corpse was carried in at my door. Some people try to forget their griefs they steep themselves in tbe banalities of this life they shut tbeir eyes sgainst the agony of loss. I am not one of those. I have nursed my sorrow, lived with it, lived upon it, until looking back it seems to me that eveu in tnese long, slow years of mourning I have not been actually separated from my dead son. In my prayers, in me thoughts, in my waking and sleeping, his image has been ever present, the most precious part of my existence. 1 believe that he is in heaven that such prayers as have been breathed for him, together with the services of tbe churcn, must have shortened bis time in purgatory that bis purified soul is at rest tn that blessed home where I hope some day to rejoin him Confession, penance, mortifications of all kinds have subjugated the natural evil in my* character, monsieur. My cry for vengence nas long been dumb, If that cruel murderer yet lives, I hope that he may be brought by suffering to repentance. 1 do not hunger for his death."

There was such an air of lofty feeling, such absolute truth in tbe tone and manner of Madam de Maucroix, that Heatbcote could not help but admire tbe cold serenity of grief. "He has brought my gray hairs in sorrow to tbe grave," said the baroness, softly, "but have been taugbt to pity ail sinners, as our (Savior pitied the worst and vilest, with inexhaustible compassion." "..ladam, if you who so loved your son can be merciful there is uo oae living who bas a right to exact the murderer's blood. And now forgive me if I venture to question you about that sad story. For the last month 1 have devoted myself to this cace. I have slowly put together the links of a chain ol evidence until there id but little wanting to complete the circle. Your knowledge may furnish me with those missing links. Tell me in the first place whether you believe—and have always believed —that tbe man called Georges was the murderer of your son." "1 hav9 never doubted bis guilt. There was no one else, no one whom my boy had ever offended. Remember monsieu, he was but three and twenty years of age, amiable, generous, accomplished, beloved by all who knew bim. He bad not an enemy except tbe man whose jealousy be had arousal." "Did he know the man Georges?" "Unhappy,yes. Had he never known Georges he would never have fallen in love with Mademoiselle Prevol. Georges was an intimate friend of an artist whom my son bad patronized a remarkably clever painter, who twelve or thirteen years sgo promised to become famous, but who never fulfilled that promise. My boy sat to this Monsieur Tillett for a half-length portrait—the man had a genius for portraits—and Tillet introduced him to the Bohemain circle in which Georges was living. It was a very small circle, consisting of about half a dozen men in all, mostly journalists and painters. Georges appeared to have a likitag for my soTi, his youth and freshness interested bim, be said, in a world where everybody was blase. He invited him to little suppers of three or four inmates, at which Marie Prevol was present. From that hour my son's head was turned. He fell passionately in love with this actress. He thought of her by day and night, abandoned himself to his idolatry, desired ardently to make her bis

Ife" "He did not believe that she was married to Georges "That was bis difficulty. In bis love and reverence for ber he could not endure to think of her in a degraded position, yet if she were anything more than the mistress of Georges my son could never hope to win her as bis wife. In his mad, headstrong love for ber be was ready to forgive her past career to redeem her from her degraded position and make her the Baroness de Maucroix. He, who had been educated in the pride of race as in the gospel, was willing to marry an actress with a tarnished characterl" 'Did he make you the confidante of his passion, madam?" "For some time he kept bis secret from me, but I knew that he was unhappy, and I knew that there was only one

Kind

of grief possible in suoh a life

as his, where nature and fortune had been alike lavished of their gifts. He had been my companion and adviser from the day of my widowhood, and we were nearer and deader to each other and more in each other's confidence than mothers and sous usually are. More than once I had entreated fiim to tell me the nature of bis trouble, to let me help bim if that were possible and be had told me that there was no one but himself who could help bim In the great cricis of his life. 'I must be either the happiest or most miserable of men,' he Said. But one night I went into his room and found him ill, feverish, in a half delirious sta e, raving about Marie Prevol. Tbls broke the ice, and during the brief illness that followed—the effect of cold, fatigue, excitement and late hours—I obtained his confidence. He told me the whole story of his love for this beautiful actress how at their firat meeting he had been enslaved by ber exquisite lovelluess, her indescribable charm of tnanuer. He protested that ber nature was purity itself, despite her false position. She was the victim of circumstances. And then he told me that Georges spoke of her as bis wife, treated her with a respect rarely shown to women of light character—and this thought that his idol was another man's wife filled my unhappy son with despair." "You warned him of the danger of position, no doubt, madam "Not once only, but again and again. With all the ferver of a mother's prayers did I Implore him to escape from his fatal entanglement. I urged him to travel, to go to Spain, Italy, Africa-

Algiers was at that time a favorite resort for men of fashion—anywhere so long as he withdrew himself from tbe fascination which could end only in ruin. But it was in vain that I pleaded. Passion was stronger than common sense, duty or religion. He was caught on a wheel frem which would not even try to extricate himself." "And your affection could do nothing "Nothing. From that time my son was loet to me. He shrank from con fiding in me, not because I bad been severe—never had I breathed one nocharitable word against tbe woman be loved. His love made ber sacred to me: bnt I bad spoken the words of common sense. I bad tried to stand between him and bis own folly. That waa enough. He loved bis madness better than be loved me, be who bad been until that time almost an adoring aim. When tbe time came for as to come be re for tbe

Autumn be refused to leave Paria, and I waa too anxiona to allow bim to remain there alone. I stayed at oar home in

TERRE TTATTTB SATURDAY iTMlKS MAIL

tbe Rue de 1'Uniyeraite where my son had bis apartments, his private keys and private staircase, by which be could come in at any hour without his movements being known to the household. I hardly know how he lived or what he did during those long days of July and August, while all our circle of acquaintances were away by the sea or in the mountains, and while we seemed to be alone in a deserted city. Several of tbe theatres were closed duriqft those months, but the Porte St. Martin had made a great sucoess with a fairy piece, and kept open for the strangers who filled Paris. "I believe that my son went every night to tbe theater, that he saw Mademoiselle Prevol at every opportunity, and that his only motive in life was his love for her. For me the days went by in dull monotony. A presentiment of evil oppressed me, waaihg or sleeping hung over me like a cloud. Long before tbe coming of the calamity 1 felt the agony of an inevitable grief, knew not what form my misery would take, but 1 knew that my boy was doomed. When they brought home his bleeding corpse in the summer evening, fouf and twenty hours after the murder, I met tbe messenger of evil as one preared for tbe worst. I had lost hi long before his death."

She spoke with supreme composure. She had familarized herself with her sorrow, lived with it, cherished it, until grief bad lost its power to agitate. Not a tone faltered as she spoke of that tragical past. Her countenance was as calm as marble. Every line in the noble face spoke of a settled sorrow, every line had become unalterable as the lines of a statue. "You say, madam, that the painter, Monsieur Tillet, was upon intimate terms with Georges," said Heathcote. "Is this Monsieur Tillet still living?" "I believe so. I never beard of his death. He has clever sons whose names are before tbe public. I have heard people mention them, though I have never seen their works. My knowledge of secular art and literature ceased ten years ago." "I Bhould be very glad to find Monsieur Tillet," said Heatbcote. "He is the very man I want to discover—a man whose pencil could recall for me the face of the missing Georges. You say, madam, that be was an intimate friend of Georges, and that he was a clever portrait painter. Such a man would not have forgotten his friend's face." "If you knew what Georges was like, do you suppose you could find him?" asked the baroness, without eagerness, but with a grave intensity, whicb accentuated tbe severe lines of her countenance. "Yes," replied Heathcote. "I believe that in four and twenty hours I could lay my band on tbe assassin's shoulder and say: 'Thou art the man.'

In four and twenty hours. There is a distance, then, between vou. The man suspect is not in Paris."

No, he is not in Paris." And if, by means of Monsieur Tillet's art, you are able to assure yourself of his identity, how will you deal with him? Would you deliver him up to justice?" "Ah, madam, who knows? Our great poet has said that there is a divinity whicb shapes our ends—not as we have planned them. If the assassin of your son is the man I believe him to be, he is already punished. He isa doomed man. Joy and hope and comfort are dead for him. The criminal court and the guillotine could be no harder ordeal than the ain of bis daily life. If he is guilty eaven has not been blind to bis sin. The Eternal Doomsman has pronounced his sentence."

A faint flush illuminated Ihe settled pallor of Madam de Maucroix's countenance, alight sparkled in her eyes. "I knew that he would not escape," she said, in a low voice.

uHeaven

is

jUBt." "If yon will kindly give me Monsieur lilletrs address, madam, I should ,be Haanlo tell you an address of ten

deeply obliged. "I can only tell you an address of ten years ago. in the Rue Saint Guillaume. He was then in tbe flush of success, and I have heard my son say that he bad a handsome apartment. Where he may live now in nls decadence I know not. But his sons are known, and you will have no difficulty in getting information." "I apprehend not, madam. And now, if you will permit me, I would ask one more question." "As many as you please, monsieur." "Have you in your possession any scrap of Georges' writing—any note, however brief?" "No. There was no such thing found among my boy's effects. The police requested that such a letter or letters should be looked for. They, tooj were anxious to procure a specimen of the suspected man's writing's but, although I looked carefully through all my son's apers, I discovered no such letter, here were two or three notes from Tillet conveying invitations from Georges, but there was no direct communication from the man himself." "He was doubtless a man who had taken the old saying to heart," said Heathcote. 'Litera scripts manet.' I have to thank you, madam, for your gracious reception, and, above all, for your candor."

Monsieur Tillet lived then

In a life like mine, monsieur, there is no room for untruthfulness or hypocrisy. My existence moves in too narrow a circle. I have no interest outside my son's grave and my own hope of salvation. Perhaps, before you leave this house, you would like to see the apartments in which Maxime lived. They have been kept just as he left them when he went bacs to Paris after the shooting season."

I should like much to see them," said Heathcote, standing hat in hand before tbe baroness.

It seemed to him that she had a melancholy pleasure in dwelling on the image of ber murdered son that it would gratify her to show the rooms which he had inhabited, even to a stranger. "The baroness rose, a tall, erect figure, dignified and gracefal in advancea age as she had been in the bloom of her beauty, when Charles X. was king. She moved with slow and stately steps towards the door at the end of her saloon, and led tbe way into the adjoining room.

It was a large room, richly furnished, and full of such luxuries aa a young man loves. Dwarf bookcases lined tbe four aides of tbe room. On one aide, above the array of richly bound volumes, appeared a costly collection of arms, both modern and antique. Tbe fireplace waa a kind of alcove, fnrniahed with luxurious seats, upholstered in copper red velvet. Old tapeatry, old miniatures, brooses, caries of all kinds filled tbe room with endless variety of form and color. A tapestry curtain screened the door of tbe adjoining bed chamber Tbe baroness drew aside tbe heavy tapestry with ber wasted hand, and led tbe stranger into the room where ber son bad slept through so many peaceful nights in bia happy youth.

A carved Ivory crucifix of large chief d'esuvre, yellow with at bang over tbe pillow on which th yo«og bead had so often slumbers'* Tlte attenuated form of tbe Bedea

(iabowed

a palid figure against tbe olive velvet draperies of the bed. Heathcote observed that the Perisian rug beside the bed was worn in the centre as if with much use, and he could guess whose knees had left the trace of peaceful hours upon the fabric as he saw the eyes of the dowager fixed upon that pale figure of her martyred Saviour. "1 have lived half my days for the last ten yeara in this room," she said quietly. "I hope to die here. If I have sense and knowledge left me, I shall creep here when I feel that my last hour has come.

Over the mantelpiece hung Maxime de Maucroix's portrait, the picture of a bright young face, perfect in form and coloring, but most beautiful on account of tbe look of hope and gladness that Bhone in the sunny eyes, tbe frank, clear outlook of an untainted soul. Heathcote oould understand the fascination exercised over a woman like Marie Prevol by such a man as this, with all the adjuncts of rank, talent, wealth and happiness.

They went back to the baroness's salon, and Heatbcote took his leave, to return to Rouen, where he stayed the night. He went back to Paris next day, and found Miss Meyerstein's telegram, and with it Hllde's long and explanatory letter. The girl expressed herself so temperately, with such firm resolve, such generous feeling, that her brother could not find it in his heart to be angry with her for what she had done. He had never desired her marriage with Bothwell Grahame he desired it least of all now. Wedding-bells would have been indeed out of tune with the dark purpose for which he was working. He had yielded at Dora Wyllard's entreaty he bad yielded because his sister's happiness had seemed to be at stake. But now that she had of ber own accord relinquished her lover, he was not inclined to interfere with her decision.

Nor was he alarmed at Miss Meyerstein's telegram, informing him of Hil da's departure in the early morning. His faith in his sister's common sense and seriousness was the strongest. The tone of her letter was not that of a girl who was bent upon any wild or perilous course of action. He felt assured that she would do nothing to bring discredit upon ber name or her family, and that if it pleased her to disappear for a while, so as to give her lover the opportunity of jilting her in a gentlemanlike manner, she might be safely intrusted with the management of her own life.

She was well provided with money, having tbe check which her brother had sent her a few days before ber flight. There was therefore no ground for uneasiness at tbe idea of her helplessness among strangers. A gill of nineteen, sensibly brought up, and with strong self-respect, and £260 in ber possession, could hardlycome to grief anywhere. "I wish she bad taken her maid with her," thought Heatbcote, and this was almost his only regret in the matter.

For not a moment did he doubt that Bothwell would take advantage of his recovered liberty and go back to his old love. Hilda had dwelt in her letter upon Lady Valeria's grace and distinction, ber fortune and the position to which she could raise her busband. Edward Heathcote did not give Bothwell credit for tbe strength of mind which could resist such temptations. A weak, yielding nature, a man open to the nearest influence. That was how he judged Bothwell Grahame.

He remembered tbe young man's conduct at the inquest, his resolute refusal to say what he bad done with his time in Plymouth, rather than bring Lady Valeria's name before the public. That dogged loyalty bad argued a guilty love ana could Heatbcote doubt that when called upon to choose between the old love and all its surrounding advantages and tbe new love, with its very modest expectations, Bothwell would gladly return to bis old allegiance

Assurred of this, Heathcote was content thst his sister should live down her sorrow after her own fashion. Better, he thought, that she should take her own way of bearing her trouble, just as he himself bad done in tbe days long gone, when the light of his life had been suddenly extinguished. It was not in sluggish repose that he had sought the cure for his grief, but in work and in movement from place to place. He remembered Hilda's often expressed desire to study at one of tbe great musical academies of the continent, and he thought it very likely she had gone to Florence or Milan. He bad seen Mademoiselle Duprez and Hilda putting their heads together, and hear the little woman protest that such a voice as Hilda's ought to be trained under an Italian sky. He could read some such purpose aa this between the lines of his sister's letter. 1 bis being so, be was content to let things take their course, more especially as his own mind was full of another subject, and his own life was devoted to another purpose than running after a fugitive sister. He wrote a reassuring letter to poor Miss Meyerstein, and he waited patiently for further tidings from Hilda.

His first business after bis return to Paris was to find Eugene Tillett, tbe portrait painter. He bad noticed the signature of Tillet on some of the illustrations iu tbe Petit Journal, and be inquired at tbe office of that paper for the artist's address, and for other information respecting him. He was told that Monsieur Tillett lived in tbe Rue du Bac, with his father and mother, and that he was one of a numerous family, all artistic. His tather was Eugene Tillet, who bad once been a fashionable portrait painter, but who bad dropped out of tbe race and was almost entirely dependent on tbe industry of his sons and daughters.

This made things easy enough, it would seem but Heathcote remembered his failure with Sigismund Trottier, and be feared that in Eugene Tillett be mighf perhaps encounter the same loyal rd for an unfortunate friend. Again Tillett might have been warned by Trottier, and might be on his guard against any act which could betray the assassin whom he had once reckoned amongst his friends.

It was certain that the painter would remember his friend's face, it was likely that he had some likeness of the missing man in his sketch book. He was out-at-elbows, idle, a man content to live luxuriously on the labors of others. Such a man would be peculiarly open to temptation. He had begun with brilliant successes, had ended in failnre and obscurity. Such a man must have Buffered all tbe acutest agonies of wounded vanity, and he wonld be therefore easily moved by praise*

Arguing tbas with himself during his walk to tbe Roe du Bac, Mr. Heatbcote arranged bis coarse of action. He would approach Monsieur Tillett as an- amateur. a collector of modern art, and wonld offer to purchase some of his sketches. This would lead naturally to an inspection of old sketch-books, and to confidence of various kinds from tbe painter.

As a lawyer and a man of tbe world Edward Heatbcote considered himself equal to tbe occasion.

It waa three o'clock in tbe afternoon when be rang the bell on tbe second floor of tbe boose over tbe glover's. Tbe bonne who answered bia summons in­

formed him that Monsieur Tillet, pere, was at borne. Everybody else was out. The cidevant portrait painter was smokthe pipe of peace by the family hearth, a human monument of departed ambitions, bright hopes that had melted into darkness softly and slowly like the red light of a fusee.

He yawned as he rose to teceive his visitor. He stood in front of the hesrt h, tall, long-limbed, slouching, slovenly, but with a countenance that still showed traces of intellectual power, despite the evident decadence, physical and mental, of the man. His complexion bsd the unhealthy pallor which indicates a life spent within four walls snd already that pallor was assuming the sickly greenish hue of the absinthe drinker. "I have to apologize for intruding upon you without any introduction, Monsieur Tillet," began Heathcote, taking the seat to which tbe painter motioned bim, "but although I have neither c»rd nor letter, I do not coboe to ypu entirely as a stranger. 1 was yesterday with Madam la Baronne de Maucroix, a lady whom you must remember, as ber son was once your friend." "Madam de Maucroix, poor soul," muttered the painter, "1 am not likely to forget her. I believe that portrait of mine has been of more comfort to her than anything else in the world since her son's unhappy death." "It is a remarkable portrait," said Heathcote with enthusiasm.

He was careful to show qeither interest nor curiosity about tbe circumstances of Maucroix's death. He was there in character of an amateur, interested solely in art. "It is one of the finest pictures I ever saw," he went on. "Neither Reynelds nor Qainsborough ever painted anything better." "Monsieur is too good. Your English painters have produced some very fine portraits. There are heads of Gainsborough and Reynolds whicb leave very little to be desiied though the treatment of tbe

armB

and hands is some­

times deplorably flimsy. Yeur others have not the realistic force of the Paris school. Your Millais has tremendous brio, but he paints with a butter-knife. Your Leigbton has grace, and a keen feeling for beauty, but be Is cold and shadowy. So you saw my portrait of poor de Maucroix Yes, I think it was in my best manner, but it was in tbe portraiture of women that I was seen at my best. I have been told by two partial judges tbat the liead over the escritoire yonder is worthy of Titian." "It is an excellent piece of color," answered Heatbcote, raising to scrutinize the unfinished duchess. "I was a genius when I painted that picture," said Tillet, with a moody look, "but it is all past and done with. I am glad to think you appreciated my portrait of the Baron de Maucroix, a splendid subject, a fine young fellow. May I ask the name of my gracious admirer "My name is Heathcote,"said the visitor, laying bis card upon tbe table in front of Monsieur Tillet.

The painter stared at him with a look of extreme surprise. "Heathcote," he repeated, and then examined the card. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

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A WEALTHY FARMER'S Reliable Testimony.

Take special note of tbe following history of a v«-ry interesting case. Near the thriving village of Dundee, a few miles west of that queen of the lakes of oeatral New York, Seneca, lives Mr. Daniel Bupplee, a gentleman of about 70 yeara. Mr. Supplee owns a very large, and highly cultivated farm, which has for many years had the reputation of being the best farm in all that section. Every crop he plants seems to thrive, and his advise is much to younger and less experienced farmers. "About two years ago," Mr Supplee writes, "I suffered from a very severe attack of Diabetes. It reduced me in flesh so that I was only skin and bones, and my skin was shrivelled and wrinkltd badly, my Urine contained s-uch a rge percentate of sugar that when it was spilled the sugar wonld crystallize no as to make a coating plainly visible. My life was despaired of by my family and physicians. Commenced using HITNT%[Kidney and Liver]

RKMKDT

at this stage of my sickness, and

I improved steadily and was cured, and an now able to agaia personally superintend tbe management of my extensive farminr operations. HUNT'S [Kidney and Liver] RKMKDY is a grand medicine for Diabetes and all Kidney Troubles."

A gentleman hearing these facts and wishing to know further of the matter for himself, wrote to Mr. C. P. McLean, a large Dry Goods Merchant and Grocer, of Dundee, and a man of great integrity and worth, ask lac for lnfoimation in the matter. He receivea the following reply.

Dundee, N. Y., Jan. 8d. *6.

Dear Sir: Yours of 2d. inst. at hand this morning. I would say that I think the use of HUNT'S [Kidney and Liver] RKMEDT la Mr. Dan'l 8upplee's case certainly saved hla life. He was going down very fast previous to its use, and began to show an improvement soon after he began to take the remedy. Mr. W. B. Wightman, Wholesale Grocer, Providence, R. I., Is also knowing to alt the facts in Mr. Supplee*s case.

Yours truly, C. H. McLEAN.

WEST 8HOBK R. R„ CONDUCTOR. New York, Jan. 23,1886. HUNT'S REMEDY CO.,

Gentlemen:— Having been afflicted with a severe attack of Kidney trouble, which disabled me from my business. 1 was persuaded by a friend on the train to try HUNT'S [Kidney and Llverl REMEDY, as he recommended it in the highest possible terms as a sure cure for Kidney Diseases and all troubles of the Urinary Organs. I began to im-

fng the Remedy and it has cured me, besides as 1 believe saving me from a long sickness. I have frequently recommended HUNT'S and Llverl RKMKDY to my afflicted nd its use lias always resulted in restoring them rapidly to health. I deem it a duty as well as"a privilege to recommend so good nnd reliable a medlclneas I have proved HUNT'S [Kidney and Liver] RKMKDY to be.

Yours. W. W. C. MEREDTH, Conductor, N. Y. W. 8. R. K.

HE

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