Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 40, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 26 March 1887 — Page 2

The poem in which Shirley's heart was bound up had to be put aside. At times she wrote brief bits of verse as of old, but not often. There was no money in poetry.

Money the Carstones must have. Shirley wrote short essays and sketches, and got jiaid for them. So thoroughly were the real and tho ideal blended in her nature that her literary work was pointed especially with strong, practical sense. In truth, she caught the idea] and mode it the real. That was her way in all tilings.

She hu/1 no extraordinary and romantic difficulties in getting modest newspaper employment. Her power was recognized there from the flrst. That much in her life at least was easy. But her existence had fallen into such a humdrum rut that she sighed for change day by day. She was the came strong, bright ppii it as of old, ever ready for what her hand found to do. But her life seemed to her to be wearing itself out, like a mill wheel that turns around and around in one spot. She felt it sadly.

One morning, at the beginning of her vacation, Percy brought her a letter from the postoffice. It was from tho editor of The Morning Herald, for which she wrote. The letter was on answer to her silent thought. It read: Dear Miss Carstone:

The Paycho-physikethicological association are to hold a three weeks' convention away off in l^angham. Thoy meet day after tomorrow. It [a found advisable to print a report of their wisdom in The Morning Herald. Will you go to Langliam and report the thing for us, and can you start at once!

Now at Langham she had her time to herself. She had nothing to do but write, except to listen. For Shirley, listening was easy, though it is not so for everybody. She felicitated herself.

Sho made herself comfortable. She had a pleasant room on the ground floor of a cottage overlooking a little lake. All was clean and rural and sweet, as Shirley loved to have it.

Her work was not so difficult either, for brain and fingers had been trained to her task.

There was one place where sho liked best to write. That was in a corner of the grounds, out under tho trees. It was a half hidden nook, where a little table was, and a rustic •eat Hither Shirley hied every afternoon, and put the finishing touches ou her manuscript*.

It was midsummer. Sometimes between tho tremendous deliberations of the institute and tho thermometer the day was very hot Tho Institute kindly accepted the aid of the thermometer in making things hot. It fell on such an afternoon as this that Shirley wore a pretty white dress out to her favorite corner under the trees. Shirley liked white drosses. As she went she stole a red rose from a bush beside the walk and fastened it in hor hair. Our girl was very beautiful

A gentleman who had strolled out alone in the grounds, and h&ppenod to sco her sitting there thought so. lie was a handsome, distinguished looking man, with brilliant, dark gray eye*. Ills face was a masterful one. It bore tho stamp of thought, experience and intellect.

He saw the lady sitting there, with the whit* dress, the red rose fastened in her crown of lii?lit brown hair. Sho did not perceive him. She had finished her writing. She threw her arm, the pencil still in her fingers, carelessly along the twisted back of the rustic •eat. Her head was raised and turned slightly to one side. The regal pose, the noble profile, the exquisite rose-tinted check were very striking.

Tho man who stood there spell bound, had he ever seen that face and figure, in just such a pose, the whit» dress, the red rcwo and the fair halrf Oh, heaven! There came a sodden physical movement about his heart, as if it would break from hit breast He placed his hand against a tree to steady himself. He needed something to hold fast by. And yet It had been six yeaiwl

Well, he would not startle her if be could help it He crackled a dead branch to make some sound, ami kept his face half hidden. The lady heard the noise, and looked about She saw a nsanV figure and a half face«, Tbe man watched her In side glances. The hce, the outlines took for her a look of something well known ami loved long ago. He turned now and approocbed hrr slowly. Once more, as once in the past, the blood forsook her face and settled bade around her heart. Then it came again in great waves and surges to her face. The grief, the care, "the weariness of six year* rolled away as in a cloud, and left hear sitting under the trees with a white dross on and a red rose in her hair, and the mister leaning over the rustic seat beside her.

A strong, shapely hand touched her extended arm, a jmir of stariike eyes looked intensely down once more into hers. Oh! it was the same, that face with tbe sweet, half veOed smile she knew so well, the deep, mel

si#

AN ORIGINAL COPYRIGHTED STORY.

Shirley Carstone.

W By ELIZA ARCHAED.

[Copyrighted by the American Press Association.]

CHAPTER XII. A FACE IN THE GLASS. 'F.

Shirloy was 22. For six years she bad been teacher of the Linwood scliooL That was something. Bat she had adopted other means to help on the fortunes of the Carstone family.

It may or may not be credit to a woman to write for newspapers. It depends on what she writes.

LD. MOUSING HERALD.

P. 8.—The State insane asylum is at Langham. If soino of the inside lunatics escape and get mixed with the outside lunes and go to speech making, it will mako the convention livelier, but the proceedings will not be any more difficult to understand.

To which sho answered: I will go, and I can start at once. SHIRLEY CARSTONE. That afternoon she sped away from Chesterton on tho wings of steam. It was the first time she had boen away from home since the death of her father, six years bofore. The frettings of her mother, the troublesome, though well beloved children, the wearing, petty cares indoors and out that harrowed her without ceasing at home, were all left behind. Shirley was happy.

Evon the music mad young lady, who sat behind hor and trilled to herself for sixty miles out, did not annoy her.

She felt like a bird out of a cage. The not being appealed to a hundred times a day, the not having to plan aud decide everything for everybody, gave hor an elasticity of spirit that she had not kuown for many a day. She likened horself to Christian in "Pilgrim's Progress" when tho load slipped off his back.

She had a souse of freedom about her work, too, that wa^ very grateful. Hitherto what •he wrote had to be done in time snatched from her rest, and at odd minutes between other duties. It was what she had been about evenings, when hor mother had complained that she did not look after the boys.

low voice, calling her as of old, "Shirley!" The u: verse seemed whirling around, with h*r Shirley Carstone, for its pivotal point She answered, faintly: "Mr. Morrison!"

He came and sat down beside her. Sbe tried to think of something to say. She did say: "I didn't think you would have known me, Mr. Morrison.

Por answer he quoted softly: "I count myself in nothing else so happy. As in a soul remembering my good friends." Then he spoke easily and lightly: "What in the world are you doing here, Shirley'/"

Sbe smiled, With the old gleam of fun in her eyes. "I am reporting the Psycho-pnysikethico-

logical institute for The Morning Herald." "Don't you think you arc a little bit crazyr "I'm not sure. But if I bo I, which I think I be, then I'm sure some o^( members of that institution are." rA, 4 Jy-^4

What do they do!" "Ob, they go mooning about over the universal everywhere, and grabble after tbe infinite."

He smiled with amusement "Can you understand them," he said. "Well, sometimes I get tangled up between tbe actuality of the present and tho reality of the possible. But that's all a joke compared to the fundamental archetypes of sociology. That's what really floors me, you know. They just pour out their souls upon the fundamental archetypes of sociology." "Well, don't stop 'emI" "I don't intend to. But I would like to choke off their blessed bosh, now and then, if I could. The fun of it is, they fancy they understand one another. If you outside, vox populi, don't understand, then BO much tbe worse for you!"

He laughed again, but said nothing."" It was joy and perfect peace only to be near her, to hear her voice. It seemed to be a relief from embarrassment for her to run on. She asked him: "Do you mean to say you are not here to attend the Psycho-physikethicological institute?"

Ho seemed a little confused. *,« "No, no," he said "I am only here for two days, on private business. Let me see the report you make, Shirley how long is itr

She smiled merrily and held up the bundle of paper she had covered "How long is it? All day long."

He would not talk of himself. He only said he had been in the west, and had been busy all those years. "Tell me what has happened in Linwood," he said. "I have not a heard a word from it since I left. I thought you would have been married long ago, Shirley."

She looked at him a little reproachfully then suddenly, as the thought of all she had lost since he left her came back, a shadow of griof and pain came over her bright, sweet face. She told him of her father's terrible death, of the loss of her fortune, of how she was in his old place as teacher.

I write tor nowspapers, too," she*

brightening again.

She flushed slightly. "Mother is an invalid," she said. "We need so many things. I must do all I can to got money. I—I have so much to look after. It seems as though I never get time to commence my poem. But I have not given it up, Mr. Morrison. Don't thinkthat"

Her voice quivered a little. The master read and perceived. "I see it all," he said sadly. "You are father and mother and bread winner to them all. I never looked for this for you. My dear girl, my poor Shirley."

He stroked her hair softly, and with infinite tenderness, Mr. Morrison lingered on from day to day. He seemed not to be able to break the light chains that held him there. Tet he appeared restless and ill at ease. He spoke of going from day to day, though he did not go. He was reserved, and kept apart from the rest

But he hovered about Shirley always, not oppressively, but just enough. He wrote half her reports for her. He had the fine graceful tact, tho polished ease of manner of one who knows just what to do in the right place. He knew and met her every little wish, almost before it was formed. He never seemed to be looking for her, but ever his eyes sought hers with messages of courage and sympathy.

Shirley was in a paradise. It was so strangely sweet to her, the lonely girl, to find somebody who thought she needed help and sympathy. It is the doom of those who spend their lives caring for others, that none ever fancy they themselves need to be taken care of.

Little things are much to a woman, very much. It was the first time since her father died that anybody had taken a thought of Shirley happiness and comfort In six years it had occurred to nobody that site had any little wants or withes of her own. Therefore was this human sympathy unspeakably sweet to her.

Tbe world shaking deliberations of the Psyrho-physikethieologiAiM drew to a close. Tho last afternoon these phosphoric intellects so far forgot their mission as to have a picnic. One blushes to record it They amused themselves Many went on boat excursions over tbe lake. "Shirley," said Mr. Morrison, "I want yon to come with roe this evening. This is the last Wear your white dress, too, and pot a rose in your hair. That is bow I wish to remember yon. I am to have you all to myself this evening, mind.*

He led her to the beach and seated her in a little .skiff. He took the oars himself. With a few powerful strokes thoy shot out into the moonlit lake,

have found a place along the lake that I want to show yon," he mid.

Bald,

condense solemn infor

mation from agricultural reports for the readers of The Morning Herald. I can tell you to a dot, too, what effect tho now dog tax law is going to have on the politics of the state." "But why do you not write your poem!"

think it will

please you." In half atvfpor he tied the boatatthesbore in tbe deep hollow of a tiny crescent bay. A duster of beautiful tree* grew then. Near by a brook tumbled over a cliff, and then gathered itself up and went on again into the takA The summer wind rani-monad low among the trees. The miniature waterfall murmurod back in maHa The drop of water made a million white tights in the moonbeams. All waa cool and nwtfuL 8hirtey clasped her hands with delight "How lovely! How lovely this is!" *1 thought yon wookt tike it,* said the master. quietly.

All that afternoon they had been near each other. In conqsany with twoor three of the

TBRHE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MATL.

learned lights, they had gone botanizing, picnicking, n^turalisting, and the Lord knows what It had been, in a way, like the-van-isbea days of linwood, yet different Yes, there was a difference now. little matter was it that they had not been alone. They vrero happier, perhaps, on that account The sweet, subtle sympathy that joined them conld well be left unspoken. The silver line stretched between them, invisible to all but themselves.

They found a seat beneath the beautiful trees. Shirley sat in silence, with bar hands softly clasped in her lap, and looked out at the water and moonlight. "This has been the happiest day of my life," said Mr. Morrison, at length. "And mine, too," replied Shirley, hardly knowing what she said.

He leaned toward her till his head touched the rose in her hair. Was it the wind, or the brook, or what was it that whispered in tones broken and sweet "I fight uo more against the tils I Shirley, my star, my lily I Oh, how I love you!"

But they were a kingly pair, these two sti ong, beautiful ones! Lower and lower the southern moon dipped its my* shimmered across the waterfall, but they did not heed it. At last he arose with a start. "Do you know how late it is, ShirleyF

"No," says Shirley, "and I'm afraid to ask." They enteral the tiny boat hastily. Tho last rays of the southern moon glinted across the whispering waterfall.

In tbe cool night silence they went to Shirley's cottage, they two. Tho swinging lamp yet burned in the 'porch. They passed in through the hallway.

Ji.

SHIRLEY AND THE MASTER.

The room inside was quite deserted. At the threshold Mr. Morrison said good night, with a grave, stately bow. He had taken a step away when Shirley clutched his arm suddenly. "Look there!" she said.

A face was pressed against the glass outside, staring at them with wild, demoniac eyes. It was waxy white and emaciated. In all her life Shirley never again saw a countenance so frightful, so full of devilish malice as that. Sho shuddered from head to foot in spite of herself.

An awful look came into George Morrison's face. It was as if the frost of a thousand years had suddenly entered his heart "I will see what it is at once,,! he said. "It is nothing, don't mind it, Shirley."

He turned and left her with a bound.,

CHAPTER XHL

HE IS MY WIFE."

Vvhatfdidlt mean? The face vanished in an instant At quickly as she could collect her senses, Shirley followed Mr. Morrison out the hallway. She went around in the porch to the window where the face had been. The master was nowhere about No living creature was there. She stepped out upon tho lawn beyond, and peered about under the starlight She saw nothing, heard nothing.

All was night and silence. So still it was out there, so entirely all nature seemed unconscious of anything unusual, that Shirley could almost have believed nothing unusual had happened, and that she had imagined the face in the glass. There was a dim light inside the room, a brighter light outside in the porch. Might not the optical laws of refraction and reflection, aided by a crooked pane of glass, have twisted the imago of some very commonplace object into that distorted, demoniac shape? She had read of such things.

At any rate, Shirley was not one to fret herself unnecessarily. She had had so many real worries in her life that she never went out of her way to hunt up unreal ones. Above all and before all, too, there was the supremo comforting thought, if anything was wrong, he, the master, would set it right He would see that no harm camo to hor.

That was the thought in her mind as she went back inside the cottage, and to her own room.

The room, it will be remembered, was upon the ground floor. The girl sat down beside the low, broad window. She was too restless, too happy to sleep. She said over and again to herself: "Fate has been very good to me, after alL I never believed such joy was to be for me, Shirley Carstone."

Tho master loved ho*. He had told bar BO. That was enough. No vision of guile, of treachery or of trouble crossed her thought Her noble, innocent nature saw no falsenesB, no weakness hi those she loved. She trusted them wholly. Yoa, to the world's raid.

Looking down the valley into the years that were to come, Shirley saw only brightness. Perplexities would come perhaps. Her hands would still bo full of work, that she knew. Nay, as the world went it might be long before be could come and claim her. Sho even thought of that What tbent The master loved her. That knowledge would be a strange, sweet presence that walked beside her day by day to the cnd, turning bei» heavy load into lightness. Sho laughed in the fact of storm, of darkness, of the deadly lightning. The sweet, magic presence that walked evermore beside her would touch them and torn all her life into Woe sky and rose cloud.

And her poemf Tbe intense girl heart gave a glad bound. Half her inspiration hod seemed gone when tho master left her under tbe willows that day long ago. Now it came back. Now sbe would indeed write ber poem. Sbe wotiki prove herself worthy of such a lover. He should be so proud of hor, in the blessed years to come!

Rapt in ber tweet visions Shirley sat there hour after hoar. Morning was at hsxxL The mysteriotss thrill of the coming day quivered in the dark air. A timid bird dar()cd faiatly. The breath of lilies swept in at the open window.

Shirley started up, smiled and threw herself upon ber bed, dressed as sbe was. She bad span her web of thought out for the timet, in five minutes sho was in the land of dreams.

Shirley was a sound sleeper. The r*Airm of "nervous''young lady waa just craning in. Shiriey was not of that kind. Sbe had a clear conscience and a good digestkm, heaven be praised!

Therefore when a human shape trod catlike over the low window sill and into the rcM^stedidix* waken.

The first knowledge Shirley had was an gwfal consciousness that she was dying of suffocation. A great weight was upon her iftrst 'Something was pressed over her mouth and nostrils, stifling her, swift and deadly. She tried to breathe, die Med to cry out In vain. Sbe struggled. She was lapped from bead to foot in some heavy covering that made it impossible for her to use her hands or arms. She fought blindly a moment or two, and then gave over.

Death was almost there, she knew., The master, would hp ever know how she died? In the last gleam of consciousness, a foolish talo of her childhood flashed through her memory. A cat had sat upon a child's breast, it was said, and drawn the breath from its nostrils, and so suffocated it Was it a cat upon her breast?

Then she remembered no more. But just in the nick of time, the instant before it would have been too late forever, a man sprang in at the window. The man was Mr. Morrison. With giant strength he seized the creaturo upon the bed and flung her off. It was a woman, with waxy white face and wild, demoniac eyes. He snatched the pillow and a heavy covering from Shirley's senseless form. He lifted her, ho fanned her with life band, called her his Shirley, his darling, he implored her to speak to him.

The wild woman flew at him like a panther. She tore his face with ber nails. She buried her teeth in his hand to the bona

Once more he mastered her by m«.hi

strength and dragged her away from the bed. Two strong men had followed hm in through tho window. One of them carried a straitjacket He gave her into their hands. It was with difficulty that even they could hold her.

Shirley opened her eyes.' The wild woman saw it, and made as if she would spring at her again. But the two koopers had got her into tho ^traitjacket

Mr. Morrison motioned them to be gone. "Take that devil away," he said, "before I crush the life out of her!"

Tho wild woman snarled at him like a savage beast The keepers forced her out through the doorway. As sho went s{io gave George Morrison a last look of helpless rage, and muttered: "I hate you! And you would marry me!"

Shirley heard her say it She lived over the horror of those few moments in her dreams, sometimes hi after yeai-s, and would waken to find herself standing upright, shrieking frightfully, her brow wet with drops of cold perspiration.

She bad heard the wild woman mutter: "I hate you! And you could marry me!" The master stood still by the door with a deathly pale fa e, and blood dripping from his band. A streak of blood coursed down his cheeks. Shirley turned her eyes on him. Sho was quite in her senses now. "Who is that woman?" she said.

Tho concentrated gall and wormwood of all humanity was in his voice as he answered: "She is my wife!"

Then a fearful silence followed. He broke it "Well, Shirley, you don't congratulate me on my wedded bliss?"

Sbe gavo him a terrible look. "You have deceived me," she said. "I have. It is true I saved your life a moment ago, but that is nothing. I have let you believe a falsehood. And my name is not George Morrison. It is Philip Dumoray. Perhaps you will be interested to know it."

The dare devil of his reckless youth was uppermost in him again now. He strode across and stopped beside her with his white, blood streaked face and wounded hand. He stood so close to her that the blood from his hand dropped and stained the sleeve of her White dress. Sbe shrank from him with horror. He went on. "I have deceived you all along. I am a married man—hushand of the angelic creaturo who so nearly murdered you awhile ago."

The master was the master no longer, not even of himself. A savage oath broke from his lips. Shirley could not speak. She beckoned him feebly to go. He did not heed it, but talked on: "She almost killed me once,' in the some way. They havo had her in the mod house, on tho hill, for nine years. I come here once a year to sco that sho is well treated and wants for nothing. That is what I came here for now Last night she got away. Nobody knew it till you saw her at the window. I gave the alarm and searched for her with two attendants all night after I left you. I was afraid she would do some deviltry. I never thought of harm to you, though, good God!"

Then ho broke into wild anger again. "Go, only go!" said Shirley, faintly. "Well, I wilL But I will como back again." The rose she had worn in her hair lay upon the floor, crushed and trampled. He stooped and picked it up and carried itaway with him.

Was not that a morning for them both, after such an evening? "v

Shirley had only one thought—to get away, and that quickly and forever. A mad desire to fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, where she would see nobody she ever knew above all, where Philip Dumoray would never find her again. That was the only wish she was conscious of.

Tbe work which sbe had come to do was done. The stir and bustle of the morning was on now. All about ber she heard it A train left early which would take her homeward. She was weak and trembling, so that she could scarcely rise, yet she hurried her preparations. Sbe was in feverish haste to be gone. She bad been so happy in that cottage, happier than ever in ber life before. But now it was hateful to her. Only let her go away, away.

It wanted yet an hour till train time when Shirley was ready for ber departure, yet she made haste to be gone. In the cheerless, foggy dawn slio had herself token to the station. How utterly cheerless, how dreary it wasl It was a morning to take the stiffening out of a human being.

"Bttirm"

Shirley waited for the train. Sbe could not restrain ber impatience. Sbe walked uf and dfrw* tbe platform in tbe fog. Sbe shivered with cold, she. the warm blooded, merry Shirley. Her knees trembled beneath her with weeJaut*, but bar will kept ber up. There is nothing so good asastrong wflL

Well, at last, in fifteen minutes it would be train tima. Sbe looked at her watch. It was ray chilly. Sbe dkiiked to gobedr into tbe

little waiting room, ft wasTull of giggling girls, smirking youths and stupid women. In the unhappy, unreasonable mind in which die was, how she hated them!

Nevertheless, she was chilled to the bone. She turned to go inside, and came face to face with Philip Dumoray 1

He had been to the cottage and had followed on after her. His injured hand was bound up and carried in a sling. His torn, disordered clothing had been replaced by a well made toilet He would have been neatly attired if he had dressed himself for the scaffold. There was dandy enough about Philip Dumoray for that His face was still very pale, but firm and composed. He looked reproachfully at Shiriey. "Why did you go away when you knew I wished to see you againl" .-*• "Why did you come here after me when you knew I did not wish to see you?* "I did not know it," he replied, simply. "Then you ought to have known it You saved my life. I ought to thank you for that, I suppose. But 1 don't Life will not be so sweet or pleasant to me hereafter that I should cherish a desperate desire to hang to it through thick and thin." "Shirley," said he, "there is something I have to tell you. It is a wretched story. I ask you to bear with me and listen to it." "I don't wish to hear it," she answered, coldly. rm "But I must tell you," he said. "My train is coining," said Shirley. "There it is at the curve. Good morniug, Mr. Dumoray." 1

He laid his uawounded hand upon ner arm, not very gently, if tho truth must be told. Tho geptle master was not in a gentle mood that morning. "You shall not go until you hear me," he exclaimed. "Shirley, if you don't stop Til" ,'cTv"You'll wliatt" sho retorted. "Shirley, your father was my friend. By the memory of your father, grant mo this ono favor. It is the last request I may ever make of you."

The train stopped, gathered up its passengers, and went on, and Shirley was not among them. She led the way into the railway waiting room. "Well, what is it you wish to say to me?" she asked Her manner was as indifferent as if tho last night had never boon. "I cannot tell you here," he said. "Hero or not at all," she answered.' ""Dont ask me to go back to that wretched houso." "So be it then," ho replied. He had hoped —tho Lord knows what he had hoped. It was truo all was over now, all the possibilities he bad dreamed of in that brief, mad hour of tho night before. Was that a century ago, in some other state of existence?

There was nothing for them now. But if Shu-ley only knew his history, only could understand how he had struggled against fate, sho mi^ht bo not 60 hard. There might bo a littlo less suffering for them both. If he could have hor alone, and tell her, she would be gentler. Nay, he might even hope to be forgiven at last But she had willed it that he should speak to ber here, and speak he would.

So there, in the wretched waiting room, he narrated his miserable story, not abating one jot. He told her of tho fire, of his twin boys, how strangely he had lost them, how he had searched the world over for them. Ho told her, too, of the devilish suspicion that had been set afloat by his wife's mother, and how at last all men turned against him. "Wherever my name was heard," he said, "that vile slander followed me, till it drove me to desperation. I went away where no one knew me. I changed my name, in hope to find some peace. I was wrong. I should have stayed there, in that very spot, and faced my enemies, and lived it down, though I died of starvation." "Yes, that is what you should have done," said Shirley. "Bu£ I did not. There was no one to turn to. I had no friend. I did not know. 1 came to Linwood. In your happy homo I met your father—and j'ou. It was like paradise to mo, after the lifo I had known. I was drawn to you first by your intellectual gifts, greater than I had lelioved could bo in a woman. You liked mo, too, you know that You lingered about me with your light hearted, sunny nature, yoqr sweet, frank ways, month after month. And then before I know it, heaven forgive me! I loved you. IIow I loved you, even then!" "Yet you deceived me," said Shirley, mournfully. "I would have died for yoa and you deceived me." "I could not tell you that horriblo Btory— how could I? If you had known it, you, too, might have turned against me. That was exactly what I could not bear. I read you like an open book, Shirley—you, the soul of purity and truth. You could not have disguised your feelings if you had tried. I road that you wero beginning to care for me. I knew it, and tho knowledge was very sweet to me. Forgive me, Shu-ley, that I tell you of it now." "I can forgive anything in a friend, I think, but want of frankness," die replied in a dull tone.

He winced a little and was silent Presently he went on: "I thought when I came to Linwood that I bad overcomo tho weakness, the pasdonateness of my boyhood. So I had—so it would have been if I bad never seen you. All was under my feet, I thought. But I met yon. Then for the second time in my life Iran away. Only there I was weak only there I feared to ti-ust myself. In all elso I tried to be what you thought me. I suppose a man may be forgiven for being human, Shirley?"

He paused. She did not speak. Sbe was hurt to tbe soul. He continued, speaking in low, harried tone: "Ever since I left you, there is not a day or a night that I have not thought of you. I have dreamed what life might have been to me bad I been free. As it was, yon have been like a star to me. I have been true to to you in every word and thought I have •trivial to keep myself pure and high in thought, to make my life helpful to others. Then, if ever the time was when I should bo free, though it were fifty years, I could look honestly into your dear eyes and tell yon—I have come to lay my heart at your feet And so 1 would have come."

Then there was silence. Nothing broke it save the ticking of the clock in the little station. At last the master said: "I am going now, Shirley. Good-by."

Sbe held out ber hand it was death cold. "I think yoa have broken my heart," sbe said, "bat I forgive yoa."

That was their parting. [ro jas conmrmroj

Tbey strolled alone the broad parade, John Jones and pretty Miss Maria. "Your teeth are awful, John," she said "Why dont yoa buy the beantifler? lee mine! How whlte'YM'tUinj

To polish them with HOZODONT.

Lore Tarns bis Back

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Active, Pushing and Reliable. Cook Bell A Lowry can always be relied upon, not only to carry in stock the best of everything, but to secure the Agency for articles as have well-known merit, and are popular with the people, therebysustaining the reputation of being always enterprising, and ever reliable. Having secured the Agency for the celebrated Dr. King's New Discovery for Consumption, will sell it on a positive guarantee. It will surely cure any and every affection of Throat, Lungs, and Chest, and to show our confidence, we invite you to call and get a Trial Bottle Free. (1)

Wonderful Cures.

W. D. Hoyt A Co., Wholesale and Retail Druggists ofJRome, Qa., say: We have been selling Dr. King's New Discovery, Electric Bitters and Bucklen's Arnica Salve for two years. Have never handled remedies that sell as well, or give such universal satisfaction. There have been some wonderful cures effected by these medicines in this city. Several cases of pronounced Consumption have been entirely cured by use of a few hotties of Dr. King's New Discovery, taken in connection wltn Electric Bitters. We guarantee them always. Sold by Cook Bell A Lowry. (1)

Bucklen's Arnica Salve.

The Best Salve in the world for Cuts, Bruises, Sores. Ulcers, Salt Rheum. Fever Sores, Tetter, Chapped Hands, Chilblains, Corns, and all skin eruptions, and positively cures Piles, or no pay required. It is guaranteed to give perfect satisfaction, or money refunded. 25c. per box. For sale by Cook fc Bell. (tf.)

Combining IKON with PCBE VEGETABLE TONICS, quickly and completely CLEANSES and ENRICHES THE BLOOD. Qnlckem the action of the Liter sad Kidney*. Clears the complexion, makes the akin smooth. It does sot Injure tho teeth, cause headache, or produce conKtlpttlon—ALL OTHER IRON MEDICINES DO. rhyalcUns and Draggiats everjrwhare rooommand it.

OH. N. 8. IUTOOLXS, of Marlon, Mam., MJTI: I meowmond Brown's Iron Bitters as a valuable tonio lor enriohina the blood, and removing all djrapeptto kfmptoms. It doea not nurt tbe teeth."

Da. R. M. DEUXIX. Reynold«, Ind., eaja: "I hiYO prewribed Brown's Iron Bitters in csea of rmemla and blood diseases, also when a tonio waa u.'adod, and it has proved thoroughly satisfactory."

MR. WM. BTUNB, 26 St. Jtnry Ct„ Now Orloano, La., n: Brown's Iron Bitt'in relieved mi in a oass blood poisoning, end 1 heartily commend it to L„ nnedinga blood pur tier. .ilR. W. W.MOKAHAN, VuscamhU Ala., says: "I ''-ve been troubled from childhtxwl with Impure .liiod and erupMon wi my fnoe—two bottles of lwxiwn's Iron Bittern eft^ctod a |erfoct euro, I cannot speak too highly of this valuublo ineUiuine.n Ccnnine has abofeTrad* MaHtrad cmetwd r*d Unas on wrapper.

Take no other.

BROWN'S

M&Uo only bjr

UUOWM C11KM1CAL CO.. IJALTlMOliE, IIA

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A man who has practiced medicine for 40 years ought to know salt from sugar road what he says:

Messrs. F. J. Cheney A Co.—Gentlemen I have been in the general practice of medicine for most 40 years, and would say that In all my practice and experience, have never seen a prescription that I could prescribe with as much confidence of success as I can Hall's Catarrh Cure, manufactured by you. Have prescribed it a great many times and its effect Is wonderful, and would say In conclusion that I have yet to And a case of Catarrh that It would not cure, If they would take it according to directions. Yours truly,

..L:

Toledo, O., Jan. 10, 1887. iwtij

L.L. GOR8UOH, M. D.„. Offlco, 215 Summit HL

We will give $100 for any case of Catarrh that can not be cured with Hall's Catarrh Cure. Tuken Internally.

F. J. CHENEY & CO., Props., Toledo, O. BWSold by Druggists, 76 of*.

-IS

PJ% 3* ,$*S it *v

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Piso's CURB ron CONSUMPTION Is free from opium in any form, sod therefore perfectly safe.

It cannot be asserted that every case of ConsumpUon may be cured by this medicine, but Itls true that thousands of lives will be saved if they de not delay too long.

If you have a Cough without disease of the lungs, so much the better. A few doses are all you need. But If you neglect tills easy means of safety the slight cough may become a serious matter, and several bottles will be required to cure yoa.

Prlcfl, 26 cents. By druggists.

CURE CONSTIPATION.

Tocstfoy iicalih onoshocild havo regular evacuation* every twen four lionrw. The evil*, botk weatnl and pbyaica!, resulting l'rom

HABITUAL CONSTIPATION

are many und serlonw. For the fnrc of till* common trouble. Tntt's Ilver Pills have gained popularity unparalleled. Elegantly augar coated.

SOLD EVERYWHERE.

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