Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 18, Number 11, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 3 September 1887 — Page 7

«1tJi

HE MAI II

[A

PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

Roger Laroque.

Continued from Second page.

^ffbis conversation

and the

decision

of

itc hi an evil moment,

100,000

|?elf in a pit from which there

favoml Iuri«n alone, for

Us

Laden

for sbo Lad

con*

ted, unknown to him, new debt* to the amount of

francs.

For six

months

Sr creditor* had waited peaceably, and then *ey l«s an their demand*, and lately tiicy tormented her beyond measure for the "lenient of their bills. 8he

now

beheld

was no

es-

£«. On the one hand the impatient

threatening to

ered-

go to

Lucien, and on

tbe

Jer bund his righteous anger nml hi* threat fa public- separation. It was years before \k» that she hal rm-t Roger Laroque, then £ttlo more than a boy, and sbo bad lored hiiu

such ardor that she forgot everything -Lucien, children, the world oud oven luxurious toilettes, and her debts as well, lucien de Noirrillo was one of the busiest ryer* of Pari*, and Julia had, therefor*', a iplet® liberty, and frequently went to ^tusuiiicMiU and in society alone, and there bt Laroque, who was barely known to teion, as they had met but onco or twice in jpany.

SBut this lust interview with La*ien on tbo jfbject of the debts, of which he knew as nothing, wus tbo cause of Ilogor Lar j's ra*»plion of a letter from Julia askmz an Important infervlow, at one ot tfw it KtoreH in tbo Louvre, at 3 o'clock. Ally tbo clniii hung heavy on Roger, wbc kw aluouted himself all be possibly could torn hi* wife, so greatly be feared that she light divine something of his old relation* »ith Julia. Julia's lotter was so pressing iat ho did not dare to disregard it, and ht fent to the placo designated, wbero he found hr a prey to poignant anxiety. /"Roger," said she, "if you do not save me I In ItwW"

a

'Koyer. tf yon do not sav* me c.*» lost,' "What hn* happened!" JSlio told him tint which wo know, and a en shohad »lni»'ir«l lu» said: 'Ho you aio in dobt 100,000 francs, Very ell. I will givo them to you, only tliostim is largo for mo tosparo that it will take tuo KjCteeu days at tho least to get it together. |Vlll yonr creditors wait until then!" "I think so, when I tull them tlioy eau have then. But at len.*t tell ino, will it injure to prcMperlty of your business to taro tliis

I will not accept it if it doas." "!). tmuqiill on that HCOIY.V jr"J*idc». Roger, I mi'y accept it as a loan mif ivpny. I will bo wiser lictvaflei*. Since I ivo your love what eLio do I want? Is that

Dt enough to 1111 my life!" fc»ho loft the store first for fenr of obswrvnI jy in crowded placo. Yet, with all her [•milion, a man followed her home, and

ItMi i.ho had gone up stairs to her apftttits h« asked the porter who it was, and ho [sv.cred rvr.dily and uasn»piciou«ly, "Mmo. ^Isoirvilli', ihe lawyer's wife." "i:uvn days lat*r Roger gnro her the :.:\v and she was saved. avo events took place in Franco at this o. War with Prussia was declared, and day Ro :or Luniquti and Luctan, to their bat surprise, found thomsolvcs engage 1 in JP MIIUO regiment, the Sixth cavalry. When pger met Lncien hi* first uiovoiueut was to raw but Lucien bold out his hand joy.llv ai if glail to see hiiu there. jh» life in common, the dangers and 1101'ies surmounted together, tho thousand l»nrul incidents of the campaign, valiantly »:-ne, brought thorn together in spite of »gcr, who felt his conscienco prick him

at

«ry kind word ami every grasp of the hand itHeu gave him.

V'loger

felt every day growing deeper In

.rt a lingular

souse

his

of need of repairing by

[no berote action tho wrong he had done :ri«n, as far

as

It lay in human (lowtw, eveo

his owu bloocL But

Fate

was inflexible

ooe

wkutkd aronmi

saw

ajoon*

day a

l^ounouiauce Roger rw^eired a tpeut ball on 9 heatl, which rendered him iasensiblo.

ihe*n.

who

and

as he fell

blm ttrangtit film ksd Tbe

were

approaching and tb»

[KI to Oy, but Lucteu,

Freach

who was strong,

iwd Roger and laid hiiu acroas his horse. Ltd spun-lug Uk |*xr creature followed his

[nufritaawichlite L\n boor later Rog«r rcgnlaed

and inountixl hie own

ooosrioos

botw,

[iowed tho rwt

whicli

in

had

their

flight Roger wat

ibcr and shamed and

nidi

bis brow* drawn

as

[-1 owe yott ray life. God is my wttaMU 1 stand ready tu do for yon as moch and |ora"

Lucien smiled and reached oot his haad: kuo* yoo ares RoRer. Let assay no mars ptxrn it. This i« common to warfare."

Roger spoke no more* bat grew mars and 'tore neanber and melancholy, but his firieodip tor Locko grew daepor ami greater. I Tb 1st

of Scp:«mbcr oanta.

Sdan eoumMind

|3Ciea

The battle of

wt& dawn. Roger and

wore

in

the beat ot

it, when an etes

irst, crashing both Ud«t legs. Witness this drcodfal wound Roger with his troops er« obliged to leave the bettlXWId «feh the ber roTan««St atewit wild with grist and [orror, and having befor» histyes the yclsr his

dead firknd.

Roger lOd under tbe mnpaii* of

Bskn,

lid fell asleep froca (w%ae and slept vatfl [roning Ml, when ha awoke and thoogfet ot Ucfca. "Boor mend!" said ba "Be dlsd

Kting his duty I mart do miae. I eiB And Lim and bury him there, where ha ML" I He went out of tbe city, tboogfc broken with Lunger and wsarinoa, and with a stick for pport took hi* way back to the battlefield, ifter along starch hs fond him tytag tuna Ibe ground with both legs i—hiJ. Bat 1 .odenVi heart stfil beat faintly la spits of hli |ofTibte wocBda Tbsn Rogw ha^ haga

ti it wars only possible to sav* Mml B» kaard voices and eaOad loodly, and in y^rsach bs rsceirad his answer, and soaa some of the "Red Cross" sockty with a stretcher *.»« When be showed tbam Lorisn thay •aid:

MHa

dying. 1ft is useless to mora him." "But be is not dead." "We cannot sara him. Ho ooe could and there are hundreds of others who are wounded needing us now.*

But Roger supplicated them, and at last they p|mv»l Lncien oa tbe stretcher and took fitm to the surgeons, who looked at him and mid: "It is useless to spend oar time with him, while we might save othen, He has but a few minutes to livf^

Desoerate, Rogef- took his way to a surgeon who lived in tbe city, and by dint of prayers gained permission to bring Laden to his bouse, and though ha also considered the case utterly hopeless, promised to do all ha could in tbe forlorn hope of saving the wounded man. Roger gave tbe doctor bis own and Lucien's address and what money be had, an-JL left. Tbe next morning he was a prisoner and was taken to Coblentz, where ha was kept for two months, when he escaped.

He wrote to tbe doctor, but got no answer, and be tried to get into Paris to sea his wife and child, but uselessly, so he joined the army which was fighting at Loire. Again ha was taken prisoner, oud again escaped. After the commune be returned to Paris, and found bis wifo and child well, though mourning him for dead. At once he telegraphed to Sedan to Dr. Champeaux, who answered: "Noirville out of danger amputated both legs shall accompany him to Paris in a few days."

Soon after this be received a latter from Lucien. "Dear friend," it ran, "I never bopel to sea you again. I am at Rue de Rome, jut too weak yet to venture out Coma, I want to see yoo more than I can say. Your inars than brother, Lucnsw."

To go to Lucien was to sea Julia again, to place himself between her and that poor man, that man to whom ha was bound by the tiei of common danger and comradeship, wham be loved with a lore passing that of women, and who was now chained down forever to his cbsir. What should he do! How escape!

After along struggle with himself he decided to go. "I will see Julia," said be, "and have on explanation. She will understand that there must be nothing mora between us, not even a smile, a look, a clasp of the hand. Wrong as we were before, now it would be a million fold more horrible."

Ha he went to see Lucien. Noirvills was in bis room, and it was Julia who came to meet him. She sprung forward, her hands extended. Almost a year bad passed since she had seen him. Her beauty was even greater, more dazzling than before, prouder and mora imperious. But she loved Roger, and she grew soft and womanly in his presence Roger bowed in respectful silence, not even olToring his hand. '•Roger

I

Roger

I"

she said. "How much I

have thought of you. How much I hare Buttered." She checked herself suddenly at the expression of unutterablo horror depicted on his face. Then he spoke: "Julia, we must bury tho past, and may God pardon us. I am tho friend, the brother of Lucien. Do you understand!"

And whilo tdie shrunk back suppressing her heart's cry for its breaking agony, be went in to Lucien. Ho was lying on a lounge, pale, thin, unrecogiiiitibe and almost without breath. His Iward had grown. Two wooden logs had been adapted to his maimed limbs. When he «aw llognr his face lighted up, and his eyes filled with tears, and tho men embraced with full hearts. "In what a stoto you find jne, Roger," said Lucion, showing his wooden legs. "Dr. Cbnniiwaiix toll mo all, and without you 1 should not bo hero to day, but after all what a poor servico it was." He sighed heavily, then said: "But I am very ungrateful. If I had died what would have becomo of Julia and my children! Alive, even if I cannot plead longer, I can at least iiave an office for consultation, and thus assure them their brand."

When Roger, seeing bow weak he was, wished to retire, Lucien opposed and bade a tcrvnnt call his wife, and she came. "Hero is Roger Ijaroque, whom we have met *s friends before tlw war. I Raved bis life lie saved mine. I lovo him like a brother. Our families from henceforth, I hope, will be but one." Julia bowed without answering. When Roger left sbo accompanied him, and at the moment lie was about to open tbe outer door she seised bis arm with an iron grasp. "So," she said, "you liavo not onp vjprd for me

He pointed silently toward tho room where Lucien lay, then said: "In the name of pity, if not love for him, hush."

But Julia seemed insana Her angor grow beyond Itounds. "It is finished between us, then all ended, forever 1"

Roger, scarcely able to articulate, whlapored hoarsely: "If I knew soma means of effaclag, even at too most cruel sacriflca, the awful remembrance of what oxists between us I would take it at the cost of my life t" "Rogerl Rogcrl" "But," he continued, with profound sadness, "your duty is traced clearly, Julia. Lucien, mutilated, Isolated, needs all your devotion, and so your fault will have been, in time, expiated. For ma, I do not know bow to expiate mine, and most bear its weight toy whole life through."

fmrndim pram lUae^/brfk w4B bs as

"B^er, tioDStlseve sise withoat ooe word of lover* •AdlM, Jafia." "Roger, Roger. 2k Is tna dmp "Yes *rae, so lMtp me God." "Very wall, tibsa. How, llataa to eaa. Roger, 1 kow you. It is my sir asi, sot aqr fault. But if you lsav« aae this way, throw asldsmy loveUlce aa wwartfcy thlag, I will totar pardon jm sod fee day that fortanefalfc heavy apaayoa I shad not bs a akraagar te ile oaaasl*

Tto Be Coo tinned. -,

rSBRB HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL

ELIZABETHAN LOVE 8QNQ.

We ssnsS aet part sa ethers do, Wltk sighs and teats, sa we warn two Though wtth these aatward forms we pari* We keep eadl ether la aur haset. Whst sssrsh has teoad a heiag^ where am not, if that thea ha there! Trae love has wtegs, aad can as soon Survey the world assoa sad nwoa,

Amy.

[M. A. J. Kenyson in the Current.] This life ia Tailed about with mystery. Tbe paat, what a short spaa it is uutil memory is loet in the mists of early childhood! Hie future stretches its veil immediately before us, and between these two, the past, the future, there is little that we fully comprehend.

There is, perhaps, in the varying enigma of most lives a certain period with its accompanying events, about which all other events seem to cluster, from which all other periods receive tone and color and to which they all seem to refer. Suub is one summer in my life and/ the events by which it was attended. It was many years ago. I had just finished my oourse of study at Madam Verner's and returned home, bringing with me, to spend the summer, my dear friend and classmate, Amy Wilder.

I had been attracted to tbe pale, serious, gentle girl on my first entrance into the school, and though I was two years her senior we soon became fast friends. I grew very fond of Amy during the three years we were at school together, roommates, and she returned my affection. Her gen tie seriousness was a check upon my too impulsive nature, which perhaps in turn may have lessened tbe tendency to morbidness in hers. There is a certain affinity in nature that attracts to itself what it most needs. We needed each other, and a friendship formed on such a basis is almost sure to be enduring. But there was always a certain tinge ol sadness in her happiest moments that even my light, fun-loving nature could not overcome. She seemed ever to be repressing the spirit of joy within her, and her merriest laugh would be checked by some sudden impulse of sadness. "If you would only let yourself be happy," I would say entreatingly, but she would smile sadly and say nothing.

Of the pride which most girls of her age feel in the possession of rare talents, she hsd none. She had a beautiful, flexible voice, but I never heard her sing, until one day after I had tried in vain to master some difficult -passages in my music lesson, she came to my assistance, and I found out her gift of song. After that at my urgent instance she used to sing sometimes, but that it was only to please me I could plainly see. "I had thought I never could sing again," she said one day. And I haa wondered if she had bad great trouble to make her feel like that, but I could not question her, and she said no more, 'there was always a reserve about her which the most curious could but respect. We knew that she was an orphan and had come to Madam Verner's immediately after the death of her father, but that was all. But her quiet, gentle manners and innate refinement proclaimed her a lady, and no one thought of questioning her antecedents.

In my letters home Amy's n^me had become so frequent that my mother, who wished always to kno'v the character of my associates, had written without my knowledge to our teachers in regard to the young lady who possessed such a fascination for her daughter. The reply proved so satisfactory that the dear, indulgent soul granted my request and in a very cordial note, enclosed in one of her letters to me, had Invited Amy to pay us along visit. As soon as I receivedit I hastened to Amy. "I wnntyou to promise me two things," I said. "If you will do so you will make me quite happy. And we ought to do all In our power to make people happy, you know. Will you promise?" "How can I tell?" she answered, smilingly, taking my face between her two hutuls and looking into my eyes. "I should be glad to add to your happiness in ever so small a way nmi8e impossibilities oven

Shesatsome moments in deep thought. At last be said: "It may be tbe truest philosophv after all, Finny, dear, and I will do what I can toward granting both your requests. But you must not expect too much of me in regard to the last, for I have not your free, happy nature. 8o it was that after we graduated she came home with me.

My life-long friend, Edward Graham, was just home from college, and be and his classmate, Paul Bixby, were often at our house. We made a merry party. Amy, like some delicate flower restored to its native sunshine. «eemed to develap and brighten daily, liar voice rang out in song and laughter and merry repartee. Her presence was a joy to us all. I waa delighted to see bow she bad won tbe hearts of my parents. Soon I noticed a new light in Edward's eyes when she was near, and a decided gloom of disappointment when she chanced to be absent. But I do not think that Amy observed iu She aeesned to give herself up to the enjoyment of the preeent with no thought for the future. "I am drifting In the sunshine,** she said one dav, "without thought of the time when my little bark may be stranded in tbe shadows of aome dismal swamp. Never mind, I aaot only testing the soand neaa of your philoaophy."

And, going to the piano, she played a wild, gay strain that sounded at variance with (based tooeof ber woida.

My friend, Edward Graham, had caught tbe speculative epiritof tbe times, and like other young collegians of the petted waa delving bete and then among the myths and wiedom of the axtckmu in what was called by these young tyroa "staunching for truth.

He had thus raked up from ancient philosophies a traaamifpation theory which, with various modifications, be had incorporated into what be was pleaaed to call his beli

Klieveof

1

Aad ersrywhsse ear triumphs keep O'er absence which aiakee others weep By which aioae a power is givea To live oo earth, as the? ia heaven. —Leisure Hour.

but I cannot for that.

Lt what is your request, ray dear Es tlHM Even to the half of my kingdom you may ask freely?" "It i» not so extravagant a request as that," I returned, as I laid my mother's note of invitation in her hand. "The tirst and most important is that you will accept this." "What a good, kind mother you mast have," Amy said, after she had read th# note. "My inclinations would certainly be in favor of acceptance, but "Wo will just consider it settled then without any buts," I cried, sealing her lips with a kiss. And in the end, though Amy seemed to have secret misgiving, 1 had'my way. "But you had two requests. Now what is the other? she asked. "That you let yourself be happy this one summer," I answered. "On! don't I know how you might enjoy life if vou would You seem always to be holding vouix-If back, to have the capacity for enjoyment but always to be repressing it. Now do let yourself be happy this one summer without restraint."

belief. Ifow any sensibls

rron the Nineteenth Century could such nonsense I could not imagine, and was not a little surprised to hear Amy discussing the subject with him as if it were entitled to credence. "There are so many poor, wasted lives crushed and cramped ty circumstances into grooves which allow no development of what is best in them," Edward said one day. "I think it entirely consistent with the idea of a God of troth and justice to believe that they may be allowed another chance in this world under more favorable surroundings—be re-incarnated and have an opportunity to develop these faculties wnich have lain dormant in a previous existence." "I don't see the need of it at all," I said. "If one does the best he can, heaven will be all that he could wish. Besides, how could tbe wicked be punished if vour theory be true?" "Ah, but no doubt the next state of existence will be depoudent upon this. If tbe general trend of a man's life be upward toward that which is the highest and best that he knows he will enter upon an enlarged, higher state of being when he is again incarnated. But if ft chance to be the reverse it will no doubt continue in that direction unless acted upon by other forces," returned Edward. "Ck you think then that there may be retrogression to the brute creation?" asked PauL "I think it possible," Edward replied. "If one cultivate only the brutal, sensual part of bis natnre, I do not see why he would not be safer with the form as well as the nsture of a beast or reptile. It would be a 'wise provision of providence,' as tbe minister would say." "Don't preach any such doctrine to me," I said, impatiently. "Why, you would be cautioning one soon to avoid killing reptiles ana vermin lest in so doing ne should destroy a possible relative, as the Budbists say." "No, I wouldn't carry it that far," said E4ward. "When humanity gets that far down, it matters little how brief its period of existence, I should say."

We all laughed at tbe absurdity of his views, all except Amy. "I like tbe idea of it," she said. "I mpi lik But to be re-incarnated, to come back with better opportunities, perhaps to the very friends we have loved, ab, that would be happiness 1 To lose all memory of the ola struggles and difficulties, but to retain the strength gained by overcoming, that would be joy, indeed! I shall try to live right, Mr. Graham, so that if what you say oe true I may sometime enter life again under new and better conditions."

can't comprehend heaven, it is too far off and unlike anything I have known.

Edward's look said that she was quite perfect in his eyes as she was, but he did not express himself in words. He, no doubt, waited a fitting opportunity when there should not be so many listeners. But when Amy remarked that she really must end her visit the next week. I knew his avowal would not long be delayed. I was delighted. Paul ana I were so happy that I wished the happiness of these two, my dearest friends. Amy had seemed so light-hearted while with us and with Edward Graham, her future happiness would be assured, tor he was so good and noble.

The next day we went to a picnic. Such a perfect day of dreamy loveliness it was, with tbe first rosy flush of autumn appearing on the foliage of trees and shrubs. The decay of which all this loveliness was tbe sign was not evident, and asters in endless variety, goldenrod, wild sunflowers and blue gentians were blooming in every sunny spot, while mosses and ferns haunted the cooler shades.

There was tbe usual laughing and talking, singing and rambling in search of flowers and ferns. And when I saw Edward and Amy apart from the others, she sitting on a mossy log arranging the flowers they had gathered, he lying on the grass at her feet talking earnestly, I felt sure that he would soon know his fate.

I had no fears as to the result. By many little tokens, meaningless except to one who was herself in love, I know that she loved him. Still, I was not at all sure that she realized it, and Edward was not sufficiently conceited to be overconfident.

When'at last the two young people arose and came forward to join the company, their faces did not wear the expression of perfect happiness I had expected to see. And.Amy's words borne on the wings of a passing sepbyr to my acutc seuses, wore not reassuring. "Do not ask me to answer you now she said. "Let us have one more day of happiness, and to-morrow I will tell you all."

But the rest of tbe day she s6emed to cast aside overy sombre thought and was so arch and gay, that Edward's face soon lost the sad, doubtful expression it had assumed during their conversation.

That night when we were alone, Amy drew an ottoman beside me and laid her head against my knee.

Have you bad a happy day, Amy?" flwkod, •Oh, so happy!" she returned. "And I have enjoyed my visit with you so much. But to-morrow will end it all and the there will never again be such an oasis in my life." "Then I am not to congratulate you!" I said. "Amy, dear Amy, you have not refused Edward? You love him, you know you do. Surely you were not so wicked as to refuse him.' "If I have not it is only to prolong the false, fleeting happiness a little. Tomorrow I must tefl him that we must part forever," she answered, sadly. "Ob, you cannot be eo cruel!" I pleaded. "You know he loves yon. You have told me that yon have no other ties. And he is honest, manly, intellectual, and so tender and true. He has wealth, too. What more could yon require in a lover?" j. "Nothing. It is riot that. And I love him. Still it must be as I have told yon. Ob, why did I ever come hers? I felt tbat It would not be for tbe beat." And she walked tbe floor and wrong her bands in such a bitterness of despair that I waa almost frightened. "But if yon love him, as yon cannot yon make him happy by beoom ing bis wife? I Insisted. "I have done wrong. I have sinned in allowing bim to care tor me. But his friendship waa so sweet* and I did not think when I gave myself up to the pleasure of happiness, for just wew »w months, what sorrow would follow doee upon it ell," she wailed again

aaid. "God never intended his creatures to be unhappy or miserable. It ia as much our duty to accept the joys he sends and be grateful tor them aa to beer patiently our sonowa." —«_

She came and laid her oud cheer

a^ainst mine.

ent from what we would make lt: But to-morrow/* she added, wearily, "tomorrow," I %fll ten you y?u m*1 Edward, and then if you oan stftlbemy friends, tbe bonkm of Ufo* owes will bs

"bright as I lay awake, I atatrre vainly to Whom the

MYSTATTOF

thtaob

atkde in the way of Amy ana Edward** hannlnnas Ofher own truth and purity Ijsoukl not doubt. And were for

some siu committed by others she was thus thinkiug to do penance, 1 understood Edward too well not to know how quickly he would brush away such barriers. He would never for a moment allow theinnooenttosuflfer for the guilty of that I felt sure.

The next day Edward came. "You must go in with me, Fanny," Amy said. "I want you to know what I have to tell him. I have often wished to tell you, but my heart always failed me. Now you shall know all." And, clasping my hand firmly with icecold fingers, she drew me into the parlor where Edward was waiting.

He rose to meet her, a bright love-light in his eyes, a cheerful, expectant expression upon nis face. But the sadness in her pale face struck a chill to his heart, I could see. She motioned him to be seated, and drew me down beside her on the sofa. "It is only right," she said, "that you two, the dearest friends I have ever known, aside from my parents, should hear together the story of my life. And when you have heard it, please do not me harshly. Indeed, I have not wished to mislead you.

My first recollections," she went on, are of a happy home and kind and loving parents. I was a happy child, happy and light-hearted as you, Fanny, but not for long. Soon came a great sorrow, tbe bitterness of which almost blotted out the memory of the joys tbat came before. My father was left (desolate and heart-broken, and I was worse than motherless but my mother was not dead. There was insanity in her family, and the shadow of the hereditary curse our lives. It never lifted. For six long years we listened to her maniac ravings, for my father would not have her removed from her .home, and then, as two of her race had done before, sbe eluded the vigilance of her attendants and ended her life by suicide. My father, grown old and gray while yet young in vears. died soon after. The doctors called it consumption, but I knew better than they—he died of a broken heart.

Do you wonder now, Fanny, that with the awful curse hanging over me, the hereditary taint in the olood that sooner or later will make itself known, I could have the heart to be happy here. tried to cast all thought of the dark past and still darker future from my mind, and I almost succeeded." "Dear one, let me help you to do so all the rest of your life!* cried, Edward, seisi ng her hand and drawing the trembling girl within the shelter of bis strong arms. "Let me shield you. Together let us meet what you call your hereditary curse. You are too good, too beautiful for such a dreadful fate, my Amy. It will never oome to you.

I"

But she gently disengaged herself

from his clasp

"You are true and faithful," she said. "But I love you too well to ever sadden

four

life as my father's was saddened. am the last of my mother's family, and I have sworn that husband nor child of mine shall ever be cursed by the shadow upon my life. There, do not urge me. Do not make it harder for me than it is. Sometime you will thank me for sparing you. And now, dear, true friend, goodDy." "You do not mean it? Surely you cannot mean that we should part in this way," Edward said desparingly.

I wept silently as I saw tbe anguish in the faces of the two so dear to me. But Amy was firm though she suffered. To all his entreaties she returned tbe same answer, and at last, troubled and sorrow-

MI

have done right. Oh! tell me, have I not done right?7' moaned the poor girl when, the sad conflict over, Ineld bor sobbing in my arms. And I oould only answer, "Amy, dear Amy, you hone done right."

And I have never found reason to change my opinion in regard to such matters from tbat day to this. The burdens of hereditary insanity, an incurable diabase, should never be laid upon innocent husband or w'f®» nor entailed upon helpless children.

I was married the next year and went abroad. I.heard from Amy often. She had joined a protestant sisterhood, and in oaring for tbe sick and destitute, she forgot her own sorrows. A year later, when we returned from our extended tour in the Old World, I found a letter awaiting me. It was from Amy. There was yellow fever in tho South) and she wrote: "There is said to be a great lack of nurses. I am going. I am so gled I can be of some use in the world. Good-by, dear friend, if we do not meet again here. I feel sometimes as if my release was near at hand, and under freer, better conditions I shall begin life anew."

Two months passed. Then a lettor in a strange band came to /ne. It bore tbe postmark of a southern city. I knew before I broke the seal that Amy was dead. It was written by a sister of charity. "Like

iHf

angel of mercy she went

about among the sick," wrote she, "and many were the hearts that wore cheered, the sufferings that were relieved by her untiring ministrations. But at last the fever seized ber, and though we did what we could, in three days sbe died. Before sbe died she gave me your address, and her last message was for you. 'Tell her I am so happy. I have been of some use, and—I die sane. Do not feel sad. Rejoice for me. We shall meet again.' "And then," continued the sister, "she laid back upon tbe pillow, murmuring, 'Oh, God. I tbank thee!' And then—sbe was dead."

Sbe died in September. Tbe next June a little babe came to gladden our home, and to her I gave the name of my friend, Amy Wilder.

Sixteen years, a long time when one is looking forward, only a band's breath as one looks backward. Edward Graham had been absent from his native land all that time. At last he returned. He appeared upon our thresbhold one day, bearded. Dronred and slightly gray, hut with the same clear, earnest eyes and firm mouth. He had turned to study and travel as an antidote for sorrow, and dissipation bad not wasted his powers nor destroyed his comeliness. Paul and he clasped bands like long-separated brothers, and I put my arms about bis neck Mid kisaed him. He had been true to the memory of his young love, and neb oonstaucv endears one to women.

We sat talking together of old times, of Edward's wanderings in foreign lands, of all of which our hearts were fullest, when the door opened and Amy oatne in. She was tall and fair, with large dark eyea and a calm, serious look that I had often aeen on another foee. "This is our dear eldest daughter," said Paul, as she came and stood near ber father, her hand oo bis shoulder. "Amyr Edward gasped rather than spoke, and he turned deadly pale. His quick eye bad noted the resemblance. And when, with quick, simple g?»ee, so like the Amy of old. she had oone forward and given him her band in greeting, and then came back to sit by ber fMbertrside, I sew Bdwund% eyes search ber faee as if fascinated. Later tbat evening, when at his request, she went to ths pfesao and saaa tho

SOMS

years before. "I have heard papa and mamma speak of Vou so often that it seems as tf I had known you always," I heard Amy say to Edward in reply to some remark of his. and his eyes kindled and he looked at her as I had seen him look at some one else in the old days.

I was troubled. Amy was too young, but sixteen and just out of school, to bring tbat look into a man's eyes. Paul laughed when I told him, and called it a foolish fancy, conjured up by a mother's love. But I knew better, and kept my child very near her mother after that. But all my precautions were in vain. The first glance at my darling's face had been the fatal one. AGd oue day Edward came to us and demanded his bride. Demanded? Well, il was almost that.

She is mine," he said. "She js my Amy, my first and only love come back to me. I knew it the first day. Ah, I see you are incredulous. But you are not afraid to trust ber to me. are you? I will shield her so tenderly." "But she is so young,' I urged, my heart clinging to my child, my baby only a few short years ago.

ki

have waitea so long," pleaded he. "For eighteen long, dreary years my heart has called for her." "And though we are old friends, she has known you such a short time," said Paul. Was he, too, joalous of the one who wished so soon to claim our darling?

Just then there was a step in the ball, a soft voice caroling a line of an old song and Amy came into the room. "How long have we known eaoh other, Amy?"a8ked Edward. "Oh, always 1" returned Amy, with a ss of her curls and a merry laugh. "Amy you should not speak in that ay. I do not liko it," I said sharply.

She turned a distressed face upon me, and the tears trembled upon her lasbes. I had used atone of unwonted severity. She did not know that only wouuded love and jealousy, not anger, lay behind it. "I am sorry, m&mma," she said. "Of course it isnrt really true only—it seems so, that is all." "Have I your consent, dear friends?" again pleaded the lover. "It shall be as Amy herself shall decide," said her father, and I oould but silently assent. "Will: you come to mo, my Amy, and be my own dear wife?" asked the lover, with outstretched arms. And as trustingly as ever sbe had come to her mother our child crept to his heart. "My love, my long-lost lovo," I heard bim murmur, and then, troubled and bewildered, Paul led me away. And I knew that my darling's tears were being kissed away by her lover, and that never again would her parents hold the first place in her heart.

Was his claim really the oldest? Ab, who knows? Pimples, boils and other humors are liablo to appear when the blood gets heated. To cure them get Hood's Sarsaparilla. ______________

Ely's Cream Balm was recommended to me by piy druggist as a preventive to Hay Fever. Have been using it as directed since the 0th of August and have found il a specific for that much dreaded and loathsome dlseaso. For ten years or more I have been a great sufferer eaoh voar, from August 0th till frost, and nave trlod many alloged remedies for its cure, but Ely's Cream Bnlm is tho only preventive I have ever found. Hay Fever sufferers ought to know of Its efficacy. P. B. AINSWORTH, Publisher, Indianapolis, Ind.

English Spavin Liniment removes all Hard. Soft, or Calloused Lumps and Blemishes from horses, Blood Spavin, Curbs, Splints. Sweeney, Stifles, Sprains, Soro and Swollen Throat, Coughs, otc. Nnve$f() bv use of one bottle. Warruntod. Sold by W. C. Buntin, Druggist, Torre Haute, Ind. tf.

Hon. C. Edwards Lester,

Late tJ. S. Consul to Italy, author of "The Glory and Shame of England," "America's Advancement," etc., etc., etc., writes as follows:

l)i:. J. C.

lit'itl leiiiclt: A sense of uratitilde ami tins desire* to render ft service to the public impel mu to tnukc the following «tat«rnent»:

My college carccr, at New Haven, was interrupted by a severe colli which so enfeebled ne that, for ten years, I lind a hard struggle for life. Hemorrhage from the oronchial passages was the result of almost every fresh exposure. For years I \ran under treatment of the ablest practitioner# without avail. At last I learned of

Ayer's Cherry Pectoral,

which 1 used (moderately and in small doses) at the tirst recurrence of a cold or any chest difficulty, and from which I invariably found relief. This was over 23 years ago. With all sorts of exposure, In all sorts of climates, I have never, to this day, had any cold nor any affection of the throat or lungs wliich did not yield to Aran's

lii

Igllst

liw E. t!7tii «t. I

Ayrii &

Co., Lowell, Miws.,

CHERRY

PKTTORAL within 24 hours. Of course I lime never allowed myself to le without this remedy in all my vovages and travels. Under my own olmervation, it has given relief to vast nitml»ersof |H«rsons while in acute cases of pulmonary inflammation, such as croup and diphtheria In children, life lias iwffn preserved through its effects. I recommend its use in light but frequent doses. Properly administered, in accordance with your directions, it is

A Priceless Blessing in anv house. I speak earnestly becaus* 1 feel earnestly. 1 have known inauv rai*M of apparently continued bronchitis lind i-oitjrh. with lows of voice, psrticuhirlr uitionsr clergymen and other pnbHc siM'Akers perfectfy cured by this medicine. Faithfully yours.

C. EDWARDS LETTER.

Aysr's Cherry Pectoral,

Prepared by Ayw fcCo.,Low«!l, Mwh. gtUbj' si! Dnokto sod Daleti to

Kalarisd Begions,

«rff1 fls«fslfsnni titer •iliraHtttwr sffwrt

we all

loved, old ballads tkat another Amy had sung long before, I oould not help but notice, aad I knew that Edward did, too, that my daughter's sweet, flexible voice sounded much as Amy's used to*

Try Them ftirly*

#v

^OLD XYXRTWHEU