Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 19, Number 34, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 16 February 1889 — Page 2

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V'tK1 }\*w*

Author of "Great Porter Square," "Grif,"

CHAPTER I.

Neither vanity nor ambition impels me to apply myself to the task of narrating, in as plain terms as I can command, the singular and extraordinary events of the past few months of my life. It is simply that I consider it right that a record slionld be made, and placed in the hands of those who, after me, are most nearly concerned, of matters which are at once both public and private, having been made public not by any wish or instigation of mine, but by force of circumstances and by the unwritten law which declares that crime shall not be hidden, but shall be bronght forward into the full light of day, so that all men may see and judge. What I am about to narrate is something more than an affair of life and death for these are but a breath, and are resolved in a moment of time. But a man's good fame, or Its reverse, is not created, and dies not, so swiftly. It lives long after h» is laid in his grave, and sheds honor or disgrace upon those who live after him. and who were nearest and dearest to his heart. It is sad to think that this is so, and thai the innocent must often suffer with the guilty: but the frailties of our common nature, no less than our lack of large-hearted charitableness, are continually perpetrating these acts of injustice, and I suppose they must be borne with and made the best of. The opportunity, however, of setting wrong things right must not be neglected. Therefore, in a small measure for my own sake, and in a large measure for the sake of those I love, do I gather together the loose threads of a story in which all the passions and emotions of human nature play their pregnant parts.

My name is Richard Pardon, and at the time of the tragedy, which will be recorded in its proper place. I resided with my wife and only child, Eunice, at Boscombe Lodge, Revenoaks. A brief description of my abode will suffice. Boscombe Lodge is an estate of about twelve acres, the resdence is old-fashioned and roomy, and the pleasure grounds surrounding it are charmingly laid out. Indeed, the natural and artistic beauties of the dear home are perfect, and such as should content any man of moderate good sense, even though his tastes were fastidious. Mine were not I was a happy, contented man, blessed with an affectionate wife and daughter, and it was perhaps because I had lived a life of ease that I was so ill-fitted to meet trouble when it came to me but the storm which broko upon me was sufficiently terrible to unsettle the reason of any human being, howsoever wise and mentully strong he might be.

Four female servants, a«g&r. and a couch man did the w^p^*^

and grounds. Iu^di*# Samuel Fleetvf/fp' ifn'wnJnnd.

SEW,

bles and misfcrtri. very poor. His "ft®! and at more than one'*».«v^. "juaetnrBr Mrs. Pardon and I steppeolh to their aid. A ministering angel indeed did my wife ever prove herself to bo in such coses as this her presence in the sick-chamber was balm, her smile sunshine, her gentle voice breathed peace. No man could more strongly appreciate the sympathetic aid we rendored in a time of need than Samuel Fleetwood it stirred him to his innermost depths, and he was profoundly grateful for it. My wife and I stood by Mrs. Fleetwood's deathbed, and almost with her last breath she thanked us for the kindness we had shown to her and her husband, aud said that the sacrifice of his life would bo but a slight return. "I speak for him as well as for myself," she said. "He fuels as I do."

I received with humbleness,as lam sure my wife did, these extravagant expressions of gratitude, to which, however, I made no demur, because I perceived that the utterance of them afforded the poor woman pleasure. To ease her last moments I said that I would continue to be her husband's friend, and alight of great happiness shone in her eyes. "He will bo your faithful and devoted servant," she said, faintly, "to th» hour of his death."

Faithful and devoted indeed he was, and I trusted him as I would have trusted a brother. In speaking of the slight service® it was In our power to render Samuel Fleetwood aud his wife I speak not in praise of myself, but it is necessary that it should be clearly understood that he was truly and earnestly devoted to me and mine, and that in his heart of hearts he worshipped my wife as An angel of meroy and goodness. I did not know what I subsequently learnt, that he had heartdisease, and that he was aware that his years, almost his days, were counted.

It is necessary, also, for a proper understanding of my story that I should say something here of Mdlle. Lenormand, governess, companion, and lady's-maid to my dear daughter Eunice. This unusual mingling of duties was of Mdlle. Rosalie's own arranging. She entered our service as governess, to perfect Eunice in modern languages, drawing, and painting. I was perfectly satisfied with my daughter's accomplishment*, holding as I do tho opinion that girls can be, and frequently are, so over-educated as to unfit them for the groove which the scheme of Nature intends them to occupy: but Eunice, her a a a id them that something more was required, and hence the engagement of Mdlle. Rosalie. I had nothing to do with the engaging of the lady, aud therefore it was that I did not see her until she was regularly installed it* onr house.

She was a fair lady, with languishing blue eyes, with light hair, and eyebrows

almost golden in color. My wife, although she confessed she had not inquired, said that she was about twenty-two years of age. I am not a good jndge of a woman's age, especially it that woman be fair, and I took my wife's word (or it. "Isn't she sweet, papa," asked Eunice. "Too soon to pronounce," I replied, passing my hand fondly over Eunice's hair, which was dark like my wife's.

Some few weeks afterwards! asked Ennice how she was getting on with modem languages.

iiafc*

BY B. L. FAR EON.

~*r

Blades-o'-Grass,

Hearts," Devlin the Barber," Etc.

"The Nine of

"Papa," said Eunice, "1 don't think Mdlle. Ro3alie is very proficient in languages." "Indeed, my dear!" I said, smiling. "But she paints beautifully, papa, said Eunice. "Here are some of her sketches."

I examined them, and was realty surprised at their excellence, and more surprised at the subjects the artist had chosen. Moreover, they bora* unmistakable evidence of having been painted from the life. I mentioned this incidentally to Eunice, and she immediately ran away, and returned breathless. "Oh, yes. papa!" she cried, "from the life. I asked her, and she said it was the only way to produce good work."

The information deepened my surprise. They were figure-subjects a duel, a tipsy brawl, a group of merry monks, gallants ogling a lady, a moonlight meeting of lovers, gamblers in a low cafe, and suchlike. The execution was masterly, but they were strange themes "from the life" for a young lady.

Saying they were very clever, I handed the sketches back to Eunice, and from that day set myself to a closer observance of Mdlle. Rosalie. I allowed a month to pass, and then I asked Eunice how she was getting on with her studies in painting. "Not very well, papa," said Eunice. "We have hardly had one lesson—now 1 think of it, not even one. Mdlle. Rosalie has taken quite a dislike to painting but she dresses hair beautifully."

I noticed then my daughter's hair, which, indeed, was beautifully dressed. A charming, sweet-tempered girl, eighteen years of age, Eunice from the first had never wavered in her' praises of Mdlle. Rosalie. But for this and the fondness ol my wife for the so-called governess, I doubt whether she would have remained in my house for any length of time. Before she entered our service, I was given to understand that, she was French and became convinced, from evidence which she herself supplied, that she was English. Mademoiselle, therefore, being con-, verted into Miss, Rosalie might quite as likely be Jane or Betsy, and Lenormand, Smith or Jones. Introducing herself under false pretenses in respect of her name and nationality, she must be capable of other duplicities, and consequently an unfit companion to my dear daughter. After some deliberation I communicated my suspicions to my wife. "You may be mistaken," she remarked. "I may be," I replied, "but I do rvfI think I am in this instance."

Now, my wife is a gentle-mannered lady, absolutely without guile. .Ptlre-minded velf, she believes in the pnrity of all come in contact With her. Suspicion ers hgii mind. She is ever ready best of everything and everynever heard a word of scandal is. The itich hold her in esteem, jllno her. Association with a nnocent and charitable has ny days. _ir." said my wife, gently, "woufe the best judges of women."

Jf Women's failings," I said, correcting rout of my wisdom. "Of women's virtues also," said my wife, "Consider, Richard have you seen anything in Mdlle. Rosalie's conduct of which you disapprove!'"

I did consider, and I could fix upon nothing definite except the subject-matter of the pictures. I spoke of this. "Mdlle. Rosalie," said my wife, "has explained all about them to me. She has had a hard life, Richard, and has been compelled to turn her talent as an artist to profitable account. It meant bread-Und-butter to her. The dealers would purchase only certain subjects of her, down from low life, or, rather, dear—not to be unjust— from a poorer life that otirs."

This was a tender theme with my wife. Her heart was touched with a divine pity for the poor and lowly, aud no arguments could induce her to condemn them for their coarseness. "Had wfe been born of parents such as theirs," she was in the habit of saying, "in places such as tbsirs, with surroundings such as theirs, we should have been as they are."

In her presence theorists were dumb. "So," she continued, "Mdlle. Rosalie had no option. How grateful «ve should be for the blessings we enjoy and for the evils we are spared! Mdlle. Rosalie is above reproach she has come safely out of the fire of temptation and cruel suffering. Eunice is deeply attached to her. She is an orphan, too, and her gratitude for the home she has found with us is boundless." "Well, well," I said, feeling somewhat helpless, "let it be as you wish." "Thank you, dear," said my sweet wife. "We will say nothing of this to Eunice it would grieve her. And just now," she added, with a brignt look, "we must have no clouds,"

It did not occur to me till afterwards— and then I would not reopen the matterto inquire in what way Mdlle. Rosalie's explanations concerning the pictures had come about. I inquired now of myself, and decided that it could not have been through the prompting of my wife or daughter therefore, the prompting came from Mdlle. Rosalia How, or by what means? Had she taken note of the feelings which an examination of her work had produced in me, and which I must have betrayed in my manner towards her, and had she adopted this course to disarm me and protect herself? If so. there must be something subtle in her nature, which must be gu led against. And yet, what cause was .u*e for suspicion? Was it not the height of folly to worry oneself so without reason? After all, might I not be entirety mistaken?

Later in the day I met Mdlle. Rosalie's (rank smile with a smile as frank. She sev ed grateful tor the response, for she nu^d my hand to her lips and kissed it wad then, as though ashamed of herself for this ebullition of feeling, she turned audited.

CHAPTER II.

Vr wife's words. "A—? just rr*w we m.: have no clouds," v-.- r* anal 4on tc a joyful eveut which we were humanly certain' lid takes|* »d r* •*.* day Within last two »rs Lad struck up a friendly acquaintanceship with gentleman of independent fortune whf

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2 ifEHRE HATTTE SATURDAY EVENING MATT.

lived a few miles from Boscombe Lodge, and on the morning of the foregoing conversation with my wife I received the following note from him: ^5

Mr DEAR MR. PARDOSTJ—Unless I receive a telegram from you to the eO®ct that you will not be able to see me, I shall do myself the pleasure of calling upon you at about one clock, to discuss a matter of the deepest and tenderest interest to both of us. With very kind regards to Mrs. and Miss Pardon and yourself, believe me, faithfullv yours,

HASTINGS CLASROSALD.

There was no mistaking the purport of this letter. We had long suspected that Mr. Clanronald's son, Harry, was in love with our daughter, and it had formed the subject of many serious conversations "between me and my wife. Eunice's heart, we saw, was lost, and Harry's father was now coming to ask her hand for his son. A peculiar self-consdlousness on the part of Eunice convinced us that she had been informed by Harry of the impending interview. Loving she always was, but there was a clinging, pathetic tenderness in the morning caress, the meaning of which, having read Mr. Clanronald's letter, was clear to me—as though she was pleading to me to place no bar to her happiness. It was a natural anxiety, but there were no grounds for it. Our Eunice's welfare was to dear to her mother^nd me that we should not—with some tauch of heart-ache, I must confess—further her loving wishes. To some extent we were responsible for consequences, for we fully approved of Harry Clanronald, and had not discouraged his visits. He was a manly young fellow, and appeared in every sense suitable for Eunice. Although two years ago his family aud mine were strangers, we had been for a great portion of that time on terms of close intimacy, and had contracted a mutual regard for each other. My only fear was that Harry would press for an early union and I thought Eunice too young to commence the grave business of married life. My wife, however, combated this view, and reminded me that she was younger than Eunice by three months when we were wed. Arguments such as this, applying ts others the rules we deemed correct in our own persons, are seldom convincing, but I allowed myself to be beguiled into the promise not to stipulate for a delay ol more than a few monthR.

At the'appointed hour Mr. Clanronald came, and we soon arrived at an under standing that the projected union was suitable in every respect but it was at my instigation, and uot at the instigation of Mr. Clanronald, that the business aspect of the affair was postponed for future consideration. I had the best of reasons for this postponement.

There will be no difficulty, I presume," said Mr. Clanronald, and his eyes wandered to the evidences of wealth by which I was surrounded. "None whatever," I replied. "Eunice'^ great uncle, whose heir I am, is j^Hgent from England, and it will. br*"fiatu rally agreeable to him thy tJf shall have a voice in the lie "is very wealthy, aud tjtie fo'stponement will be in the interests of the young couple." "Quite so," said Mr. Clanronald. "I am prepared to do what is necessary aud proper, and you will meet m& in a like spirit?"

He put this in the form of a question, and I replied, "You may rest perfectly satisfied."

He expressed himself so, and then we went to join my wife and daughter at. lunch. He shook hands cordially with my wife, and kissed Eunice, who knew by that sign that all was well. She blushed and trembled, and moved close to her mother, whose tenderness towards the dear child we were to lose was redoubled.

Excited and eager Harry Clanronald came in the evening, and had an interview with Eunice, in which mutual love found expression. Happy, sacred hour! Never, never to be forgotten in all the after life!

Harry stopped later than usual, Eunice had disappeared and was waiting in the garden for her lover. "Good-night, Harry," I said. "You are a fortunate young fellow to have won the heart of our darling child." "I am the happiest man in the world, sir," said Harry. "You may trust her safely to me I will prove myself worthy of your confidence and her love."

Joy and sadness are strangely mingled on such occasions. Parents wistfully recall the sweet reminiscences of the childlife which illumined the past, and touched the hours with golden light Memory lingers upon the solemn bridge, beyond which they see a little bed, with a flushed face sleeping in a frame of sunny curls, and from beyond which floats the prattle of a voice melodious as heavenly music. The bright eyes look up into their own the slender form, in its dress of snowy white, kneels by the bedside the shadows gather round it the little hands are clasped in prayer. Alas! the loving guardianship is coming to an end, and the dear one is going to the arms of another, for weal or woe. My wife and I shed some natural tears at the impending separation, but we were grateful that Eunice's affections were fixed upon a man of sterling honor.

On the following day Eunice informed me that she had promised Mdlle. Rosalie that she should remain with us till the day of the wedding and, moreover, had promised that her governess should be one of her bridesmaids. I would rather not have had it so, but I had not the heart to cross Eunice's wishes at such a happy time of her life as this. "What does Harry say to it?" I asked. "Harry says yes to everything," replied Eunice, with delicious emphasis. "He is enchanted with her. And what do yon think, papa? She is going to make my wedding-dress!" "A dressmaker as well!" I exclaimed. "She is a paragon, this Mdlle, Rosalie of yours!" "Indeed-she is, papal" "She can do everything, it seems," I said, "except teach languages and painting." /:-7 "I don't want them now. papa." "Of course not—now that you have Harry." "Yea, papa," said Eunice, with perfect seriousness.

I pinched her cheek. "What if the drew shouldn't fit, my dear?" '-Oh, but it will, papa. Mdlle. Rosalie declares it shall, and it will be made week? and weeks beforehand."

If anything could have Induced fits tS hftsten the wedding-day it wonld have been the thought that we should be the sooner rid of a woman to whom, despite the glowing eulogiums of my wife and daughter, I had taken an unaccountable dislike—unaccountable for the reason thai I could find no just cause for the feeling she had inspired. I did not attach importance to the fact that Mdlle. Rosalie was at some pains to obtain direct from me and my wife the ratification of the promise made to her by Eunice. Whethet the events which led to my pesO—a peril

ipiff

as deep as that in which mortal man oould possibly be placed—would, but for this promise, have taken a different course in my favor I cannot say, because the testimony against me came from both friend and foe but it would have been better for me if Mdlle. Rosalie, on the day of my daughter's engagement, had turned her back on my house forever.

CHAPTER IIL

I must make mention of a peculiarity in my habits to which I have beeu subject from my earliest remembrance. I am a somnambulist. It is not my purpose to enter into any discussion of this fruitful theme I am simply recording those facts which bear relation to my strange story.

Often in my youthful days was I followed by my nurse and relatives in the night, while I was walking in my sleep, and carefully watched, in order that I should not come to harm. My wanderings were generally of a harmless kind, and sometimes afforded merriment, as on oc.casions when I made my way to the larder and helped myself to the good things de•posited there. But there was one occasion when they took a more serious turn.

I slept on the second floor of a semi-de-tached house. In the adjoining house resided a man—a widower when I first besame acquainted with him—with a little daughter, between whom aud myself some innocent love making took place. The father of this little girl, whose name was Elsie, married again, and the step-mothei was not kind to the child. Indeed, when the father was absent from home Elsie was cruelly treated by this woman, and 1 used to hear the cries through the wall which divided the two houses. Elsie slept also on the second floor, in tho room adjoining mine, aud when she was beaten in the night I could hear her appends foi mercy very clearly. These sounds greatly distressed me, and my child-mind was exercised as to the means by which I could rescue my little sweetheart from the torture to which she was subjected. On one occasion business took ihe father from his home for two or three weeks, and during this time Elsie's undeserved punishment —I was sure it was undeserved—wa? sharper, aud more frequently administered. She showed me the marks of the blows on her skin, and I remember crying excitedly: "I will kill her! I will kill her!"

I remember also Elsie's grave reply to the effect that it was very, very wrong to kill people, because, as she illogically add ed, you would get hanged for it. The killing business was therefore set aside, the consequences being too awful to contemplate, and we decided instead that we would run away to-morrow when the clock struck twelve. Where we should run to was not decided why we should take our flight in broad daylight was explaiued how ye should

not

!?jris.:dered.'~ tv were placidly satisfied that the mere fact of ruuning away when the clock struck twelve would be a crushing blow to the hard-hearted step-mother, and that from that moment Elsie's life and mine would be a life of happiness.

On that night it was that my little sweetheart's cries pierced my mind while I was sleeping, aud I unconsciously rose, with the intention of going to her rescue. It happened that those about rne were less watchful than usual, and thus I succeeded in creeping, unobserved, to the top of our house, where a short ladder leading to a trap-door in the roof enabled me to reach a almjjqx door in the adjoining house, which I found unlocked. It was a dark night, and my enterprise was full of dangers but sleep-walkers are like cats, and can walk safely ou the edge of a precipice. I succeeded in raising the door in the roof, and, in total darkness, felt my way down the stairs, guided doubtless by the little maid's cries for help and mercy. Dashing into the room in which the torture was being inflicted, I sprang upon tho cruel woman, and tore at her and beat her so that she, in her turn, probably more frightened than hurt, screamed loudly for assistance. By this time my own people were aroused, and, obtaining entrance into the adjoining house, bore me away to my room.

When I awoke in the morning I had no knowledge or recollection of what had occurred, and I gathered the particulars from those who were interested in them. My bedroom door was found open, and I not in bed the two trap-doors in the roofs were open, proclaiming the means by which I left one house and obtained entrance to the other: Elsie drew livid pictures of my actions when I rushed into her bedroom and sprang upon her stepmother and my own people supplied the rest. The adventure made a great impression, and was long remembered and spoken of, and from the day of its occurrence I was more carefully watched at home. Upon me it left, perhaps, a deeper impression than upon others, and in after life I often thought of it. I was not a passionate or a vindictive man very rarely indeed did I allow anger to master me and I tnay truly declare that my nature was more inclined to gentleness than to violence. How was it, then, that upon this occasion I should have behaved more like a wild beast than a human being? For this is what I was given to understand by fdl the witnesses of the affair Elsie said, "Oh, Dick, you were dreadful your eyes blazed!" My guardians, instead of pitying or sympathizing with me, reproved me, ana gave me long lectures upon the passions and the step-mother swore that if help had not arrived she would have been murdered. My fingers, she averred, were fixed in her throat so viciously that she could not remove them, and in another minute she wonld have been strangled. Never afterwards, in my sleeping or waking hours, was a charge of violent or intemperate behavior brought against me but if the current versions of the incident were true, there was, sleeping within me, some instinct of savagery which needed only a strong incentive to leap into life. To such a man as I the reflection could not be otherwise than distressing.

When I asked the good woman I married to become my wife, I related this incident of my child-life to her. She made light of it, and I think It was cV ifly through her encouragement that tLJ adventure was«known in my household. My daughter, it appears, described it to Mdlle. Rosalie as a diverting incident, and the woman of multifarious accomplish meats treasured it in her mind. During manhood my somnambulistic propensities occasionally broke out* but they were always of the most harmless kind, and I grew to regard them as of small moment. Shortly, however, after the engagement of Eunioe and Harry I was greatly disturbed by an incident to which I could attach no satisfactory explanation. My wife told me that she woke in the night and I was not by her side. She was about to rise

and seek ma, when I entered the room, nildressed myself, and lay down in bed, being all the time in a sound sleep. "I have no remembrance," I said, "of

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going anywhere, or doing anything." "You never have," remarked my wife. "It is very annoying," I observed. "I wish to Heaven they had thrown a bucket of cold water over me when I was a child. It cftight have cured me." "It might have killed you," said my wife gravely. "It is too late now to fret over it, Richard." "I should not mind," I said, "if I could remember where I go to, or what I do but all is a blank."

We spoke of other matters, and went down to breakfast. After the meal my wife and I strolled into the garden, and spent an idle hour there. My daughter and Mdlle. Rosalie were in the grounds, and Samuel Fleetwood made his appearance to give me a report of some task I had set him to do. When he came towards ftie I was conversing with Mdlle. Rosalie, my wife and Eunice being at a little distance, and I left my daughter's governess to join him. Certainly my mood was a peculiar one on this morning, for the short conversation I had with Mdlle. Rosalie left an uncomfortable impression upon me. And yet nothing was spoken by her or me to account for it we had conversed upon ordinary matters, but there was in her manner a confiding tenderness —I cannot think of any other words in which to describe it—which was new and strange to me.

After hearing Fleetwood's report I referred to something I had observed as he approached me and Mdlle. Rosalie. She had nodded to him, with a pleasant smile on her lips, and he had returned neither the nod nor the smile. I inquired the reason. "I do not like her, sir," he added, afters pause. "For any particular reason?" I asked. "No, sir," he replied, after another short pause. "My feelings towards her may spring from prejudice." "Speak more plainly, Fleetwood," I urged. "Well, sir," he said, "in the first place, she is not a Frenchwoman." "I discovered that some time since," I observed.

There was a look of surprise in his eyes as he said, "But her name is French." "Quite true, Fleetwood. Her father may have been French." "May have been, sir!" he remarked, repeating my words with emphasis. "Then he is not living?" "Mdlle. Rosalie is doubly orphaned," I said. "Come, come, Fleetwood, we may be doing the young lady an iujustice in canvassing her so freely behind her back." "You are right, sir, as you always are. I am very sorry I spoke." "But," I persisted, "having gone so far we may be adding to the injustice by not carrying this conversation to its legitimate

tions. Say what is in your mind." "Very well, sir. Mdlle. Rosalie has no parents, but she has relations." "I think not, Fleetwood." "No sisters or brothers, sif." "So I understand. She is alone in the world, with uot a soul to depeud upon except ourselves." "Then the man she meets, sir," said Fleetwood, "is not a relation." "I was not aware," I said, "that Mdlle. Rosalie was in the habit p£ me£ti«i4lg|**: man bnt, after all, it is rfC affa'" "No, sir." "Go on, Fleetwood yoi Are these meetings freqi. "Very frequent, I shoiil passed them, by accident. dozen times." "How long has this beeu "It is four months since 'l them."

I reflected. Mdlle. Rosalie had "i^u in our service only live months, and it was generally understood, through her own statements, that she was a stranger in the neighborhood, aud had no friends or acquaintances. Here, then, was another duplicity to trouble and perplex me. "Where do these meetings take place, Fleetwood?" "In Ivybush Lane, sir."

Ivybush Lane was, perhaps, the most secluded part of the locality round about: but if Mdlle. Rosalie and her friend were lovers, was it not natural that they should meet in a spot where they were least llke1/to be intruded upon? "And at what hour, iu your observer tion," I asked, "do they meet?" "Always at night, sir, when there is nc moon." •'You are quite sure," I said, somewhat startled, "that you are not misguided by prejudice?" "I speak of facts, sir, not impressions." "You have impressions—but of course you have it is ridiculous to ask such question. What I mean is, that your im pressious are not favorable to Mdlle. Rosalie?" "They are not, sir. If she has a sweetheart, what reason can there be for so much secrecy? When I have approached them—and I beg you to believe that I have always come across them by accident— they have stopped talking and have shrunk away from observation, the man especially. Once I am certain they were quarrelliug." "A lovers' quarrel, Fleetwood." "Perhaps, sir: but it didn't sound like it. They seemed to be threatening each other. That is all I have to tell, sir." "Have you met the man at other timed, when he was alone?" "I can't say, sir. I never saw his face he seemed to take great pains to hide it from me." "You are positive it was Mdlle. Rosalie, and not another lady?" "I am positive, sir." "One more question, Fleetwood. Ivybush Lane is a lonely spot which one would not traverse for pleasure on darksome nights. What took you there?" "It is near the graveyard, sir, where my wife is buried."

His rnfee trembled with emotion. I pressed his hand. "Let us keep this to ourselves," I said, presently. "It will be the w' st course. When my daughter is married Mdlle. Rosalie will leave our service."

At this moment, as Fleetwood was about to leave ~ne, Eunice danced up to us. It wasap isure to look upon her bright face, beaming as it was with happiness. Love's summer was hers: her life was filled with heavenly joy. In her hand she held two posies.

Cbn&aued on Seventh Page,'

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"it

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This is what you ought to have, in fact you must have it, to fully enjoy life. Thousands upon thousands of dollars are spent annually by our people in the hope that they may attain this boon. And yet it may be had by all. We guarantee that Electric Bitters, if used aooordlng to directions and the use persisted in, will bring you Good Digestion and oust the demon Dispepsia and install instead Eupepsy. We recommend Electric Bitters for Dyspepsia and all diseases of Liver, Stomach and Kidneys. Sold at 60c, and fl per bottle by Carl Krietenstein, druggist. (4)

'Bucklen's Arnica Salve.

The Best Salve in the world for Cuts, Bruises, Sores. Ulcers, Salt Rheum. Fever Bores, 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. 25o. per box. For sale by Carl Krietenstein, 8. W Cor. 4th and Ohio.

Celery

Compound

Purifies the Blood, Strengthens the Nerves Stimulates the Liver, Regulates the Kidneys and Bowels, Gives Life and Vigor to every organ.

There's nothing like it

Last spring, being very much run down and debilitated, Ijprocured some of Pulne's Celery Compound. The use of two bottles made mo feel like a new man. As a general tonic and spring medicine, I do not lcnow its equal.''

Also:

W. L. GRKKNLEAK, "i N. G., Burlington, Vt.

VITv

,v »opa Burlingtoli, Vfc

JSjor Ffattutrn and JUihmtU Eaty/ BltgaiUl Xeonomieai •IMP «4

LACTATE!) FOOD

Moore's Pilules

Laughing,

Pilules are a most certain and Hpeody cure for all (llsoaseH that arise from Malnrlu, Chills and Fever, etc. The

net directly In the blood, permeating tho whole or the circulation, killing the germs that produce fever, torpid llvvr, con

Htlp JlOIW ralg

stipation, kidney troubles, sick licadache, rheumatism, neuralgia,etc. They ure a

Positive

antidote for these complaints have never failed for more than 15 years. They act like magic on all malarial

sickness, hence they are the onl) positive

Cure For Chills

for all Blood Impurities known. They will purify and dense the system, wlien everything else has fulled and as

nnd fever, there Is nothing (and never was anything produced, ever,) like them

for their wonderful effects. Many hurdreds of thousands of old Htubborn cases have been cured by Moore's Pilules, which all other remedies failed to touch. They area most valuable medicine to have on hand in thefaml yjthey relieve indigestion, clear the skin, act on the liver at onc&—hence there is no need of the harmful cathartics. They are worth many times their cost to any family. Those who rely on Moore'n Pilules are quickly distinguished by their bright appearance. elastic step, and the healthful glow upon their faces

Moore's Throat and Lung Lozenge* are a most excellent lemedy,—nothing better- for Coughs, Colds, fore Throat, Bronchitis. Whooping Cough and all affections of the throat and che«t. They are pleasant to the taste, and give instant relief. Put up In lar_ and 25 cent tin boxe£-for irritation of 'he throat there is no remedy bat begins to compare with them. Both remedies sold by druggists.

GRATEFUL—COMFOKTIWG.

Epps's Cocoa

BREAKFAST.

"By a thorough knowledge of the natural laws which govern the operations of dlgea* tion and nutrition, and by a careful application of the fine properties of well-selected Cocoa, Mr. Epps bn« provided our breakfast tables with a df. *tely flavored beverage which may save un many heavy doctors' bills. It Is by the judicious use of such articles of diet that a constitution may be gradually built up until strong enoagh to resist every tendency to dlseaM. Hundreds of subtle maladies are floating around us ready to attack wherever there & a weak point. We may escape many a fatal shaft by keeping ourselves well fortified with pure blood and a groperly nourished frame."—{Civil Service

Made simply with boiling water or milk Sold only in half pound tins by grocers, labeled thus: JtAMES KFF8 CO-

HomauopatMc Chemists, Loadoa, bg