St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 21, Number 3, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 10 August 1895 — Page 2
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CHAPTER XXXV. It was not until Stephen Hurst had been dead for some hours that the mys- I tery of that fatal mistake flashed across ! Lord Bayneham’s mind. He remembered i tiow he had gone into his wife's room and ; told her he knew all, meaning that he ! knew she bad been in the Lady’s Walk. She doubtless thought by that expression he knew all the secret of her parentage ; ^■■gUd haxJ'a flier's sin _s» "*" f” If he had but remained with her ton minutes longer all would have been ex- ! plained, now he began to fear he should never see her again. Lord Bayneham behaved nobly to his wife's father. He kept his secret. No will was found, and he made no claim Upon that large fortune. For the sake oi money he would not betray in death a secret the unhappy man had sacrificed so much to keep. As a friend he attended to this funeral and went as chief mourner; but never, by one word, did he hint that Paul Fulton was other than he had appeared. For two days the papers made the most of that fatal accident, and all fashionable London was concerned for one day. and forgot it the next. Lady Grahame was 1 very sorry and much distressed. “It scented such a sad thing," she said to everybody; “he was a handsome man, and bo very agreeable." In a few days Lady Grahame recovered from the effects of the shock, and. strange to say, that very year she met the Duke of Laleham, who was charmed by her manners and love of comfort, in which he rivaled her. She is now Duchess of Laleham, and once, in a confidential mood, was heard to say to Miss Lowe that, “after all. she believed there was a special providence in poor Mr. Fulton's death.” Ix>rd Bayneham redoubled his efforts to discover his wife, but they were all in vain; he could find no trace of her; it seemed as though she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Lord Bayneham returned home—he was anxious to clear the memory of his beloved wife from even the least cloud of : suspicion. Barbara Earle shed warm tears of love and pity when she heard the story. The countess was more touched than she cared to own; both saw clearly how the mistake had arisen. Believing that her husband “knew all" her secret, and could not pardon her. Lady Hilda had left the home where she thought herself ^no longer loved or esteemed. From Bayneham. as from London, ev-| ery effort was made to discover Lady : Hilda's place of refuge, but all in vain. Weeks became months, but no trace—not j even the slightest—was found. She never j claimed one farthing of the large sum I daily accumulating for her. Lord Bayne- I ham had directed that no notice should i be taken of her letters —that Brynmar should be kept in readiness for her. and tim money carefully saved; but she never wrote for any, and that added more than anything to his troubles. If living, what was her fate, without money or friends? I/ord Bayneham tried to bear up bravely, but he sqon became exceedingly ill. and in less than six months after his wife’s flight the young earl lay between life and death, lighting a hard battle with the grim king, and his mother kept watch b” him, in sorrow t<>o deep for words. The detective had promised that he would not give flic case up, but it was evident from his want of zeal that he had no longer any hope. The doctors, summoned by the unhappy countess to her son's bedside, said there' was one chance for him, and only one; he must have entire change of scene and change of air, and they recommended a , stay of some length on the Continent. He was most unwilling to go. To leave England seemed like abandoning his wife; yet to remain was, if wise men spoke truly, certain death. The last time he left home, a beautiful young face, giowing with happiness and love,' smiled by his side; now he must go on his journey alone, his heart cold and dead to hope, love and happiness. * s * * » » » One fine morning there stood on Hie ■ pier at Dover a. group that attracted some attention—a tall, stately lady, with the look of one who had once been beautiful, and by her side a noble girl, whose face made one better for seeing it; both were devoted to what scorned at first sight, the wreck of a young and handsome man. Passers-by stopped to gaze again at that while, worn face, with its sad, despairing w< s. T.a-Iy Bnynclm'm ■— l Barber ■ would fain have gone with Claud ■, but he w- ild not hear c - it. ‘'Stay behind, mother." Iw said, with tr< milling lips, "and do what you can. My lost darling may come home; do not let In r find it des'-’a!"." They went with him to Dover and wntehed the boat disappear with eyes tii.it were wet with tears. In the mother’s heart there was but little hope ol over eeeitm her son again. "Ah. Barbara." said Lad;. Bayneham, as in the far distance the steamer s,‘tiled out of sight, "I wish my son hud married you. Tb.is trouble will kill him. Brynmar woods have been very fatal to us.” But Barbara would not agree with her ladyship: sho saw much to admire and pity in Lady Hilda; and she would hear no word that was not uttered either in love or praise. Bertie Carlyon had. been unremitting in his endeavors to assist Loi* Bayneham. Ho had been with him up to the eve of his departure, when a telegram from London obliged him to return there. Lady Bayne, ham asked him to visit her at Bayneham when his business was ended, and he did so. longing to be once more with Barbana and to know if he had any more reason to hope. He was warmly welcomed by the two desolate, sorrowing ladies. It secra«d difficult to believe that this silent, ihouae, over which care and trouble hung
f in such dark cloud^ was the brilliant cas--1 tie of Bayneham, where lately gayety and i beauty had reigned supreme. Bertie Carlyon and Barbara Earle were standing at the same window front which they had once watched Lord Bayneham ami his fair young wife set forth on their bridal tour, when Barbara said musingly, “Who could have foreseen this ending to so fair a love story?” "Does it frighten you?” asked Bertie, i “Ah, Barbara, if you could only try to love me—no such fate would ever overtake us." “Why?" asked Barbara. "Because I should have all faith in you." replied Bertie. “Mind, I ant not blaming Claude—the circumstances were strange ones. If—but, ah! Barbara, the words are presumptuous if you were my wife, and 1 saw that you were keeping —f r „ n , I m. crMneet vour sileneCFneeause I believe in you. -oma “It seems easy for you to say so now,” replied Barbara, with a smile; “it is impossible to tell what course one would take under similar circumstances.” “Barbara." said Bertie Carlyon, his handsome face all eagerness and love, "it is long since I first dared to whisper to you of my love. You did not reject me; you said brave and noble words to me that have incited me to take a true man's part in the world. Under your banner, Barbara. I have fought well; dare 1 ask for my reward?” There was no affectation of coquetry in the expression of Barbara Earle’s beautiful, soul-lit face. “I am not given to flattery." she said, quietly; “but you I must praise. Bertie; you have done well, and I am proud of you. Ask what reward you will, and if it is in my power to grant it, it shall soon be yours." Bertie Car'yon's face paled as he listened to these words, so full of hope an 1 promise. Something like a mist of tears swam before his eves, and his voice trembled as he spoke. Laying one hand on the white jeweled fingers of Barbara Earle, he said: "Be my wife, Barbara. Earth holds no higher reward than your love." Ho read her consent in the drooping, blushing face and the eloquent eyes. "I’m not worthy • of such happiness," he said, quietly. "You are the noblest woman in the world. Barbara: teach me to be worthy of you." "Do not sot me on so high a pedestal. Bertie." said Barbara, "or I may fall from it. I have something more to say; you know I speak plainly. I do love you; but I could not bear to think much of our happiness while so dark a cloud hangs over Bayneham. Help us to drive that away, and then we will speak of this again.” "It shall be as you will, Barbara," he Whispered, kissing the white, firm hand i that rested so lovingly in his own. “I know no will save yours." Su they agreed that tiie love which was , to last through life should not be meni tinned while care and sorrow lay heavily I upon their dearest friends. How could they speak of love and marriage when both had ended so fatally at Bayneham? CHAPTER XXXVI. Three years passed away, and brought but little change to Bayneham. The countess watched and waited in silence; sho had renounced all active efforts for the disco’s cry of her son’s wife. At stated in- i tervals advertisements were inserted in the papers, but Lady Bayneham had ceased to b.ope. She never breathed her suspicions even to Barbara Karie; but in her ■ own mini! she believed that Hilda was dead; no other fact could account for her long-continued silence. Her son said : nothing of returning to England. II ’ seemed to have forgotten the claims upon i him at home. She spent long hours in pacing up and down the picture gallery at j Baymdmm Castle. Her son. the brave, . handsome boy. whose future she had mapped out with such pride amt hope, was the i last carl: his portrait hung there. Whose ' would take the vacant place next to his? j There was no one to inherit the title -it ; would die out the grand old race must ; come to an end. Claude would never re- . marry while there was the least doubt as to his wife's fate. Even if intelligence ; came of her death Lady Bayneham did not believe he would ever care for another woman, ho had loved his lost wife so well. The grand old race must end, and that conviction brought deep and lasting sorrow to the proud lady; she had hoped before sho died to clasp the young heir of Bayneham in her arms, to see, ami love, ; and bless the young boy who was to suc- ' ceed her son. Her pride was sorely humbled. Her son was an unhappy exile, wandering in foreign lands, childless and solitary. She wished—and wished in vain -that she had been kinder to her son's wife; that she • had taught the poor motherless child to love and trust her. How different everything would then have been! Hilda would have flown to her in her trouble; it was too late! Iler cool, haughty pride, her unkindness, had done its work. When sorrow camo to the fair young child whom her son had wedded, the last person she would have appealed to was her husImiid's mother, who wight io have been a, mother to her. The dark hair, of which the countess . had been so proud, grew white with sorrow, not age; the fair, proud face hail T < p lines, each telling of grief and long night watches; and Lady Bayneham saw no help! She nad written several times, imploring Iter son to return; but he re- ' . plied that tiie very sight of Bayneham J would kill him. that he would never return there until something was known of his wife’s fate. Her entreaties were all in ’ ; vain; and the countess said to herself 1 | that the grand old race was doomed. It preyed deeply upon her; No rest i camo to her. Her days and nights were ■ one long drcam of anxiety. Sorrow and - 1 ■ suspense aged her. Ono evening, Bari bara Earle, going suddenly into her aunt’s - । room, found her weeping bitterly. i Barbara started at the sight; she never I remembered to have seen tears in those I proud < yes before. o “Barbara, said Lady Bayneham, in a e low voice, “my heart is breaking; what - shall we do to persuade Claude to return ?’’ t ; "i see no way,” replied Miss Earle; “but g : the last thine, the trouble I can bear
least, is to see you give way, aunt; tnat must not be.” "I cannot help it,” said Lady Bayneham, despairingly; “it will kill me, Bar+ bara. 1 have fought against sorrow, but it has mastered me at last. Unless my. son returns soon he will not see me again.”! "Lot me write and tell him so, aunt,” urged Miss Earle. "No,” said the countess; “he cannot em dure the name or the thought of home. Ls he returned for my sake, and evil can* of it, I could never forgive myself. Them is nothing for it but patience, and phtienco comes but slowly to one like me.”| Barbara Earle had many anxieties; ft was three years since her cousin left hh home, and Bertie had asked her to be his wife —three years; and then she told her lover she was willing to be his wife, bit they must wait until the cloud passel from Bayneham. But it deepened instead of passing; still Bertie never complaimfl. lle respected her wish, and never urgfd his own; and Barbara knew, by instinct, all that he felt. The last time he came o Bayneham he looked tired and worn. IJs labors accumulated, and there was io one to cheer or sympathize with hie* I e longed for the time when that Souq, iit face should shine in his owns, '■W; and Barbara read the longing in hi s She had learned to love him dearitk a vl well, though not, as in early yomh/v^ had loved her cousin, for she was a^vSw an now; and it Has a woman's love sne expression on his face. ne^nrs^lnn^ she felt, was to him, yet it was utterß ’ impossible that she should leave her auiQ I Barbara Earle sat in her room, thinkir* deeply. Thought became action; she we:® to her writing table and wrote a letter 'J! Lord Bayneham. It was a sweet, woma:® ly lett< r; and in it she told him of Bert 1 * Carly.m’s love-of her engagement to hi’® and of her inability to fulfill it until J? returned home and once more took hl place in the world. 9 “ I’here was a time," wrote Barbara pray you to pardon me if 1 remind you <* it whet:, for your happiness, 1 sacrifice® all the hope of happiness 1 had in life;® :>sk but little in return, and that little ® the sacrifice of some morbid feeling. 8 ask you to return home; your tr.othiW! wants her son. your tenants and servant® want tlieir master, your country wan^H one of her ablest and truest sons; an®! • laude, Bertie wants mo." I 1 hat will be irresistible." said Barbai9| Earle to herself, with a smile. “He wi? never tolerate the thought that, he is kecSj ing us apart, ami my aunt will have hS son." Barbara judged rightly Lord Bayn® ham could not withstand that appeal. 11** remembered the time when Barbara bag ' generously given him his freedom, train® .ing under foot her own love and regroßi 1 Now one wiio loved her. and was wortbEl of her. had won her. and he. in his tur® must .sacrifice himself as she had donSi The appeal was successful Lmly Baynf ham was beside herself with delight wh® she received a letter from her son, sayirl that he intended soon to return, and rW snme the duties he had so long neglecteS Barbara said nothing of her letter and t) countess congratulated herself that h^ wishes had guided her son. 1 here was but little said when he as i r;vi I, for both mother ami cousin vstartled by his appearance. He no lou^L looked ill. but there was .an air of settSf® melancholy on his face that told of JUG sorrow mure expressively thnn any wojK x could have <l<me. Ite ing- m filer which startled Lady ham. Before separating on the evening of his arrival, she went v.p to him. and, ' laying her hand g<nt!y upon him, asked him why it was. "Hush, mother," he replied, in a broken । voice “do not talk about it. I wear black for my wife; if she had been living, 1 should have found her ere this. I beHeve her to lie dead; but do not speak I : of her I cannot bear it yet.” L; dy Baytt. mm quitted the romn. lear- i i ing her S‘>n alone with his cousin. "Barbara." s cd Lord Bayneham. “why did you not tell me this before? I have j returned in . l odi-m eto your wish. Why ; | have you kept this secret from me?" "We could not think of love or happii ness while you were in - >rrow." she re-j plied. "I saw my aunt wasting away.! Bcriie said nothing, but his look touched my heart. Everything was going wrong I s i I wrote for you." "! am glad of it," replied her cousin; ■ d w>w that the first sh-e k of seeing the i i o'.d place is over, 1 am glad to be at ! home." "As we are alone," said Barbara, “I I have something that 1 wi.-h to say to you. । <’laude. you must rmtse yourself—you’ hav.‘ -;:nk in a s.-a of sorrow; this must not. be. Trouble makes heroes of some men. and cowards of others. You know best wiwre a Bayneham should stand. Remember, even should Hilda be dead, your life does not end in her grave." "My happiness and love lie there," said i Lord Bayneham. "That may be,” continued Miss Earle, “but we must not live for ourselves.j There are many men who have never known happiness at all. Your fate is hard enough, but it is not the hardest in the world. Learn to bear it and you will learn to live.” “I will try,” said Lord Bayneham. and i ho kept his word. They saw pliiinlyjy.iuuah great the i effort was. He gave himself up to tL^J ' strict performance of his duty- he omitted nothing. His mother sighed, when, on j l»assing the room door, she saw the lamp i I again, when, in tin' early hours of the I morning, she heard him pacing wearily up and down his chamber. Before he hail been at Bayneham long! the countess, believing tiie effort too great i for him, proposed that they should leavo i home for a time and go to London. He ; consented, for all places were alike to the i unhappy young husband, whose love and I thoughts were with his lost wife. ij In London he once more redoubled hist efforts, but all were in vain; ho went to I Brynmar, but nothing had been seen or heard there of Lady Hilda. He had also s er.ii interviews with the detective and with Dr. Greyson, but it was all in vain. His wife seemed to have vanished from tiie face of the earth. j (To be continued.) i .Joseplihm's greatest attraction was i her voice. Napoleon fell in love with it even before he really knew her. She , could not sing, but her conversational tones were exceedingly well modulated and pleasing. She spoke with a stronprovincial accent, and it was once said • that the Emperor spoke an Italian French patois, and the Empress a ne- ■ gro-French.
HE CURES BY FAITH. WONDERS WROUGHT BY JOHN A. DOWIE’S AID. K ‘‘her the Man I 8 a W orkcr of Mira . C 9 or El ße lle ls a Monstrous u A Nice Point of Law to Be Settled. Prays Away Disease. to con lqU i° easc of great intt ’ r eßt is soon to cone before the courts of Chicago, eiv ,aei,t, Y n to which an answer must be i ls 'y IH : ,her Jobn A i>o " ie i* pos^sed with the power of working miracles nenhng such as are attributed to the Apostles and Christ himself, or whether he man Is n mountebank, a conscious humbug, who has deluded people for his own gain. It is but a few years that Mr. Howie has been at work and already his tame is as wide as the continent and not a daj passes that does not witness a crowd of pilgrims from every section of the country who have come to have their sieknoM healed by him. He started with one small wooden building where religious exorcises were performed and cures - 1 Ct*, x J' 1 JOIIX AI.IXAMH.:; HOWIE. were made and this was called Zion’s Tabernacle. Nou he has two others, but the first remains tic head of them ail. It is these wooden buildings which have been the means of bringing Dowie into court. People who live about these have become disgusted with the crowd of halt and maimed and blind who are constantly flocking to these buildings and they have prayed the authorities that the tabernacles may b<■ suppressed as nuisances. It is maintain' d on the other side that they Bro beneficial institutions, inasmuch as they help suffering humanity, and thus are
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worth}- <>f the law’s protection. Thus the question resolves itself into this: whether true cures are performed there < r is the tvhole thins a fake, This is the di licate question tile courts must decide. The Gift of 11 m! tug. Dowie, the head of this healing move- | ment, was a Congregational minister in Sydney, Australia. He was an orthodox ■ believer in the dogmas of that sect, nor , did he allow his interpretation of Scripi ture to go contrary to authority. For i years this was his mental attitude. Then ' a plague broke out in the city. People [died by hundreds; one after an>iher his ! own e.ingregation was smitten. ihe ! physiei:tns*were in <1 s; sir and human i skill appeared vain. Dowie sat hints-if down to think when, suddenly, there flashed into his mind that v< rse of the । Bible which sits that the prayer of faith 1 shall heal the sick. Instantly he arose ; and went to the house of a parishioner I where lay two children whose lives had i been abandoned by the doctors. He knelt i down, prayed for them and laid his hands i upon them an 1 they arose well. Such is i Dowie’s story of his first cure. Ever ; since then, he says, he has gone on with i ever-increasing faith and ho claims that 18,000 people owe to his method their | cure from all manner of dis- uses. Dowie does not claim that any power of । healing rests in himself; his whole mis- ■ sion is to pray and animate the faith of ; the.patient, for it is the man’s individual 1 faith alone which affects the cure. The ; laying on of hands and the admomti-m to arise and walk in the Lord’s mime Dowie [regards ns eerem.>»!<■« and n - »u i. parr - । institution of bv.dii'g i.at F 1 r > \ I 1 ' -'A- • ■ i w\ ' ' ' \ TA < A" MES. DOWIE. faitdHs the main thing; without this success is impossible, but so great is 1 hni n own faith that he can inspire the minds .d those who possess it in a less degree t.ian himself. . . The opponents of Dowie are prepared to show, they say. that the cures wrought have been performed only on persons troubled with hysteria or else are the results of pure delusion. Dowie, on the other hand, points to a mass of affidavits made by those who claim cures and their friends ‘to the effect that they have been really made well.
THE DEFENDER. The New Yacht Is a Craft That Will Surely Make Her Mark. Th® tri al race between the Defender and A igdant demonstrated that the new sat tis a craft that will surely make her mark. Two-thirds over the thirty-mile , triangular course the winds were very ' z ib*. AMI.I.K A s (I P , HAMPIOX TIIE DE- I I’EXI EP. Hght and variable, but under this condi- i turn ot affairs the new boat was more than I seven minutes in advance of her really 1 last competitor. The Vigilant seems to I be outclassed in almost every condition of wimi and weather by the Defender. I ho only time that the okl champion can be considered as having any kind of a chance with the other yacht is in a light wind in running. The Defender is perceptibly the better craft by the wind and in rem liiug. Ami when is considered the i short time that Ims b« on had to put the j Defender in shape In r sped is al! the ; more creditable. THE LARGEST LENS. Work on It lias Been Fi:iiishe:l at Cant- i bridge, .'la-s. After a year’s work the jo inch lens of j । the Yerkes telesi pe has keen finished at i Uambridg ■. Mass., and v ill be shipped I soon to its destination. This lens is four I inches larger than that of the Lick tel- • esrope. With this monster telescope 1 great things are prediet, <1 in the field of , astronomy, and ir is < xpeeted to reveal some inl< resting facts of Mars ami its canals. The lens of the Yerkes telescope, 1 i r. hen the gla-> came frm i Baris in the , rough, and before a stroke of work had • । been done upon it n» fashion it into its i present delicate and beautiful shape, cost . .$-10,1)1 X). I Brobablv the grinding .-.ml polishing of i the lei s. which have been going on for ' j two years, cost as much again, while sev- I oral hundred thousand dollars were re- j j quired to furnish the grounds and build- | ' ings for the new observatory, with its : numerous instruments ami the elaborate ' and enormous brass tube for the great ' telescope, besides the endowment roquir-
- —- - - — l cd to supply a permanent fund for the , maintenance of the institution. The great ; crown glass now at Cambridge is about three inches thick in the middle and one and a quarter imhes a: the outer edge. Tib- two pieces that make i::> the lens wei ;h together L- ( d pounds. 1’ ing fragile, in spite of their great size, they must be handled with the utmost care. The J© s - _ F— — •=-—'A '■ /. 1'I o .. a- —s ■- • '■ - 11 1. YEEKES TEL! SCOPE LENS. lens will soon be shipped from Cambridge to the shores of Lake Geneva, in AViscunsin. where the observatory is to be i situated. MORTON DEFENDS PACKERS. Denies the Statement That Inferior Meats Conic from Chicago. Absolute denial is given by the agriculi tural department to the report from Ger- ' many that Chicago packers buy the m >st inferior qualities of beef for calming and j packing purposes. Ihe statement was made in a German jmirmil. which assertcd that, owing to the poor quality of the beef, it was injurious and wrung to sell । itTLL.Germany. Secretary Morton said, ■ concerning the story. ‘■Personally, with a veterinary inspector, I have several times passed through | the larger beef canning establishments in Chicago. My visits to those estab- । lishments were always unheralded, i and therefore then* were no spei cial preparations made for a general viewi ing of their premises ami their methods of i slaughtering, cooking and canning beef. J From those thorough, official investiga- ' tions I am justified in denying as wholly | untrue till that is asserted in that statement in regard to American canned i meats.” Told in a Few Fines. Jose Acaova, a Cuban leader, was ■ killed by a civil guard mi a sugar estate. ' John Dutton is dying at Leadville. Col., ‘from starvation. lie was too proud to : J beg. Gov. Morrill finds there is no destitu- | ' tion in Eliis Comity. Kan., and the ap-! | peals for aid sent out were groundless. I The commandant at Toulon has been j ' ordered to dispatch a fresh detachment i of troops to Madagascar to replace the ■ troops ordered home. The malting house of the municipal i brewery at Filsen. Bohemia, burned with । a damage of 1,O(H),O(!O florins. One worki man was killed and two firemen were | injured.
— | The sum paid for the English rights ' of “The Memoirs of Barras” is said to have been four thousand dollars. ; “A Study in Prejudices” is the title of the new novel by George Paston, au- ; thor of “A Modem Amazon.” This ; story Is described as fresh and modern I in conception. j The American edition of the Bookman has far outstripped its English name- , sake in interest As the case stands I “°V he Uil is the dog, and the English Bookman is a pretty good , paper, too. ! “Sentimental Tommy,” Mr. .1. M. Bar- ( He’s new story, relates the tale of the i „ ° f a poor boy iu a city. Mr. , Barrie has now taken up his residence । In London and is suppo-seJ to be ;nak- , Ing studies there. The author's favorite . attitude, it is said, is reclining on the rug before the fire, where he smokes in 1 peace with his great St. liernarA beside . him; he does not like chairs. It is notj ed, also, that in company he preserve! extraordinary intervals of silence: but I be is always quick to catch and applaud some clever speech from those around him. । Hector Malot announces that, having ! made a fortune, he has retired from literature. He has worked hard, having studied the theory of heat to write । one book, spent three months in tbo : cotton factories for another, and, he tells us, even spent the same length of time exploring the ruins of Rome. He ' chose his own subjects and indulged b.is ■ own tastes, and let no editor, not even M. Buloz, broxvbeat him. Inasmuch, however, as he says that he has in his desk sketches for ten more novels, and plots for others in his head, the New York Tribune thinks that, that retirement has somewhat the air of a “positively final last appearance." ; “Tay Pay” O'Connor lunched with . Maeterlinck not long ago, and writes ’of him: “He is an excellent fellow. In appearance he is a typical Flemish man | —stoutish, broad-faced, and with the singularly open and good-natured expression of his race. I am told by his intimates that he is one of the most ■ modest, and I could see that he is one ’of the most unassuming, of men. He speaks English well, and is intimately acquainted xyith English literature — especially with George Meredith. Hitherto ho has r ot made or tried to make any money out of his dramas; but he is getting popular, and by and by may get ' rich.” = Cupidity Caused Trouble. William McDowell, a well known Tagoy’wneu Ihe saw three boys approaching on a run. The boys wore gray suits nnd be at once supposed they were runaways from the reform , school. He resolved to capture all ! three and thus add ?15 to his savings, i He secured i tough hickory club from the wood pi e and bid behind an oak i tree on the side of the road. As the first boy attempted to pass McDowell seized him. I Before the boy i n what had happened he was on the ' ground together with the second boy ‘ and McDowell standing over them both in a threatening attitude. The boys tried to explain. While they were parleying McDowell ' sa.w three more boys running through his cornfield. They wore the same i gray suits and be determined to capture the entire lot of boys. The boys soon convinced him that his contract was more than he could carry out. Thon the boys had a chance to explain that they were members of a base-ball team, which accounted for ; tiie similarity of their suits. They expected to enter a foot race on July 4 and were training for tiie event when the farmer attempted to capture them. ! The case came into Squire Lucas' ; i court. That worthy was puzzled to ! ! know how to make the punishment tit > i the crime. Before he decided the ' farmer bed persuaded the boys to withdraw the complaint Eloquent Bags. i “Eloquence is speaking out .. . out of . ' the abundance of the heart," say the - ; authors of “Guesses at Truth.” An t ' incident related by Doctor Barnardo, I • the English pbil inUiropist who cares ' ' for friendb'ss children, illustrates this ! characteristic of eloquence. ' I -I was standing," he said, “at my front door one bitter day in winter, when a little ragged chap came up to me and asked me for an order of admission. To test him. I pretended to be rather rough xvilh Him. “•How do I know.’ I said, ’if what you tell me is true? Have you any friends to speak for you?' “ ‘Friends!’ he shouted. ‘No, I ain't ! got no friends: but if these here rags'— and he waved b.is arm about as he spoke- ’won't speak for me, nothin' else wiH.’ ” _____ j Bryant’s Early Pecuniary Rewards. It is amusing to know how small I wore the pecuniary rewards of Bryant’s , literary labors, whatever may have j beon the fame they brought him. Two dollars a poem was the price that he named, and he seemed to be abundantly satisfied with the terms. A gentleman met him in New York many years । after, ami said to him. “I have just ! bought the earliest edition of your ! poems, and gave ?20 for it." “More, | by a long shot,” replied the poet, “than I received for writing the tvhole work.” —Century. Conscience is one of those burglars that works best in solitude and darkness.