Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 18 October 1883 — Page 2

BONNIE DOON.

..L

A LOVE STORY.

CHAPXBftlV. |'|T

"Why (loes your father calr you Bonnie Doon? It is av^pietty uaaaev but. •what does it mean?' and Eric St. John, •who is smoking a cigar ashe re&us over the fence and watches "Ruth feed a tribe of fluttering pretty little chickens, looks, despite his illness, very handsome.

She smiled at him over the little fluffy ll6ldSt Yotr kfiowthe sotig, 'Ye bants and braes of Bonnie DoonV" she said.' "My father thinks that no one in the world sings it so well as I do, aadwhan he is pleased he calls me Bonnie Boon.' "It suits you exactly," said thacritic, •"simply because it is unlike every other name, and you are unlike everyone else."

She bllished at the words, and found some difficulty in making a little chicken eat its rice. "I thought," continued Eric St. John, •'that I knew every variety of the human species called* 'girl,' but you are ^uite anew revelation." "Ami?" she asked, simply "I did not know." "No that is Just the charm," he answered, quickly. lYou do not know, and most other girls do know."

He haid nothing to do just then, and he did not see why he should not amuse himself-with this dainty, delicate young beauty. It seemed to him that he haa discovered her in the southern farmhouse just as one finds a new and rare UoWer in some unexpected place. "There are many things/' he continued, "that you bave not the faintest idea of for instance, do vou know that beautiful waving hair of yours looks as though it had caught the very gleam of the sunlight? Do you know that some great ladies in London would give all they have and possess in the world for your bloom of perfect carnation and white? You do not know that your •yes have caught the blue of the Italian beavens. and that the long black fringe which shades them makes them the most beautiful eyes in the world?" "No," die replied: "I did not know any of these things." "You ought to know them. These "ts areyour weapons. You will have fight with them." "I do not understand," she replied,

Then two littlfi round balls of chickens began to fight, the most laughable and comical sight in the world, and Ruth ran after them a motherly hen or two joined ih the fray, and .she had some difficulty in quelling it. She went back flushed and Dreathless, laughing over the captured chicken. Eric was still there, handsome, indolent, and

you like feeding chickens?" he

.asked. "Do you like this kind of work?" She looked at him with that sweet, serious gize. "I have never thought," she answered, "whether I liked it or not. It wfcs the thing that lay before me—obvious duty, anal have never given a thought fo any other kind of life or work.?' "How old are you, Bonnie Doon^" he «sked, and she answered, shyly— i# "Eighteen." .. "I wish," he continued, "you would let me call you Bonnie Doon. The name has taken my fancy. It seems to be part of all these pretty surroundings I near the ripple or the green boughs and the whispers of the wind over the long

KDon?'

ass in it. May I call you 'Bonnie You see," he continues, more as though he-were arguing the question with hims&f than with her—" xou see,

?rou

wait upon me so kindly and so nicey—you might be a fairy, you are so light, so quick, so deft in your movements— afed it seems really almost absurd to say MiSs Vaughan. Ruth is a beautiful name, one of the sweetest

E(perhapsa

ven to women, but the use of it would trifle presumptuous but Bonnie Doon—sweet Bonnie Doon. with a touch of the heather and a breath of the braes in it,is quite irresistible. What do you say?" "Iam quite willing," she replied, and lie said to himself that her freedom from all affectation and all coquetry was a (Charm as great as her beauty.

Eric St. John had been at Larch Hill Farm a week then, but this was the first time he had left the house, 'His #lness had been a terrible one he had been in the very arms of death, and even the little journey from London to Aspendale lad wearied him beyond measure. The first few days he haa not been able to rise, ana Mrs. Yaughan had nursed him with the greatest care: then he had risen, only to lie on the. couch in the pretty grepn dfawing-room, and then life was a different thing. .) One must be won and tired of the noise, the roarv the unceasing confusion of London to realise what this sweet brooding silence and rest meant to him to lie'there while the summer wind parted the long white curtains, and came in laden with the breath of sweet roses and hay from the meadows, musical with thle song of a thousand birds, was a revelation to him. And then-

Ruth began to wait on him: she brought him fruit and flowers. When he felt most weak and incapable, she appeared suddenly Iwith tempting jelly soup, chicken, always by some strange chance the very "thing he needed. 1 It was such a pleasure to look at her Ieautiful face, to look at the sheen of her golden,.hair, and watch her quick, graceful movements he liked the sound of her voice, so sweet and clear he liked her to wait upon him, but what puzilc3 him first was who the farmer called Bonnie Doon.

From morning until night that name sounded through the house,— "Bonnie Doon, Bonnie Doon. want '•you!v and ^Wien the invalid found that

Jit

was the name given to hifi beautiful young nursg I19 wasyeleUgUted with it. This bright Jyly morning was the first time h&it&d ^entuxfed to leave the Ju use. He^walked aS iaiffS tap white fence, where Ruth stooufeedtug her chickens, almosratghtened at his own we*!me$$:%e fi'ad

TO

«srj*

lean against

the fence,-be *ould Itflrdly stand or walk. mm* "How fever takes away a man's re a "Would you believe tl« wiree monflis since I belo.qged & *v«e ofiM&wbest athletic clubs in^jUnKii}!}. ai*d wps considered a shining, star:' tiovt 1 c&uld hardly throw a stoM (ft tfne^tif y&uPrmc^ens. "It will cfgoce #Mk tovuiw* she1 said, "if you are patient" "I am patient enough." he replied. "I like this life: there could iw» nn o-roqte'

contrast oetwrcn tms ana my i^onaon life." I She looked! at him shyly.. "What are yonr" she asked. "I mean what do you do in London?"

He smiled to himself at the simplicity of the question. "I am a barrister," he said "indeed I may describe myself as a barrister with

griefs,expectations.

reat I have plenty* of and I work hard—very bard. I want a name of my own. That is laudableamljitiQSfcji it ng^ "You cou

She blushed and laughed. Eric St. John was beginning to admire those sudden deep, beautiful blushes, and to say those words which lie knew would bring them." "In London," he continued, "I live in what the Londoners call chambers I have three rooms, and I never see a tree. I see hundreds of people: I hear the most wonderful stories I conduct some strange cases, and life there seems ali a whirl no time for anything. On my table I find every morning cards, letters, invitations it pleases the people of the great world to seek me, not on my own account, but because ojf this name belonging to someone else that must one day be mine. I work hard, then at times I go out I dine at great houses, I go to grand balls, I spend some evenings at my club,—such a different life to this." "Perhaps," she said gently, you will soon tire of this." "Tire of ttie sunlight, the green fields, the rustling of those, great, green boughs, the music of the wind, the smell of the newly mown hay nOj I dont think so I go into the country sometimes, I visit country houses, but I have seen and known nothing that I like better than this. I think, he added. with an air of meditation "that I am an ambitious man.1' "Ambition is the sin by which the angels fell," she said, slowly. ''True! but there are different ambitions, Bonnie Doon, and I hope mine is a good ope. I want & full life,|I do not want to nave wasted time, wasted talent on my hands: I wtaifto fqel satisfied with my life when« FcOnftfc td di£ want to have worked well, to have succeeded, to have won favor and wealth, to have occupied a good position, to leave behind me a name 'both proud Mid fair,' do you think that false ammti/Ofl, ,pr true?*'. "I aoi quite unable to judge," she replied, with a quick shake of her beautiful head, "does it satisfy all your wishes and desires?"

Yes, I think so," he replied. •?. 'nM She had fed the last chicken by this time, and was standing talking to him with the empty-basket In her hand. "What do you wish for in this life, Bonnie Doon?" he asked. "I have not begun to think about it." she said. "I am waiting for my life to begin."

It seemed as though the wind caught the words and carried them away, gave them to the great, grden trees, to the flowers, to the birds, words that' were pathetic in their simplicity—that were prophetic. '*1 am waiting for my life to begin.", How many of us have stood so waiting on the shores of the sea Of life? Waiting! not knowing what life would bring! Hoping, longing with vague, sweet desires for which we had no words.

So Bonnie Doon waited, but the spell was upon her—her fate was foreshadowed: the thorn was growing with the rose for her. "I am afraid," he said, "that I have tired you how selfish men are: I have been talking all about myself all this time." "I am very glad," tehe said. "Do you know Mr. St. John, after all you have told me, I feel as though I haa known you all my life!"

CHAPTER Y.

Another bright warm morning. The farmers are beginning to cheer up it is just possible that if this weather lasts they jnay save the remnants of the corn —they cannot possibly pay the expenses of cutting it—but even this little hope is better than none.

A busy morning at the farm they have been astir and hard at work since five. Mrs. Yaughan has taken the lodger some new milk, warm, frothing, delicious so good that he decides in his own mind he will become a milk drinker and give up everything else. Then his mina misgives him when he remembers the fluid called milk in London, which bears 110 likeness whatever to this.

A tempting breakfast was laid for, him in the pretty green drawing-room —new laid eggs, fresh golden butter, and bread such as Londoners only see in a dream. He felt better this morning. stronger, and he longed to be out in the beautiful air. The farmer had gone to market, Mrs. Vauglian to Aspendale. Ruth came in to see what more he wanted, and found him looking as bright as the morning itself. *:What are you going to do. Bonnie Doon?" he asked. •'So many things. I can hardly remember them all.* she replied. "In the first- place I have to gather all the rasp-, berries that are ripe for making jam.'' "That will he 'delightful. May I help vou?'' •They will stain your fingers and makevour hands rough hut you can come if YOU like." ••Show me yourhiuids. Bonnie Doon," he said, laughingly. ."Vou seem to be always busy with fruit and flowers.*'

She held them out to him pretty shaped hands, but reddened and coarsened by hard work. "They ^ave seen some service." he ssaid. 1aufc|ji»gly: .but lie thought to ^iu,selfsit was a thousand pRies that .sudli dainty graceful beautv should be Juried hi. a farmhouse—that a girl with ft" fa&^o exauifdte should have rec|, £eagh kands: but he said no more. "I have a letter to -write," he said "then 1 will ioin vou. know where

'/.f4-V.r*v

"v^,

-T- \*W3Ki

ot nave a

ing to anyone else," she saW- tit) "Yes, that is possible, Bonnie Dobn: someone else's name will come to me if I live long enough. I want to make one for myself and I was succeeding bravely enough when this fever came. I had forgotten there were limits.,(to human strength, add I had studied all night, after working all day. I.deserved a fever, did I not?" "No," she replied "but you must be careful for the future. Ilime does not matter much when one sleeps under the white daisies." "I want to make a name for myself, and I succeeded," he continued "but I have worked hard, and this place seems to me a garden of Paradise after London, and you," he continued, with a gay smile—"you are its Eve. That is an old-fashioned compliment, but I mean it."

lTHE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY SdZESm

nit- KtsswuKiry irees grow," "At the end of the garden near the field," She said, and Eric laughed.

Y"I have visitedTthem' before," he said: "I know the flavor of your raspberries." He sat down to write his letter, and he \v#ote it impatiently enough: for, strange to say, a pair or blue eyes were looking at him from the white pages, and a sweet voice was in his ears. The words did «ot come clearly: the pen was bad.—the ink was'thick. I arn not in

springing from his chair. "Lady May must waif.And Lady May,did wait, for he had literally nothing to tell her. lie lost no time in hastening to the raspberry trees. She wasstanding there, and as he came near her he heard the words of her favorite song*'- law could they sifig.' thos£ little biMs. xvhile she was weary, fu' of *earfe?" Strange to say, although he heard it so often, he never tired of it to hin& the song was always sad, fresh, and sweet. In after vears he would rather have gone through fire than have heard one bote of it. "One may always find you. Bonnie Doon." he said, "as one traces the birds, by your song." "I love singing," she answered, simply, and then Eric St. John, the eminent banister, the heir of Sir Arnold Wynstay, of Grange Court, the exclusive and proud man ot fashion, began to gather raspberries as though he were Working at so much an hour for his dailv bread.

Once or twice he laughed at himself, but the whole scene was a beautiful summer's idyll to him he was gifted with a poet's soul. The long stretch of green meadows shaded by tall spreading trees,—the deep pools of water where Xho cattle drank,—tne odor of the flowers,—the song of birds.—the luscious red fruit, the exquisite face of the young girl,—were all so many sources of intense pleasure to him. "It is many years since I gathered a raspberry." he said and Ruth answered thai she thought it one of the finest fruits, but added that the cultivation of it was much neglected. "People give strawberry parties." she said, "and they tliink so much of strawberries and cream raspberries are quite neglected, yet raspberries and strawberries always seem to me like brother siiid sister

He laughed at the pretty contrast, but they discussed the question so earnestly that they did not hear approaching footsteps.

The fact was that for the first time in his life Eric St. John was interested, really and truly interested, in tho character and life of a young, and beautiful girl.

He knew women of the world by heart, he had long been tired of them, but this simple, beautiful girl, with her sweet voice and innocent neart, was a revelation to l)im. He liked to look at her, to wateli the dainty, changing color, to 'watch the light in her eyes: he liked listening to her simple, honest thoughts, '"lie was standing by her side now, looking at her with aruenb eyes, when the interruption came. "Good morning. Miss Yaughan," said a voice, in which love and jealousy, pleasure and pain were strangely intermingled. "You are busy this morning."

Ruth raised her head and saw Laurence standing looking at her with a darking face. Why need she blush burning red, stammer and falter as she answered him was it because, all in one moment, she remembered that last year he had helped her to gather the raspberries?

Eric St. John looked at the new comer with a good-humored nod: Laurence glared at liim in return a sudden* horrible fear clutched the poor boy's heart with such force it almost killed him. Surely, this tall, handsome man, who lookeil so perfectly at home and at ease, could ndt be—the lodger.

Ruth knew very little of the forms and habits of good society, but her own refined jnstinet told her. as these two would probably see each other often, they should know each other's names. "Mr. St! John,''she said, "this is Laurence Rain ton. the son of an old friend of my fathers'*.-' "And your lover," thought Erie, if one mav judge from his fafe. llow lie admired her simple, courteous manner, while Laurence thought to himself that 110 queen ever had finer manners. lie took off his cap and bowed with elaborate politeness to tne "lodger," but in his heart he longed to shoot him. What riirht had this man, with the beautiful face and proud bearing, with the girl he intended to marry? The first lierv pain of jealousy shot like a burning'arrow through his heart—the heart that was destined to suffer so terribly. "Can I help you, Miss Vaughau?" asked Laurence, quite determined to show this lordly man that he was on intimate terms with "Bonnie Doon," and that his presence would make no difference at all. "We have gathered all that are ripe," she answered, and at the sound of that little word "we." poor Laurence's face grew pallid witn jealousy.

Then, in his charming, languid fashion, Eric asked if he should carry .the basket to the houste for her, with just a faint idea, perhaps, of showing Laurence that lie also was on very friendly terms at Larch Hill. "Miss Vauglian need never raise her hand while I am here to do her service!"' cried Laurence, seizing the heavy basket as though it were a feather. "There, Bonnie Doon! "cried Eric, "you see the age of true gallantry is not over yet." "Bonnie Doon." thought Laurence, "llow dare he call her by that name? He has not been here more than a fortnight. and he calls her Bonnie Doon. I hale him

Laurence inarched first with the basket of fruit, the others followed. "Where shall I take it. Miss Vauglian?" he asked. "Into the stone passage." she replied.

Ami when he returned be found the lodger ha«l lighted a cigar and had found a seal iunongst the roses. He could not bear it. He loved Ruth with his whole heart, he had never thought of her as belonging to anvone else he had never thought of a rival, and here, in the very heart of her home, sitting even in the mitlst of her rose tires, was the handsomest. and proudest-looking man he had ever seen. lie could not bear it.

Miss Yaughan." he said, "I came over to bring vou some cuttings of the sclented geraniums that you admired so much, perhaps you do not want them now."'

Whv not now?'" she replied, opening her beautiful blue eyes in wonder,— "why not now, I^aurence: I want them as much as ever did?" •Lha^e brought them," be said, curt-

-Thank vou. Perhaps vou will help me set them I am so busV this morn­

ing, suaii ue giaa 01 neip." sue saia, with a smile that left Laurence hopeless and bewildered.

When they were in the garden again and alone, busy with the geranium cuttings he turned to her with a sudden fierceness that startled her. "That fellow is a swell," he cried.

She looked at him in wonder. "What do you mean? she said calmly. He had the grace to look just a little ashamed of himself.

r^eal^^t^^lit^determin^a'^ent that embarrassed liim. "I mean that lodger bf yours," he replied. "He is not my lodger," she said with some dignity, "and I do not know what 3 SWELL IS ..I, •'He' is& g£n£lemaii, rfft^arist^cirat," he cried, fiercely. "I can tell by his— his white hands, and his insolent manner." •*.- "Whatever he may be he is not insolent," said Ruth, "and of course he is a gentjeman we advertised for a gent leman and we have got one, a poor man could not have taken our rooms now. Laurence, you need not destroy the geraniums because our lodger is a gentleman."

She had not the faintest clue to his anger, she did not understand his love or his jealousy, and she was astonished at this angry outburst from her good humored companion. "I hate swells," said poor Laurence, with a clumsy attempt at excusing himself. "I have told you," said Bonnie DoOn, "that 1 do not know what a swell is. Swell seems to me a very absurd word!" "A swell." cried Laurence, '."means a

fgentleman.

It may be an absurd word,

mt, everyone in these days uses it." "It is hot much to your credit to say you hate gentlemen, Laurence," said the beautiful young monitress

pered "everything you do is well done in my eyes. You please no one in the world so perfectly as you please me."

He took her hand and bent over it he was going to kiss it. but it did not please him so well as the lovely flushed.face he kissed the white brow, and with that, the first kiss that she had ever received, her heart went.ouc to him for ever.

Eric St. John had been five weeks at the farm then, and he had fallen in love without knowing it. Insensibly the fair, simple girl had wound herself round the very tendrils of his heart. He was not a bad man he never had the reputation of being either fast or reckless over women indeed, women had but little share in his life.

He was engaged to marry Lady May Carleton. the orphan heiress of the late Earl of Rose town, and he had chosen her from a world full of women, because she was well-born, wealthy, highly connected, and was the very wife for an ambitious man to choose. There had been no question of love. Love was not one of the things that he had considered as essential in life.

It was the most suitable marriage he could pbssibly make. His uncle, Sir Arnold Wynstay, was delighted over it his friends all congratulated him. He would, perhaps, hardly have thought of the Lady May. but she had sh6wn such a decided preference for. him. He was flattered by it, and quite willing..

There was nothing whatever displeasing in Lady May. Had she been plain, proud, or cross, he might have hesitated, but she was none of these. She had a nice kind face. She was very sen si ble,very practical there was no nonsense about anything she did or said. She was universally popular. Everyone liked Lady 11O one in particular loved her. not even the man she was going to marry. She was not what is generally callecl—a lovable woman.

Kind, brisk, sensible, without one dash of poetry or romance in her whole composition,—without the least touch of sentiment in her character,—Lady May was just the woman to help a man fight his way through the world. She was a woman of quick, unerring judgment.—clear, shrewd sense and great decision. She had looked ouite calmly round the world of men. and the rising barrister, the heir of Grange Court, was the man she liked best. His handsome face and easy charm of manner pleased her as much as his great intellect and strong brain. She was most gracious to him when they met, and he—understood.

He made her an offer of marriage, and she accepted it. They were engaged, and discussed theirmarriage and their future as calmly as tliev discussed politics and the weather. There never had been any emotion or sentiment about the matter. Lady May was honestly fond of him. She thought him the rising man of the day. She Knew that her money, her position, her great connection would all be the greatest value to him, and she was quite concent. There had been no foolish love-making, nor kissing,—Lady Hay did not believe in such things. It would be a plain, sensible, substantial marriage. Eric, too, had been quite content.

They would have been married that year but for the fever, and Lady May had decreed now they must wait until thonoTt Frip must, miitfl refiovpj

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E. CHESTER PARK, Jf. D.

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Would be better if all tilen were gentlemen, at least in manner and in heart!" "I do not mean that," cried Laurence, repentantly. "I mean that a swell is a man who pretends,—who wants to be a gentleman, but is not one." "Then I can assure you," cried Bonnie Doon, with some indignation, "that in that case you are quite mistaken. Mr. St. John is not a swell." "It seems to me, Laurence," she added, after a short pause, "that you understand geranium cutting far better than you understand men."

Which so completely annihilated Laurence that he had not another word to say. um

CHAPTER VI.

7

"I wishj" said Eric St. John, '.'tliat yon would sing to me, Bonnie Doon. I consider it very tantalising. I can hear your voice, in the gloaming, and you sing very sweet, old-fashioned spngs that I love, yet, when I ask you to sing to me, you will not." y.' "I cannot," she replied.

1

Why? Tell me why?" and his voice sank to that soft, caressing tone that seemed to her sweeter than any other sound on earth. "Tell me why?"

The beautiful eyes fell, the beautiful face drooped from his a lovelv crimson flush rose, even to the roots of the gold-en-brown hair." "I cannot even tell you the reason," she said. "Can vou not guess it?" "Is it," he asked, gently, "because

ins strengtn ana neaicn. She naa urgeu him to go and visit his friends, telling him that he would be much better attended to than in lodgings, even .in the best farmhouse in the world but the doctors so strongly recommended perfect quiet and absence of all society, that ne had obeyed them in preference, and had chosen the farmhouse lodging.

Again Lady May was quite content. Her lover would recover health and strength there. He must write once or twice each week to her. She was going to visit some friends in Scotland, but if he were still at Larch Hill when she returned to England, she would rundown with her aunt to see him for a few hours. Most sensible arrangements, just as the marriage itself was most sensible no nonsense, no sentiment.

What had all this to do with a girl who had dreamy, lovely, blue eyes in which slept the tremulous dawn of love? He had never dreamed of Lady May's eyes, why should he dream of these?— why did they look at him from the white clouds, the blue sky, the clear waters of the brook, from the pages of his book? Why was that exquisite face always before him? Lady May never blushed and trembled before him Lady May was never shy her eyes never drooped from his her voice never trembled or faltered.

What was it waking in his heart for this girl that had surely never been there before—a simple country girl? It must be all nonsense. Very pleasant, he owned, while it lasted there was not the least harm in it, and it would not last lohg. lie was to marry Lady May next year, and then he would be a kind, friend to the family at Larch Hill he would come and see them, he would send them presents and if in the meantime a warm friendship sprung up between himself and the beautiful youngdaughter of the house, there was no harm in it. Men are selfish in their friendships as they are in their loves he thought only of himself, not of her. lie never said to himself that if he were' kind to her, talked to her, sought her society, caressed and flattered ner, she might grow fond,of him, and so blight her young life most men are incapable of looking so far ahead, the present is everything with them.

It is new light, new life, a new revelation to him, but to do him justice, he did not know that it was love he. was not wicked, he was »either careless nor reckless? he would hot willingly or knowingly. have injured one "hair of the girl's beautiful bead: vet he was spoiling and blighting her life as surely as ever life could be spoiled. lie yielded to his liking for her he spent the greater part'of bis time with her he talked to her of all that' passed through his mind the homely accent ceased to jar upon him, because her lips were so sWeet. He liked to caress the waves of golden-brown hair, and he never stopped to think how dangerous for her those sweet caresses might be. He gradually, slowly, surely, absorbed her soul as tne sun draws the dew. He had 110 thought of being untrue to Lady May, but this girl was so sweet, so loving. so entirely irresistible, he might as well be happy while he could.

Neither tne good fanner nor his wife saw anything amiss they were secure in one great fact that Laurence Rainton loved tneir fair, young daughter, and would speak in his own good time. The lodger was not of their sphere he belonged to another world he would have a title some day, and be a great man. It never entered their heaas that there could be anything' between a man like Eric St. John ana theft- daughter, least of all love.

When they heard the laughing, cheery voice calling "Bonnie Doon,"' they laughed, well pleased that he should be so kind to them and theirs. They did not know how much time the two passed together. The farmer was always out on the farm, Mrs. Yaughan was busv in the house and dairy the birds, poultry the garden, all fell to Ruth's tot even if they saw "the lodger,'" as he was generally called, with her, it seemed most perfectly natural.

So she learned her fatal lesson well. He never used the word lov« it would have been better, perhaps, if he had done so. It would have startled her into a sense of reality of things.

Instead of whieh she fell into the sweetest dream that ever lured a girl's senses,—the very sweetest. There was no past. 110 future.—it was a full, beautiful. brilliant present. The days were not long enough for her happiness, or the nights for her dreams. It was the first romantic mild love of a girl, mingled with the passionate attachment of a woman.

It is no exaggeration .to say that she worshipped liim, and the woVAiiip was pure and beautiful. Love so charming was never given to any man. How she grew pale, then red.—now she stood at the door, her heart beating like a bird poised on delicate wing, until a strong, kindly hand drew her in, and the man she loved so dearlv said.— "Come in, Bonnie Doon I will not let you be so shy with me. Why are you so shy?" he would ask. trying to look into the depths of those happy eyes.

She could not tell. She only knew that it was such, intense happiness to be near him that her heart acnfcd with its weight of ioy.

It was cnarming to see her wait upon him,—how fresh, bright, and beautiful everything was for him. Then when lip l»:id crown nuite !it with tbft

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Fawobt, N. Y., March 12, S3 Rheumatic Syrup Cb. Gnrrs-^Since November, 1882. I have been a constant sufferer from neuralgia and have nu known what it was to te fr* from pain until I comment, the use 6f Rheumatic ?vni). have felt no pain since fourth bottle. I think it the remedy have ever heard -t 1 purifying the blood and for cure of rheumatism and neuralgia. W. B. CHASE.

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nomeiy nttie group,—when the farmer took his pipe and his jug of cider while Ruth sang,—he spent every evening with tnem. Every evening the fair face looked more beautiful, the sweet voice seemed to grow sweeter,— every evening she sang of "The braes of Bonnie Doon," yet no one ever tired of the sweet, sad song. When the fanner fell asleep, and Airs. Vauglian sat knitting it seemed quite natural that Ruth should go round to see if the birds and pigeons were quite safe and when Eric St. John offered to go with her, the simple people were flattered by his kindness.

The moon and the stars could tell,— the wind and the trees could tell of the loving words whispered there,—could tell of caresses that made the girl's heart beat with happiness. He never tired of telling her how fair she was, how good to see but he never uttered the word "love," and the poor child did not miss It. What could mean but love? And lovo is sometimes^ sweeter before the word is spoken tllan it can ever be in the after days.

\Tb be Continued.]

Spring Without Blossoms, a

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Late in life to Look for Joy—Yet Never Too Late to Mend

Readers «f Hawthorne's "House of Seven Gables" will recall the pathos, with which poor Clifford Pyncheoo. who bad beea uojustly imprisoned since his eairly manhood,said, after his release: "My life is cone, and where is my happinlss." But that could be done only in part, as gleams of warm sunshine occasionally fall across the gloom of a £iew. England autumn day.

In a letter to Messrs. Hiscox & Co. Mr. L. H. Titus, of Pennington, N.J. says: "I have suffered untold misery trom childhood from chronic disease cf the bowels and diarrhoea, accompanied by great pain. I sought relief at the hands of physicians of every school and used every patent and domectic remedy under the sun. I have at last found in Parker's Tonic

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a ?mplete specific, prevent­

ive and cure. As your invaluable medicine, which did for me what nothing t?lse could do, is entitled to the credit of •my getting back my happy days. 1 cheerlully and gratefully acknowledge the i'aei."

Mr. E. S. Wells, who needs, nc introduction to the people ot. Jersey City, adds: "The testimonial ot Mr. Titus is genuine and voluntary only be does not adequately portray the suffering he has endured for many years. He is my brother-in-law, and I know the case well. He. is now perfectly free from his old troubles, and enjoys healtfi and life, ascribing it all to Parker's Tonic-

Unequalled as an invigoranr stimulates all the organs cures ailments of the liver, kidneys, and all diseases of theblood.

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SENDING FOR!

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DiSEASES OF HIE L0N6S HOW TO CURE THEM

UrcwtorluntfB. Mention this paper. Address „i J. «. SCHENCK A- HON, FbllrtelrtU. P*. S a

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Health is Wealth

DR. K. West's Nwnr* akd Bbaik Tsxj v^mexx,a guaranteed specific for Hysteria, Die i~ness, ConTalsions, Fits, Nervous Neuralgi a Headache, Nervous Prostration caused by the ut j. of alcohol or tobacco, Wakefnlnees, Mental Depression, Softening of the Brain resulting in in,* sanity and leading to misery, dacay and death:, Premature Old Age, Barrenness, Loss of power in either sex. Involuntary Loeses and orrhoea caused by over-exertion of the brain, eel* abuse or over-iftdulgence. Each box oontair one month's treatment, ft.00 a box,or ux boxe# for $5.00, sent by mail prepaid on receipt of pricc

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C. F. ZI*M*R*Ajr, Druggist, Sole agent.

corner Thirteenth and Main streets.