The Syracuse Journal, Volume 1, Number 11, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 9 July 1908 — Page 3

A LONELY GIRL

CHAPTER XXI. Adare is silent. This sweet call to him but embitters the desolation of his soul. Oh I lovely hypocrite! And what has he to say to her? How can he speak, knowing his heart is broken? His silence touches at once the nerves that are already so unstrung. “Hilary I Why don’t you speak? Are you angry with me? I could not help it. I did not mean ” Her thoughts fly to the upper chamber,, where the everlasting starp looked down upon her, and where beneath their light she had said “No’’ to Evera'rd’s proposal of marriage. Is it that? Should she not have gone there? But they all saw her go, and said nothing ' How has she offended him? ’The pretty color dies away from her halfparted lips. . “I know I have no right to-dictate to you what you should or should not do. And as for being angry, why should I be angry? We are all free to do as ,we will. If you think my manner severe, it is merely that I would suggest to you, as being one of' my family, that at such an hour as this* you-——” He stops. ’“Should not lie here,” interrupts she eagerly. “Yes, I know now. But they were all here a moment ago.” “A moment! Your moments seem'to have flown, on iwings,” still with that cruel smile, “in'the room up there with Everard.” “Hilary ! Oh! it is impossible!” in a low. but intensely vivid voice-. "You must know how it was.” ‘You are right—l do!” “You are mad I” cries the girl with a iity.e indignant gesture. “You don't 'understand. You left me. to go down to Sir Lucien—you remember?” “Certainly. It gave a splendid opportunity” A pause. . . j “I never thought of you before, as contemptible,” says she. Her voice now is c nite changed. Ail the sweetness, the ■ love! the dearneiss of it,"seems dead, kill,ed! “But I have often heard it is difficult, to know anyone.- Believe me or not, as you will, however. I went up thereto see the stars with Mr. Everard; they could be seen more clearly there, and—- “ Why fgive yourself so much trouble? Why not llet this very amusing game you have played with him and me come to an end now/—so far as lam concerned, at all events?” Grief and wrath have rendered mi m quite incapable of fathoming the wretched things he is spying. 'Aanber’s eyes, resting on bis,' grow larger, brighter, but her face is the color of death. “I don’t think you know what you arh saying,” says she coldly. ‘ “Ah! Don't let it degenerate into a farce!”* “You mean our engagement,” says she presently, having gathered Up her courage with a wonderful strength. “There was none, however. That at least you -must remember. And—lam glad of it now ! I am thankful that there is no real bond between me ,and —you.” The sweet, deep eyes, so angry, so troubled In their depths, are still fastened upon his. Scorn lies -in their depths. ‘ “This is a convenient occasion for you to get rid of me,” says Adare calmly. “When a woman trifigs with two it is well for her 'to nave just cause for getting Aid, at the last, of the one who is the least desirable, I congratulate oii your success. You have not only got rid of me without any scandal, but you have secured Everard, who is . beyond doubt the richer mat} of the two.” “I wish I were a man!” says she slowly. “I would you were!” cries he, “for then I’d kill you— —” There is such frightful- passion in his tone that involuntarily she draws back. “Amber! What a name fdr you—for you!” His desperate grief makes him brutal. “Why did your father give you such a name as that?” “Why should he not?” She lifts her small, beautiful head and smiles at him defiantly. “It' was, however, my mother’s suggestion; but afterwards my father said it quite suited me. Because”— her defiance now is of the very highest order —“he said I looked so clear !” ‘‘Clear I You ! And to deceive me so! To go up’there to-night.” pointing to the tiny staircase that leads to the topmost room of the tbwer, “with Everard!” “I don’t understand about Mr. Everard! You and received him sis a friend, I think, during my stay here. Yet now you talk of’SnnC. as if . . . But” —with a scornful gesture—“l care very little for Mr. Everard. As to my mother’s naming me Amber, she thought of my complexion then, I think, not of my heart! You see,” scoffingly, “it was almost transparent jwhen I was born! As for what it is now—or my heart either —” She shrugs her shoulders. A very agony of rage has caught and overwhelmed her, let all the good of life go by for the sake of a moment’s revenge upon this one human, being whom, of all the world, she has learned to love. Her air, her attitude, enrages him. “How dare you speak to me like that?” cries he, catching her suddenly by both shoulders, and holding her as if in a vice. “Let me go!” Her voice rings clear, if low, and without a touch of fear in it». She swings herself sharply out. of his grasp, and at once walks towards the staircase beyond. I It is done very quickly, but she has hardly reached the middle part of the gallery when he is beside her. His face is still dark with anger and distrust, but —he has followed her. “Amber! Don’t go! Was I, or was I not, mad to speak to you like that? But if you will speak—will explain ” “I shall hot explain.” Her face js as white as death. “You refuse me one word.” He has fallen \on his knees before, her. What is anything.to—all the world contains—save this one little slender girl! Deliberately his- fingers from her gown. “Even one,” she says.

I He regains his feet Slowly, very slowly; so slowly, indeed, that it gives Sir Lucien, who is coming up the gallery at this late hour, sufficient time to see him on his knees before her. “Hah!” cries he, hurrying up and speaking before reaching them. His voice, harsh and resonant, rings along the gallery. “So I have found you out at last! Holary! are you dead to all your interests? Marry that girl!”—pointing to Amber with a quivering forefinger, that suggests a venomous and a lifelong hatred—“and not one penny of mine shall ever be yours. As for you!”—be turns to Amber a face .black With passion—“l regret I ever let my niece invite you here.” - “To-morrow I leave your house,” she says. She takes a step towards him, and Sir Lucien, as if cowed by the; grandeur of her air, steps back a little h There is, indeed, something splendid in the scorn of her young face. “And before going I beg you' to understand that I have no desire whatever to marry Captain Adare. He is indeed the last man in the world I should care to marry!” - She turns, and, flinging up her head with a superb gesture, without (another word, another glance, goes swiftly, yet without undue haste, to the »staircase that leads out of the gallpry. Adare, his very soul bn fire, turns to go after her. Sir Lucien' catches his arm. “Stay! I command you !” dries he. “Let that impertinent girl go. | If you disobey me now. I shall disinherit you, and a title —without money. Give her up. boy, give her up, I say!” “Never, ‘ sir!” cries Hilary, flinging aside the-hand that again has been laid upon his arm. “Do you think your money —Do ■ • all rhe money the world s <ou!d be as good‘in my eyes, as she .is?” He almost, pushes Sir Lucien aside and dashes (town the staircase—the staircase that has swallowed up Amber, But he" is too late to overtake her. He is only in time, indeed, to heaf the click of the key in hen bedroom door. He turns away. Well! There is still to-morrow! He will see her to-morrow! CHAPTER XXII. But the morning proves him wrong. Amber is no longer within the walls of 'Carrig. When .she had gone, or how, no one knows. And to all his gj-ief and self-denqriciation is added the knowledge that she must have walked all the way from Carrig either to Madam’s, where she was expected, or to the .old Mill House. In what, cruel haste she had been to knock their dust from off her feet!, . ; ■ ' I How Hilary spends the hours after his first certain knowledge of Amber's going from Carrig he himself never knows to the end of all. But when this short and dying day is drifting into a long and chilly nightL he suddenly goes into the yard and orders a trap to be got ready for him. Coming to thtit part of the road that leads up to the boreen, where Amber’s little sick boy dwells, he springs to the ground.and leads the horse up the lane, and there gives the poor woman, who remembers him with the most devout gratitude, his horse and trap in charge. Was he mad last night when he hurled his miserable insults on her? Surely he was mad! What did it all come to after all? A few moments spent alone with Everard! He bad thought her wrong there- but he—was it not he who had been Tiideously in the wrong? He who had accused her of falsity—falsity to him —-to the man she had said she loved ! Certainly she had gone to see the stars' with. Everard, but that was only a small fault, magnified by him, not a crime. As he nears the mill, a little spark from the lowest depth around it catches his eye. He blinks—stares again. Yet surely there is a light, and in that dismal cellar where he . and Amber had buried her rings, that night! His heart begins to beat ! w She has not gone to Madam’s, then’! Poor darling! He had been nothing but a grief to her from almost their first acquaintance. But a light here? Could she be the one who had lit it? And why come there, into the very bowels of the earth as it were, at this dark hour? An unworthy thought—dismissed instantly with a touch of self-horror—that she is there to regain those rings, sends him flying down the slope that leads co the old mill. More likely—far more likely—she has come here thinking of it as the last place in the old mill that she had visited with him. If there seems to be conceit or vanity of any sort in this thought of his, it must be combated by the fact that he judges her’as he judges himself. Has he not come here to-night to look his last on scenes made sacred to him by her? And if she is here? If he should be so wildly fortunate as to find her here—in that melancholy vault—then, in his very body he cah prostrate himself before her. Can lay his apologies at her feet. Can pwn to her. his grief—his hatred of himself, and—Heaven is good as well. as just!—gain her forgiveness. He covers the ground between him and the old mill in an extraordinarily swift time, and, gaining the dipalidated doerway, steps "quickly in, and to that hole Tn the broken flooring that leads to the cellar beneath. Very Softly he steps. He must not take her off her guard. , To startle her by a sudden descent would be a cowardly thing—taking her by storm, as it were. And yet to seem to spy upon her! He shrinks from the thought, and finally desides on looking through the hole in the floor from which the old ladder is hanging, and seeing her, call to her; telling her he is here—has come* —oh! too poor I too poor 1 Telling her rather that he is here, her slave—her lover for life, even though she should elect to despis'and reject him! He bends down—his eyes traverse the

| vault. A sharp exclamation almost e* ; capes him. Almost—not quite. Down ' here in this dismal cellar Deane is kneeling beaide a wide opening in the earthen floor, This opening is close to the wall,' and bn the wall just above it is painted that' small black arrow, of which Amber and he had taken such notice. On the side of this Opening lies an old and very large jewel case—vei-y old, and now very grimy—its lid lifted. Hilary gazing, toe astonished to move, can see in the faint light of the lantern Deane has laid beside it, great rays of light flashing. The missing jewels at last! How near the discovery of them he and Amber had been when they buried those rings; inch or two this way—and ... Lightly he drops to the ground. So lightly indeed that the other man, engrossed with his spoil, hears nothing of his coming, unti> he is almost at his elbow. With a frantic yell, as of a wild beast torn,; from its prey, Deane springs to his feet,? and having faced Adare for the fraction of a second, flings himself upon him. The latter grasps him in turn. Disgust and rage are giving fresh strength to thews and sinews, that require little assistance from any source. And for a few minutes the two men sway and wrestle and are locked in a deadly embrace that means death—for one or the other ! Nostrils dilated, lips parted; a sway to the right—victory for one; a sway to the left —victory to the other! How will it end? ' Now a slight chance in this wild wrestling match—a loosening of the arms of Hilary—gives Dearie a chance. He flings Hilary from him, and with lightning speed draws a revolver from his breast! With a lo\y growl of joy he levels it. A second! a second only. But there is life in a second even for a man condemned. And it is a girl—the girl he loves—who gives life to Hilary! A small hand, brown, but shapely, flings up the fatal revolver, that would have sent him to a land very far away from burs, and a bullet crashes into the rotten rafters above their heads. The revolver has taken a voyage very nearly as high. It comes down now in a distant corner, and providentally does not go off. Amber, with a little spring, goes to it and picks it up. “Go home, Brian,” says the girl very gently, and in a very low voice. Her fingers tighten oyer the revolver, however.’ She- is calm, but looks a little broken. Adare moves to her side. “Those stones, those ornaments,” says he, pointing to them, “belong, as of course you know, to Sir Lucien Adare. In his name. I take possession of them? As for you”—he looks straight at Deane with scorn and undisguised contempt—“l give you just twenty-four hours to get out of the country.” “I shan't give you half tljat time to live,” says Deane. His glance is demoniacal : he rushes to the ladder and swings himself out of sight. Amber turns to Hilary with an almost frantic gesture. . “Go ( ” cries she. “Go quickly ! He has gone to the house, and can be back in a quarter of an hour. He has another revolver.” “Give me that one,” says Hilary. “Take it, but,” vehemently, “go!” “Well, come!” sa£s he. She stares at him, her face growing, if possible, whiter. She shakes her head. “Never mind me. But you go, and at once.” “Andjeaye you here?” he laughs shortly. “I am safe enough, believe me. Quite” —with a curiously strained smile, that in spite of all her efforts to suppress it, betrays the actual fear she is enduring, not only for him but for herself—“quite safe.” “In the hands of that brute! Don’t let us waste time, Amber. No, not another word. You come with me or I don’t go. Come!” ' ; “But where?” shrinking backwards. “To Carrig. of course.” “Oh! impossible. I will not! To meet Sir Lucien again!” She flings- up her head with a touch of the deepest pride and resentment. “Last night he all but ordered me put of his house.” “Why think of him? Is he worth one of your thoughts? Besides, you need not see him. Dolly, May will receive you with open arms. And to-morrow you can go to Madam's if you will.” He is speaking sharply, hurriedly, in disjointed sentences. There is so little time, and to be-caught like rats in a trap! Still she hesitates. “Look,” <fies he passionately, “I know I have forfeited the right even to Speak to you, but I implore you to listen to me now.” (To be continued.) A WHALE’S MOUTH. Tlie Grove of Twelve Foot Quills that Fills the Cavern. The rules for eating accredited to Gladstone and Fletcher, which required thirty-two, more or less, chews to each mouthful, were never meant for the true whale.. It has no teeth, and it swallows its food whole, catching it in the baleen, or strips erf “whalebone,” which depend from the sides of its mouth, If a; whale saw the whalebones that womankind are accustomed to using in their waists he would never recognize them as part of his alimentary system; they are so small. In the form in which they would be familiar to him they would be ten or twelve feetjlong and look like giant brushes, with a handle ten indhes wide at the end. One might wonder how any animal could close its mouth a grove of twelve foot quills sticking out of the roof. When the mouth closes the slabs of baleen lie flat in grooves. When the ’mouth opens the slabs spring forward, completely filling the cavern. One whale may ha.ve as many as 700 in its mouth. Sometimes the weight of this giant mouth, fringe is a ton, and the contents of the mouth of one whale taken in Bering sea on Oct 20, 1883, weighed 3,100 pounds, or a ton and a half.—New York Tribune. Excellent Care of It. She>—Your wife has very nice hair. She must take good care of it He —She does ; she locks it up every night

Dress Form Fits All. Through the ingenuity of a New York man, shopkeeper^ 1 and dressmakers will be able to get along here-

after with one kind of dress form. Long waists and sliort waists all look alike on this body portion, which can be adjusted to fit anything the human form can wear. The form is made similar to

PRESS FORM.

those now in use. except that the model can be moved up and down the upright rod that runs through the center and affixed at any height over the hip line that may be desired. In the oldstyle form a short-vvaisted waist did not fit on a long-waisted model, and vice versa, and both for window display and dressmaking a number of forms were required for a different type of figure. Either for fitting, or display this Invention is expected to be of value. both in the saving of money and -time,, for not only will one take the place of several of the eld designs, but it wilLnot be necessary to scour about for the suitable form for each occasion. Health and Beauty Hints. A prominent doctor says tennis is the most healthful of all recreations. For a run-around on the finger, thicken, the yolk of an egg with salt,and"apply. Grape fruit will break up malarial disorders if taken iu' time, as it is said to have tin qualities of quinine in smaller degree. During the summer be careful. Because yon are very warm do not immediately try to freeze to death; because you are thirsty do not consume gallons of iced water. The juice of a raw onion is the antidote to , the sting of a bee or wasp. When stung, remove the sting if it be left behind and then lay a slice of raw onion on the place. The smarting will cease at"once. A case of hiccoughs is always unpleasant and often quite distressing. An efficacious remedy is to hold the hands straight above the head, ; drawing air deep into.the lungs meanwhile' and retaining the breath as long as sible. If your face is too red be careful of your diet. Take no 'hot drinks, but plenty of cooling ones. Don't wash the face in cold stater, nor when ybu feel flushed. Luke-warm water is better. Hot foot baths are also said to be very good in Cases of this kind. For an ordinary sOre throat, with loss of voice or huskiness, dip a folded handkerchief in cold water. Encircle the neck with the. wet handkerchief anti cover it with several folds of old flannel. One night's application is usually sufficient to relieve slight cases. The pale, anaemic woman will find the salt bath, prepared as follows, somewhat helpful on dragging summer days: Dissolve forty grants of gelatin in a quart pf boiling water, add 100 grams of subcarbonate of soda and fifty grams of sulphate of potassium. Mix thoroughly and pour into a”hot bath; Nqckties are still narrow; some are of silk gauze and are knotted very low on the bodice. “Rust” is the very latest creation in the color line, and it is—as the name implies—a sort of reddish brown. At present it is said to be rather a popular shade for dress materials, because it allows of almost any color hat —violet, green, pink or blue will harmonize with it equally well. Very smart are to be lingerie waists In colors rather than in whjte, deep rich orange, a brownish ecru in Nattier blue,! or a grayish hue. worn with linen skirts, to match and' long coats of unlmed coarse cotton net in ,the same hue ; this, last loaded with soutache, tiny buttons, eords and tassels. Huge hatpins are still in vogue anti there-are some new ones of pearl which are stuck through the hair at the sidej just above the ear. and this gives the effect of a .rather barbarous adornment. Some of these large pins are very handsome, for they are made of cut jade, ivory or finest jet. Ruching is as popular .as ever, and Is worn at tjie top of the collar. Some of it Is two laches in width and made of four thicknesses of material. This is somewhat exaggerated, but it really does make an attractive finish to the top of the new stocks. Some of the ruching is hand-embroidered; other sorts are plain white, finished with a little ruffling of Valenciennes lace edging. Neckwear Is interesting to talk about, for there is always a new style or finishing touch which is quite worthy of

FOR AND WOMEN A BOUT

TWO NEW DESIGNS. , Z .W 1 f y /io r # zz /1: V ill if'\ r r Slif/ |.i “ //i ! I ■mi W ' Wil H I' Vri rt ii \ I iw

Th?*figure on the left wears a coat Suit of gnly satin, the Directoire coat trimmed with black satin. Waistcoat is. of yellowish satin.

rf? consideration. There are narrow ties of velvet ribbon or striped taffeta, made nto a smart bow ill front, with ends several inches long, finished with a gold tassel or with a fringe of colored beads. Another new fad Is a band of tiny sends knitted into la design and depurated with fringe ; this barbaric neckda|ce passes once around the neck and ties in front with a loose knot over a jabot! " I The radical change ift footwear is . very noticeable and because dresses are (extremely long the shoes are less conspicuous than ever,; blit are .extremely graceful. For afternoon wear the low shoejs have short vamps, low buckles, high heels and uppers to match the (color soheme of the Itlress. The evening shoe shows ribbons around the ankle. {Many women who have adopted the dong Grecian |niodes are wearing satin slippers absolutely without heels. The style is startling, to say the Ipast, yet ’for picturesque effect the idea is clever I enough. Womeiri JAventors. I Jane Y. Sutch. of Philadelphia, ini vented a mustache spoon- Mary I Brush, of Davenport, lowa, indented a boneless corset, jjlrs. Egbert Parnell, .an Australian, invented perforated unMrs. Ker.dall, the actress, invented a very haiiclsome and popular lamp shade. I The carpet sweeper was 'invented by Agd&lepa Goodman, of Duval County, Fla.; Mary Kies, in 1800. took out in Washington the first patent for straw weaving, . Mary E. Beasley, of Philadelphia, patented, in 1884, a barrel-making maejiine. All barrels before that tirfie were made by hand. Emily Durrans, an English woman, invented- the double-pointed nail, which .will join two pieces of wood without leaving visible any-part of itself. . If You are Thin. Don’t over exercise. . Sleep all you cim. Don't worry, hurry or get in a flurry. Don't lose your temper or let trifles irritate ’you. Eat freely of flesh-making foods, but not enough to ruin your digestion, which means greater angularity. Drink at your meals and take plenty of water, as well, as cocoa, chocolate and milk. Avoid pickles, lacids, salt meats or fish. Rest frequently! keep in the open air and sleep in well-ventilated room. Learn to dres& to conceal your defects. You may think it is hard to do, but it isn’t a circ|qmstance to the trouble your stout sister has to mask her flesh. A Woman’s Duty. The woman of taste keeps abreast of the fashions in. away, that is, she drops v-ornout stales and adopts whatever nqw ones She can adapt to her use. 1/ she can, afford it she patronizes flfst-class dressmakers and gets her money’s worth by wearing her clothes two or three seasons without losing her prestige as a well-dressed womfln. There in an advantage in this method, as you can see, and I have

• The figure oh she right wears a onepiece frock, fastened down front with braid buttons. The linen hopsacking is of hyacinth blue.

been told by women who use it that there is economy as well. It is no economy to save at expense of good looks. It is. a woman’s duty to look her best, a duty she owes to her family. If she can secure it by a small expenditure, so much the better, but to save by accepting shabbiness is not creditable save- in dire stress of circumstances. Poverty is an excuse for,shabbiness and nothing else is accepted by the world, save in the rare cases of,shabby millionaires. Hat Trimmed with Feathers. A lovely dress' hat is shown in the, drawing, the model being a good one in various combinations and colors. Peacock, a shade between blue and green, was used in the original, the straw being a fine Milan. The feathers were in the form of a thin flounce of the ostrich plumes, mounted on a wire and taken around the crown. White gardenias were applied f in the center of this flounce, and the* feathers were clustered high at the left side. Calling Names.. Call a girl a chick and she smiles. Call a woman a hen and she howls. . Call a young woman a witch and she is indignant. Call a girl a kitten and she rather likes it. /call a woman a cat and .she hates mou. . f Women are . queer. * If you call a man a gay dog, it will flatter him. Call him a pup, a hound or a cur, and he will try to alter the mgq) of your face. He doesn’t mind being called a bull or a bear, yet he will object to being mentioned gs a calf or a cub. Men are-queer, too. A I.abor-Saving Scheme. “John,” said the newly married business man. “Yes, sir,” responded the office boy. “Call up my wife every fifteen min-utes-and mumble lovey-dovey,. tootseywootsey about seven or eight times.”— Rehoboth Sunday Herald. To Stop Hiccoughs. For troublesome hiccoughs try a teaspoon of granulated sugar and three drops as vinegar or lemon juice.

“I did not see you in church last Sunday.” “I do not doubt It I took up the collection.”—Bohemian. Caller (to child) —Is this papa’s little boy or mamma’s little boy? Child— . Dunno; the judge hasn’t decided yet.— Life. Hyken—Bronson tells me he is taking iiud baths now. Pyker—-Why, I lie was out of politics.—Chicago Daily News/ She—lt’s funny you should be so tall. Your brother, the artist, is short, Asn’t tie? He (absently)—Yes, usual”. — Town and Country. “Has the patient a generous reserve force, nurse?” “No, doctor;; he has nothing but a mean. temperature.”— Baltimore American. Grace—So you have at last made up your mind to marry Jack? Lola—Yes, I’m tired of having him hang around he house every evening.—Chicago Dally News. “Don’t you ever get homesick, captain?” asked the passenger on the ocean liner. “No; I’m never homie long snpugh,” replied the captain.—Exchange. Bronson—My next-door neighbor is always looking ahead for trouble. Woodson-—For example, Bronson— Well, this morning I saw him sharpening his lawn mower. Miss DeMuir—l wish I could think rs some new and unusual birthday present to surprise mamma with this year. ’ Mr, Spoonnpore —How do you think ■jbe’.l like a son-in-law? ? everton (who has-, hired a taxanete. cat, to propose in) —Say “yes,**' darling? Miss Calumet—Give me time tb think.xClevertoin—-Heavens! , But net in her\i Consider the expense !— Life. X k The Lady (to Wljstily-retreating burglar)—Pardon me, bV won’t you please wait till my you? I told him there was softie one* tn the house, and he said “Rubbish' !”-—Harper’s Bazar. . , DiCk—You iwk fellow. Wick—l have cause for worry. Dick —What's the trouble? Wick—My wife says if- I don’t accompany her to the seashore this summer she’ll stay at home. . . Boy (who has been naughty and sent out into the garden to find a switch to punish him with) —Oh, munimy, I couldn't find a switch anywhere, but here’s a stone you can throw at me.— Puncft, Physician—Well, what do you complain of? .Policeman —Sleeplessness, doctor. Physician- —At what time da you go to bed?! Policeman—Oh, I don’t mean at night., I meaif in daytime, while I’m on my beat She (on her bridal tour) —Oh, Dan, I’m so unhappy. Dan —Why, what 19 the matter, darling? She —-If lam aa much to you as you say, you can’t be sorry your .first wife died, and that makes you too "brutal for me to love.— Life. Doctor —The room seems cold, Mrs. Hooligan. Have you kept the thermometer at seventy, as I told, you? . Mrs. Hooligan—Shure, an’ Oi hov, docthor, There’s th’ devilish thing in a toombJel av warrum wather at this blissid ruinnut. —Judge. Mamma—Good gracious, Georgiel What is the matter with Freddie Jones? Is the child having la fitl Georgie—No, mamma. You know Freddie stutters, and we bet he couldn’t say “altitudlnously” before Bobbie ran twice around the block.—Puck. Towne —Do., you believe in dreams! Browne- —I u se( i but -I don’t .any f more. Towne —Not as superstitious as you were, eh? Browne —Oh, it wasn’t a question of superstition. I was In love with one once, and,she jilted me.— The Catholic Standard and Times. Cyrus—Reuben got bunkoed. Silas— How so? Cyrus—Why, he read the advertisement of a firm that stated if ha would send a dollar they’d send him some light reading. Silas —And did they send it? Cyrus—Yes, they sent him two books entitled “The Age of the , Arc Lamp” and “How to Make Can- 1 dies.” ’ 1 “John,” she whispered, “there’s 4 burglar in the parlor. He has jusfl knocked against the piano and hit sevW eral keys at once. “I’ll go down,” he. “Oh, don’t do anything rash I* “Rash! Why, I’m going to help him. You don’t suppose be can remove tin piano from the house without .assist- , ance?” —The Throne. “I tell you,” said one man to an> other as they emerged from the corridor of a concert hall, “I envy that fellow who was singing.” “Envy him!’ 1 echoed the other. “Well, If I were going to envy a singer I’d select somebody with a better voice. His wai about the poorest I ever heard.” “It'l not his voice I envy, man,” was th« reply; “It’s his tremendous courage.*— Philadelphia Inquirer. Gave Him an Opeain*. “Do you save any money ?” inquired the editor. “Nobut rd like to,” answered th« bard. (“Now, if you would occasionally buy a little lay, I could lay a little by.* —Kansas City Journal. Anatomy. The Professor —Some of you gentlemen are not giving me your closest attention. Mr. Biggs, what do yop. find under the kidneys? Future M. D.—Toast, sir.—Puck.