The Syracuse Journal, Volume 1, Number 12, Syracuse, Kosciusko County, 16 July 1908 — Page 3

'~phe A A /hited Oepulchre J. The VV Tale of O Pelee By Will Levington Comfort . 1 . . ■' ', - 'i'. ■ . ■ ■ Copyright, 1936, by Will Levinsrtot Comfort Copyrisht. 1907, by J. B. Lippincott Compant. All rights reserved

HIS is a serial of great power and interest, and will not soon be forgotten by those who love good literature. “The Whited Sepulchre” is The Story of Mont PeleeT, and is a graphic, natural narration of that great disaster which thrilled and shocked the civilize! world. The wordpainting is vivid and inspiring, the incidents powerful aiM exciting, the characters

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strongly delineated. ■! Will Levington Comfort, the author, is well known for his superior literary tale:it, and in the present instance he has selected a theme admitting of intense delineation. No story of recent years has covered a theme more interesting than that of the eruption of Mont Pelee. The serial has all the coloring and charm of the beautiful surroundings of Saint Pierre, and there are touches of perfection in the descriptions of scenery and incidents. Peter Constable and Hayden Breen, young Americans, visit Saint Pierre just before the Pelee volcano scattered death and destruction over the ill-fated island. The hero of the story, Constable, saves the life of the beautiful Lara Stansbury at the time of the eruption, and the scenes on that occasion are thrillingly described., All through the story are incidents of the most fascinating character. They include a touching love romance of Hayden and the girl to whom he is devoted, and the horror and fate that reigned fit the moment when the island was engulfed in doom and disaster. This brilliant and masterly narrative of the crash at Martinique with a man and woman standing clear agains t the sequence of events—rivals “The Last Days oi Pomoeii” in pictorial and dra : matic power. The story should have a very cordial reception, it will interest all readers, ycung and old, and may be classed among the very best serials of its class that have been written in recent years.

chapter I. PC ter Constable sat forward on the main deck of his own yacht, the Madame de Stael, which had just been hitched to the bottom of Saint Pierre’s harbor. His single guest for the cruise, Hayden Breen, was back in the cabin, with a book and a long, thin glass. Three weeks previously,' early in April, Constable had met Breen for the first time. And of that meeting you' must hear. ' It came about some sixty hours before the Madame cleared from New York harbor, and a queer night for both men. Constable had been pacing the deck alone, when he heard a soft step below on the Brooklyn pier. He bgnt over the railing, and perceived that a stranger was about to throw himself into the water. Constable called' shdrply. The figure at the pier edge stiffened, and a face swung upward. The two parleyed for a moment, and the voice that was borne to Constable was that of a gentleman. The man below hesitated —considered then accepted with a laugh an invitation to come aboard. Presently in the cabin the Owner of the Madame faced' an individual, tastefully, even freshly attired, and one whose manner betrayed no flaw. The face was pale, imposing; a reckless face, but not devastated —though the eyes, perhaps, had a look of having seen too much. For two hours the pair talked about books, pictures, dollars, the tropics, and suicide. At the end, Constable was so strongly impressed that he invited the stranger to-be his guest for the cruise. Breen glanced at him whimsically. “1$ wonder if I really did drop off the dock, and this is the astral plane,” he mused; “This. is the edge of Brooklyn, and I • am serious,” Constable said. “This is the edge of Brooklyn, and I am astonished,” Breen replied. “So far as I- know, you would be my only guest.” “Had yqu better not wait, until to-mor-row? J£Wk again.” - prefer .that you say ‘yes’ now.” '' / -.-vs“Better hear more abqut me first. I have spoken only in generalities. My past is at your disposal,” Bteen warned. “I should like tojiehr much about you, but not in the light of your decision. Will you go with me?” “Yes.” "Where do you intend -to stay tonight?” 9 “You altered my only plan, you Will remember, Mr. Constable.” “I’ll have a berth • made up for you, at once. I’m glad you have found it-pbs-sible to look up the tropics again,” the owner finished. Breen appeared content, and accepted the various offices from his host with t. fine, half-humorous Appreciation. Con' stable found, in their early intercourse, not file slightest cause to regret his impulsive invitation. ! That the other did not harry him with references to his kindness was, to Constable’s way of thinkin;:, the severest test of a thoroughbred. Breen did not leave the .ship, and seldom tie .Cabin, during the entire period of preparation. He sat in a reclining chair aid read the essayists, mildly spirited. Whatever had been his attitude before, he accepted what life offered him now in calmness. He still had the jaded humar.’s last resource, when this unexpected but pleasant portion of life was at an er d. finch seemed to be the philosophy of this creature who had passed the death ..sentence upon himself. Constable slept aboard the last night before sailing, and was at breakfast with his guest about eight in the morning, when * servant entered the saloon, to i»-

nounce that a gentleman on the pier wanted to speak with “Mr. ’Constable’s friend.” Breen set his coffee cup down slowly, and his eyes met his host’s. “Mr. Constable,” he said, “you hate noted, no doubt, that I have remained under cover rather closely Since our interesting meeting. There is no one in New York whom I care to see, but the person out yonder feels differently toward me. In fact, he is very , much absorbed in my movements. T happened to step to the railing a few minutes before breakfast, and caught his eye. The truth is, if I see him now, he will persuade me to go with him, and I would much rather accompany you.” , ‘What would you advise?” Constable asked quickly. ‘With your interests at heart, I can only advise-you to bid me good-by and al ow me to thank you for many genuine, courtesies. Perhaps you remember that I offered to outline iny past, and you deterred me for the time being,”. “I want you to go, of course. What is tie simplest way to manage this?” “How soon do you sail?” Constable went to the speaking tube aid called Captain Negley. A moment k.ter he turned to Breen with the information that the Madame was just riady to clear, and would be put Off as quietly and quickly as possible. The servant entered with the word that the visitor insisted upon seeing “Mr. Constable’s friend.” There was a passage of bells from the bridge to the engine room, and the Madame came to life. Constable climbed to ;he bridge. The stranger below on the pier was in a. furious state of mind, and was trying to force his way aboard." It was plain that Breen was badly wanted, and equally plain to Constable that he was running into the danger of entangling himself in the meshes of the law; but he was stoutly disinclined to give up an admirable-companion' for the voyage. The progress of clearing,, went on quickly. The Madame’s prow was turned out into the harbor, and th© signal given to free the aft cable. At this point the insistent stranger raised his voice and struggled with the dockman to prevent him from slipping the rope. Constable stepped to the railing of the bridge and invoked. the assistance of two men on the pier head. 1 “Take that fellow in hand,” he ordered. “He seems to be laboring under a deluSienY'That’s good, men!” The stranger was overpowered, and the cable cast off. Harsh fragments of speech were carried upward, but no sentences that cohered sufficiently for Constable’s intelligence, until the very last, when, as the ship swung free, he heard plainly: “I’ll get you both, if I have to follow you around the world!” “I don’t, know but what you will,” the man on the bridge" muttered to himself. “You seem moved by a rather emphatic disposition.”' That night, in his oil skins, Constable paced the hurricane deck. His mind was serene, and he was inclined to regard the affair of the morning as a far-off thing which didn’t signify. What had placed Breen in the fugitive lists he did not care to know. He was just enough not to forget that there are regrettable transactions in every man’s past—a black bundle of perversities which some men designate their “chamber of horrors,” and othz ers call their “pet frailties.” Constable felt that he was called upon to judge no man. He liked Breen, and did not want his liking altered, save for the better. Ha could not imagine Breen doing a

cowardly thing; and anything else did not greatly matter. The spray swept in' gusts over the Madame’s dipping prow. The bare masts, tipped with lights, swung with a giant sweep ( from port to starboard »nd back to porf again, fingering the black heavens for the bjown-out stars. Constable couldn’t be half-miserable out there on the tossing door of the Atlantic. Mr,: Pugh, the new third officer, secured at the last moment to take the place of Mr. Hatt, who was ill, was on the bridge now. Occasionally in the glow of Pugh's cigar Constable could see the face of the seaman. It seemed small, colorless and rubbed out —not the face of a man who could bring a ship, up to port through a raving gale. It was nearly midnjght when Constable went below. Breed was still reading, . “How does it happen, Peter, that a man t of your substance happens to be out here in a sumptuous yacht with only one guest and that an accidental one?” Breen questioned. • “I have few friends, and little aptness for entertaining,” Constable said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a ship load of guests. I took out a party once. The members of this party played poker. I would rush down to the cabin door, calling, ‘Come on deck quickly, my friends. An old socket of a whale is snoring off our .port bow!’ ‘All right, Peter,’ somebody would say; ‘bring it right in. It’s your deal. Dickie.’ One man got all the money finally, and then there were testy tempers.” “Men- —men,” said Breen; “but women go down to sea in other men’s boats.” “I don’t know any women up there,” Constable declared. “By ‘up there’ I refer .•in general to the States and Canada. I shouldn’t know what to do with women here. They’d be sick. They’d talk about things they didn’t know about, put on rakish caps, look frowsy when the wind was on, and when they had sprung all their changes of raiment-, they’d want to go home.” ‘■Peter, you are on the wrong tack.. There are rich men’s sons who can go to sea without poker or bridge; and feminine aristocrats who know no seasickness, and who look adprable in rakish yachting caps • and blowing hair. Some time you’ll find one ” Breen halted. The other was staring hard into the prism of glass oa the buffet—staring and smiling. “I believe you are jockeying me into delivering platitudes, Peter,” Breen finished. “I have an uncle in -Martinique, Breen —a fine old chap whom you’ll be gla.l to know. This uncle has a partner in the fruit and sugar business. They are keen, kindly men, both—partners in the higher sense of the word. My uncle is a bachelor, held sweet by a past, the good old story. His partner, however, has a wife and daughter.” “Ah!” “They all live together in a grand old plantation house on the bluffs south of the Morne d’Orange, Saint Pierre. Mrs. Stansbury, the wife of my uncle’s partner —-it is important that you get this—is a very remarkable woman, tempered like a Damascus blade, ornamental as the vase of Alhambra. This description is not extempore. I have spent years thinking it out. lam proud of it. A splendid Frenchwoman, this mother, with iwstip eyes, and some strange insight • which leads her to dislike me soulfully, and the stuff of Jeanne d’Arc in her brain and hand. She’s not’quite adjustable to words. You are fascinated, yet afraid of her. At least, I aim She fires me with a childish zeal to show the best wares I have. Tl> result is, I play circus before her.” ■ “Most entrancing lady,” said Breen. “The daughter is more like the beloved Josephine,” Constable resumed lightly—rr“brave and true and tender. At least, from my pilgrimages and meditations, I should say that Miss Stansbury resembled the empress more than the SwordHanded Jeanne. And to think that once she graced these very decks ! That was a marvelous day, old man, a Caribbean day of blue and gold. The maiden improved it by pointing out to me how utterly worthless I am in the world—‘just sailing ’round.-’ (To be continued.) Infant Wives. Girl babies are often unwelcome in China. A terrible witness to this is a stone standing near a pool outside the city of- Foochow’. On it is the inscription, “Girls may not be drowned here.” Poor parents often sell or gfre away a daughter when only a few weeks or months old, to be the future wife of a boy about her own age. The child who becomes a bride by a “rearing marriage” is taken home and brought up by the family of her future husband. An Englishwoman when visiting a school observed a bright boy about eight years of age carrying a baby girl. She asked if she were his sister, whereupon the boy looked shy and did not answer. His brother volunteered the Information, “She is his wife!” Fireless Stoves. Fireless or self-cooking stoves, which have been so popular in Germany for a number of years, have been recently much improved. The early types were simply boxes made with double walls so as to retain the heat, and food to be boiled or stewed was first thoroughly heated and then inclosed in the box for a sufficient time to cook by the retained heat. The latest apparatus is said to befieated by a stone. This is made sufficiently hot in an oven or over any fire, then placed in the cooker with the steak or roast, and the box is sealed up and left for an hour or so until the food is thoroughly cooked and hot. With, double boxes, boiling, frying and rqasting may all proceed at once without care. How to Handle a flog. Scratch his back and'tickle him under, (he belly. You can lead him anywhere. This applies — figuratively Speaking—as well to the human swine as to the members of the drove that had the seven devils.- Hogs have sense, and don’t you forget it. An old razzerhack sow has more brains than all the cattto and horses on the plantation. >

A LONELY GIRL

CHAPTER XXII.-—(Continued.) If he stays, there will be murder tonight—she had seen .it in Brian’s eyes—the murder of one or the other; and loving fear lends certainty to the awful fact that it will be Hilary who will be the victim. For one thing, Hilary would fight fairly and above board; as for Brian-— And already he must have gained the house; and in a few minutes more - - With a gasp she runs to the ladder. “I go with you,” cries she, and with flying steps rushes upwards to the open air, that strikes cold, but full of hope, upon her pallid face. It is maw she indeed who is in mad haste to be gone. Catching his hand, she'runs, by little paths unknown to . him—by small short cuts, invaluable in a moment like this—through grasses wet with the chill dew of night—beneath the cold glimmering of the silent stars —across the road and up the boreen, where they find the' dog cart waiting for them. A word to the woman, a coin slipped into her grateful hand, a quick spring into the trap, and they are driving down the lane, and presently up the road at:a rattling pace. “ Hilary’s heart is beginning to beat high with renewed hope and joy ; his beloved is beside him, and with her the missing jewels. CHAPTER XXIII. Only a man runnng stealthily, swiftly, across a field! The moon has come from behind a cloud, and is flooding all the land with its radiance. Every object is for the moment discernible. And Hilary, his senses all alive, knows that the man is Deane. He is hidden now behind some heavy furze bushes—and now again can be seen, keeping in the shadow as much as possible, but still visible to the clear eyes watching. Now he is- lost again, and now the breaking of a branch on the quiet air tells Hilary he is a little ahead of him- He had run obliquely across the fields, so as to overtake them, and behind that low wall over there he is crouching—waiting. There is a gap just there —he will fire when the cart comes abreast of it. They are at the gap now, and at this moment a dark figure rises, from behiiad the wail, and deliberately raises an arm. There is a glint-of steel in the moonlight. Adare clutching Amber, drags her' from her seat to her knees, on the floor of the dog cart, holding her there with cruel force. No doubt this sudden action of his, means to save her life, saves also his own, A whiz of a bullet over their heads—a flash, a thud of metal against the stone wall opposite—a frantic dash forward of the frightened mare, and They are safe. The good mate, tearing along on the road to Carrig, is now getting slightly under control again, aided by Hilary’s hand and voice.. The one danger past, he had to encounter the other; but a runaway horse seems child’s play to him when he knew that Amber was safe, alive, unhurt. Brave and darling girl! She had not'even fainted. He had spoken to her, “You are not hurt, my darling?” and she had answered, “No,” but had begged to stay "where she was for the moment, as if movement was impossible to her. And with his hands full—and a: terrified and spirited mare being of no small count —he had let her rest there on the floor of the cart, with her dear, beautiful head against his knee. Now, .however, the good little mare has grown reasonable again, and Amber, almost without help, raises herself to the seat beside him. “It won’t be very long now,” says he quietly, encouragingly. Not that she wants courage, his brave, and beautiful girl! With a miserable anger directed against himself, he remembers again all his past sins against her —his cruel surmises. his contemptible suspicions. Here on this lonely road, with nothing to break the silence but the sound of the horse’s hoofs upon the ground, the kind and thoughtful night is making-all things even more clear to him —is showing him in rich colors the sweetness and truth of the lovely nature of the girl he loves." The night as a great purifier! It gives us time and pause, if often terrible pain. He would have spoken to her now, when they have reached the lower road, and no impediment can lie between them and Carrig; would have poured out to her words of desperate apology, of heartfelt grief and love,' but something in’ her Stillness checks him. Not here. Not now. It Would be to take her at a disadvantage. In spite of the wonderful spirit that has kept her up so long, and that has forbidden her to utter one cry of fear during al! the terrible incidents of this horrible night, he can see that she is tired, exhausted, even to the point of fainting. x She revives, however, as they reach the hall at Carrig, and Hilary having given her into the astonished but very friendly hands of May and Dolly, he goes straight to the library, where one of the men tells him Sir Lucien is to be found. “Well, I have found the missing heirlooms,” says he at once, not calculating the result. Sir Lucien, with a wild exclamation, rushes at him, his lean old hands trembling, his dull eyes on fire. “Found them, boy? Found them? That Deane —that fellow —he has given them up. She has. consented then? Hah ! I knew she would. BaS— bad, like, her mother —” “Be silent!” says the young man, with such a cold force as checks the hideous, almost insane, excitement on Sir Lucien’s face. “Have you forgotten everything—that it is of your own sister you speak—that she is dead?” “No doubt,” says Sir Lucien, with a sudden attempt at his old dignity, “I spoke too quick—without sufficient thought ” “I must ask you as well to think more carefully when next speakng of your aiece.” This face is set and hard.

“Os course. Os course., I see,” says Sir Lucien, drumming on .'the table with quite a pitiful agitation. “As you will. But”—rising and coming towards Hilary wth his form bent in a miserly eagerness—“tfie jewels! the missing stones — Where are they?”- Involuntarily the old, white, aristocratic hands’ go out, as if to clutch the man before him, then are drawn back, the fingers of one beating in a sort of frenzy against the knuckles of the other. “'Where are they, boy?” “I have them,” coldly. “You—you! Here?” 'The fingers now are. clawing the air, and,all at once they seize on Hilary’s coat. ‘They are mine! They are mine! Give them up—give them up ,1 say,” shrieks Sir Lucien. “Would you be a. robber, too!” AH at once the fingers slacken, and he would have fallen backwards, but that Hilary, catching him in time, presses him gently into the armchair behind him. His face looks old and yellow, and ’the eyes du!l. “Pray try to control yourself, sir,” says he, as he sees Sir tiucien slowly revive, and show the keen ?st interest again in the missing stones, in spite of that sharp tussle with death a moment since. “There is no Occasion for this extreme excitement.” His tone is studiously courteous, yet it is impossible' to altogether control the disgust that is coursing through every vein. “I have the stones. They are quite safe, and they are yours. I have risked my life to get them, and the life of one far dearer than myself; I can lay them on the table before you now, this moment —-but I th ink I am entitled to some reward.” “Say it. Name it. Anything!” cries Sir Lucien in a low, faint tone. “It is granted.” “Your consent to iny -marriage with Amber—with your niitce!” Sir Lucien breaks into a low chuckle. “Only that! Who cares about that?” “Still I want youi‘ word,” says the young man slowly. “'1 know if you once give it, you will never break it.” And. indeed, in this, to do Sir Lucien only bare justice, he understands him righfly. “The other night, you‘may remember, you threatened, if I married her, to disinherit me. I should care little about that for myself, but I owe her a great deal — ; a great deal more than I can ever pay.” He pauses, a sigh bursts from his throat. He is demanding permission to marry her, to bestow all his worldly wealth upon her, but—will she ever listen to him again? Will she accept his gifts? “For her sake, I ask your open consent to our marriage.” “Marry* her. Marry her!” impatiently - “You have no objeefion?” “None. None,” !;evdrishly. “If it comes to that, I like the girl. She has courage, pride, and she has flouted that damned Deane. She has a look of the Adares, too. Is that all?” “All,” says Hilary, He moves closer to the library table, and deliberately proceeds to empty his pockets oh it. At first, as if bound by some sense of decency, Sir Lucien remains silent, if trembling, as each exquisite ornament is laid down. But when the glittering mass oLj>riceless stones reaches its end, he gives way to a shout of triumph and almost flings himself upon them. “At last ! At last !” he cries. And like one possessed, begijis feverishly to count them. No need to go to the old inventory in the drawer over there, he heart how many there ought to be of all : the necklets, and; bracelets, rings; and quaint old ornaments—many of them, inthese more modern days, out of use, and in want of a fresh setting. Suddenly he turns round with a fierce 'exclamation to Hilary. ' “The tiara!” \ Hilary remembering, and, indeed, feeling a little shocked at his forgetfulness, thrusts his hand into a side pocket and draws out the forgotten thing that Amber had given to him at the hall door, and hands it to Sir Licien, who falls upon it rapturously. With the shit.ing tiara, Hilary has pulled out too a 'bit of soiled and ragged paper that he had found, jn the old jewel case. . Leaning towards the lamp, he runs his eyes over the n(w rather illegible page. He notices that on the left hand corner a. tiny arrow is marked. “Thursday ! Such a Thursday ! “This is me, Thomas O’Connell, to you, my.beloved, in heaven! To-night, that sees you there, I write it, to tell you that your last request to me has been carried out. May Heaven forgive me if I err. But al) things I risk for you. The jewels are safe, 'your brother will never find them. May Heaven forgive him, too, though you and I did not. Are you listening, my only dear?” Such an absurd little document, yet with what terrible, wretched sincerity in it. Something that might be called moisture has clouded Hilary’s eyes. Joor, unhappy Thomas O’Connell. He pauses. Perhaps, after all—happy Thomas O’Connell. He had suffered for her, he had committed whs t most men would call a cringe for her; but he had loved her. And to much love, much is forgiven. Here Hilary’s thoughts take a side curve. The man had sinned,. beyond doubt, in giving that promise to his wife in her dying, hour—in hiding the jewels; but he had not sold them, even when money seemed eery desirable. And strange, far stranger than his sense of honesty was hers —Amber’s mother, the sister of Sir Lucien, the wife of Thomas O’Connell. In all her wild wanderings,'* from Dublin to London, from Londop to Paris, and back agnin, she, who had been accustomed to money and its uses all her life, who must have suffered intensely from the want of it, had still held intact the family jewels that her father, in a fit of wanton lolly, had entrusted to her care. Os such beings was Amber born, and in truth honor must be her heritage.

CHAPTER XXIV. One minute —two —five minutes by th* clock on the chimney piece! Hours—hours —hours by Hilary’s heart!. Up and down the gaunt old dining room he goes, now as he turns with his eyes oh the door, and now as he turns again on the sad-colored carpet that seems to reflect his thoughts. With each turn his thoughts go up and down. The door opens softly—very softly and hesitatingly, and now it is closed again, and now—she is coming towards him. Such a face! —before its misery, its utter aud terrible, self-reproach, and abandonment, all her’ wrath gives way; all thought of self is sacrificed. One step brings her to his side. She makes a little first gesture as if she would have liked to lay her hands upon his shoulders, but with,a fine restraint stands still. L “Don’t look like that. Don’t,” she whispers, as if, hurt to the very soul by his undoubted (suffering. “Amber I” he cries sharply. “You have come I Does it mean—that you—forgive?” y h “Is there so much to forgive?” Her face is very pale. “I owe you my life! If yon had not pushed me down then—” “And I owe you mine! If you had hot come just then and flung up his arm — No”—Adare steps a little backward —an eloquent gesture that seems to abandon all right to her —“it is I who am the debtor all through.” “You will hear me?: I want to tell you about —last night.” “Not that,” he interrupts her violently. “I will have no explanations from you. Why should you explain? Let me do that—at your feet!” “I” —softly yet with gentle strength—“would wish you to : hear me. When last night you saw’ me with Mr. Everard, in the lower gallery, he was saying g<?od-by to me. Good-by forever ! He”—her voice sinking—“had jufet asked me to marry him, and I—had just refused.” For an instant she lifts her eyes to his, the message they send him is, “because I loved you!” Then the soft eyes go down again. “He thought it would be an unlikely thing that we should ever meet again; And —he seemed unhappy. And when he raised my hand and kissed it in farewell, I felt glad. It was the very* least I could do for him. If he had said, ‘May I kiss your cheek?’ ” —she throws back her beautiful head quite proudly now—“l should have said yes, too, and not have ever been a bit ashamed of it ! But he . only kissed my hand.” “It is I who have -wronged you,” says he. A silence falls betw’een them. “Ah. no,” cries she suddenly, “I will not have you say that. It hurts me.” “Here are your rings, ’’jsays he. It is perhaps a little too sudden. She looks at the shining things lying in his palm, their splendid rays reflected by the firelight, and ‘then shrinks backwards. Every vestige of color has flown from her face. “Sir Lucien !” , “He has sent them to you. He wishes you to have them.” This is straining the truth a little, # but he is determined to Spare her any further pain. “Wishes me to have them?” ' . “Yes.” '. ‘ ! “It is difficult to believe. Will you put them on the table?” It is as though she cannot bear ■to touch them. He obeys her with a sinking heart. How is one to understand this strange, sweet girl, who Can be gentleness itself at one moment, and adamant the next? Despair gives him courage. •Deliberately he takes out that other ring—-that once before he had offered, that once before she had refused. Will she do so again? If so—it will be the end. “Am I to lay this upon the table, too?” asks he .steadily. * • - Their eyes meet. He can see in hers the struggle that is going on between her pride and her—he does not even dare to name the other word. Will the battle go against hifo? Does her silence mean that she — Her gentle nature, no doubt, finds it hard to deal the fatal blow. Half unconsciously the hand holding the ring moves towards the table. The worst appears certain now! But almost as he is about to lay it down, two soft little brown hands catch his. . One of thfem opens his fingers, the other extracts the ring. . ‘ “I want it,” says she, simply. Iler voice is tremulous—her eyes are drenched. “You will take it?” His own voice is low and husky. “Amber, take me, too I” , _ “Ah| I’d dike to say ‘No,’ ” cries she, with a touch of irrepressible bitterness. “But,” shaking her charming head as if in sad contempt of herself, “I can’t.” In a moment she is in his arms, where all bitterness dies, and all fear, and all discontent of life —and where love alone holds sway. (The End.) A Compensation. It was not always possible for Mrs. Leahy, from her permanent station at the wash-tub, to appreciate the . silver lining which Mr. Leahy discovered in every cloud, and pointed out to hen. “I’ve lost me job, Nora,” he said., cheerfully, “but this is the time you’d! ought to be thankful I’m not as smart!: as some.” “Why would Ibe thankful.for that?” inquired Mrs. Leahy, pausing for an instant to wipe her glistening forehead with her damp apron. * “ ’Tis alsy seen,” and her husband gazed tolerantly at her from his comfortably tlppedjback chair by the stove. “If I was Terry Dolan, now, and out of me job, I’d be losin’ free dollars a day instead o’ wan-sivinty-five. You think o’ that, me darlin’, an’ ’twill put the hearrt into you, same as it has into me.” - . The Gentry. “She’s engaged, ain’t she?” inquired the haughty blonde at the ribbon counter. “Yes,-” replied the lady who sold laces, “she’s engaged to that new saleslady’s brother.” “Where’s he employed nt?” “He’s a night watch gentleman over to Bargen & Co.’s.”—Philadelphia Press. The kaiser’s visiting cards measure six by four inches and are the largest known —at least, in polite society.

HUGE TOWER FOR TROLLEY OARS NOVEL SPIRAL TOWER. The gigantic spira tower, designed to reach a height 0f534 feet, with trolley cars for ascent, lis the idea of a well-known profesjorl of structural engineering at the Stevens Institute ot Technology,- Hobokefi, N. Y. If his plans are successfully carried out the tower will be constructed in New York; and from it sightseers will view the city as If they were up in a balloon. While feeing up in the cars the point of view will keep constantly changing with alj) the wonders of a kaleidi-SCO[>e.-—Popular Mechanics. PICTURES MAI)E TO SPEAK. New Invention Adds Realism to a Popular Amusement. Strikingly realistic as are the scenes depicted by the moving pictures of the cinematograph, they promise to be made more( lifelike still by the invention of a, Philadelphian, a device which records and reproduces sounds photographically, says ti e Philadelphia Record. j The outward appearance of this in ventiQil, upon'which a patent has b<?en granted recently. 1, much the same as that of a phonograph. The record of sound, however, 11 made hot upon a wax-coated cylinder but upon a sens!- | tlzed film. This is done by" first (setting up electric, v ibrations In a suitable charged circuit and then transforming these electric vibrations intc light vibrations, the intensity of wjilcb are varied in accordance with ' the original sbunfis. ; , , i < These Variable light vibrations; are transmitted to a movable sensitive film so as to produce an image which, when developed properly, appears as a lit? varying in fimsity and,.of coptse, in llght-transinitl ing properties. ) ( To produce the sound a light Is passed through this photographic record, the record being of various; density affects passes through it and this light beam acts upon a suitable Selenium cell, which, in turn, controls a charged electric circuit Including a telephonic receiver. This receiver is placed in a suitable resonator or sound amplifier, by which'the sound Waves ' produced by the; receiving \ diaphragm are so ’amplifiel that they may be heard at a considerable It can be seen readily how - this new conical recorder! worked synchroinatically with the camera used for taking moving pictures! could be made to produce the confused noise of a street scene; ’the turmoil of a chast;, the splash ”qf water, and in fact, a|ll the indiscriminate sounds that are found In nature; so timed that they would make moving pictures give forth- the sounds of the (original, scenes. .The new indention is an important development og what Is one of the most interestirg of modern scientific amusements. ( The Scarce of Supply. The sling, or “shanghai,” as it is sometimes called by boys, who use it to shoot at birds and any other target that takes their youthful fancy, is an Illegal weapon In Melbourne, where the police confiscate every one they see. One day B >bby, aged five, meeting another “Bobby” in blue uniform and .brass buttons, asked, eagerly, “Is it true that you'take shanghais ffrom lit/ tie boys?” “Indade I <!o,” answered Botby, senior. “Then will you please give me one?” asked Bobby, junior, innocently. Warnings for the Wise. You know the first signpost on the Great Main road? “When a woman advertises that she is virtuous, a man that he is n gentleman, a community that it is loyal or a country that It Is law-abiding--go the other way.”—Rudyard Kipling. Illa Way. . First Broker—l hear It’s been touch and go with poor old Carter. Second Ditto —Yes, he touched me for a dollar thia morning and went.—Harper’s Weekly. Offer to grant a boy any single wish, md he will Wish for something to eat <