[ —_THE__
Story of Francis Cludde
A Romance of Queen Mary's Reign.
; EY STANLEY J. WEYMAN.
! ______ _
CHAPTER XVII.—Continued.
She was sweeping with that word
from the room and had nearly reached
the door before I found my voice. Then
I called out, "Stay!" just In time. "You
•will do no good, madam, by going!” I
said, rising. "You will not find her.
She is gone."
"Cone?"
“Yes,” I said quRtly. “She left the
bouse 20 minutes ago. I saw her cross
the market place, wearing her cloak
and carrying a bag. I do not think she
will return.”
"Not return? But whither has she
gone?" they both cried at once.
I shook my head.
"I can only guess,” 1 said In a low
voice. "I saw no more than I have
told you.”
"But why did you not tell me?” the
duchess cried reproachfully. "She shall
%>«. brought back.”
"It would be useless,” Master Bertie
•nswered. “Yet I doubt If it he as
Carey thinks. Why should she go just
at this time? She does not know that
ahe is found out. She does not know
that this letter has been recovered. Not
a word, mind, was said of it before she
left the room.”
"No,” I allowed, “that is true.”
I was puzzled on this point myself,
now I came to consider it I could not
«e« why she had taken the alarm so
opportunely, but I maintained my opin
ion nevertheless,
"Something frightened her," I said,
“though it may not have been the let
ter."
"Yes," said the durhess after a mo
ment’s silence. ”1 suppose you are
right. I suppose something frightened
tier, as you say. I wonder what it was,
poor wretch!"
It turned out that I was right. Mis
tress Anne had gone indeed, having
•staid, so far as we could learn from an
•examination of the room which she had
•hared with Dymphna, merely to put
together the few things which our ad
ventures had left her. She had gone
•out from among us in this foreign land
without a word of farewell, without a
{good wish given or received, without a
*oul to say godspeed! The thought
made me tremble. If Ghc had died. It
would have been different. Now, to feel
monrow for her as for one who had
been with us In henrt as well as in
body seemed a mockery. How could
we grieve for one who had moved day
by day and hour by hour among us
only that with each hour and day she
might plot and scheme and plan our
destruction? It was impossible!
We made inquiries indeed, but with
out result, and so abruptly and terribly
•be passed, for the time, out of our
knowledge, though often afterward 1
^recalled sadly the weary, hunted look
which I had sometimes seen in her
«yes when she sat listless and dreamy.
Poor girl! Her own acts had placed
her, as the duchess said, beyond love
or hope, but not beyond pity,
i So it Is in life. The day which sees
one’s trial end secs another’s begin.
W'<‘. the duchess and her child, Muster
IStajflfe and I, staid with our good and
faithful friends, the Lindstroms,
awhile, resting and recruiting our
strength, and during this Interval, at
t the gmessing Instance of the duchess. 1
Mweste letters to Sir Anthony and Pe
Ironilla, stating that I was abroad and
waui well and looked presently to re
turn, but not disclosing my refuge or
fthe names of my companions. At the
■ond of five days, Master Bertie being
•fairly strong again, and Santon being
-considered unsafe for us ns a perma
nent residence, we went under guard
to Wesel, where #e were received as
people of quality and lodged, there be
ing no fitting place, in the disused
•church of St. Wllltbrod. Here the child
was christened Peregrine—a wanderer
—the governor of the city and I being
gfodfathers. And here we lived in peace,
albeit with hearts that yearned for
SiofflS, for Borne months.
\ during this time two pieces of news
•same to us from England—one that the
(parliament, though much pressed to it,
.fiad refused to acquiesce in the con
fiscation of the duchess' estates; the
•other that our joint persecutor, the
•great bishop of Winchester, was dead,
'intis last we at first disbelieved. It
-•was true nevertheless. Stephen Gard
ener, whose vast schemes had lnmeshed
Sproplc so far apart in station and ln
iflwel in all else as the duchess and my
self, was dead at last; had died toward
the end of 1655. at the height of his
•power, with England at his feet, and
•gone to his Maker. I have known many
•~orse men.
Wo trusted that this might open the
-way for our return, but we found, on
the contrary, that fresh clouds were
rising. The persecution of the reform
ers, which Queen Mary had begun in
Kngland. was carried on with increas
ing rigor, and her husband, who was
now king of Spain and master of the
Netherlands, freed from the prudent
•checks of his father, was inclined to
pleasure her in this by giving what aid
lie could abroad. His minister In the
Netherlands, the bishop of Arras,
fcrought so much pressure to bear upon
our protector to induce him to give us
np fliaJt It was plain the duke of Cleves
must sooner or later comply. We
•thought it better, therefore, to remove
■ourselves and presently did so. geing
tto the town of Wlnnhelm, in the Rhine
palatinate.
We found ourselves not much more
■ecure here, however, and all our ef
forts to discover a safe road Into
France falling, and the stock of money
which the duchess had provided be
Aglnning to give out we were in great
tftrults whither to go or what to do.
At thl3 time of our need, however,
providence opened a door In a quarter
where we least looked for It. Letters
came from Siglsmur.d, the king of Po
land, and from the palatine of Wilna
fn that country, Inviting the duchess
and Master Bertie to take up their
residence there and ottering the latter
an establishment and honorable em
ploymi nt. The overture was unlooked
rtforr and was not accepted without mis
givings, Wilna being so far distant and
•there being none of our race In that
•country. However, assurance of the
Polish king's good faith reached us—I
«ay us, for In all their plans I was in
sduded—through John Alasco, a noble
■mam who hod visited England. And In
“due time we started on this prodigious
journey and came safely to Wilna,
where our reception was such as the
tetters had led us to expect.
Ido not propose to set down here our
adventures, though they were many,
tie that strange country of frozen
marshes and endless plains, but to puss
over 18 months which I spent not
without profit to myself In the Pole's
jwvlce, seeing something of war In hts
Lithuanian campaigns and learning
itnuch of men and the world, which
Ihere, to say nothing of wolves and
txears, bore certain aspects not com
monly visible in Warwickshire. I pass
nn to the early autumn of 1558, when
■a. letter from the duchess, who was
at Wllna, was brought to me at Cra
covy. It was to this effect:
"Dead Krl nd: Send you good speed!
Word has come to us here of
an enterprise Englandward which
promises, if It be truly re
ported to us, to so alter things at
home that there may be room for us at
our own fireside. Heaven so further It,
both for our happiness and the good of
the religion. Master Bertie has em
barked on It. and I have taken upon
myself to answer for your aid and coun
sel,, which have never been wanting to
us. Wherefore, dear friend, come, spar
ing neither horse nor spurs nor any
thing which may bring you sooner to
Wllna, and your assured and loving
friend, Katherine Suffolk."
In five days after receiving this 1 was
at Wllna. and two months later I saw
England again after and absence of
three years. Early In November, 1558,
Muster Bertie and I landed at Lowes
toft, having made the passage from
Hamburg In a trading vessel of that
place. We stopped only to slec-p one
night, and then, dressed as traveling
merchants, we set out on the road to
London, entering the city without acci
dent or hindrance on the third day
after landing.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“One minute!” I said. “That Is the
place.”
Master Bertie turned In his saddle
and looked at it. The light was fading
into the early dusk of a November
evening, but the main features of four
cross streets, the angle between two of
them (tiled by the tall belfry of .a
church, were still to be made out. The
east wind had driven loiterers Indoors,
and there was scarcely any one abroad
to notice us. I pointed to a dead wall
10 paces down the street. "Opposite
that (hey stopped,” 1 said. “There was
a pile of boards leaning against It
then."
“You have had many a worse bed
chamber since, lad,” he said, smiling.
"Many," I answered. And then by a
common impulse we shook up the
horses, and trotting gently on were
soon clear of London and making for
Islington. Passing through the latter,
we began to breast the steep slope
which leads to Hlghgate, and coming,
when we had reached the summit,
plump upon the lights of the village
pulled up In front of a building which
loomed darkly across the road.
"This Is the Gatehouse tavern," Mas
ter Bertie said In a low voice. "We
shall soon know whether we have come
on a fool's errand—or worse!"
We rode under the archway Into a
great courtyard, front which the road
Issued uguln on the other side through
another gite. In one corner two men
were littering down a line of pack
horses by the light of the lanterns,
which brought their tanned and rugged
faces Into relief. In another, where the
light poured ruddily from an open
doorway, a hostler was serving out fod
der and doing so, If we might judge
from the traveler's remonstrances, with
a niggardly hand. From the windows
of the house a dozen rays of light shot
athwart the darkness and disclosed as
many pigs wallowing asleep In the mid
dle of the yard. In all we saw a coarse
comfort and welcome. Master Bertie
led the way across the yard and ac
costed the hostler. "Can we have
stalls and beds?” he UBked.
The man stayed his chaffering and
looked up at us. "Every man to his
business," he replied gruffly. "Stalls,
yes, but of beds I know nothing. For
women's work go to the women."
"Right,” said I, "so we will. With
better luck than you would go, I ex
pect, my man.”
Bursting Into a hoarse laugh at this—
he jvas lame and one eyed and not
very well favored—he led us into a
long, many stalled stable, feebly lit by
lanterns which here and there glim
mered against the walls. ' Suit your
selves," he said. "First come Is first
served here."
He seemed an ill conditioned fellow,
but the businesslike way In which we
went about our work, watering, feeding
and littering down in old campaigners'
fashion, drew from him a grunt of com
mendation. "Have you come from afar,
masters?" he asked.
“No; from London," I answered curt
ly. "We come as linen drapers from
Westcheup, if you want to know."
“Aye, I see that." he said, chuckling.
"Never were atop of a horse before nor
handled anything but a clothyard. Oh,
no!"
' We want a merchant reputed to sell
French lace," I continued, looking hard
at him. "Do you happen to know if
there Is a dealer here with any?”
He nodded rather to himself than to
mo, as if he had expected the question.
Then in the same tone, but with a
quick glance of intelligence, he an
swered, "I will show you into the
house presently, and you can see for
yourselves. A stable Is no place for
French lace." He pointed with a wink
over his shoulder toward a stall in
which a man, apparently drunk, lay
snoring. "That is a fine toy," he ran
on carelessly as I removed my dagger
from the holster and concealed it un
der my cloak—“a fine plaything—for a
linen draper!"
"Peace, peace, man. and show us in,”
said Master Bertie, impatiently.
With a shrug of his shoulders the
man obeyed. Crossing the courtyard
behind him, we entered the great
kitchen, which, full of light and
warmth and noise, presented Just such
a scene of comfort and bustle, of loud
talking, red faced guests and hurrying
bare armed serving maids as I remem
bered lighting upon at St. Albans three
years back. But I had changed much
since then and seen much. The bailiff
himself would hardly have recognized
his old antagonist in the tall, heavily
cloaked stranger, whose assured air.
acquired amid wild surroundings in a
foreign land, gave him a look of age
to which 1 could not falrfy lay claim.
Master Bertie had assigned the lead to
me as being in less danger of recogni
tion. and 1 followed the hostler toward
the hearth without hesitation. "Master
Jonkin,” the man cried, with the same
rough bluntness he had shown without,
"here are two travelers want the lace
seller who was here today. Hus he
gone?”
"Who gone?” retorted the host as
loudly.
"The lace merchant who came this
morning.”
"No; he Is in No. 32,” returned the
landlord. "Will you sup first, gentle
men?"
We declined and followed the hostler,
who made no secret of our destination,
telling those In our road to make way
as the gentlemen were for No. 32. One
of the crowd, however, who seemed to
be crossing from the lower end of the
room, failed apparently to understand,
and interposing between us and our
guide brought me perforce to a halt.
But she foiled me with unexpected
nimbleness, and I could not push her
aside, she was so very old. Her gums
were toothless, and her forehead was
"By your leave, good woman!" I said
and turned to pass round her.
liner] and wrinkled. About her eyes,
which under hideous rod lids still shone
with an evil gleam, a kind of reflection
of a wicked past, a thousand crows’
feet had gathered. A few wisps of gray
hair struggled from under the handker
chief which covered her head. She was
humpbacked and stooped over a stick,
and whether she saw or not my move
ment of repugnance, her voice was
harsh when she spoke.
"Young gentleman,” she croaked,
"let me tel! your fortune by the stars.
A fortune for a groat, young gentle
man!" she continued, peering up into
my face and frustrating my attempts
to pass.
"Here is a groat," I answered
peevishly, "and for the fortune I will
hear it another day. So let us by."
But she would not. My companion,
seeing that the attention of the room
W'as being drawn to us, tried to pull
me by her. But I could not use force,
and short of forde there was no rem
edy. The hostler Indeed would have
interfered on our behalf and returned
to bid her, with a civility he had not
bestcw'ed on us, “give us passage."
But she swiftly turned her eyes on
him in a sinister fashion, and he re
treated with an oath and a paling face,
while those nearest to us—and half
a dozen had crowded round—drew
back and crossed themselves in haste
almost ludicrous.
"Let me see your face, young gen
tleman," she persisted, with a hollow
cough. "My eyes are not so clear as
they were, or It Is not your cloak
and your flap hat that would blind
me.”
Thinking it best to get rid of her
even at a slight risk—and the chance
that among the travelers present there
would be one aide to recognize me
was small indeed—I uncovered. She
shot a piercing glance at my face, and
looking down on the floor traced hur
riedly a figure with her stick. She
studied the phantom lines a moment
and then looked up.
"Listen,” she said solemnly, and
waving her stick round me she quaver
ed out in tones which filled me with a
strange tremor.
"The man goes east, and the wind
blows west,
Wood to the head and steel to the
breast!
The. man goes west, and the wind
blows east,
The ne k twice doomed the gallows
shall feast!”
"Beware!” she went on more loudly
and harshly, tapping with her stick
on the floor and shaking her palsied
head at mo. "Beware, unlucky shoot of
a crooked branch! Go no farther with
It. Go back. The sword may miss
or may not fall, but the cord is sure."
If Master Bertie had not held my
arm tightly, I should have recoiled,
as most of those within hearing had
already done. The strange allusions
to my past, which I had no digiculty
In detecting, and the witch's knowl
edge of the risks of our present enter
prise were enough to startle and shake
the most constant mind, and in the
midst of enterprises secret and dan
gerous. few minds are so flrrrf or so
reckless as to disdain omens. That
she was one of those unhappy beings
who buy dark secrets at the expense
of other souls seemed certain, and
had I been alone I should have, I am
not ashamed to say It, given back.
But I was lucky In having for my
companion a man of rare mind, and
besides of so single a religious belief
that at the end of his life he always
refused to put faith In a thing of tiie
existence of which I have no doubt
myself—I mean witchcraft.
He showed at this moment the cour
age of his opinions. “Peace! Peace!
woman,” he said compassionately. "We
shall live while God wills it and die
when he wills it, and neither live
longer nor die earlier; so let us by."
“Would you perish" she quavered.
"Aye, if so God wills?" he answered,
undaunted.
At that she seemed to shake all
over and hobbled aside muttering:
“Then go on! Go on! God wills it!"
Master Bertie gave me no time for
hesitation, but holding my arm urged
me on to where the hostler stood
waiting the event with a face of much
discomposure. He opened the door for
us, however, and led the way up a
narrow and not too clean staircase.
On the landing at the head of this he
pause*! and raised his lantern so as to
cast the light on our faces. "She has
overlooked me. the old witch.” he said
viciously. "I wish I had never meddled
in this business."
“Man," Master Bertie replied stern
ly, “do you fear that weak old wom
an?"
"No, but I fear her master,” retorted
the hostler, "and that is the devil."
“Then I do not," Master Bertie an
swered bravely. “For my Master is as
good a match for him as I am for
that old woman. When he wills it,
man, you will die. and not before.
So pluck up spirit.”
(Continued Next Week.)
Palabras Cannosas.
Good-night! T have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
Good-night unto the slender hand
All queenly with Its weight of rings;
Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes.
Good-night to chestnut braids of hair,
Good-night unto the perfect mouth,
And all the sweetness nestled there—
The snowy hand detains me, then,
I'll have to say Good-night agalnl
But there will come a time, my love,
When, If I read our stars aright,
I shall not Unger by this porch
With my farewells. Till then, good-night!
You wish the time were now? And I.
You do not blush to wish It so?
You would have blushed yourself to death
To own so much a year ago
What, both these snowy hands! ah,
then
I'll have to say Good-night again!
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Might Try Her.
From the Sacred Heart Review.
A Kansas City man recently x\ rote to
a lawyer in another town of the state
asking for Information touching the
standing of a person thye who owed
the Kansas City Individual a consid
erable sum of money for a long
time.
"What property has he that I could
attach?" was one of the questions
asked.
The lawyer's reply was to the
point;
"The person to whom you refer,"
he wrote, "died a year ago. He has
left nothing subject to attachment ex
cept a widow."
A Subtle Difference.
From the Woman’s Home Companion for
May.
Mrs. Blank, wife of. a prominent
minister near Boston, had In her em
ploy a recently engaged colored cook
as black as the proverbial ace of
spades. One day Mrs. Blank said to
her:
’Matilda. I wish that you would have
oatmeal quite often for breakfast. My
husband is very fond of It. He is
Scotch and ytfu know that the Scotch
eat a great deal of oatmeal."
"Oh. he's Scotch, is he?" said Ma
tilda. “Well, now, do you know, I was
thtnkin’ all along dat he wasn't des
like us."
England consumes 30 ounces of tobac
co per annum a head.
"An elderly, sickly lady wants a com
I panion. Apply at No. 27 North Elev
I enth st.”
It was only a short advertisement,
but it brought good results. All day the
applicants kept on coining, but there
was not one of them who really pleased
I me, none that I found to be just what
j 1 wanted.
I thought they had all gone, and
j sank, tired, back in my comfortable
chair, and sat for a while with closed
eyes. I am sure I must have looked
very pale and tired, for suddenly I felt
a little, soft hand touching mine and
heard a pleasant voice:
“You look so very tired: can’t I do
anything for you before I go?”
I opened my eyes and saw a little
slender figure, dressed in deep mourn
ing, standing before me. Her features
were fine and regular, and her dark
brown eyes had a frank, open expres
sion, and her little hand was still rest
ing on mine.
"Did you come to apply for the posi
tion?” I asked, after having gathered
my thoughts.
“Yes, I have been sitting here for
more than an hour in the corner, but I
felt sure that I had no hope of getting
It. I first thought that perhaps you
might take me, but you have shown so
many away who knew much more than
I do, so I have given up hope.”
“What can you do?”
tilings In a different light, and I reallj !
think that I could sing again.”
She sat down at th<‘ piano and began |
to sing in full melodious voice. But j
when she had finished her song I saw :
the deep sorrow again came as a shad- |
ow over her. She hid her face in her |
hands and burst out crying.
"Oh, God," she moaned, “It is so
hard, so hard to bear this!”
"Alice, my dear child, tell me what
your sorrow is, and let me try to make
your burden lighter,” I said, and drew
her toward me, "you must feel now
that you can have full confidence in
me.”
"Oh, you cannot help me, but you
have been so kind and good to me that
it would be wrong if I should not tell
you my secret. From my earliest child
hood I have been used to living in a
house like this, surrounded by com
fort and wealth. My dear father, Dr.
Gray, did everything for me to make
me feel happy. He was very rich and
able to gratify all my wishes. Two
years ago he took a young doctor as
assistant to help him, as his practice
was becoming too large. This young
man was five years older than I, and a
son of a widow in Pittsburg. We
learned to love each other dearly, Hor
ace and I. and some time ago he asked
me to become his wife, and I do not
think that there could have been a
happier girl in the world than I. My
-—
"Not very much, I am afraid. I can
read aloud. I used to read to papa
every day, and lie always praised me.
I am also sure that I could keep your
accounts and write your letters. But
you asked all the others for references,
and I have none.”
“None at all?”
“No, there is no one in this city who
knows me."
“But there may be somebody outside
of the city, that I might ask."
Her sweet little face turned very pale,
and she answered faintly:
“There is no one in the whole world
to whom I can refer you.”
I looked at her in astonishment. She
was, in every respect, Just the compan
ion that I had wished for. One that I
might love and protect in return for her
services and kindness to me. But it
seemed so very peculiar to hear her say
that she had absolutely no friends.
Without stopping to consider, the words
escaped me:
“But what can you have done that
you have lost the love of your friends?”
I regretted my words the same sec
ond.
The young girl’s face turned deep red,
but her beautiful face looked frankly
into mine when she answered:
“I have done nothing wrong; that is
not the reason why I am unhappy and
friendless. I do not wonder that you
think it strange to see a girl of 19 stand
so entirely alone. But it is great sor
rows that have driven me away from
my home and my friends. Do you feel
better now?"
“Yes, thank you, I do feel a little
stronger.”
“Then I will say goodby,” and she
turned away to leave me.
I stopped her. “Wait a moment," I
said. “What is your name?"
“Alice."
"Alice—and your family name?"
"I have no other name.”
Again a ridfle—-but I could not let
her leave me like this.
| “If you will stay with me, Alice,” I
paid, and took her hand, “I hope that
pome day you will have confidence in
me and tell me what sorrows have
. darkened your life. Will you come back
tomorrow? Then we shall find out if
we are suited to each other."
"I shall surely come.” she answered
] fatntly, and bent down and kissed my
| hand.
I was more than 70 years old and
very rich Some time before I adver
tised for a companion my physician
had told me that my condition was so
that I should never he left alone. I had
servants enough and a good many vis
itors, but I did long for a girl that I
might always have with me and that
might learn to care for me for my own
sake.
In this my lonesome, helpless condt
I tion my companion became a real true
friend to me. For every day that
passed I learned to love her more, and
not only love her. she won my full re
! spect.
She was a fine render, and more than
once 1 have forgotten my pain and
troubles when she. with never-tiring
patience, would read to me for hours.
I I also noticed that she herself seemed
to feel happier. The deep sorrow In
her dark eyes softened, and she wore
an expression of quiet resignation, and
her slow, heavy steps became lighter
and more elastic. She had been With
me for more than two months, when
one day she asked me:
"Do you love music?"
| I told her that I had always loved
music, anti especially songs, very much.
When the sorrows came to me," she
said sadly, "I thought that. I should
never be able to think of music any
more. I felt so sick and downhearted,
but here in your home I have found
myself again, and I have learned to see
I
father willingly gave his consent, and
it was decided that our wedding should
take place a month later, when Hor
ace came back from a business trip
West.
"The day after he had left, my fath
er came to me and gave me a check
for J5.000, to buy my trousseau with,
and kissed me—for the very last time.'
The same evening his horses were
scared by an automobile, my father
was thrown out of the carriage and was
brought home dead.
"Three days later his attorney sent
for me and told me that Dr. Gray was
not my real father. I was an orphan
from one of the asylums where his du
ties had taken him in his young days,
and in his kindness he had taken me to
his home. He had always intended to
make me his heir, but now he had
died, without leaving any will.
"While I was still crushed down by
my terrible sorrow a visitor was an
nounced—Horace's mother.”
I drew her still closer to me; I
guessed what was coming.
"She came to ask me to give her
son his word back. She said that she
had no doubt that he would never think
of leaving me now, but that he would
ruin his whole future If he was not
parted from me. It would be almost
Impossible for him to build up a prac
tice if he should marry a poor young
girl without a name, and his aunt,
whose fortune he was to inherit, was
very proud and aristocratic, and would
surely disinherit him if he married
me. I promised her to do as she
wished, and the same afternoon I left
Pittsburg, without letting Horace or
anyone else know where I intended to
go. My father's last gift I took with
me, but left everything el.se for the
lawful heirs. I had only been a few
days in this city when I saw your ad
vertisement, and I need not tell you
how thankful I feel for your kindness
to me, the unknown, friendless girl,
ever since.”
"But, my dear girl, If you and the
young man still love one another," I
said, “why don’t you go to this proud
aunt and tell her everything; she may ^
not be as heartless as you think."
"No, I cannot do that, as I gave my [
promise to Horace’s mother that I I
would never try to approach him or
any one of the family.”
"But who is this aunt?”
"I cannot tell you her name. All I 1
know is that Horace often spoke of j
his Aunt Elizabeth, but he never sa d '
that he was to inherit her money, or
even mentioned that she was rich. He
seemed to be very fond of her, but I
am not sure whether she is the aunt ;
whom his mother referred to.”
Alice seemed to feel happier after her
confession. I could now talk encour- !
aglngly to her, and very often bring a
cheerful smile to her face.
One morning, as she sat on a has
sock at my feet, I said to her:
"You love this Mr. Horace very
much, don’t you?”
"Yes, so much that I shall never be
able to forget him," she answered, with
tears in her eyes.
"But why should you try to forget
him? Horace Is true to you, and know
everything about you before he ever
asked you to become his wife—he
knerv it from Dr. Gray.”
She listened to my words with an
expression of happiness in her faithful,
bright eyes.
"His aunt wants him to marry you!
Can't you guess how It is, Alice, iny
child? I am Horace Martin's aunt
Elizabeth."
In the same minute two strong arms
caught her and she looked into the
happy face of her sweett^art, whom 1
had sent for.
My large house is none too large for
the little feet of those who are its real
masters now.
HORRIBLE SORCERY
FLOURISHES IN HAITI
Believe Cannibalism Is Resort
ed to in the Meetings of
the Voodoos.
No accurate history of Haiti can be
written without reference to the horri
ble sorcery, called the religion of Voo
doo, which was introduced into the
country with the slaves lrom Africa.
Its creed Is that the God Voodoo lias
the power usually ascribed to the
Christian's Lord, and that he shows
himself to his good friends, the ne
groes, under the form of a non-ve
norncus snake, and transmits his pow
er through a chief priest or priestess.
These are called either king or queen,
master or mistress, or generally as
papa-lois and mamma-lois. Tho prin
cipal act of worship consists of a wild
dance, attended by grotesque gesticula
tions, which leads up to most disgrace
ful orgies, says the National Geo
graphic magazine.
A secret oath binds all the Voodoos,
on the taking of which the lips of
the neophyte are usually touched with
warm goat’s blood, which is intended
to inspire terror. He promises to sub
mit to death should he ever reveal
the secrets of the fraternity, and to
put to death any traitor to the sect.
It is affirmed, and no doubt is true,
tnat on special occasions a sacrifice
is made of a living child or the "goat
without horns." as it is called, and
then cannibalism in its worst form is
indulged in. Under the circumstances
of taking the oath of allegiance it
should cause no surprise that the Hai
tians claim that this is not true and
defy any white man to produce evi
dence of guilt. But, notwithstanding,
no one can read the horrible tales pub
lished by Sir Spencer Saint John., one
of the British ministers to Haiti, which
describes in detail the revolting prac
tives of the voodoos, together with
the proofs he brings to substantiate
the truth of the allegations, without
coming to the reluctant conclusion that
cannibalism is resorted to in these
meetings. Of course, nc white man
could long live on the island after hav
ing given testimony leading to the
conviction of culprits in such cases,
and therefore the negroes' demand for
proof can never be satisfied. Indeed,
it is said that even some presidents
who have openly discouraged the vo
doo practices have come to their deaths
from this cause.
Vicious Practices.
The character of the meetings of
the voodoos, which take place in se
cluded spots in the thick woods, are
well known. A description was given
of one of them by an eye witness, who
is an officer in our navy, which no one
could hear without a shudder. He
states in brief that one day while out
hunting he abruptly ran into a camp
of worshipers, which was located in
a lonely spot in the woods, and the
horrors he there saw made an indelible
impression upon his mind.
When ills presence was discovered
he was immediately sealed by a fren
zied crowd of men and women, and
for some minutes there did not seem
to be a question but that his life was
to be forfeited; but the papa-lois called
a halt and a council, apparently to
determine what action should be taken,
and while this was in session a hand
ful of coin, judiciously scattered, di
verted the thoughts of the negroes for
the time being from their captive.
The usual sacrifice of a white rooster
was now, brought on, seeing which the
people were called back to their wor
ship, and the ceremonies went on In
his presence.
In the horrible struggle which took
place for possession, the bird was
torn literally to pieces, and he had
no doubt that its accompaniment, the
"goat without horns.” would soon fol
low. While this was in progress his
presence seemed to be forgotten, and,
watching a good opportunity, he ran
for his very life, not stopping until
he reached the protection of his ship.
This officer has to his credit one
of the most gallant deeds enacted dur
ing the civil war, for which he re
ceived promotion by act of congress,
but his comrades on board his ship
said they never ssw a man more
frightened than he was when he re
turned to them, and he himself says
the memory of the event produces hor
rible nightmares which he will never
be able to overcome.
There is no doubt these voodoo
practices keep the negro in touch with
that "call of the wild” which perhaps
even the white man, if restricted in
civilizing influences and treated as
they have been, might be led to fol
low; but it is to be hoped that edu
cation, which the best of the Haitians
are now acquiring for their own fam
ilies and are striving to make universal
in the land, will in a few years stamp
out this horrible practice with all its
evils.
A Temperance Talk.
From tlie New York Times.
Hal Chase, the famous first baseman,
was advocating teetotalism among ball
players. Ho argued well, and In the
midst o'f Ills argument told a story.
"Leroy Vigors, a friend of mine," ho
said, "turned up to play in an amateur
game with a skate on.
"When Vigors stepped up to the hat,
he smiled a silly smile and said to the
umpire:
“ T see three bats an’ three ball*
here. What am I to—hie—do?’
“ ‘Hit the middle ball,""said the um
pire
"But Vigors struck out. •—
" ’burn ye. Vigors,’ said a coach, ‘why
didn’t you hit the middle ball, like the
umpire told you?
" ’I did,’ says Vigors, with an injured
air, ’only I hit it with the—hie—outsido
bat.’ ”
Disillusioned Germans.
From the London Spectator.
A friend who has recently been study
ing on the spot the progress of opinion
it. Germany tells us that the thing
which surprised him most was the ap
parent growth in the sense of disap
pointment among the educated classes.
It was not disaffection, but disappoint
ment, and was seemingly confined to
the economic results of empire. They
had expected more domestic prosperity,
and found themselves, if dependent up
on salaries, distinctly poorer men. Not
only had the general standard of living
advanced, which is true more or less
of every country on the globe, but tha
prices of everything desired in decent
households had advanced beyond all
precedent.
Bigamy Bitters.
From the London Tatler.
The case of "the man with a hundred
wives," whose story is being given in
the newspapers, reminds one,of the late
Lord Russell's joke. The late lord chief
justice, when a barrister was sitting In
court when another barrister, leaning
across the benches during the hearing
of a bigamy charge, whispered: “Rus
sell, what’s the extreme penalty tot
bigamy?"
"Two mothersinlaws." Instantly re
plied Russell.
Natives of Uganda, Africa, use Amer
ican oil /.'or anointing their bodies.