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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Jan. 21, 1909)
j The Crime of C"«F-" the Boulevard ce —m ——— —MMWBP— CHAPTER XV. And now, after having accused Dan 'tn of lying, believing that he was act ing a comedy, after smiling disdain fully at that common invention—a vow which one could not break—the per ception of a possibility entered the magistrate's mind .that this man might be sincere. Hitherto he had closed his heart against sympathy for this man. iThey had met in mutual hostility. The manner in which Jacques Dan tin approached the question, the reso lution with which ho spoke, no longer resembled the obstinate attitude which he laid before assumed in this same room. Reflection, tho prison—the cell, with out doubt—a frightful and stilling cell —had done its work. The man who had been excited to the point of not •peaking now wished to tell all. “Yes,” he said, “since nothing has happened to convince you that I am hot lying.” “I am listening to you, said the magistrate. Then in a long, close conference Jacques Dantin told M. Ginory his •tory. He related how from early youth he and Rovere had been closo friends; of the warm affection which had always existed between them; of the shams and deceptions of which he had been guilty; of the bitterness of his ruined life; of an existence which ought to have been beautiful, and which, so useless, tho life of a vlveur, had almost made him—why?—how?— thr< ugh need of money and a lack of moral sense, descend to crime. This Rovere, whom he was accused of killing, he lcvod, and, to tell the truth, In that strange and troublous ex istence which he had lived Rovere had been tho only 'rue friend whom he had known. Rovere, a sort of pessimistic philosopher, a recluse, lycanthropic, after a life spent in feasting, having ■surfeited himself with pleasure, recog nized also In bin last years that disin forested affection is rare in this world and his savage misanthropy softened before Jacques Bautin's warm friend ship. He continued to search for in what Is called pleasure and what as one's hair whitens becomes vice, in play, in the uproad of Paris, forgetfulness of life, of the dull life of a man growing old, alone, without home or family, an old, •tupld fellow, whom the young people look at with hate and say to each other, •Why Is he still here?' Rovere more and more felt tho need of withdraw ing into solitude, thinking over his adventurous life, as bad and as ruined as mine, and he wished to see no one— a wolf, a wild boar In his lair. Can you understand this friendship between two old fellows, one of whom tried In every way to direct his thoughts from blmself and the other waiting death In a cornqr of his fireside, solitary, un sociable}.'’ ' Perfectly. Go on.” And the magistrate, with eyes rivet ed upon Jacques Bautin, saw this man, excited, making light of this recital of the past, evoking remembrances of for Jrotten events, of this lost affection— ost, as all his life was. "This is not a conference. Is It not eo? You no longer believe that It is a comedy? I loved Rovere. Life had (often separated us. He searched for 'fortune at the other end of the world. I made a mess of mine and ate It in Paris. But we always kept up our re lations, and when he returned to ■Franco we were happy in again seeing •each other. The grayer turned tho buir, tho more tender the heart became. ( had always found hint morose—from his twentieth year he always dragged after him a sinister companion—ennui. He had chosen a consular career, to live far away and in a fashion not at ■all like ours. I have often laughingly <oaid to him that he probably had met ■with unrequited love; that ho had ex perienced some unhappy passion. He said no! I feigned to believe It. One Is not somber and melancholy like that without some secret grief. After all, ■there are others who do not feel any igayer with a smile on the Ups. Sad HesfS Tsh'6 sfgll. Neither Is gayety!” 1 VSls face took on a weary, melan choly expression, which at first aston ished the magistrate; then he experi enced a feeling of pity. He listened, eilent and grave. "I will pass over all the details of our life, shall 1 not? My monologue would bo too long. The years of youth {■assed with a rapidity truly astonish ng. We como to tho time when we found ourselves—he, weary of life, es ■iablished In his chosen apartments In the Boulevard de Cllchy, with his paintings and books, sitting In front of his fire and awaiting death, I continu ing to spur myself on like a foundered horse. Rovere moralized to me. I Jeered at his sermons, and I went to sit bv his fireside and talk over the past. One of his joys had been this portrait of me, painted by Paul Baudry. He tiad hung It up in Ills salon, at the corner of tho chimney piece, at the left, and he often said to me: “ 'Bost thou know that when thou are not here I talk to It?’ “I was not there very orton. Pari sian life draws us by its thousand at tractions. The days which seem In terminable when one is 20 rush by as on wings when one is 00. One has not even time to stop to see the friends one loves. At the last moment, if one Is right, one ought to say: llow 1 have cast to the winds everything pro clous which life has given me. How foolish I have been—how stupid.’ Pay no attention to my plillosophims—the cell. Mazas forces one to think. "Ono day—it was one morning—on returning from the club where I had passed the night stupidly losing sums which would have given Joy to hun dreds of families, I found on my desk a message from Rovere. If one would look through my papers, one would find it there. I kept it. Rovere begged me to come to him immediately. I Bhivered—a sharp presentiment of death struck me. The writing was ■trembling, unlike his own. I struck my forehead In anger. This message had been waiting for me since the night before, while 1 was spending the hours in gambling. If. when I hurried toward the Boulevard de Olichy, I had found Rovere dead on my arrival, 1 could not, believe me, have experienced greater despair. His assassination seemed to me atrocious, but I was at least able to assure him that his friend ship was returned. I hastily read the telegram, threw myself into a fiacre end hastened to his apartments. The woman who acted as housekeeper for him, Mme. Moniche, the portress, rais ing her arms as she opened the door Cor me, said: " ‘Ah, monsieur, but monsieur has waited for you. He lias repeated your name all night. He nearly died, but ho Is better now.’ ‘‘Rovere, sitting the night before by IMs fire, hail been stricken by lateral paralysis, and as soon as lie could hold a. pen, In spite of the orders of the phy sician who had been quickly called, had •written and sent the message to me some hours before. ’’As soon as he saw me he—the strong ttiao, the mad misanthrope, silent and somber—held mo In his arms and burst Into tears. His embrace was that of a man who concentrates in one being all that remains of hope. " ‘Thou—thou arc here," he said in a low tone. ‘If thou kneweSt!' "I was moved to the depths of my heart. That manly face, usually so en ! ergetlc, wore an expression of terror ; which was In some way almost child j lsh, a timorous fright. The tears rose in his eyes. 1 " ‘Oil, how I have walled for thee, j how I have longed for thee!’ "He repeated this phrase with anx ious obstinacy. Then he seemed to bo suffocating. Emotion! The sight of me recalled to him the long agony of that night when he thought that h<v was about to die without parting with me for the last time. " ‘Eor what I have to tell thee' — "He shook Ills head. ‘ ‘It Is the secret of my life’ "Ho was lying on a sort of sick chair or lounge in the library where he passed ills last days with his books. He made mo sit down beside him. He took my hand and said: " 'I am going to die. I believed that the end had come last night. I called thee. Oh, well, If I had died there Is one being In the world who would not have had the fortune which—I have’— “He lowered his voice as If he thought we were spied upon, as if someone could hear. " ‘I have a daughter. Yes, even from thee 1 have hidden this secret, which tortures me. A daughter who loves me and who has not the right to confess this tenderness no more than I have the right to give her my name. Ah, our youth, sad youth! I might have had a homo today, a fireside of my own, a dear one near me, and instead of that an affection of which I am ashamed and which I havo hidden even from thee, Jacques—from thee, dost thou comprehend?’ ‘‘I remember each of Rovere’s words as If I was hearing them now This conversation with my poor friend is among the most poignant yet most pre cious of my remembrances. With much emotion, which distressed mo, the poor man revealed tp mo tlio secret which he had believed it his duty to hide from me so many years, and I vowed to him —I swore to him on my honor, and that Is why I hesitated to speak or rather refused to speak, not wishing to com promise anyone, neither the dead nor living—I swore to him, M. le Juge, to repeat nothing of what he told mu to anyone, to anyone but to her"— "Her?” interrogated M. Glnory. "His daughter,” Dantin replied. The examining magistrate recalled that visitor in black who had been seen occasionally at Rovere’s apartments and tlie little romance of which Paul Rodler had written in his paper—the romance of the woman in black. "And this dnugliter?" “She bears," said Dantin, with a dis couraged gesture, "the name of the father which the law gives her, and this name is a great naipo, an illus trious name, that of a retired general officer living in one of the provinces, a widower, and who adores the girl who Is another man's child. The mother is dead. The father has never been known. When dying, the mother re vealed the secret to the daughter. She came, by command of the dead, to see Rovcre, but us a sister of charity, faithful to the namo which she bears. She does not wish to many. She will never leave the crippled old soldier who calls her his daughter und who adores her.” "Oh!” said M. Ginory, remaining mute a moment before this very simple drama, and In which, in that moment of reflection he comprehended, he an alyzed, nearly all of the hidden griefs, the secret tears, the stifled sobs, the stolen kisses. “And that is why you kept silent?" he asked. “Yes, monsieur. Oh, but I could not endure the torture any longer, and not seeing the expected release any nearer I would have spoken—I would have spoken to escape that cell, tiiat sense of suffocation, I endured there. It seemed to me, however, tiiat I owed it to my dead friend not to reveal ids se cret to anyone, not even to you. I shall never forget Rovere’s Joy when, re lieved of the burden by the confidence which he had reposed in mo, he said to me that, now that she who was his daughter and was poor, living at Rlois only on the pension of a retired officer to whom she had appointed herself nurse, knowing that she was not his daughter, tills innocen child, who has paying with a life of devotion for the sins of two guilty ones, would at least have happiness at last. “ 'She Is young, and the one for whom she cares cannot live always. My for tune will give her a dowry. And then!’ It was to me to whom ho confided this fortune. He had very little money with his notary. Erratic and distrust ful, Rovere kept his valuables In his safe, ns he kept ids books in ids library. It seemed that he was a collector, pick ing up all kinds of things. Avaricious? No, but he wished to have about idm, under Ids hand, everything which be longed to him. He possibly may have wished to give what lie had directly to tlio one whom it seemed good to him to give it and confide It to me in trust. “I regret not having asked him di rectly that day what lie counted on do ing with his fortune and how he in tended enriching ids child whom he had not tile right to recognize. I dared not, or, rather, I did not, think of it. I experienced a strong emotion when I saw my friend enfeebled and almost dying. [ had known him so different, so handsomo. Oh, those poor, sad, restless eyes, that lowered voice, as it he feared an enemy was listening! Ill ness had quickly, brutally changed that vigorous man, suddenly old and timor ous. “I went away (from that first inter view much distressed, carrying a se cret which seemed to me a heavy and cruel one and which made mo think of the uselessness, the wickedness, the ! vain loves of a ruined life. l>ut I felt that Rovere owed truly his fortune to that girl who, the next day after the death of the one whom she had piously attended, found herself poor and isolated in a little house in a steep street, near the chateau, above HU.Is, I felt that whatever lids unknown fa ther left ought not to go to distant relatives, who eared nothing for him. did not even know him, were ignor ant of ills sufferings and perhaps oven of his existence and who by law would inherit. "A dying man, yes! There could lie no question about it, and Dr. Vilamlry, whom I begged to accompany me to see my friend, did net hide it from me. i Rovere was dying of a kidney difficulty j which had made rapid progress. “It was necessary, then, since he was i not alone in the world, that he should think of the one of whim lie had spoken and whom he loved. “ ‘For I love her, that child whom I have no right to name. 1 love her. She Is good, tender, amiable. If I did not see that she resembled me—for she decs resemble me—I should tell thee that she was beautiful. I would be ‘imjv., ! uttqanu'joiv jofuiv ..‘upuiOjW.. proud to cry aloud, "Tills Is my daugh ter!” To pron made with her on my arm—and 1 must hide this secret from all the world. That is my torture. And it is the chastisement of all that has not boon right in my life. Ail, sad, un happy loves!' That same malediction for the past came to his lips as It had come to his thoughts. The old work man, burdened with labor throughout the week, who could promenade on the Boulevard de Cllchy on Sunday, with his daughter on his arm, was happier than Itovero. And—a strange thing, sentiment of shame and remorse—feel ing himself traveling fast to his last resting place in the cemetery, he ex pressed no wish to see that child, to send for her to come to Blois under some pretext or other, easy enough to find. "No, he experienced a fierce desire for solitude, he shrank from an inter view in which ho feared all his grief would rush to Ills lips in a torrent of words He feared for himself, for hts weakness, for the strange feeling he experienced In his head. " ‘It seems as if It oscillated upon my shoulders,' he said. ‘If Marthe came’—and he repeated the name as a child would have pronounced it who was just learning to name the letters of a word—'I would give her but the sad spectacle of a broken down man and leave on her mind only the impres sion of a human ruin. And then—and then—not to see her, not to have the right to see her, that is all right—it is my chastisement.' "Bet It be so. I understood. I feared that an Interview would be mortal; he had been so terribly agitated when he had seht for me that other time. "But I at least wished to recall to him his former wish which he had ex pressed of providing for the girl’s fu ture. I desired that he should make up for the past, since money Is one of the forms of reparation. But I dared not speak to him again In regard to It or of that trust of which he had spoken. "He said to me, this strong man whom death had never frightened and whom he had braved many times, he said to me now, weakened by this ill ness which was killing him hour by hour: “ 'If I know that my end was near, I would decide. But I have time,' "Time! Each day brought him a lit tle nearer to that life about which I feared to say to him, 'The time has come.’ The fear, in urging him to a last resolution, of seeming like an exe cutioner whose presence seemed to say ‘Today is the day,’ prevented me. You understand, monsieur? And why not? I ought to wait no longer. Hovere’s confidence had made of me a second Rovere who possessed the strength and force of will which the first one now lacked. I felt that I held in my hands, so to speak, Marthe’s fate. I did not know her, but I looked upon her as a martyr in her vocation of nurse to the old paralytic to whom she was paying, in love, the debt of the dead wife. I said to myself: ’It is to me, to me alone, that Rovere must give instruc tions of what he wishes to leave to his daughter, and it Is for me to urge him to do this. It Is for me to brace his weakened will.’ I was resolved. It was a duty. Each day the unhappy man’s strength failed. I saw it—this hunvan ruin. One morning, when I went to his apartments, I found him in a singular stute of terror.. He related me a story, I knew' not what, of a thief, whose victim he was. The lock of his door had been forced, his safe opened. Then suddenly, interrupting lltmself, he began to laugh—a feeble laugh, which made me ill. ” ’I am a fool,' he said. ‘I am dream ing awake. I continue in the daytime the nightmares of the night. A thief here! No one has come. Mme. Moniche has watched. But my head is so weak, so weak! I have known so many ras cals in my life. Rascals always return, liein!’ "He made a. sad attempt at a laugh. "It was delirium—a delirium which soon passed away, but which frightened mo. It returned with increased force each day and at shorter Intervals. "Well, I said to myself, during a lucid interview, ‘He must do what ho has resolved to do, what he had willed to do, what he wishes to do!’ And I decided—it was the night before the as sassination—to bring him to the point, to aid his hesitation. I found him calmer that day. He was lying on his lounge, enveloped in his dressing gown, with a traveling rug thrown across his thin legs. With his back skull cap and his grayish beard he looked like a dying doge. "He held out his bony hand to me, giving mo a sad smile, and said that he felt better, a period of remission in his disease, a feeling of comfort, per vading his general condition. (Continued Next Week.) Mary’s Acomplishments. From Tit-Bits. Mrs. B.—I suppose you find your daughter very much improved by her two years’ stay at college? Mrs. Proudmother—Ea! yes. Mary Elizabeth is a carnivorous reader now. and sho frequently impoverishes mu-; sic. But she ain’t a bit stuck-up—she's unanimous to everybody, an’ she never keeps a caller waitin’ for her to dress; she just runs in nom de plume, an’ you know that makes one feel so comfort able.—Tit-Bits. Meant to Be Funny. From Eife. "Yes, It must be a terrible thing to go through life without your limb, but you must remember it will be restored to you in the next world.’’ "I know it will be, mum, but dat don’t encourage me, fer it wuz cut oft when I wuz a baby an’ it won’t come widin a couple of foot of de ground.” The Knowledge That Hurts. From the Catholic Standard and Times. Towne—So Dnmley married a col lege woman. My, it must be fierce for him to be tied to a woman who knows so much that he doesn’t know! Browne—Oh, that doesn't hurt him so much ns the fact that she knows "how” much he doesn't know. WIIY THEY DON'T SPEAK NOW Mies Brown—Heah am de engagement i band dat Mose put on niah Anger. Kt | aartlnly do attract a lot of attention. I Miss Black—Kt ought to. Brass bands | always attract attention. THIS BRIDE’S LACE WORN B Y ANCESTOR MANY YEARS AGO ™ W&S.XG&e&T J*. T&OTIAjS. New York, Special: Few brides, If ever another, have it to say that the lace on their gowns was worn by tlielr ancestors 260 years ago. This distinc tion belongs to Miss Margaret de G. Hiss, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Phillip G. Hiss, who was niarired to Mr. Rob ert McKean Thomas In the Church of the Ascension. This lace is of a variety of the rose point and Venetian, and at the time it was worn at the marriage of Miss Hiss' relatives in New York in 1600 was known only as lace. Her veil was of the same lace, and it was fastened with orange blossoms. Her bouquet was of lillies of the valley, and she wore a gift of the bridegroom, a pendant of diamonds. Miss Hilda R. Hiss, a sister, was the bride’s only attendant. Mr. George C. Thomas, of Elizabeth, N. J., was his brother’s best man. Mr. and Mrs. Thomas have planned a long trip in the south, and will spend the winter on a houseboat in the James river. HINTS ON LETTERWRITING. Love letters, business letters, ordi nary letters. These are the three heads under which letters will obviously fall. With regard to the first, there is no need to say more than that if they are acceptable they will never be criticised. Always write naturally, as you would apeak. But it is the ordinary everyday let ter that needs attention, the letter passing from friend to friend. Such a letter has often altered a whole life, changed the face of the world. Never aim at literary effect. This may please yourself, but will have no chance of pleasing your friend. Avoid self consciousness, and do not try to dress your thoughts in a new fashion. Create the impression of heartiness, and a keen interest In your friends’ welfare. Above all, study neatness. Nothing leaves a more marked Impres sion than a blotted and slipshod letter. It stamps the nature of a woman, and, to my mind, takes away all the charm of the maybe clever and elegant letter. VELVETEEN IN VOGUE. Velveteen is having a greater vogue than ever this season, and the reason is not far to seek, for It is one of the most artistic of fabrics and it can be dyed in shades that even the richest silk velvet or expensive woolen fabrics will not take. Among the most attract ive novelties Is a lovely periwinkle blue, which is as effective by night as by day, and equally charming in its way is the new '’tourterelle" or turtledove, a pinkish mauve shade. A delicate silver gray and some rich mole shades will make a splendid background for rich furs, and there are some beautiful brown and chestnut shades suitable for outdoor wear. Among the bright colors there is a brilliant begonia pink and some rich reds, while for evening cloaks, dresses and tea gowns there are pale shades of shell pink, green, eggshell blue, prim rose yellow, white and cream, all with the soft chiffon finish which makes them drape gracefully. EMBROIDERED STOCKINGS. Why not embroider a pair of stock ings for one of your friends for Christ mas? This is not a very difficult un dertaking. It is only necessary' to out line a tiny flower upon the stockings, and this may be done by the use of transfer paper or by the regular stamping process. It is always wise when embroidering stockings to use a very fine needle and very fine thread and to do the work over a darning egg. The stocking should be held very tight. otherwise when it is put on it will tear round the embroidery. The design should be placed at the bend of the ankle, in a straight line with the re inforcement in the heel. Be very sure, however, to see that it is directly in the middle of the stocking and not toward one side. If a design is too dif ficult to handle, why not embroider tho initial? The best color to use is blue or pink. Red is somewhat too startling, and. unless the girl who is to receive the gift wears a great deal of yellow, she will not find even a pair of stockings thus decorated very use ful. _ _ TIME TABLE FOR BROILING MEAT Bacon, four to eight minutes. Birds, six to eight minutes. Chicken, 15 min utes per pound. Chops, six to eight minutes. Small, thin fish, five to eight minutes. Thick fish, 12 to 15 minutes. Liver, four to eight minutes. Squab, 10 to 15 minutes. Steak, one. inch thick, six to eight minutes. Steak, one and a half inches thick, eight to 10 minutes. Tripe, four to eight minutes. MADRAS FOR SHIRTS. The girl who must have severhl white wash waists during the season will find the new white cotton madras a good choice. It saves laundry bills, for it docs not need ironing. It sells at a small price per yard and wears better than muslin. Shirt waists of it should be made up on simple lines, with fiat plaits and separate collar. Stocks may be worn with it, with high ruchings at top and a full bow in front. Or wide turnover collars with a fancy butterfly bow in the center. TRIFLES WORTH KNOWING. Clear soup or consomme should be strained through a folded towel laid on a colander. It must not be squeezed or some of the small particles of egg used in clearing will be forced through and spoil it. Ammonia should not be used in the evening or near a fire, nor should the bottle be allowed to remain uncorked. It is inflammable, and its fumes are not specially healthful. If fresh fish is to be kept over night it should be salted and laid on an earthen dish, not placed on a board or shelf. Covering the pan when fish is frying Is apt to make the flesh soft. A solid, firm meat, that is at the same time flakey, is what the good cook likes. If a lamp wick does not move easily in the holder, draw out one or two threads from one side. A UKKAT DlSl'LA*. Harry—Mi's. Grand has a great many diamonds, hasn’t shat Dorothy—1 should say sol Before she goes to the opera she tends for a window , dresses “Then You’ll Remember Me.” From the Washington Star. | I George W. Coleman, the noted sociol ogist, discussed during the regent so ciologist conference at Sagamore beach tips and tipping. "I have a friend,” so Mr. C oleman concluded, “who belongs to an anti tipping association. My friend, ^ n obeying the rules of his society, has many quaint eyneriences. "He went traveling in the west in the spring. He dintd one night in a fashionable western restaurant and after paying his bill he gathered up the change that had been brought him upon a silver plate and dropped it into ihis waistcoat pocket. "As he rose to depart the waiter said in a low, appealing voice: " 'Surely you won’t forget me, sir. ‘‘‘No, no,' paid my friend: 'I’ll write to you.’ "—Washington Star. 1 Didn't Care for a Pitchers’ Battle. Rooter—It was a great game. Neithei side could make a run. Grunter—That kind of a game wouldn't suit me. 1 want to get a run for iny money. An artillery lieutenant in Kraguye. vats, Servia, has been sentenced to 21 days' imprisonment for compelling a recruit to undergo the most cruel in-» dignity in Servian eyes. This consisted in making him shave His mustache. Austria's government has brought forward a bill in the chamber ol deputies making insurance against ill ness and old age compulsory on all workmen and domestics and those em ployes whose annual income does not exceed $500. Stat* op Ohio, Citt op Tolkdo, i gg Lucas County. i Frank J. Cheney makes oath that he R aenlor partner of the firm of F. J. Cheney 8 Co., doing business In the City of Toledo, County and State aforesaid, and that said firm will pay the sum of ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for each and every case of Ca tarrh that cannot be cured by the use oi Hall’s Catarrh Cure. FRANK J. CHENEY. Sworn to before me and subscribed In my presence, this Oth day of December, A. O, 1888. (Seal) A. W. GLEASON, Notaky Public. Hall's Catarrh Cure Is taken Internally, and acts directly on the blood and mueout surfaces of the system. Send for testimo nials free. F. J. CHENEY & CO.. Toledo, O. Sold by all Druggists, 75c. Take Hall’s Family Pills for constipation Italian Revenge. This Is a story of Italran revenge. A vendor of plaster statuettes saw a chance for a sale In a well-dressed, bibulous man who was tacking down the street. "You buy-a de statuette?" he asked, alluringly holding out his choicest of fering. ’’Gar-r-rl-baldi—I eell-a him verra cheap. De gr-reat-a Gar-r-rl baldi—only 39 cents:" “Oh, t’ell with Garibaldi,” said th« bibulous one, making a swipe with hl» arm that sent Garibaldi crashing to tht sidewalk. For a moment the Italian regarded the fragments. Then, his eyes flashing Are, he seized from his stock a statu ette of George Washington. "You t’ell-a with my Gar-r-rl-baldi?” he hissed be tween his teeth. "So.” He raised the Immortal George high above his head and—crash! It flew Into fragments alongside of the Ill-fated Garibaldi, "Ha! I to hell-a wld your George Wash! Ha ha!" Wanted to Be Peaceful. Mrs. Henry Farman, the wife of th« noted aeronaut, said in an Interview Id New York: "What I particularly like about you Americans Is your naivete. Thle naivete often makes selfish traits seem quite charming. For Instance: ”1 lunched the other day with a Brooklyn woman. After luncheon, as we took our coffee In the drawing room, my hostess' son, a little lad In white, came In. “He talked to me politely for a whlla then he crossed the room to hl» mother. " ‘Ma,’ he said In his little hard, nasal voice, ‘did you buy Harold a birth da j present when you were out this morn ing?” " ‘Yes, dear.’ said his mother. “ ‘And, ina,’ he went on, ’what dl< you buy to pacify me 'cause it aln’i my birthday?’’’ HER MOTHER-IN-LAW Proved a Wlaa, Good Prlexkd. A young woman out In Iowa found • wise, good friend In her mother-in-law, jokes notwithstanding. She writes: “It is two years since we began using Posturn in our house. I was greatly troubled with my stomach, complexion was blotchy and yellow. After meal* I often suffered sharp pains and would have to lie down. My mother often told me It was the coffee I drank at meal*. But when I’d quit coffee I'd have * severe headache. “While visiting my mother-in-law l remarked that she always made such good coffee, and asked her, to tell m« how. She laughed and told me It wa* easy to make good ‘coffee’ when you us* Posturn. “I began to use Posturn rs soon a* I got home, and now we have the sarn* good ‘coffee’ (Posturn) every (lay, and I have no more trouble. Indigestion I* a thing of the past, and my complexion has cleared up beautifully. “My grandmother suffered a great deal with her stomach. Her doctor told her to leave off coffee. She then took tea, but that was just as bad. “She finally was induced to try Posturn, which she has used for over a year. She traveled during the winter over the greater part of Iowa, visiting, something she had not been able to do for years. She says she owes her pres ent good health to Posturn." Name given by Posturn Co.. Battl* Creek. Mich. Bend “The Road to Well, viile,’’ In pkgs. "There’s a Reason.” Ever read the above letter? A new one appears from time to time. They are genuine, true, and full of human interest.