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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 6, 1910)
ACT PROMPTLY. Kidney troubles are too dangerous lo neglect Little disorders grow seri ous and the sufferer Is soon In the grasp of diabetes, dropsy or fatal Bright’s disease, Doan’s Kidney Pills cure all distressing kidney Ills. They make sick kidney* well, weak kidneys strong. John L. Perry, Columbus, T e x., says: ‘1 grew worse and worse until It seemed but a question of a few hours before I passed away. My wife was told 1 would not see another day. I rallied somewhat and at once began taking Doan’s Kidney Pills. I steadily Improved until today I am In good health." Remember the name—Doan's. For sale by all dealers. BO cents a box. Foster-Mllburn Co., Buffalo, N. Y. His First Lesson In Economy. "When I was a very small boy and a dime looked pretty big to me, 1 met John H. Farley—who had always been my good friend—on the street one June day," says Frank Harris. •' ‘Frank,’ he said, ‘the Fourth of July Is coming soon. You’ll want some change then. Let me be your banker until then and you’ll have some money for firecrackers, torpe does, lemonade and peanuts.' “I emptied my pockets Into his hand and efery day thereafter until the Fourth I turned over to him my small earnings. When the day of days came around I had a fund that enabled me to celebrate In proper style, while many of my platmates were flat broke. It was my first lesson In thrift and It was a good one. Hundreds of Cleveland people would be glad today to testify to the fact that when John H. Farley was a friend of a man or a boy he was a friend Indeed."—Cleve land Leader. Now They Sleep Inside. George H. Beattie, Jeweler In the old Arcade, and L. B. Ralston, auditor of the News, have Jointly and several ly decided that sleeping out In the open Isn't all that It has been declared to be, says the Cleveland Leader. They were both In a deep snooze out at the Beattie farm, near Chagrin Falls, the other night, when a runaway team from the county fair city turned Into the lane leading up to the Beattie es tate and came along at full speed. Sound asleep, but dreaming of Im pending danger, Ralston rolled out of his oot toward the north, and Beattie from his cot toward the south. The runaway horses dashed between the sleepers, oversetting everything In the way, but missing Beattie and Ralston by margins too narrow, to be mea» ured. Since that night Ralston has slept In his town house and Beattie has found shelter under the ample roof of his house on his big planta tion. I Good Advloe, but A traveler entered a railway car riage at a wayside station. The sole -occupants of the compartment con sisted of an old lady and her son, about twelve years old. Nothing of note occurred until the train steamed Into the station at which tickets were collected. Tho woman, not having a ticket for the boy, requested him to corrle doon." Tho traveler Intervened and sug gested putting him under the seat “Man," said the excited woman, 'it's «s shslr as death; but there’s twa un der the salt aTeadyl" Illiterate Immigrants. Ellis island records show that of 52,727 Immigrants who arrived here In July 12,895, or about 25 per cent, are illiterates. Illiteracy Is no bar to an immigrant so long as he appears phys ically able to care for himself. Only 1,127 persons who sought to enter the country were barred at this port last month,—New York Press. A FOOD DRINK. Which Brings Dally Enjoyment. A lady doctor writes : ’Though busy hourly with my own affairs, I will not deny myself the pleasure of taking a tew minutes to tell of my enjoyment dally obtained from my morning cup of Postum. It is a food beverage, not a poison like coffee. '1 began to use Postum eight years ago, not because I wanted to, but be cause coffee, which I dearly loved, made my nights long weary periods to be dreaded and unfitting me for busi ness during the day. "On the advice of a friend, I first tried Postum, making It carefully as directed on the package. As 1 had always used 'cream and no sugar,' 1 mixed my Postum so. It looked good, was clear and fragrant, and It was a pleasure to see the cream color It as my Kentucky friend always wanted her ooffee to look—'like a new sad dle.' "Then I tasted It critically, for I had tried many ‘substitutes’ for coffee. I was pleased, yes, satisfied, with my Postum In taste and effect, and am yet, being a constant user of It all these years. "I continually assure my friends and acquaintances that they will like It In place of coffee, and receive benefit from Its use. I hare gained weight, can sleep sound and am not nervous.” ’There’s s Reason." Read "The Road to WellvlUe" In pkgs. Ever road tho above lotter7 A new one appears from time to time. They are genuine, true, and full of human Interest. Ever read tho above lelterT A new *»• appear* tv-on, time to time. They av* eeaalar, tmr, and full of taut latnreat. 'I TAVERNAY A Tale of the Red Terror BY BURTON E. 8TEVEN8ON. Author of “Thu Marathon Mystery"Thu Holladay Case,” “A Soldier of Virginia," etc. Copyrighted, 1*0*. by Burton El Stevenson. I -rlnl.lr- _ _ CHAPTER XIX—(Continued.) “An enemy Of the nation 1” I repeat ed, and then fell suddenly silent and affected to study him. "But how am I to know'” I asked at last, "that that description may not really be deserved by you? How am I to know that tt Is not some villainy against the nation which you are plotting at that table yonder?" He started, turned red, shifted under my gaze, and I saw that I had won. "I swear to you, citizen,” he began, but I cut him short. "And I also swear to you," I retorted, “that I am on the Nation's business, which brooks no delay. If you are a friend of the Nation, give me food; If you are Its enemy, refuse It. The Na tion knows how to punish and Its hand Is heavy. Shall I write your name In my little book and after It the word ‘suspect.' Come, prove yourself a good citizen, and at the same time get these pieces of silver for your pocket." He hesitated yet a moment, going from one foot to the other In per plexity; but the silver, or my argu ments, or perhaps both together, car ried the day. "You shall have It," he said, and went to the farther end of the room, where ho opened a cupboard which was at the same time larder and wine cellar. From It he produced two bottles, a fowl already roasted, and a loaf of bread. As he passed his two companions. I fancied that a glance of understanding passed between them. A moment later, they pushed back their chairs, bade him a noisy good night, and left the room. "How will this do?" asked my host, placing the bottles, tho loaf and the fowl on the table before me, his vexa tion quite vanished. "Excellently," I answered, noting with surprise that the fowl had real ly some flesh upon Its bones. “One thing more, this road, I suppose leads to-” Loudon, ’ he said. “And from there to Thouars?" "Undoubtedly.” “I am on tin' right track, then.” I Said, simulating a sigh of relief. “That la all," I added, for 1 saw it was use less as well as dangerous to ask for shoes. "The silver is yours,” and while he tested it with his teeth, placed a bottle In either pocket, and with a loaf under my arm and the fowl in my hand, opened the door find stepped out Into the night. I had my pistol ready and looked sharply to the right and left, hut saw no one. Then, taking care to walk in the middle of the road, I pushed for ward at a good pace until l was well away from the Inn. I glanced aroued from time to time, but saw no sign that I was followed nor heard any sound of pursuing footsteps; so, tell ing myself at last that my fears wen groundless , I leaped the ditch at the side of the road and retraced my steps until I came again to the hedge hack of the Inn. From this. I had hut to follow the course of the brook, h* re the merest thread of water, and at the end of 10 minutes 1 was hack again at my starting point. I stopped and bent over the hollow, when ■oft hand rose and touched my cheek "Is it you, M. do Tavernay?” asked j a voice. "Oh, but l a*m glad!' 1 was! beginning to fear for you. What i • that in your hand?" "It is food," I answered, sitting d*»\vn beside her and laughing with sln-ei J«.»\ I drew my knife and severed k<at m. 1 fowl alike Into two equal portions, lie it With the point of it drew the* corks amt placed the bottles carefully In a liolmw of the grass, propping them uprigi.t with some little stones. "There, I ■aid, "the meal is served, mademoiselle. I think we may dispense with grace, as w# must with knives and forks. ’ Bhe laughed delightedly as site took the portions I placed in her hands "You are a wizard, M. de Tavernay.' ; ■he said. "1 had expected, at moal, a j crust of bread, and you piovide a feast." "A feast Is of value," I pointed out. "only when It is in one’s stomach." "Well, this shall soon he in mine," ■he retorted; "never in my life have l had such an appetite," and she attack ed the food with a vigor which it did me good to see. Nor was I behind her. Never, before or since, have 1 tasted a fowl so ten der. bread so sweet, wine so satisfying. It was almost worth the privations we hail undergone—It was nature’s com pensation for that suffering! And our first hunger past, we took time to pause and chat a little. She had re gained all her old spirit, and I am sure that for her, as for me. there was something fascinating and even dan gerous In that moment. We forgot past sorrow anil future peril, we forgot our present situation and the trials we must still encounter. The moon was rising again over the hills to the east and revealed just ns It had done the night before, all the subtle delicacy of her beauty. What she w as thinking of 1 know not, but my own thoughts flow back Irresistibly to that hour In the garden—that sweet, swift-winged IIV'UI . “But was it only last night!” 1 ! murmured, not realizing that I spoke ; aloud until the words were uttered. "Indeed, It seems an age away!" she assented, absently, and a sudden burst of Joy glowed within me. "So you were thinking of It tool" I cried, and tried to catch her hand. "Thinking of what?" she asked, drawing away from me.. "Of the garden—of the precious mo ments we passed together there," I answered eagerly, my eyes on hers. I “On the contrary,” she answered coolly, though 1 could have sworn she | blushed. “I was thinking only that last I night l was safe with my friends at the chateau—” “Oh," I said, not wanting to hear more, and 1 sank back into my seat with a gesture of Impatience, "Though If you had not Interrupted my thoughts," she continued smiling slyly. "I should doubtless. In time, have come to the garden scene.” “In time!" I repeated bitterly. "Of all the hours of my life, that one Is ever present with me. It eclipses all the rest.” "It will fade!" she assured me light ly. "It will fade! As for me, I do not dwell upon it, because I must be care ful.” “Careful.” "Certainly. Careful not to permit myself to think too tenderly of a man already betrothed. That would be the height of folly. Suppose l should begin to love him." "I see you are armed against me," I said dismally, "and that the poniard of your wit Is as sharp as ever." "It Is the Instinctive weapon of our sex,” she explained. "We draw It whenever we scent danger. Once It fails us, we are lost.” "It failed you for a time last night, thank God," I retorted. "I have that to remember," and I recalled the sweet face raised to mine, the yielding form— "Ungenerous," she cried. "I did not think it of you, M. de Tavernay! Dark ness and stress of storm drive a bird to take refuge In your bosom, and at daybreak you wring Its neck." "No.” I said, with a sudden revul sion of feeling. ”1 release It, I toss It back Into the air. It flies away with out a thought of me, glad only to escape; but I—-I remember It and love It, and I thank heaven for the chance which drove It to me.” Impulsively she reached out her hand and touched my own. "That Is more like yourself,” she said. "Now I know you again. And perhaps my friend the bird Is not so ungrateful as you think." "It may even return to the bosom which sheltered It?” I asked softly, leaning forward. "You think that, mademoiselle?" ”1 fancy It would fear to do so.” "Fear?” I repeated. "Surely that least of all.” "Fear that It might not find the bosom empty,” she explained remorse lessly, and I saw the old light In her eyes. "Fear that It might blunder upon another occupant with a better right I drew away from her, wounded, stung. "But whether It returns or not,” she added, In a gentler tone, ”1 am sure It will never forget.” And with that comfort, cold as It was, I was forced to be content. "Come,” I said, a sudden Impa tience of the place seizing me, “we must be getting forward. The moon will light our way.” And then my heart fell suddenly, for I remembered her torn and ragged shoes. "I could not get you shoes." I said. "No one can accomplish the Impos sible. It was foolish of me to ask for them.” "1 will get them," I said, "but un t then I shall have to carry you.” "Nonsense," she protested. "You will do nothing of the kind. With that light In the sky I can choose my steps. Besides, my shoes are stronger than you Imagine ” "The road Is not far off." I said. “Once we have gained that, you may, perhaps, be able to walk alone. But I shall not permit you to torture your self by limping over this rough ground.” She was looking at me with defiance In her eyes, and I saw that I sWruId huvo to use finesse. "Please do not forget,” I reminded her, "ihe selfishness of my disposition. One step upon a sharp stone and you will be so lamed that I shall have to carry you not a matter of a few hun dred yards, but all the rest of the way to the Bocage. My back aches at thought of It. and so I propose for my self the lighter task In order to escape the other.” Her look changed from defiance to amusement. "You have a wit truly Ingenious M. <le Tavernay," she Bald. "I yield to It •for the moment.” 1 .know that reason would convince you." 1 replied, trembling at the thought that I should have her In my arms again. "Come, there Is still a llt t!” wine In the bottles. I propose a toiiKt the toast we drank last night," nd I arose and bared my head. "The !<h :.' and may heaven protect him." lint that toast was never to be (\runk, for . ven as 1 raised the bottle. It was I : bed from my lips, and two men hurled themselves upon me out of the da rltness CHAPTER XX A I)AGGER OK ANOTHER SORT. For an Instant I did not resist, so sudden and unlooked-for was the at tack: then, as I felt a merciless hand gripping my throat. 1 struck savagely at a face I could dimly see just in front of my own. A burst of blood flooded down over It, changing it Into a hide ous mask, but again 1 felt those lingers of steel about my neck—fingers which tightened and tightened, tear at them as I might. In a mad frenzy of rage and agony, I struck again and again at the face before me, until my tongue swelled In my mouth and the world danced red before my eyes. This was the end, then. I was to be murdered here by these tavern vagabonds; that vengeance I hi*l sworn was never to he accomplished: and Chnrlotte—Char lotte— The pang which struck through me was not one of physical suffering alone; Indeed, for an Instant, I ceased to feel those savage fingers. Ah. I could die— that were nothing! But to leave her! Had God abandoned us? Where was His justice? Where was His mercy? Again I tore at those lingers, desper ately, madly; I felt the blood spurt from my nostrils, the heavens reeled before me, a black moon In a skv of living flame— What magic was It drew that breath of air Into my lungs? Llfe-glv ing aid which sent the heart bound ing and the pulse leaping In answer A second—a third! I was dimly con scious of a knife gleaming In the air I struck again. The face vanished from before me. But the fingers—the lingers! They were hurled in my flesh—they were crushing my life out. I raised a hand to my throat. The fingers were not there! And again the sky turned red and a black moon hung low In It, a moon which grew and grew until It swallowed the sky and the earth— 1 was lying upon a vast bed of sea weed, which rose and fell with the waves of the ocean. Oh, the peace of It. tho bliss of It, save that from time to time a single strand colled about my throat like a living thing and would have choked ine hail I not torn It off The wish came to me that I might lie there forever, rocked In that mammoth cradle, lulled by the murmur of waters never-ceasing. Then, afar off across that undulating plain, I saw a figure speeding toward me, and knew It was my love. At last she reached me, bent over me, looked Into my face, flung herself upon me, calling my name and pressing warm kisses on my Ups— kisses which I could not return, strug gle as I might, for my lips seemed frozen Into stone. I tried to throw my arms about her, but some mighty weight held them at my side. I tried to call her name, but my voice died In my throat. Then I knew that I was dead and a great calmness fell upon me. She would never know that I felt her kisses, that I heard her voice. She would never know how I loved her! The thought stung me to fury. She must know; she should know! For her, I would burst the bonds of death Itself. I fought against them desperately, des perately, every muscle strained to breaking I opened my eyes to see a face bend ing over me—the face of my dream, ▼ery near she sat—so near that I could feel the sweet warmth of her body—and she was bathing my face and nack with the cool water from th< brook. How good It felt—like the hanc of God Himself! I saw that she hat filled a bottle with it and guessing th< wish I had not strength to utter, sh< held it to my lips and gave me a long draught. It sent new life through me. Th« pain of swallowing was as nothing tc the delight It gave me. I lay still c moment looking up at her, then I sal erect unsteadily. "What Is It?” I asked hoarsely "What has happened to me?” "Then you are not dead,” she cried. “Then you are going to live! Oh thank God!" "Dead,” I repeated In amazement "No—nor like to be!” Then my eyes fell upon an object at my feet and In a flash I remembered, I sat for a moment looking down at that huddled shape, touched here and there Into hideous distinctness by tht rays of the moon. "But even yet, I do not under stand,” I said at last. "What killed him?' A bolt from heaven? God saves me from my vengeance then.” She did not answer, only huddled her head Into her arm and swayed forward, shaken by a convulsive shud I leaned down and looked at the body. Was It blasted, shriveled as In a furnace? Had I really been saved by God’s Intervention? And how else, I asked myself; what less than a miracle could have saved me? The body was lying on Its face, and as I stared down at It, I fancied I saw something protruding from the back. I touched it—it was the handle of a knife. I drew It forth, not without some effort, and recognized the knife as mine —Pasdeloup’s—the knife I had used to cut the bread—the knife I had left ly ing In the hollow beside the bottles Then I understood. “You!” I cried, staring at the bowed figure. “You!" She did not answer. Only sat and shivered, her head In her arms. “You!” I said again. “It was you who saved me!” She raised her head and looked at me. “I saw — that — he — was—choking— you,” she gasped. "God—guided my hand—to the knife," and she held It up and looked at It with a kind of horror. I caught the hand and drew It to my lips. "Mademoiselle," I said hoarsely, "I loved you before—I reverence you now. But where Is the other? I thought there were two of them?” “There were,” she answered. "The other tried to stab you, but you struck him and he fled.” I started up In alarm. "Then must we flee, too, and in stantly," I cried. "He will return and bring others with him. Come.” and I raised her to her feet. "But are you strong enough?” she asked. "Strong enough? I am strong as Hercules—why should I not be, since Joy gives strength? Come.” Then I remembered her ragged shoes. What hope of escape was there when our flight must be at a snail's pace. “Come." I repeated, and held out my arms. "What do you mean?" she de manded, looking at me darkly. “I am to carry you, you know, un til wo reach the road. That Is al ready settled, so we need not waste time arguing it over again.” "Indeed!" she retorted. "But that was under different circumstances. Besides, we are not going toward the road, are we?" No," I admitted; "we are going straight up this hill." “Very well,” she said. “Then our agreement Is at an end, and I refuse to reconsider. It Is you who Is wast ing time." I saw she was Immovable, and a mad Impulse seized me to snatch her up despite her protests; to overpower her resistance. Then my glance fell upon the body. In an Instant I had dropped beside It and was pulling the rude strong shoes from its feet. "What are you doing?" she gasped, staring down at me. "Sit here beside me," I commanded, my heart beating triumphantly; and, is she obeyed, still staring, I pulled off my own shoes and slipped them over hers. Worn In that way they Hi; d as well as could be desired—they would at least protect her from the roughness of the road until better ones could be found. Then I stuffed the dead man shoes with grass until they fitted my own feet snugly. “Now,” I said, "we are ready to be off," and I sprang to my feet and drew her after me. “You are a most Ingenious man. M. 3e Tavernay,” she commented. “I am ready," and she followed me up the hill and through a thicket of under brush which crowned Its summit. Not a moment too soon, for as we paused to look back before starting downward, we saw a score of torches advancing up the valley toward the spot which we had left. Evidently, there was to be no chance of failure this time. “Come," I said, and caught her hand. The slope was free from underbrush and fairly smooth. “A race!" she cried, her eyes danc ing, and a moment later we arrived breathless at the bottom. (Continued Next Week.) Science v». Art. From the Dos Angeles Times. Thomas Nelson Page, In the smok ing room of the Baltic, contrasted the literary and scientific temperaments. "But a letter will best bring out my point," said the famous author. “You’ve heard, of course, of Tennyson's poem, 'The Vision of Sin.’ Well, an eminent mathematician wrote to Tennyson, on the appearance of this poem, a letter that ran like this: " 'Dear Sir—I find In a recent poem of yours, entitled 'The Vision of Sin,’ the following unwarranted statement: 'Every moment dies a man, and every moment one Is born.' I need hardly point out that this calculation, If cor rect, would tend to keep the sum total of the world’s population In a state of perpetual equipoise, whereas It Is an established fact that the said popula tion Is constantly on the Increase. 1 would therefore suggest that In the next edition of this poem the erroneous calculation to which I refer should be corrected as follows: ’Every moment dies ft man, and one and a sixteenth Is born.' I may add that the exact figures are 1.167, but something must of course be conceded to the laws of rhyme.’ ” The Lesson. From Tit-Bits. It Is a poor rule that will not work both way. A minister was catechizing a group of Sunday school children on the Incident of Eutychus. He had explained how at Troa the apostle had been preaching his farewell sermon and had prolonged his discourse to so late an hour that the young man Eutychus fell out of the win dow. being overcome with sleep. But St. Paul went down and brought him back to life again. "And what do we learn from the Incident?" he concluded. A little girl put out her hand, and the minister pointed to her. "Please, sir," she answered, 'we learn that ministers should not preach long s*r. mans." "So this winds the thing up, does It, Miss Angus?” "It does, Mr. Penton.” “What explanation do you want? I have told you I wished to break off the engagement because it has become irk some to me. Isn’t that enough?” Algernon Penton, with a low bow, turned upon his heel and walked out. When the door had closed upon his retreating form the young woman sank nervously into a chair. "The stupid wretch!” she exclaimed. "He ought to have more sense than to take me at my word!” Suddenly she stooped to the floor, picked up a small ivory tablet that had dropped from Algernon's pocket, pressed It passionately to her lips, bowed her head upon her hands, and sobbed aloud. Years had passed. Tht. afternoon sun was gliding the pretentious spires and cupolas of a small town when a middle-aged man with a bag in his hand opened the gate in front of a modest but neat and well-built house, walked briskly up the steps, and knocked at the door. A lady answered the knock—a lady well preserved, but no longer young. The stranger bared his head. His hair was beginning to turn gray, but time had evidently dealt with him leni ently, and care had left no deep traces on his brow. He spoke: “Is the gentleman of the house—am t dreaming? Isn’t that Elsie Angus? Or rather," and he smiled, “isn’t this the lady that was once Miss Elsie An gus ?” “I am Miss Angus,” she answered, “and you are Algernon Penton. I rec ognized you as soon as I saw you. Won’t you come in?” "Well, well!" said the middle-aged traveler, as he sat in an easy chair in the front parlor a few minutes later, ind looked with interest at the face of the lady, “who would have thought of meeting you here? And you tell me vou are still Miss Angus? Is this your dome?” "It is my brother’s. He is a wid ower. I keep house for him.” "And you have never been married?" “No.” "Have you prospered?” ‘1—I have no reason for complaint. And you?” "I have had a great many hard tnocks, Elsie—Miss Angus—since we ast met. By the way, we parted rath »r unceremoniously, didn’t we?" The lady sighed. "And I have always felt that I owed rou an apology.” he continued, “for tion to the gilt-edged character of the Insurance afforded, than In any that has ever come under your notice, while the non-forfeltable feature* of the poli cies, peculiar to our company alone, to gether with the dividends that accrue after the third year, thus steadily de creasing the annual premiums, while at the same time-’ “Was this your object In calling, Mr. Penton?" “It was, Miss Angus. I've Just be gan to work this town.” Opening the little Ivory tablet he began jotting down figures In It with great rapidity. “Now here, you will see,” he said, “that on the ten-year plan—let me sea what is your age, please?” “You will please excuse me. sir, J have some bread In the oven that I must go and look at, and I don't neeq any life Insurance. Neither does my brother. I wish you success, Mr Pen ton. Good afternoon.” Miss Elsie Angus sat In pensive si lence a minute or two after her caller had departed, then picked up the lit tle Ivory tablet, put it back Into the plush covered jewel case, took them both to the kitchen, tossed them Into the fire, and went about her work with a firm and decided expression on hs* face. Three weeks afterward she married a bald-headed dentist, fifty-seven year* old, who had been making love to he# unsuccessfully for about ten years. Conjugal Devotion of Birds, R. Bosworth Smith In the Nineteenth Century: The wagtail frequently ml* grates from one part of the country to another, and sometimes congregates la flocks, but he pairs for life, and the same pair always reappear, sometlmeg when they are least expected, and aU the more welcome from their occasional absence, on their favorite lawn. Thely devotion to one another Is extreme, aO a scene I witnessed some forty year* ago, but which Is as fresh In my men* ory as if I had seen It yesterday, will show. A wagtail had been killed, probably by a stone, and was lying dead In tho middle of the clrcul-r drive In front at the Down house, Blandford. The sur vivor seemed beside himself with griet, Like Eve In “Paradise,” he “knew not what death was,” or, at most, the real ity was only gradually breaking la upon him. He kept running up to tho body, with loud and plaintive call note. He called, but there was no response. He caressed the body, caught hold of it with his little bill, coaxed It to meva v W 7j, OP^NCD A PLU$H LIN£E> Ch$t> AND TOOK OUT A LITTLE IVOK.Y tablct: | not sending your photograph back at- ' ter you hud returned mine, but the j fact Is.” he went on awkwardly, "I—er couldn’t find It. It had got lost some how.” Miss Angus sighed again. “That reminds me,” pursued Mr. Penton, “that I lost a little book-slate I the last evening I was ut your house. [ must have dropped It out of my pocket In some way. It wasn’t of any I particular value, and I don’t know when I have thought of It before, but the recollection of It happened to occur to me just now. It was a little black book-slate, with” ”1 think it was an ivory tablet." "No, I am quite positive It was a little black book-slate.” ”1 am sure It was a white tablet." Going to the mantel she opened a plush-llned Jewel case and took out a little Ivory tablet. “Here It is,” she said. "And you have kept It all these years?” exclaimed Mr. Penton. j “Yes.” “I see I was mistaken. But to change the subject. Do you consider your self—aw—settled in life? Have you no —no plans for the—for the future?" “Why, I”-— She paused, and her visitor pro ceeded: "In a sense, I suppose you are a fixture here? Your brother’s children are to some extent dependent upon you?” “Of course, but” “Then permit me. Miss Angus, for the Bake of old times,” said Mr. Penton rapidly, as he opened his bag and took out a number of documents, "to call your attention to the fact thut life is uncertain, disease and death stalk abroad In the land, fatal accidents may happen at any time, and It Is a part I of wisdom to provide against emergen ! ries by securing those who are or may ■ be dependent upon us against want. In | the policies of the Limplnlazurus life 1 insurance company, which I represent, and for which I have traveled for the last seven years, you will find the most perfect system, the surest guarantee, the most absolute security offered by any company in the world, and either on the ten-year, the endowment or the life plan, as you may prefer, you will find the premiums smaller in proper drew it after him for a yard or two. H* even tried to rise with It In the alrv Then, like one distraught, he dashed away to the edge of the gravel drive* and then as quickly dashed back again, to go through the same mournful pro* cesses. Sometimes he would fly right off in wravering, uncertain flight as fa* as the eye could follow him, as though he could bear the sight no longer, but. without stopping to rest, he hurried back In straighter and quicker flight, unable to tear himself away, or as ll he hoped that something might havs happened In his absence. This long* drawTn tragedy, this abandonment ol griei. I watched from the window throughout the afternoon till darkness came on. Next morning the body had disappeared, and I saw the survivor n« more. —----— ---—% At the World’* Fair. Farmer Hayrick (to Jefferson Guard) --Say. young fellow, where do they feed that there lagoon? The number of Austrians in tha United States is 1.030.000,