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,
