Nebraska Newspapers

    COULD NOT
STAND ON FEET
Mrs. Baker So Weak—Could
Not Do Her Work—Found
Relief In Novel Way.
Adrian, Mich. — ‘‘I suffered terribly
With female weakness and backache and
got so weak that 1
could hardly do my
work. When I
washed my dishes I
had to sit down and
when I would sweep
the floor I would get
so weak that 1 would
have to get a drink
every few minutes,
and before I did my
dusting I would have
to lie down. I got
•o poorly that my folks thought I was
going into consumption. One day I
found a piece of paper blowing around
the yard and I picked it up and read it.
It said ‘ Saved from the Grave, ’ and
told what Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegeta
ble Compound has done for women. 1
Showed it to my husband and he said,
* Why don’t you try If T ’ So I did, and
after 1 had taken two bottles I felt
better and I said to my husband, ‘I don’t
heed any more,’ and he said ‘You had
better take it a little longer anyway. ’
Bo I took it for three months and got
Well and strong. ” — Mrs. Azonzo E.
Baker, 9 Tecumseh St, Adrian, Mich.
Not Well Enough to Work.
In these words is hidden the tragedy
of many a woman, housekeeper or wage
earner who supports herself and is often
helping to support a family, on meagre
Wages. Whether in house, office, fac
tory, shop, store or kitchen, woman
Ibould remember that there is one tried
knd true remedy for the ills to which all
Women are prone, and that is Lydia E.
rinkham’s Vegetable Compound. It
Jromotes that vigor which makes work
easy. The Lydia E. Pinkham Medicine
Co., Lynn, Maas.
Same Thing.
“Didn't you stretch a point to get
U1 that news?"
“Well, I did rubber some."
LADIES CAN WEAR SHOES
bn* ell* • mailer after nslng Allen'* Foot-Ha**, the
Antiseptic powilor to bo Rhaken Into the ahuca. It
kakca tight or new ahoea feel eaay. Just tho thing
fcr dancing. Rr/uit lubilttutu. For FKKH trial
package, add real Allen 8. Olmited. Lotto/. N V.
Up to Date.
He—A husband muBt be obeyed.
She—Oh. cut out your must-y phlloe
aphy!
White House Rose Garden.
The rose garden that Mrs. Wood
Tow Wilson had planted at the White
House Is s&ld to be quite equal to
others that she planned at Princeton
and other places where she has lived.
She and her daughters have spent
much time, not only in superintending
ths work of the rose garden, but In
Actually working in it.
8usplcloua.
’“Too bad Jinx an® his wife don't
«et along well together.”
“Why, I always understood that they
were an Ideal couple.”
”8o did I, but they must have had
p> dreadful scrap before he started for
Work this morning.”
“Did he have a black eye?"
“No, but he stopped In when we
iwere on our way home and bought her
a five-pound box of candy.”
Not 80 Much to Blame.
"I didn’t know you were so accom
plished a linguist,” he remarked as he
glanced at the paper she was reading.
“I don't make any pretentions In
*hat direction," she answered.
“But that Is a Russian newspaper
7011 have picked up."
“Why, so It Is," she answered In sur
prise. “I thought it was a dialect
■Story."
I
Keep Cool
and
\ Comfortable
Don’t spend so much of
/ your time cooking during hot
weather; and your family will
be healthier without the heavy
cooked foods.
Give them
Post
Toasties
They're light and easily
digested and yet nourishing
and satisfying. No bother in
preparation—just pour from
the package and add cream
and sugar—or they’re mighty
good with fresh berries or
fruit.
"The Memory Lingers”
1 -
APPLE GREEN—OR WHITE?'
By Olive Roberts Barton.
(Copyright, 1913 by the McClure News
paper Syndicate.)
Jane slowly drew her hand out of the
flimsy white silk stocking. She had de
cided to take the pair, but changed her
mind when she heard a girl who had Just
arrived at the same counter ask to be
shown some green silk hose. Her back
was toward the newcomer, but she recog
nized the voice.
Her own t^lr-rk pulled down boxes upon
boxes of stockings to show Jane, who had
never before been so difficult to please, but
the lgtter had now ptenty of opportunity
to hear what the other girl said.
"No—-these are all too dark. Apple
green, I want,” she was saying. “See!
They must match these satin slippers.
Oh, please don’t tell me that you haven’t
them. I have been to every single store In
town, and I must have them for tonight.
My gown Is the same shade. No, white
would be Impossible. The whole effect
will be spoiled. It Just means to wear an
old gown and—What! Have you found
them? The only pair and my size, too!
Well, I am lucky. ’
Jane decided on a pair at the same time.
Her pretty brown eyes were smoldering.
”80 Bhe is getting all fixed up for the
dance tonight so she can dazzle Tom some
more,” she thought bitterly. “He has
scarcely had time to look at me since she
came. He says he has to be polite to his
sister’s guest, but I guess he can be polite
without taking her some place every night
for a week. I suppose he would even take
her to the Thanksgiving ball tonight If
he hadn’t asked me a year ago.
Jane looked after the girl Jealously.
She herself was as pretty as a picture, her
eyes and hair almost as dark as her black
velvet suit, arid the red wing in her hat
was scarcely brighter than the color In
her cheeks. “The girl,” tall and graceful,
had red-gold hair. Tom had said It was
wonderful.
At home, In her own room, she felt
better. After all, the girl would soon be
gone. Tom had hurried home from col
lege to take her to this particular ball
for year-*. There were other dances, other
parties, but they were not the same as
this. It was a sort of anniversary of the
first time they had met, and, although
there had been no dreadful college to sep
arate them this year, Tom’s law prac
tice had been almost as bad. “For,” uald
he, ”su?c#ss means you. Jane, dear. I
cannot ask you to marry a pauper.
Jane hummed a happy little tune as she
laid her dancing clothes out on the bed.
She must look her best tonight. He said
he had something to tell her.
Her gown, lingerie, cloak, slippers, scarf,
gloves—sho thought a moment. Oh, yes—
the stockings! She had forgotten to take
the little package out of her muff. She
tore it open and drew out a pair of shining
silken hose. Jane stared. They were a
delicate apple green.
Shn understood right away that she had i
lire n irtVKII u/mrur noolm.,.. - * »l, — I 1
store. Her own stockings did jiot mat
ter. She had others she could wear. She !
hesitated an Instant. What need she care i
whether the girl got the stockings or not?
It was 6 o’clock. But she decided to call
a messenger and send them when the i
telephone rang. It was Tom. i
“Jane, I’m awfully sorry, but something •
has happened that will keep Laura home j
from the dance unless I take her. She <
was to go with Gerald and he telegraphed j
Just now that he had missed his train. I
Know yon won’t mind and 1 will get Lester i
( olllns to take you, If you will go with ,
him. I am awfully sorry but it cannot i
be helped. You don’t mind, do you?” 1
. Jnno replied Indifferently that it was a i
trifling matter not requiring an apology !
at all and that it would delight her to go
with Mr. Collins.
Tom left the ’phone evidently satisfied, '
but Jutie was raging. She threw herself
upon the bed In the midst of the finery i
and sobbed. "He won’t take me! He «
won take me! He is In love with that
girl!
Then she remembered the stockings. “I
don t cars If she never gets them now. «
Let her wear her old dress ” »
She could not go to dinner looking as
KJ did;J10r1dld sho want any. She told '
her mother In the dim light of her room
that Bhe had a headache and would take
only a cup of tea.
mo'hcr being one of those com
peop ? " i10 p8t -vou' «nd stroke i
r„h?lr' <’all you "dearie," and do '
5,5 Qup8‘lona. suggested a walk In
the cool air after she had had her tea. I
te'I'lnm5ISS<M ber mother and drank her 1
!.?am T,u‘!*1 fesolvinit to "freshen up” go '
SSv.r Ik n°u Rl"’as that her heart
broken, she slipped on her storm coat
?^hsn.v.no c "K thl' *'’r<’*n stockings, she
tied them up, scribbled a name on the 1
paedtase ami stuck It In her pocket.
“What's the difference If she does flx un
npw .. 11 8,1 Beema to be over but the
shouting. Tom will never know 1 care
There—I can hand these thing:* to a maid
ut the door. I can pull down my veil and
no one will know the difference." :
Jane crossed the park to the big house
at the corner. No one answered her ring
The hall was empty, and one of the doors
stood slightly ajar. It was but a step to
the table, the package was In her hand '
She would lay It right under the light,
name side up, and be out In an Instant
rmpulsively she pushed open the door and
laid the package on the table, then turned
to go, when she heard voices very close
to her Inside the drawing room door. Be
side her heavy portlers hung over the li
brary doors. Quick us thought she hid.
No one came Into the hull, but Tom's
voice, low and tender, was telling some
one how he loved her. Jane felt siek and
dizzy. Why—oh. why had she come? To
be found there In Tom's house, hiding be
hind a curtain, listening to him! She
braced herself against the door to keep
from falling. Suddenly the door swung
In and she with It. She almost fell Into
the room.
With one swift, horrified glance she de
rided that the room was empty. The log
lire had burned low and the only light was
a green reading lamp which left the great
er part of the room In shadow. Then Jane
heard a e!gh. She shrank back against
the wall. Then the sigh came again nnd
someone stirred on the big davenport be
side her. W;^s she losing her senses?
What did It ail mean? Tom waa lying
there fast asleep.
Then she turned and fled and (lid not
stop until she reached her own room at
home. The telephone was ringing. She
dropped breathlessly Into a chair and took
down the receiver It was Tom—very wide
awake now.
"Is that you, Jana?"
"I’m late calling you up, but I fell
asleep In the library after dinner and
Just woke up. Had the funniest dream,
too I thought you were standing beside
me watching me. I woke up immediately,
but you were gone.11
"How funny.”
"Yes. wasn't It. Well, girlie. Gerald got
home In time after all to take Laura tc<
the dance and I’m mighty glad She's a
fine girl, but I’m getting tired of playing
proxy for him and shooing off the other
fellows They hadn't quite settled it be
fore she came and he thought some one
might cut him out. But 1 think they
have settled It tonight. Judging from the
way Gerald la beaming.”
"How nice!” Jane's heart was pound
ing. So it was Gerald whose voice was so
much like Tom’s
"I am going around for you myself. T’ve
missed you so all week. I can he over In
a Jiffy and 1 want—I have something to
tell you—no to ask you—I mean I have
something to give you If you’ll have it.
dear. But there I can't talk about It
over the phone, and I'm losing time. I
am dying to see you. May I come early?”
‘‘Yes. do hurry. Tom dear.”
The Oath of the Manx Judqes.
From the Chicago Tribune.
London—The quaintest form of oath In
use in the United Kingdom is that taken
by the deemsters—the Manx high court
judges. “By this book nml the contents
thereof, and by the wonderful works that
God hath miraculously wrought in the
heavens above and the earth beneath In
six days and seven nights. T do swear that
I will, without respect of favor, or friend
ship. loss or gain, consanguinity or affin
ity. execute the laws of this isle Justly
between party and party as indifferently
as the herring back bone does lie in the
midst of the fish. So help me, God and
the contents of this book.”
The island of Juan Fernandex will ho
turned into a ml 1 ocean wireless sta
tion.
WHO SAID ART?
By Richard Barker Shelton.
{Copyright, 1913. by the McClure News
paper Syndicate.)
Mrs. Bradford Warren came Into the li
brary, where her husband, seeking this
quiet moment when his wife’s house party
guests had,gone upstairs to bed. was turn
ing the pages of his favorite scientific
magazine.
“Oh, my dear, they are Just made for
each other, aren’t they? I’m so glad ws
had them here together,” said she.
Warren looked up reluctantly. “Who?”
he asked succinctly.
''Why, that big sculptor friend of Tours,
John Sands, and Irma Crall. Haven*t you
noticed ?”
“Noticed what?”
“That they were Just made for each
other,”
“If you say so, that’s good enough for
m£.“ laughed.
She kissed him and went up the wids
stairs. Warren prodded the dying firs
and went on with his magazine.
Meantime above stairs John Sands, his
mg frame wrapped in a bathrobe, sat
dangling Jils feet out of his window. Ths
nooi October breeze cams gratefully to
his hot forehead.
Sands had to admit he had lost his grip
Pthoroughly this evening.
won’t do, Johnny,” he told himself,
it won’t do at all. She’s a wonderful
girl—a simply wonderful girl, but girls
nave no place in your scheme of life, Just
ixr i* ^a,t till you’re better established,
vvait till you're absolutely sure of your
then f*ll to thinking of Irma
r rail. The thing for him to do wag to
get out—at once, in the morning before
tie saw her again.
He saw a man moving toward the gar
wfvlsflod rear °{ Softly hs
The man stopped. Sands whistled again,
rhe man moved toward him. He saw It
jvas George, one of Warren's two chauf
feurs.
Sands said softly: “Walt a minute.”
i non he swung himself into the room and
wrote hurriedly on a bit of paper. This
ie tossed to the waiting George, together
with a coin.
‘‘You go over to the village for the mail
*a**ly In the morning, don’t you?
r® \,Wee„that 1 *®t this telegram.”
in the light streaming out from the II
irary windows, Just below he could see
h®chauffeur grinning.
Sure!” said George.
J["a r?om farther down the hall Trma
rail sat staring at her reflection in the
'7* won't <5o," nhc said to herself. "T'm
Oiling my head. This must stop suddenly,
ve said 1 d sucreeed, and I know now I
tlle voJcej It ta Just a matter of a
ow years of absolute application to work
-absolute work and no men. Rut I can’t
ee him again. I’ll do something foolish
' talks to me as he did before the
ire In the hall, when we were alone there
ogether tonight Just before dinner. I
nust go away-the first thing In the mom
wlh,ii/.n,ok r01?1® PaPar *ni envelopes from
,?* Mtt ® d,?k ln th* corner. Hurriedly
ihe scribbled away, sealed the letter and
Lddressed it to herself. Then she pressed
l button ln the wall. Presently there
■ame a tap on the door and she opened
t to one of the maids.
i ,?,sh.° .?ald’ thrU8t!ng the letter
ad a coin Into the maid’s hands. ’’George
,oes over for the mall very early ln the
n°!h ^fld0eSn,t Ii.e? We,!’ *ct this over
“ th* office somehow, tonight, so he will
.et It the first thing in the morning and
wing It to me. ’
"Yes, Miss Crall."
Then Irma Crall burled her head on the
Iressing table.
She was astir early next morning. Came
i tap on her door, a letter on a tray She
rfa,ed and packed her bag. and with It
jent to the big hall downstairs, where a
Ire was already crackling.
Warren always an early riser, was
itanding in front of it in his shooting
lothes.
Not you, too?” he asked. “You're not
caving?”
“I've Just had a letter, calling me to
own, she said.
“Where will the house party be with
til this?” he chidqd lightly. “Two of you
folng on thia early morning train. Sands
s blowing out, also.”
The girl gasped. She eat down suddenly
n one of the big leather chairs. Dimly
ihe was aware that Warren was giving
>rdere, that a breakfast tray on a little
able was set before her.
Then the motor whirred up. Sands, a
>ag ln his hands, came tumbling down the
italrs.
“No, can't wait for any breakfast, old
nan,” he said to his host.
“You’ll have company,” said Warren,
dlss Crall Is going on this train, too.”
Then they were together ln the car,
ipeedlng over the hills to the little village
md the railroad station. At last they
vere at the station. The car had gone
vhlrrlng back.
“Well?” Sands questioned, “Why?”
“Why what?” she asked almost ir
ritably.
"Why this sudden flight?”
She looked at him squarely. “I have
ny music,” she said. “Don’t you under
itand?”
He nodded.
“Now, your explanation,” she demand
ed.
“Same thing. My work,” said he. “I
vaven’t any right to—to—oh, some things
-yet.”
“I’ll put you ln the Pullman.” said he.
is the train came banging into the little
itatlon. “Then I’ll—well, get out.”
“You want to?”
“No, I don’t.”
He helped her up the Pullman steps.
[-Ie saw her settled. Still he waited.
“Oh, hang art, In all Its forms and be
ngs," said he. "Goodby."
He turned on his heel. He got as far
is the vestibule. There he paused. He
vasn’t ufraid now of going back. Some
vne touched his arm. It was the porter.
”Aixcuse me. suh,” he said contritely,
•but the young leddy wot you’ Jes’ went
md lef: she’s cryln’ her heart out, suh.”
‘‘You're all right, George,” said Sands,
\nd gave the porter a $5 bill. Then he
went tearing into the Pullman car.
She didn't look up as he stood beside
her. Her shoulders moved tip and down,
*nd a handkerchief was pressed to her
?yes. She was th© only passenger in the
?ar.
“Is art worth It?” he asked abruptly.
11 w* trnrwl amipht Vila arwl plnn<r t u
“No, no. no!" she sobbed stormlly.
"You bet it isn't," he said. And the
grinning porter, peeking in from the ves
tibule. saw him kiss her.
The house party guests had gone up
stairs. Bradford Warren whs engrossed
In his magazine. Mrs. Warren, very
breathless and very pretty In her tiny
kimono, came to him.
"Oh, my dear, didn't I tell you they
were just made for each other? A mes
sage has just come. They got off the
train at West ford Junction this morning
and were married."
We Are Gettinq Better.
From the Christian Herald.
Morality is always a generation or two
ahead of legality.
The number of offenses against the
moral and legal codes is increasing con
stantly.
Moral principle never cut so large a
figure in the affairs of this American
people as it does today.
We have 20 moral qualms where our
godly ancestors had one.
It never occurred to them that a lottery
was wrong, or that it was wicked to
drink whisky, or to whip a child or a wife,
or to enslave the black man or cheat the
red man.
Nine out of 10 of the little consclent’ous
niceties of life are discoveries of the last
00 years.
More societies to do all sorts of good
and work all kinds of reforms have been
created in the last two generations than
had been formed or thought of before
from the beginning of the world.
We are getting better. No doubt about
It.
But there is still plenty of room for im
provement.
To protect telegraph poles from rot
ting in the ground a new French prac
tice is to^ surround their ends with
earthenware pipes and fill the pipes
with melted resin and san, which so
lidities and becomes waterproof.
ACemasoe of Extraordin aiy DistindiGii
The Marshal
2?yMary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Ayror The Perfect Tribute, eta
Cotrrri&t, TW BoWa-MerriB Comyary.
CHAPTER Xn—(Continued).
”1 like people to admire Francois,”
Pietro answered sturdily. "I admire
him. too.” Then, hla shyness lost in
eagerness to set the case right with
Alixe, he went on. "Francois always
has a thing done before I think of It.
That is not my fault. I believe I
should not have been afraid to do that
—but—Francois did it.”
"It is always so,” said Alixe in deep
disgust. "Francois always does it. If
you would only prove once that you
have—courage.”
And at that the stranger broke in,
smiling his faint smile. "Mademoiselle
Alixe is severe,” he said gently. "No
one can doubt the courage of a Marquis
Zappi.” He faced with a quick move
ment to Francois, and his look
changed. One would not have thought
that the controlled cold features could
so show warmth. “I have to thank you
for my life. Monsieur the peasant,” he
said, and held out his hand. "Moreover,
it is seldom that a prophecy is so
quickly fulfilled.” They gazed at him.
fascinated by u dignity in him which
seemed new.
He went on. "You said a few min
utes ago that you should one day do a
thing worth while for a Bonaparte.
You have done it. You have saved my
life.”
Bewildered, the children stared, re
luctant to comprehend something which
seemed out of possibility; Francois'
hand crept to his cap and he pulled It
off and stood bareheaded.
"Monsieur, who are you?” he brought
out.
The strange boy’s vanishing smile
brightened his face a second. "I am
Louis Bonaparte,” he said quietly.
The little court of three stood about
<!he young prince, silent. And in a mo
ment, in a few sentences, he had told
them how, the day before, he had been
seized with a hunger for the air of ,
France, which he had not breathed ,
since, as a boy of 7, his mother had
escaped with him from Paris during ■
the Hundred Days. He told them how \
the desire to stand on French soil had ;
possessed him, till at last he had run ,
away from his tutor and had found the ,
path from his exiled home, the castle ,
of Arenenberg, in the canton of Thur- ]
govie, in Switzerland, over the moun- .
tains into the Jura valley.
"It is Imprudent," he finished the tale ,
calmly. "The government would turn ,
on all its big engines in an uproar to t
catch one schoolboy, if it was known.
But I had to do it.” He threw back j
his head and filled his lungs with a ,
great breath. “The air of France," he ;
whispered in an ecstasy. The romantic ,
spirit of this boy always flashed out as ]
a surprise from beneath his calm self- ]
contained exterior. Then, In his usual |
quiet tones “I am fortunate," he said. "I ,
have fallen into the hands of friends. ,
Mademoiselle Alixe—the pretty name” ,
—and he smiled his evanescent smile— (
"is almost of my family because of her ]
father; Monsieur the peasant has ;
proved his loyalty with his life, and”— j
hd^turned to the tall Pietro—"a Bona- ,
parte is safe with Monsieur the Mar- ■
quis Zappi.” <
“I am Pietro,” stated the boy shyly. .
The prince looked at him, narrowing i
his eyes again. Then “And I am l
Louis,” he flashed back. “It is a good i
thought. Why not leave out the titles
for this afternoon? We are all young (
—it is summer—it is a holiday. We i
have an ancient castle and an adven
ture to play with; what use have we for I
titles? We shall never see one another |
again, it is likely. So, shall we not be
Alixe and Pietro and Francois and 1
Louis, four children together for this j
one day of our friendship?” And the i
others laughed and agreed. t
For two hours more they told stories
and played games through the soft old ^
ruins of the savage old stronghold, as
light-heartedly, as carelessly as if there
w ere no wars or Intrigues or politics or
plots which had been and were to be '
close to the lives of all of them. Till. <
as the red round sun went down be- -
hind the mountain of the Rose, Fran- I
cols’ quick eye caught sight of a figure
swinging rapidly down the mountain 1
road where the prince had come. ;
“But look, Louis," he called from be- 1
hind the rock where he was preparing, l
as a robber baron, to swoop down on ]
Prince Louis convoying Alixe as an
escaped nun to Pietro's monastery in (
another corner. “Look, Louis! Some ]
one is coming whom I do not know. Is !
it a danger for you?”
And the boy prince, suddenly grave, '
shaded his eyes with his hand and i
gazed up the mountain. Then his hand -
fell and he sighed. "The adventure is j
over.” he said. "I must go back to the j j
prlnoe business. It is Monsieur Lebas." i
Monsieur Lebas, the tutor, arrived i
shortly in anything but a playful 1
humor. The boy’s mother. Queen Hor- .
tense, was m Home, ana ne was re- l
sponsible: he had been frightened to 1
the verge of madness by the prince’s
escapade. It was, In fact, as serious an (
escapade as one my think, or It might 1
have been. The movements of the
Bonapartes were watched at that time (
by the authorities of France and all
other countries as well w ith a closeness
and a jealousy out of proportion. t
Europe having been turned upside
down lately by that name, that name ]
was hedged out by barriers as if the 1
combination of letters in itself was a :
peril to a government. Louis Napoleon i
at 16 was twice removed from the i
headship of his house; the Duke of :
Reichstadt, son of Napoleon I. was still
living in Austria, and Louis' own
brother, the older son of King Louis :
nnd Hortense, was with his father in
Rome; so that this runaway lad was
not the heir to anything, even to the i
pretensions of a dethroned and exiled
family. Yet lie was a prince of the 1
Bonapartes, and the magic of the name
and of the legend was about him. It '
was a danger to France to have his :
footsteps on her soil, so the laws de
creed: it would mean for him prison :
and perhaps death if he were captured ■
In France. No wonder poor Monsieur
Lebas was frightened almost to ex- 1
tinetion. 1
The playmates were separated swift
ly. Monsieur Lebas refused with some
thing like horror the eager suggestion
of the children that he and his charge :
should spend the night at the chateau.
The prince must be gotten off French '
ground without a moment's delay;
Fritz Rickenbaeh, the steward of ,
Arenenberg, was waiting for them w ith
a carriage over the mountain, to race
them back to Switzerland; It was
through Fritz indeed, and a discussion
of the prince with him ns to distances
and directions, that the distracted tutor
had known how to follow his quarry.
So the three hours' friends were
mercilessly torn apart and. the children
of the chateau came home in the twi
light stirred, excited, awed, with a
story for the seigneur of a wandarlng
(
prince and a crumbling wall; of a mid
summer afternoon’s dream; of a fright
ened tutor and a quick sharp parting;
a story which the seigneur found It
hard to believe. He made each one
of them tell the tale. Francois finished
the last.
"And Louis would have come back
with us to the chateau, for he wanted
to see the general who had been one of
his uncle’s family—he said that, Mon
sieur the Seigneur. But Monsieur
Lebas would not hear of it, and Louis
must do as he said, he told us. But
at the end Louis took each of our hands
—and he kissed Alixe’s hand—and he
said that he would never forget us or
this afternoon in the old chateau of
Vieques. And I believe it. my Seigneur,
For there Is something about him which ’
makes one believe he will remember—
that Louis.”
"Louis, Louis!” the general growled
In repetition, staring sternly at the '
slim figure which faced him. "You
speak that name very glibly. Do you ;
happen to remember, Francois, that the
lad whom you call Louis so easily may .
me day be emperor of France?" ,
i
CHAPTER XIH. ,
_ 1
THE PROMISE.
“Mon dieut” said the general. i
It was six years later. At the new 1
■hateau not a blade of grass seemed ;
■hanged. The general stood in the j
nidst of closs-cropped millions of
dades of grass as lie stopped short on ,
he sloping lawn which led down to (
he white stone steps which led to the ,
mriken garden. At each side of the ,
lighest step lifted a carved stone vase,
dazing in the September afternoon
vith scarlet geraniums, and garlanded v
vlth vines. At the foot of the steps (
itood two more vases, and at each side j
>f the graveled path, ribboned with a
ong flower bed, at even intervals of 30 f
eet, another stately pair of them—the -
may stiff vases spilling intoxicating ,
irightness of red flowers. They led
he eye down a line till, 100 yards away, ,
he line broke into a circle where a t
lun-dlal set on a fantastic stone tigure
>f a satyr marked the center of a ^
mass plot. Massive stone seats held ’
ip by carved crouching griffins faced j
iach other across the sun-dial; on one ,
if these, in the sunny stillness of the j
rarden, sat a girl and a young man. .
Vlixe, in her riding habit, with a
eather in her hat, and gauntleted ;
doves on her hands, was so lovely “
is to be startling. She looked at the .
mound, half shy, half laughing, and '
teat the grass with her riding whip,
i'rancois was leaning toward her and .
alklng, and the general, coming slowly
lown the lawn, felt a flood of pride ,
■ise in him as he looked at this suc
essful picture of a boy which he had
lone so much to fashion. The two
lad been riding together, and Francois
ippeared. as most men do, at bis best
n his riding clothes. With that, as the
jeneral marched slowly down the vel
et slope, unseen by them, regarding
hem—his girl and his hoy, this happy '
ister and brother—with that the j
mother lifted the sister’s hand and, t
lending over it, kissed it slowly. In a 0
nanner unmistakably unbrotherly. I y
"Mon Dieu!” gasped the general, and ! o
urned on his heel and marched back
0 his library. ; c
All that afternoon he stayed shut up
n the library. At dinner he was taei- p
urn. v
“Well then, father,” Alixe said at a
ast, after the two had tried every sub- p
ect in vain to make him talk. "It wiil , n
le necessary now to buy all the berries \ a
hat are grown for 10 miles around.” t
"Berries?” growled the general, be- j n
eildered. ' I
“Surety.” li
“Why berries?" ferociously. ! t
Alixe looked up at him innocently, j t
Isn’t it berries which big bears live i y
,n ? Or will you eat us. my father. | o
Chen you have bitten our heads off and ! li
orn us to pieces?” n
And She general, when he had been \ a
ictrayed into a laugh, sighed deeply | p
nd got up from his chair, dinner not 1 j
leing over, and stalked hack to his li- | s
irary. Never had such a thing hap- I I
lened. I a
“What is it?" Alixe asked of Fran- p
ois. “He is not ill—he told us that.. 0
lave you done something, you wicked j n
lnful hoy. to trouble him?” | y
Francois shook his head thoughtfully.
1 cannot think of anything,” he said,
ind Ills eves met hers truthfully. "But
re shall know soon. He Is as frank as
child; he cannot keep a grievance
rom the people he loves.” |
Which was a true judgment, for the
lext morning the general sent for *
h-anrols to come to him in the library. 1
i _1, keen VvT’roicrVit oTlOrt tllTlf* cl
icfore and was lying open on the table d
ly his hand, . v
"Francois" began the general in his t
leep abrupt tones. "I am in trouble, ii
Vill you help me?” . r
"Yes. my Seigneur," said Francois
[uiekly. c
"If It means a sacrifice to yourself j,
"Yes, my Seigneur,” Francois an- „
yvered. „ ■ )»
■ We shall see." The general s strong 3
ips were set and he said nothing more ,.
or a moment, but gazed thoughtfully t
t the letter which lay under his big k
lUtspread fingers. At length. "You re- »
nember Pietro's father, the Marquis
Sappi?” he demanded. _ : t
"Surely, my Seigneur." a
"You remember the story I once told e
ou, bow lie saved my life In Russia?" r
“I have never forgotten it.” !’
"You realize that be was dearpr to J'
lie than any man on earth?" „
"I have always believed It so,’ said v
Francois. , „„ 8
"Good." growled the general. You , c
vill bear that In mind. I wish to tell I
■ou now of an arrangement—a hope a
vhich the Marquis Zappi and I had
ormed together. It was to be the F
•rown of our friendship and its per- f,
letuation; it was to have been our a
nippiness together—it would be—it will t
>e. if all goes well, the happiest thing 8
vlilch could come to my life, now that h
le is gone. Would you break that g
Tope and take tliat happiness from
no ?**
Francois, startled, caught a Quick r
ireath. "My Seigneur! You should
lot ask. You know I would give my g
iwn happiness for yours.” ! r
The general glared at him. frowning.
■We shall see,” he said again, and then
-suddenly as a shot from a cannon— ^
■Does Alixe love you. Francois?" t
There was no mistaking what he (
neant. and Francois did not evade It. j
V flame of scarlet crept In a swift dj
igonal across the warm brown of his
joylsh cheeks, bu! his clear eyes met ;
lie general’s searching look frankly, j
■ie hesitated a moment. I
"I—I think not. my seigneur. he [ £
answered In a low voice.
The general drew In an enormous
sigh of relief. "Thank God," he said
devoutly, and then put out his hand
and laid hold of Francois’ strong lean
fingers. "Mv Francois, you are dear as
my own son; you know it. You are
next to Alixe—before Pietro—ah, yes,
much before Pietro. You will under
stand it Is not from nay lack of af
fection that I put him before you In
this."
Francois, high strung, deeply stirred,
felt his hand throb suddenly in tbs
general’s and the general felt It. too.
"I am hurting you," the deep voice
said—and only one or two people in
the world had heard that voice so full
of tenderness. "I am hurting you son.
But listen, Francois. It was the dear
est wish of Pietro’s father—It has been
my dearest wish for years—that Alixe
ind Pietro should one day be married.
It Is that which would be the crown
of a friendship forged in the fires of
battle fields, tempered In the freezing,
starving snow fields of Russia, finished
—I hope never finished In all eternity."
The general’s great frame was
shaking; a slience cut across his
speech. He went on.
“Such a marriage would carry on
ourselves, our friendship, and keep it
i living thing on the earth long after
ve had left. That thought la thrilling
:o me; it is my greatest wish. Do you
see now why I was troubled when
msterday I saw you, in the garden,
siss Alixe’s hand? I was afraid the
•hiid had given her heart to you, and
hat my dream, Alessandro’s and ml no"
-he spoke this as If to himself—“might
•ever be realized."
Francois, his head bent, his eyes on
he general's hand which held his,
answered very quietly. ”1 see,” he said.
“I forgot,” the general went on, al
nest as if he were alone and were
.asking aloud to himself. “I forgot
hey were not real brother and sister,
t was mad of me. Such a beauty as
ny Alixe-—such a wonderful lad as my
■"rancols! Yet I did not dream of the
change till yesterday. I have gone
hrough much since then, but. thank
Jod, thank the good God, It is not too
ate. She does not love him. It has
.ot gone further than what X saw.
rlraneois?” He fired the words at the
oung fellow in his natural manner
•gain. "You have not put ideas into
ter head more than what I saw?”
"No, my seigneur.” The voice was
rollout inflection; the look was still on
he big hand which held his own fast.
"You would not take her from Pietro,
.ho, I am sure, loves her?"
Francois looked up sharply, hut the
eneral did not notice. He spoke slow
y. “I promised Pietro’s father—*he
oy seemed to be out of breath—"to be
’letro’s friend—always.” he said.
T he general smiled then and let the
tigers go, and turned to the letter on
ho table before him. “CJood!” he said.
You are always what X wish, Fran
ois,” and it was quite evident that the
md was off his mind. "I am contented
hat no harm has been done to etiher
f my children. As for you, however,
ou are 20. You are full of amoltton
ud soldier-craft and politics and flght
ig—there is small place left for love
i such a boiling kettle of fish as you.
f my girl has touched your heart a
it. as it looked yesterday,”—and the
eneral chuckled gently—"well, you are
G—the wound will heal.” He slapped
he letter on the table. "I must now
ave a long talk with ydu on an inter
sting subject—yourself.”
The general was by this in high good
umor. A spasm caught the face of
he boy and left it pale, but the general,
usy at putting on his spectacles, did
ot see. When he turned to look at
im, FYancols was as usual.
CHAPTER NIV.
WITXI ALL, MY SOUL*
The genera] swung around to the lad.
Francois, this letter is about you.” Ho
ipped the rustling paper. "It is an
pening, I believe, into the sort of life
ou have desired, a life of action and
f danger,”
"It is what I wish,” broke in Fran
ois, eagerly.
"I know it.” the general spoke ap
rovingly. ’’But before we discuss it I
ant to tell you, my Francois, that I
m not only glad for your sake, but
roud for my own sake, to send you.
ly adopted son, where you will have
n opening for distinction. You know
:iat I am satisfied with you—you do
ot know how deeply. Ten years ago.
rancois, I found you a little peasant
id in the village; it did not take long
5 see that you had a character out of
te common. If I had left you where
ou belonged you would still have been
nt of the common; you would1 still have
fted yourself. But circumstances would
ot have allowed you very full play,
nd it seemed to me you deserved full
lay. I loved you the more for refus
ig to come to me; that showed the
tuff in you—loyalty—self-sacrifice.
;ut I have managed to outwit you
bout that fairly well, eh, mon pefft?
have given you your chance in spite
f yourself. And you have taken it—
ion Dieu! You have made the most of
our chance!
(Continued next week.)
The Vocational School.
Prom the Baltimore American.
A startling charge and one which
lould attract attention of every educa
on board in the United States was made
t a convention in Philadelphia the other
xy where were gathered advocates of
:>c»tionaI schools and of the more el
usive introduction of vocational teach
ig In the public schools. The charge
iferred to, briefly stated, Is that “in the
ty of Philadelphia there are 15,00®
hildren who left school before they An
died the sixth grade and who are un
ited for any trade; that there are
1,000 such children In New York and
000,000 such In the United States, ' Yhat
to say. there are 3,000,000 children in
le United States with some slight
nowledge of the three r’s, but without
ny training whatever in any useful art
■ handicraft.
If this statement is accepted as being
■ue. it is not necessary to argue further
3 to the missing link in our popular
iuoational system. The. teaching of
lading, writing and arithmetic cannot
e dispensed with, but an ability to !n
■rpret printed language or the know
13 how to figure the cost of seven
winds of sugar at EH cents per pound
ill not greatly aid the one possessing
ich knowledge in being of useful ac
>unt In a strenuously practical world
rimary. secondary and even the higher
jademlc education of the colleges is but
basis.
Upon the basts there must be con
ducted the sort of education that fits
ir practical service, and no education
lould be regarded as finished that turns
le child or young man out without soma
nowledge of an act, profession, trade
- business by which to earn a llveli
ood. That is the theory of the vocation
hool propagandists.
In 1631 Boston had Its first Are, which
aused the loss of two houses. As the
hlmneys in those days were made of
ticks plastered over with clay, and the
oofs were made of rushes and reeds,
aey were fine fuel for the flame, Hap
tly this mode of construction was for
Idden after this disaster. In 1630 a
uildlng which had required two year*
3 construct was consumed in one-half
our. This latter fire occurred at what
as then the village of New York.
There ts a telephone for every 15.1
ersons In Canada, according to official
gurea.