IN SUCH PAIN
WOMAN CRIED
Suffered Everything Until Re«
stored to Health by Lydia
E. Pinkham’s Vegeta*
ble Compound.
Florence, So. Dakota.—“I used to b®
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backache, and had
headache a good
dea! of the time and
very little appetite.
The pains were so
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floor and cry, be
cause it hurt me so
and I could not do
work at those
times. An old wo
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bottle. I felt better the next month so
I took three more^f ottles of it and got
well so I could wf>rk all the time. I
hope every woman who suffers like I did
will try Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable
Compound.” — Mrs. P. W. Lanseng,
Route No. 1, Florence, South Dakota.
Why will women continue to suffer day
in ana day out or drag out a sickly, half
hearted existence, missing three-fourths
of the joy of living, when they can find
health in Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable
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For thirty years it has been the stand
ard remedy for female ills, and has re
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If yon want special advice write to
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Woman and held in strict confidence.
tesUi.lLLi-L-.LU. .. '■gin.—
NO EXPERT WITNESS NEEDED
Quite Evident Mr. Miggs Was Right
When He Testified aB to the
Handwriting.
"Libel, Indeed!”
Old Miggs repeated the words to
himself dully and uncomprehendlng
)y, as he tramped along to the court,
khere he was to appear aB u witness
In a local libel suit.
Nervously he entered the witness
box.
The fierce looking lawyer eyed him
calculatlngly,
"Do you swear," he asked, "that this
is not your handwriting?"
"I don't think so," stammered
Higgs.
"Now, be careful," Insinuated the
Jkwyer. “Are you prepared to stfear
that this handwriting does not resem
•'ble yours?”
“Yes," answered Miggs trembling.
"You take your oath that this does
lot In any way resemble your hand
writing?” solemnly queried the
learned man.
"Y-yes, sir,” stammered the witness,
how thoroughly frightened.
"Well, then, prove It!” denounced
the lawyer triumphantly, as he
thrust his head toward the witness.
This action woke the last spark of
drooping courage In poor Miggs; and,
thrusting forth his head, he yelled:
“ ‘Cos I can’t write!”
No Use.
When visiting the wounded men in
a field hospital an army chaplain oame
to one poor fellow who was groaning
pitifully.
“Come, my poor fellow, bear the
Vain like a man,” sold the chaplain.
‘It’s no use kicking against fate."
“Bedad, sorr," murmured the suf
ferer, “you’re right, especially when.
Vs In my case, they're the fate of an
Irmy mule."
Delays
Sometimes
Expensive
Business or social en
gagement —just a few
minutes for lunch—can’t j
wait for service. What I
can be had quickly?
Order
Post
Toasties
with fresh berries or fruit
and cream. They will be j
served immediately, they
are nourishing and taste
mighty good, too.
Sold by Grocers
—everywhere!
J___
A Romance of Bcfraordin aiyDistinction
The Marshal
j^KMary Raymond Shipman Andrews
Author Jbe Perfect Tribute, eta
_Copyritt*. Tfc« Rohfc^-MerrtB Coiyr)t _
CHAPTER XVIII—(Continued).
Yet he knew well how the Austrian
tyrants left men for a. little thing, for
a suspicion, for nothing, lying In dun
geons worse than this for three times
five years. It was a mere chance, he
had heard, that this young signor had
not been sent to Spielberg Instead of
this place; to horrible Spielberg, where
one might see high bred nobles of Italy
chained to felons, living In underground
cells. Battista shuddered. He had
come to have a great affection for this
prisoner; ho trembled at the thought
that some caprice of those In power
might send him even yet to Spielberg.
Moreover—Battista hardly dared think
It In his heart, but he himself was
Italian—a patriot. And behold him a
Jailer to a man who was suffering—he
believed—for the patriot cause. His soul
longed to help him, yet he was afraid,
oven to be too gentle with his prisoner.
It was an off chance that had left him
here, Battista Serranl, lri the castle of
his old masters, after the castle had
been confiscated by the Austrians, to
be used by them as a prison. But what
could he do? He was a poor man; he
had a wife and children to think of; his
knowledge of tho place had been use
ful at first to tho new lords, and then
they had seen that he was hard work
ing and closed mouthed, and had kept
him on till they had forgotten, it
seetned, that ho was Italian at all. So
here ho was, set to guard men whom
he would give Ills lifo to make free.
But the masters knew well and he
knew that It meant more than his life
to he disloyal—It meant the lives of his
wife and children. There would be
small pity for such as Battista when
great noblemen were treated like
felons. So Battista was trusted as If
he were Austrian born.
All this flashed through his mind
as ho gazed pitifully at the sick pris
oner, only Just out of boyhood, yet
with that band of white hair, the badge
of his captivity, In tho thick brown
thatch of his head. He lay very still
row, as If his tossing were all fin
ished, his face turned to tho wall;
Battista, softhearted, cautious, stopped
to look at him a moment before go
ing out. As he looked the dark head
turned swiftly and the bright eyes met
his with a light not delirious, yet not
quite of every day reason.
"You are good to me, Battista,” the
boy said, "und Just now you gave mo
a great pleasure. It warms me yet to
think of It for you see. I thought
you were Plerto—my dear Pietro—the
Marquis Zuppl."
Battista, breathless, stared, stam
mered. “Whom—whom did you say,
signor ?’’
But the prisoner had flashed Into
reason. The color went out of his face
as the tide ebbs. “Battista, did I say a
name? Buttlstu—you will not betray
me—you will not repeat that name? I
would never have said it but that I
was not quite steady. I must have been
out of my head; I have never spoken
his name before In this place. Oh, If I
should bring danger to him! Battista,
for God's sake, you will not repeat that
name?”
Battista spoke low. glancing at the
hearvy Iron door of tho cell. "God for
bid. signor," he whispered, "that I
should speak, here In Ills own castle, the
name of my young master.
There was a long silence. The pris
oner and his Jailor gazed at each other
as If saying things beyond words. Then
the boy put out his long, hot fingers
and caught the man's sleeve.
"Battista,” he murmured, "Battista—
Is that true? Is It possible? Do you
know—my Pietro?”
"Know him. signor?" Battista's deep
voice was unsteady. "My fathers have
served his for 800 years." The man was
shaking with a loyalty long pent up.
but Francois lifted his head, leant on
his elbow and looked at him thought
fully.
xjui. minima. i Know you now; ne
has spoken to me of you; It was your
son. the little Battista, who was his
body servant when they were chil
dren?”
“Yes. signor."
“I did not dream of It; I never knew
what castle this was; I never dreamed
of t'astelforte; you would not tell me.”
”1 could not, signor. It was forbid
den. I am risking my life every min
ute.”
“Go, Battista.” and Francois pushed
him away with weak hands. “Go quick
ly—you have been here too long. There
might be suspicion. I could not live If
I brought trouble on you.”
"It Is right so far, signor," Battista
answered. "It Is known you are ill; I
must care for the sick ones a little. But
I had better go now.”
With that he slipped to his knees
and lifted the feverish hand to his Ups.
"The friend of my young mnster." he
said simply, but his voice broke on the
words. Tlie traditional faithfulness of
centuries was strong In Battista; the
Zappls had been good masters; one
had been cared for and contented al
ways; one was terrorized and ground
down by these "Austrian swine;" the
memory of the old masters, the per
sonality of any one connected with
them, was sacred. Battista bowed his
head over the hands in his own, then
he stood up.
"I shall be hack at bedtime, signor,"
he said quietly, and was gone.
-edi Francois had an ally now, nnd
he knew It. The excitement of the
thought, the loy of dim possible re
sults buoyed his high-strung tempera
ment like a tonic. lie must be, he would
be careful beyond words to guard
against any danger, any suspicion for
Battista, bin— There were chances
even with that provision. Hero was
hope. It is necessary, perhaps, to have
been five years a prisoner In a cell in
an unknown castle in a foreign land
to know what the first glimpse of hope
may mean.
Instantly, with the hope working in
him, lie began to get well. Little by
little, watching fearfully against the
peril of conversations long enough to
seem suspicious to eyes always alert,
iie till Battista of tile close friendship
of ibe chateau In France, of the splen
did old officer of Napoleon and of his
daughter, tile beautiful demoiselle, who
was Alive: of the years at school to
gether, the boyish adventures innumer
able. Every word Battista drank in: he
ha 1 in t - v n the voung marquis since
he had left ('aatelforie with Ids father
on the journey which took them to
Vieques, Wien, at tic end of his school
days, the boy i f IS had come back to
h1 - ii'uutrv. t i r .--tie had aln toy ' an
r-ck: i by the .Vustriuns. and it l ad not
feen .safe for Pietro to ■ onie inti ids
o'vn 'Ohntr.v. But the man's memory
of Ids 111 * 11* lord iv h v l'id and lov ing:
be I * s t -*’ii' I eagerly to the least detail
of hiv oV'nov. o older life.
And dav !>;. dry l ie prisoner who
r,'"l 1 ’"I i:n such tiling!,, who was ttu
•
12
friend of his master, who had lived
with hla master, became more of an
Idol to him, stood to him more and
more in the place of the marquis. From
the beginning of the imprisonment he
had had an affection for this young
stranger; few people ever came under
the influence of Francois without hav
ing an affection for him; but the day
of his mention of Pietro had made Bat
tista his slave.
A person of more Importance than
Battista had fallen under the spell of
Francois’ personality. The governor
himself had been attracted by the
young Frenchman. The governor, Count
von Gersdorf, was a vain, discontent
ed. brilliant Austrian, at odds with the
world because he had not risen further
in it. He was without society In this
mountain fortress of his, and longed for
it; he had a fine voice and no one to sing
to; he liked to talk and had no one to
talk to. Francois, with his ready friend
liness, with his gift of finding good in
every one, with his winning manner
and simplicity which had the ease of
sophistication, was a treasure-trove of
amusement to the bored Austrian.
Moreover, Francois could play a guitar
and accompany his songs, and knew
enough music to appreciate the gov
ernor's really beautiful voice; bis de
light in it was better than the most
finished flattery. He had taught the
governor French songs; they sang to
gether, and the count roared them out
and then roared with laughter, and
Francois smiled and was pleased. It
had come to be a custom with the
governor, during the last two years, to
have the Frenchman brought down
very often to his room for dinner, and
to spend the evening. All this was
against regulations—but who was to
know? The count was lord of life and
death at Castelforte. and if higher pow
ers came once in a year or two. no one
would dare to speak of the doings of
the governor except the governor.
Things stood so with the prisoner at
the time of his discovery of the Identity
of his Jailer and of his Jail. The gov
ernor at that time was away on a visit
to Vienna, looking for a promotion; he
came back elated and good-humored
in the prospect of a change within the
year. But the heart of Francois sank as
he thought what the change might
mean to him. This man had treated
him with unhoped favor in some ways.
He realized what it meant to reason
and health to have those evenings away
rrom his narrow cold cell, even in such
COi!TllLany as the governor's. Besides
which Francois persistently found good
qualities in the governor. He had been
allowed books to read in his cell,
though no writing materials. Strange
as it may seem, it had been In some
!£aya ^ * haPPy life. The mystical,
thoughtful bent of the boy had dovel
oped In the great quiet loneliness; with
the broad Italian sky and the Round
°£. « Hea *n bis constant companion
ship, his mind had grown to a grasp
of the greatness of living and the small
ness of life. A vista of thought before
unknown had opened out to him in the
long, solitary days. When he awoke in
the morning he let himself be floated
out on a tide of meditation where
strange bright visions met him like Isl
ands In a southern ocean. He looked
forward to these thoughts as to events,
as a mystic of India looks to Nirvana,
In the light of this happiness of prls
°?’u. 0Jlard3hlps Of prison, the drain
of his health from dampness and lack
or air and poor food were small dis
comforts. hardly to be noticed In the
greatness of his blessings. These trials
would be dver shortly; the real things,
friendship, love enthusiasm, were eter
nal. Moreover. It was action he
dreamed, not quiescence, as he looked
£rom the barred window at the vast
blue depths of Italian sky, depths pro
rounder, more transparent than else
where. His belief In his star. In Its fu
sion some day to come Into the larger
star of the Bonapartes, had been
s^£?*V^£M'ne^’ ^xecb by the adventure
which had landed him in the desolation
*. ,;—IIUU »avea
the princes life; it was an omen of
greater things which he should do for
the prince. If no more came of It he
would have done his part; he could die
happy, but he believed without a shad
ow of doubt that more was to come
‘Some day a marshal of France un
der another Bonaparte.’ ” he said to
himself one day. staring through the
bars at his meadow—he called the sky
so. He smiled. ’’But that Is nothing.
I o help place my prince on the throne
of France—that Is my work—my life."
He talked aloud at times, as prison
ers come to do. He went on then. In
a low voice.
“If there were good fairies. If I had
three wishes: Alixe—the prince made
emperor—Francois Beaupre. a marshal
of 1' ranee." Ho laughed happily. "It
Is child s play. Nothing matters except
that my life shall do Its work Even
that Is so small; but I have a great de
sire to do that. I believe l shall do that
—I know it. And he fell to work on a
book which he was planning, chapter
by chapter, in his brain.
But, If he were to escape ever, the
chance was increased infinitely by the
going back and forth to the governor's
room. A new governor might keep him
shut up absolutely. It had been so
while the count was away; then he had
been ill. and the lieutenant in com
mand would not let a doctor see hint
till he became delirious; that was the
ordinary treatment of prisoners Fran
cois. thinking over these things on a
day, felt, with a sudden accent, on the
steady push of his longing for free
dom, the conviction that ho must get
free before the count left, else oppor
tunity and force for the effort would
both be gone forever. And on that dav
Battista brought in his midday meal
with a look and a manner which Fran -
j cols remarked.
'•What is it. Battista?” ho asked
softly.
The man answered not a word, but
turned and opened the door rapidly and
looked out. “I thought I had left
th-> water pit her. Ah. here it is
1 am i.rapid.” he spoke aloud.
And then finger on lip, dramatically, he
font over the young man. “My
son the little Battista—has had a
letter. The young master wishes him
t" come to him in France, to serve
him. He is going in two days.”
H was whispered quickly and Bat
tista stood erect.
Th sign ir’s food will get cold if
the signor does not eat it.” he spoke
rr.iB'.y. "1 do not like to carry good
fe< o for prisoners who do not aupre
| ci.ate it. I shall bring less tomorrow.”
But Francois, hardly hearing th«*
surly ton os, had his hand on Bat
tista’s aim. was whispering back
•agerfy.
“Where does h * go. in France ?*'
k ‘To Vieques,*’ the luv. answer came.
Francois sank back, tortured.
"Going to Vieques, the little Battista.
From Castleforte. And he, Francois,
must stay here In prison. His soul
was wrung with a sudden wild home
sickness. He wanted to see Alixe, to
see his mother, to see the general, to
see the peaceful little villlge and the
stream that ran through It, and the
steep-arched bridge, and the poppy
fields, and the corn. The gray castle
with Its red roofs, and the beech wood
and the dim, high walled library, how
he wanted to see It all! How his heart
ached, madly, fiercely. This was the
worst moment of all his captivity. And
with that, Battista was over him, was
murmuring words again. Something
was slipped under the bedclothes.
“Paper—pens. The signor will write
a letter this afternoon. And tomorrow
little Battista will take It”
And the heart of Francois gave a
sudden throb of Joy as wild as its
anguish. He could speak to them be
fore he died; It might be they could
save him. His hands stole to the pack
age under the coarse blanket. It
seemed as If in touching it he touched
his mother and hla sweetheart and his
home.
CHAPTER XIX
GOOD NEWS.
In the garden of the chateau of Vie
ques, where the stiff, gray stone vases
spilled again their heart s blood of
scarlet and etching of vines; where
the two stately lines of them led down
to the sun dial and the round lawn on
one of the grlffln-supported stone seats
Alixe and Pietro sat, where Alixe and
Francois had sat five years before.
Alixe, again in her dark riding habit,
with the blue feather in her hat and
the gauntleted hands, was grown from
an exquisite slip of a girl into a woman
more lovely than the girl. Her eyes,
when she lifted the long, exaggerated,
curled lashes, held fire and force, and
knowledge of suffering, it might be,
under their steady smile, but held all
these in control. This was a woman
able not only to endure things, which
is the gift of most women, ,but to do
things. Pietro, his big arm stretched
along the back of the stone seat,
watched her—as Pietro had watched
her always. It seemed never to trouble
her to turn and find his honest eyes
fixed calmly on her face. Pietro, whose
illness at Ancona had put Francois
into his place in the escape of Louis
Napoleon, had put Francois in his
place as the prisoner of Austria now
these five years—Pietro had managed
to get away from Italy and had joined
Queen Hortense and her son before
they entered Paris. Both the prince
and Pietro had moved heaven and
earth to find out the fate of Francois.
That he had been taken by the Aus
trian squad at the end of his wild ride
they knew. More than this they could
not discover, except that one or two
things pointed to the conclusion that
he had been immediately executed.
The prince believed this, and Pietro
came to believe it. But Alixe had never
believed it.
In these five years Pietro had not
been back to Italy; the "inevitable
Austrians” had put down in 1831 the
revolution in the Romagna, the rising
in which Prince Louis and Pietro, the
Marquis Appl, had taken part. In the
war-torn country no movements of any
importance had taken place since that.
Pietro, a Carbonaro, a member of
"young Italy,” a marked man, was not
safe inside the Italian frontier. With
other patriots he awaited in a
foreign country the day when
he might go back to fight again for a
united Italy. In the meantime he con
spired. planned, worked continually for
the patriot cause, and as continually he
tried, though now without hope, to
find a trace of Francois. The boy who
had dashed through the Austrian sol
diers on that morning at Chiana, and
leaped to the landlord's horse and
cleared his way through with the play
of the old soldier’s sword, and led a
wild race, to fall into the enemy’s
hands at last—the boy had disappeared
from the face of the earth. Pietro,
grieving deeply for his old friend,
grieving bitterly because it was in fill
ing his place that Francois had met his
fate, believed him dead. But Alixe did
not believe it. Pietro was often at
Vieques now, and the two went over
the question again and again. One
might not speak to the general of
Francois; the blow had been heavy,
and the old soldier’s wound had not
closed; it might not be touched. But
Pietro and Alixe spoke of him con
stantly.
Today, as they sat in the garden,
they had been going over the pros and
cons of his life or death for the
thousandth time. Pietro's quiet gray
eyes were sad as he looked away from
Alixe and across the lawn to the beech
wood.
x wuuiu give my ure
quickly If I could see him coming
through the trees there, as we used
to see him, mornings long ago, in his
patched home spun clothes.”
Alixo follow ed the glance considering
ly, as if calling up the little brown,
trudging figure so well remembered.
Then she tossed up her head sharply
—‘‘Who?”—and then she laughed. “I
shall be seeing visions next, like Fran
cois.” she said. “I thought it was he
—back in the beech wood.”
‘‘I see no one.” Pietro stared.
"Rut you have no eyes, Pietro—I can
always see a thing two minutes before
you ” Alixe threw at him. "There—
the man.”
“Oh,” said Pietro. “Your eyes are
more than natural, Alixe. You see into
a wood; that is uncanny. Yes, I see
him now'. Mon Dieu! he is a big fel
low."
“A peasant—from some other vil
lage." Alixe spoke carelessly. " I do
not know him,” and they went on talk
ing. as they had been doing, of Fran
cois.
And wMth that, here wTas Jean Phil
lippe Moison, 40 now and fat, but still
beautiful in purple millinery, advanc
ing down the stone steps between the
tall gray vases, making a symphony of
color w'ith the rich red of the flowers.
He hold a silver tray; a letter was on
"For Mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle took it calmly and
glanced at it, find with that both the
footman and the Marquis Zappi were
istoinshed to see her fall to shivering
as it in a sudden illness. She caught Pie
tro's arm. The letter wras clutched in
her other hand thrust back of her.
"Pietro!”
"What is it. Alixe?" His voice w\as
quiet as ever, but his hand w'as around
her shaking fingers, and he held them
strongly. "What is it, Alixe?"
She drew forward the other hand;
tlie letter shook, rustled with her trem
bling. "it is—from Francois!"
Jean Phillippe Moison. having stayed
te listen, as he ought not. lifted his
eyes and his hands to heaven and gave
thanks in a genera! way, volubly, un
rebuked. Ry now the unsteady fing
ers of Alixe had opend the paper, and
ht*r^ head and Pietro’s were bent over
it. devouring the well known writing.
\iixe excited, French, exploded into a
disjointed running comment,
‘From prison—our Froncois—dear
rraneois!” And then: "Five years.
Pietro Think—while we have been
free’" And then, with a swift clutch
again at the big coat sleeve crowding
against her. "Pietro! Pee. see! The
. date—it i$ only two months ago. He
was alive then: he must be alive now;
. he is. 1 knew it. Pietro! A woman
knows more things thrjj * man."
W ith that tihe threw, up her head and
fixed Jean Phllllppe, drinking In al
this, with an unexpected stern glance
"What are you doing here, Moison’
What manners are these?” Then, re
lapsing in a flash into pure humar
trust and affection toward the anxious
old servant: -My dear, old, good Mol
son—he is alive—Monsieur Francois is
alive—in a horrible prison in Italy!
But he is alive, Molson!” And with
that, a Budden Jump again into dig
nity. "Who brought this, Moison?"
Jean Phiilippe was only too happy
to have a hand In the Joy'ful excite
ment. "Mademoiselle, the young per
son speaks little language. But he told
me to say to Monsieur the Marquis that
he was the little Battista.”
Pietro looked up quickly. "Alixe, II
is the servant from my old home ol
whom I spoke to you. I can not im
agine how Francois got hold of him,
but he chose a good messenger. May
I have him brought here? He musi
have something to tell us.”
Alixe, her letter tight in her hands,
struggled in her mind. Then: "The
letter will keep—yes, let him come, and
we can read it all the better after for
what he may tell us."
So Moison, having orders to produce
at once the said little Battista, retired,
much excited, and returned shortly—
but not so shortly as to have omitted
a fling of the great news Into the midst
of the servants’ hall. He conducted,
marching behind him, the little Bat
tista, an enormous young man of six
feet. four, erect, grave, stately. This
dignified person, saluting the lady with
a deep bow, dropped on one knee be
fore Ills master, his eyes full of a wor
shiping Joy. and kissed his hand. Hav
ing done which, he arose silently and
stood waiting, with thoso beaming eyes
feasting on Pietro’s face, but otherwise
decorous.
First the young marquis said some
friendly words of his great pleasure in
seeing his old servant and the friend
of his childhood, and the big man
stood with downcast eyes, with the
color flushing his happy face. Then
"Battista," asked the marquis, "how
did you get the letter which you
brought mademoiselle 7'
"My father." answered Battista la
conically,
"How did your father get it?”
"From the signor prisoner, my slg
Alixe and Pietro looked at him at
tentively, not comprehending by what
means this was possible. Pietro, re
membering the little Battista of old,
vaguely remember that he was incap
able of initiative in speech. One must
pump him painfully.
“Was your father in the prison where
the signor is confined?” Alixe asked.
The little Battista turned his eyes on
her a second, approvingly, but briefly.
They went back without delay to their
affair of devouring the face of his mas
ter. But he answered promptly. "Yes.
signorlna; he is there always.”
“Always?” Pietro demanded in alarm.
“Is Battista a prisoner?”
“But no. my signor.”
"What then? Battista, try to tell
us.”
So adjured, little Battista made a
violent effort. "He is one of the jail
ers, my signor.”
"Jailers? For the Austrians?" The
face of the marquis took all the joyful
light out of the face of little Battista.
“My signor ” he stammered, “it could
not be helped. He was there. He
knew the castle. They forced him at
first, and—and it came to be so.”
“Knew the castle!" Pietro repeated.
"What castle?”
Battista’s eyes turned to his master’s
like those of a faithful dog, trusting
but not understanding. "What castle,
my signor? Castelforte—the signor’s
own castle—what other?”
A sharp exclamation from Alixe
summed up everything. "Your castle
is confiscated; they use it as a prison.
Francois is a prisoner there, Pietro!
All these years—in your own home!”
“I never dreamed of that.” Pietro
spoke, thinking aloud. "Every other
prison in Austria and Italy I have tried
to find him in. I never dreamed of
Castelforte.”
win* ii. puimig leetn,
they got by slow degrees all that he
knew from the little Battista. The let
ter. tight In Alixe's hand, was still un
read; this living document seemed to
bring them closer to their friend than
even his written words. There were
some things in the living letter, more
over, not to be found In the one of
paper and Ink. The little Battista, be
ing put to the wall, told them what his
father had told him. what the doctor
of the prison had told his father. How
the prisoner’s health was failing; of
that band of white in Ills dark hair; at
last that the doctor had said to the
big Battista that the prisoner could
not live more than two or three years
as things were; that even if released
he might not regain his health, would
not live, perhaps; that the only thing
which could save him would be a long
sea voyage.
“A long sea voyage!” Allxe groaned
and put her face into her hands sud
denly, and Pietro looked very sorrow
ful. “A long sea voyage for a political
prisoner in the hands of the pitiless
Austrians!”
At the end of the Interview the little
Battista put his hand into his breast
pocket and brought out another letter,
thickly folded. Would mademoiselle
have him instructed where to And the
mother of the signor prisoner? He
had promised to put this into her own
hands. He must do It before he touched
food.
And Jean Philllppe Moinson, who had
lurked discreetly back of the nearest
stone vase, not missing a syllable, was
tista was sent off up the stone steps
given orders, and the huge little Bat
between the scarlet flowers, up the vel
vet slope of lawn, In charge of the
purple one.
Half an hour later the general
walked up from the village, walked
slowly, thougthfully through the beech
wood, his fe.ce hardly older than when
ho had come to Vieques, but sterner
and sadder; his still soldierly gait less
buoyant than it had been flvo
years ago. There were voices com
ing to him down the wind through
the trees. The general’s keen eyes—
as keen as Alixe’s—searched the dis
tant leafy dimness and made out short
ly Allxe and Pietro hurrying to meet
him. Whv he wondered to himself as
the two young people swung through
the wood—why had nothing more ever
come of this long friendship? He felt
that Pietro loved the girl; he knew that
the girl loved Pietro, at least as a sis
ter loves a brother. But she was not a
sister; why had It gone no further?
Aiixe. now a very beautiful woman, a
woman of charm greater than beauty,
had had many lovers, but no one of
them had touched her heart, and this
Frenchman and his daughter were on
strange terms for a French family. So
intimate, so equal had the two been
always that the general would not have
arranged a marriage for her as would
any common father of his country.
Allxe must have her free choice. Aiixe
was no ordinary girl to be happy in a
marriage of convenience; she must
have love, his Allxe.
Rut what was Pietro about? And
what, moreover, was Aiixe about? Did
she care for him? Or—his heart sank
at the thought—was It possible that
her big warm heart was wearing itself
| out for a man dead or worse than dead
-for Francois, shot by the Austrians.'
or else buried without hope in an Aus
trian fortress? The general went over
this question many times as he walked
or rode about the Valiev Delesmontes,
us he sat in the high dim library, as
he lay lu bed at night and listened
I
• /
through the stillness to the Cheull*
rushlnc down over its stones half a
mile away. He wished above all oth
er wishes to know Alixe married to
Pietro; yet %vhen he saw them togeth
er he was Jealous for the memory of
Francois, his boy Francois, whose ca
reer had promised so brilliantly, whose
dashing courage, whose strength and
brains and beauty and charm had been
his pride and cfelight almost as much
as the brave bright character of Alixe.
He himself had sent the boy away to
keep him from Alixe. It might be he
had sent him to his death; it might be
he had spoiled Ailxe's life as well. He
could not tell.
He puzzled over it as he came up
through the park—and then he saw
Alixe and Pietro coming Joyfully to
ward him, running light heartedly, call
ing to him with excited gay voices. It
stabbed the general’s heart; a quick
thought came of that other who had
been always with them, now dead or
worse, of that other whom these two
had forgotten. And with that they were
upon him, and Alixe was kissing him,
hugging him, pushing a letter into his
hand, up his sleeve, into his face—any
where.
‘‘Father—good news—the best news
—almost the best! Father, be ready
for the good news!"
”1 am ready," the general growled
impatiently. "What is this foolery?
Sabre de bois! What is your news,
then, you silly child?"
And Alixe, shaking very much, laid
her hand on his cheek and looked earn
estly into his eyes. “Father, Francois
is alive!”
For all his gruff self-control the gen«
eral made the letter an excuse short
ly to sit down. Queer, that a man’s
knees should suddenly bend and give
way because of a thrill of rapture in a
man’s psychological makeup! But the
general had to sit down. And then and
there all that had been extracted from
little Battista was rehearsed and the
letter read over from start, to finish.
The letter, still kept in that cabinet
in Virginia, told them all that has al
ready been written or told, and which
was of importance to this chronicle.
But some of it was what has been quot
ed about the old days when the three
children rode Coq in the park, and;
about the morning when the Marquis:
Zappi came with his little boy, Pietro.
The general, hearing that, was afflicted
with all varieties of a cold, and Alixe
choked, reading it, and broke down and
read again, half crying, half laughing.
“But he is alive, father! Alive! That
Is happiness enough to kill one. I nev
er knew till now that I feared he was
A rm A >»
And the general, getting up and
striding about fiercely, ripped out sav
age words such as should be avoided—
many of them—and alternating with
symptoms of sudden severe Influenza
Then he whirled on the two.
"Alive—yes! But in prison—in that
devil’s hole of an old castle!” And
Alixe looked at Pietro and laughed, but
the general paid no attention. "He
must be got out. There Is no time to
waste. Diable! He is perishing in that i
vile stable! What was that the lad
said about the doctor’s speech, that
only a long sea voyage could save him? ;
One must get him out, mon Dleu,
quick!”
Alixe, her hand on his arm, put her
head down on it suddenly and stood
so for a moment, her face hidden. Pie
tro, his hands thrust deep in his pock
ets, looked at the general with wide
gray eyes, considering. With that Alixe
flashed up, turned on the young Italian,
shaking her forefinger at him; her eyes
shone blue fire.
(Continued next week.)
Charitable Toward Newspapers.
From the Chicago Record-Herald.
Of course, every man has a reason
for allowing his beard or mustache to
grow. The youth is perfectly deter
mined to see how he’ll look; he is not
in the least willing to accept the judg
ment of his mother, who decides at once
that he looks like an unwashed ban
dit; but, doubtless, when a man arrives
at the age of Senator James Hamilton
Lewis, and attains the prestige of a
United States senator from Illinois, it
does not matter what anyone thinks,
from a personal point of view.
In this day and age of the careless
world, Beau Brummel must have some
distinctive characteristic beside his
beard, and so the distinguished senator
from Illinois has also cultivated the
aesthetic. It is almost impossible to
think about him as once working on
the docks in Seattle for his daily bread,
and his fare out of town—because he
wanted to get away.
But such is the story of J. "Ham”
Lewis, and, according to that individual
himself, he is not so unlike the average
gentleman, except as he himself laugh
ingly explains, when he Is pictured "as
whiskers, manners and clothes!”
"My whiskers," he exclaimed to an
eminent Washington interviewer, not
long ago, "why, to cut them off would
deprive the papers of one of their fun
niest paragraphs."
“Only a Living” on the Farm.
From the Breeder’s Gazette.
“We are only making a living on the
farm,” complained a friend not long ago.
We happen to know that It is a good liv
ing, that tho home is a roomy, comfort
able sort of place, that there is a sleep
ing porch, a bath room, a fireplace, a
sunny dining room. He has cows, fowls,
horses, carriages and a garden. Besides,
certain improvements and soil ameliora
tions that he has undertaken will some
day yield him far more of the fruits of
the earth than he is today receiving.
Leaving this friend and his farm
took a jodrney and awoke to look out at
a manufacturing city. Closely set were
the tall houses, dusty, smoked, between
them hot and dirty streets. In such en
vironment lies a great proportion of
America’s people; fewer than the half of
us dwell on farms, the rest In cities.
A living? Seeing men emerging from
these smoke begrimed homes dinner pails
in hand to go to their places of toil we
remembered our friends on farms. They
arise and go forth In the freshness of the
dewy morning, the air is clean, the birds
are al labout them, the sun shines, the
fresh breezes blow. Theirs is no such toll
as that of shop or office. A living? Com
mend us to the living that goes with the
peaceful fields.
Should a Man Halt?
From the Clinton Herald.
The Burlington Gazette says that a Chi
cago policeman was -within his rights
when he shot and killed a man who was
running along the street at night, and
who did not stop when ordered to. The
Gazette overlooks two important facts.
First, there had been no crime commit
ted. Secondly, the policeman was behind 1
the running man, the night was dark, and
the man did not know it was a policeman
who called it. It might have been a thug,
and the fact, as recorded by the police
man himself, that the man increased his
speed when ordered to stop, is pretty good1
evidence that he thought a footpad was
after him. The man was a waiter in a
restaurant, with a good reputation.
If that policeman was within his rights,
then there is no security for anyone in
this country, A man has a right to run
on the street if he wants to. And he
doesn’t have to stop when ordered to. un
less he knows that the order ia from
some one in authority.
Big Job of Diplomacy.
From the South Bend Tribune.
If diplomacy really wants to accomplish
something, why not try mediation be
tween the neighbor who raises a garden
and the one who raises chickens? ^
Vermont has decided to return to
earth and gravel road making in th*
traveled highway*.