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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 10, 1914)
' coaid hardly wait to go to Franco, t«‘ reclaim that Insulted sword. He wroto on, finished the letter to the exiled king, his father, a gloomy and lonley old man whom the son did not forget through the year spent away from him. Then he drew out a fresh sheet of paper, and his faint smile gleamed; for the thought of this adherent in Vir ginia was pleasant to him. "Chevalier Francois Beaupre,” ho headed the letter, and began below, “My friend and Marshal of Some Day." He considered a moment and wroto quickly as if the words boiled to tho pen. “The baton awaits you. Come. I make an expedition within three months, and I need you and your faith in me. Our stars must shine together to give full light. So, mon ami, Join mo here at the earliest, that the emper ors words may come true. Louis Bonaparte.” A knock at the door and a man en tered. a man who seemed sure of hio right in the room, who moved about tne prince as if he were a bit of per sonal belonging, an extra arm or leg ready to slip into place. The prince looked up affectionately at the valet do place who had been his mother's serv ant who recalled boyish days in Switzerland; who had managed escapes and disguises in tho youthful exciting times of tho Italian insurrection, tho dangerous Journey from Ancona; who even now, under Thelin, was getting to gether uniforms and equipments, was casting buttons of the Fortieth regi ment for the great event that was in the air. “Fritz, here are letters to mall.” Ho pushed them toward the man; then, as the last slipped from under his hand, he curved his fingers about it. "Bo careful of this one, Fritz,” he said. “It ought to bring me tho brightness of my star.” Across the water, Virginia, two years had made' few changes. On the June daye when the prince’s letter lay In the postoffice of Norfolk the last of the roses were showering pink and red over the gardens in a sudden breeze. 1 he leaves of the trees that arched the road that led to Roanoke House were sappy green, Just lately fully spread and glorious with freshness. Their shadows, dancing on the white pike, were sharp cut against the brightness. And through the light pierced cave of shade a man traveled on horseback from one plantation to another, a man who rode as a Virginian rides, yet with a military air for all that. He patted the beast’s neck with a soothing word, and smiled as Aquarelle plunged at the waving of a bough, at a fox that ran across the road. But if an observer had been there he might have seen that the man’s thought -was not with horse or Journey. Francois Beaupre rid ing out to give a French lesson to Mls» Hampton at Roanoke house, as he had been doing for four years, all uncon scious as he was of the letter waiting for him at the moment in Norfolk, was thinking of the vent to come to which that letter called him. Down the velvet that swept from house to river at Roanoke house, by the brick wall -which stretched an arm against the waters—a dark arm Jew eled with green of vines and white of marble statues—there was a rustio summer house. It was furnished with chairs and a rustic table and here on this June day the lady of the manor elected to study the French language. The Chevalier Beaupre was taken here on his arrival. Branches of tree# whispered and waved; afternoon shad ows ran silently forward and silently withdrew across the lawn; the Jamea river flowed by. The two good friends bent together over the rough table, and the Jamea river, silently slipping past, sang in a liquid undertone. And the time went fast in the pleasant lights and shad ows of tho place and shortly It waa two hours that the French lesson had been going on. (Continued next week.) Florida and Georgia together con tributed 97 per cent of the quantity and value of the fuller’s earth mar« keted in 1913. On the Trail. Just around the corner Adventure lies. There on yonder hilltop Romance waits, Lure of war and passion In her dreaming eyes; Where one almost sees them Are the sister fates! Over far horizons Touth would go Out of distant skyline* Calls the dream; Unknown lands entice us, Dullness here we know— Over happy valleys Magic glories stream. Just around the comer Love Invites; Down the sunlit roadway Youth must roam. Touth must ever follow, Questing for Its rights. Paths that lead around the world. And straight back home! —Chicago Dally New*. FRENCH HERO OF 70 COMMANDS BRIGADE > • —Mi - - - -.— A Eomance of Extraordin aiy Distmdlcm The Marshal Z?yMary Raymond Shipman Andrews Afior jfre perfect Tribute, eta CoprrijM. The liohhe-MerriB Cww» [ stretched hands tn return. Though al7 his days it had happened so with this | child of a French village. So that when the day came at last when he stood once more on the deck of the Lovely Lucy, loaded with her cargo of tobacco for foreign ports, Francois felt as if he were leaving homo and family. The long green carpet of the rolling lawn of Roanoke was crowded with people come to tell him good-by. All of his soldier boys were there, the lads trained by him, ono and all ready to swear by him or to die for him. Lucy and Harry stood together, and the servants were gathered to do him honor, and people had ridden from all over the county for the farewell. His eyes dimmed with tears of gratefulness, he watched them as the gangplank was drawn up and the sails caught the wind and the ship swung slowly out into he strearo “Come back again—come back again” they called from the shore. Francois heard tho deep tones of the lads and the rich voices of the negroes and he knew that some there could not speak, even ae he could not. So he waved his hat silently, and the ship moved faster and the faces on the lawn seemed smaller, farther away, and yet he heard those following voices calling to him, more faintly: “Come back again—oh, come back again!” And with that the negroes had broken into n melody, and the ship moved on to the wild sweet music. Way down upon de S’wanee Ribber, the negroes sang, and the ship was at the turn of the river. The stately walls of Roanoke House, the green slope crowded with figures of his friends, the sparking water-front—the current had swept away all of the picture and he could only hear that wailing music of tho negroes’ voices, lower, more fit ful; and now it was gone. He had left Virginia; he -was on his way to friends. And for all his Joy of going, he was heavy hearted for the leaving'. Tho weeks went slowly at sea, but after a while he had landed, was In France, was at Vieques. He had seen his mother, with her hair whitened by those years of his prison life—a happy ^oman now, full of business and re sponsibility, yet always with a rapt look in her face as of one who lived in a deep Inner quiet. He had talked long with his prosperous father and slipped into his old place among his brothers and sisters, utterly refusing to be made a stranger or a great man. And over and over again he had told the story of his capture and the story of his escape and the story of the Count von Gersdor’s great fancy for the song which they all knew: “De tous cote’s 1’ on dis aue 1e cm la oete; Cela se peut! Et cependant J'en rls.” Family, old friends who gathered to see the little Francois Beaupre who had gone bo far from his village, all these hummed the song with h*™, ns he came to that part of his tale, and then roared with laughter as he told over again how he had written it on the note left for the governor, the night of his escape. That was distinctly the best part of the chronicle of Francois, to the taste of the Jura peasants. At the castle the returned wanderei picked up no less the thread dropped so suddenly seven years before. The gen eral, to whom the boy seemed his boy risen from the dead, would hardly let him from his sight; Alixe kept him in a tingling atmosphere of tenderness and mockery and sisterly devotion, which thrilled him and chilled him and made him blissful and wretched by turns. The puzzle of Alixe was more unreadable than the puzzle of the sphinx to the three men who loved her, to her father and Francois and Pietro. Tho general and Francois spoke of it guardedly, In few words, once in a long time, but Pietro never spoke. Pietro was there often, yet more often away In London, where tho exiled Mazzlnl, at the head of one wing of Italian patriots, lived and conspired. And other men ap peared suddenly and disappeared at the chateau, and held conferences with the general and Francois In that large dim* library where the little peasant boy had sat with his thin ankles twisted about the legs of his high chair, and copied the history of Napoleon. These men paid great attention nowadays to the words of that peasant boy. "As soon as you are a little stronger," they said, “there is much work for you to do," and tho general would come In at that point with a growl like distant thunder. lie is 10 rest, me general wouia or der. "He Is to rest till he is well. He has done enough; let the boy alone, you others.” But the time came, six months after his return, when Francois must be sent to visit the officers of certain regi ments thought to be secretly Bonapart ist ; when only he, it was believed, could get into touch with them and tell them enough and not too much of the plans of the party, and find out where they stood and how much one might count on them. So, against the general’s wish, Francois went off on a political mission. It proved more complicated than had seemed probable; he was gone a long time; he had to travel and endure ex hausting experiences for which he was not yet fit. So that when he came home to Vieques, two months later, he was white and transparent and ill. And there were some of the mysterious men at the chateau to meet him, delighted, pitiless. Delighted with the -work he had done, with his daring and finesse and success, without pity for his weak ness, begging him to go at once on another mission. The general was firm as to that; his boy should not be hounded; he should stay at home in the quiet old chateau and get well. But the boy was restless; a fever of enthu siasm was on him and he wanted to do more and yet more for the Prince’s work. Moreover, it was about as much mis ery as Joy to be near Alixe. Every day bo narrowly escaped taking her into his arms and telling her how he had loved her and did love her and would love her always, right or wrong, rea sonable or unreasonable. It was almost more than he could do to resist that temptation at times. And at times It seemed that Alixe, with the swift lift of those long black lashes, and the blue gleam of her eyes into his—It seemed os If she were telling him not to resist any longer. He did not know; if he had been sure what sort of love that glance meant—If he had been sure it was not the sisterly sort—he was hu man—he could not, perhaps, have re sisted. But Alixe was a thousand things In a minute; no one could be so allur ing, so cold, so warm, so fascinating, so forbidding—all at once. How could Francois tell what was mask and what reality In the proud, sensitive, merry, bravo personality which one saw? Tet for every puzzling phase he loved her more and wantod her more. He had much better go on diplomatic missions than stay and ride through Valley Del esmontes on spring afternoons with the woman he loved and might not have. At this point two things happened: Pietro came from London, and Fran cois. on the point of leaving for another secret errand, broke down and was 111. Ho lay In his bod In his room at tho farmhouse, tho low upper ehambor looking out—through wide-open casee ment windows, their old loaded little panes of glass glittering from overy uneven angle—looking out at broad fields and bouquets of chestnut trees, and far off. five miles away, at the high rod roofs of the chateau of Vieques, And gazing so, he saw Pletra on old Capitaine, turn from the shady avenue of the chestnuts and ride slowly to the house. With that he heard his mother greeting Pietro below in the great kitchen, then the two voices—the deep one and the soft one—talking, talking, a long time. What could his mother and Pietro have to talk about so long? And then Pietro's step was coming up the narrow stair, and he was there, in the room. "Francois,'' Pietro began in his di rect fashion, "I think you must go back to Virginia.” Francois regarded him with startled eyes, saying nothing. There was a chill and an ache in his heart at the thought of yet another parting. Pietro went on. "I have a letter from Harry Hampton. The place needs you; the people want you; and Harry and Miss Hampton say they will ->ot be married unless you come to be best man at the wedding,” Francois smiled. Pietro went on again. More over. boy. Francois—you are not doing well here. You are too are not doing well here. You are too useful; they want to uso you con stantly and you are ready; but you are not fit. You must get away for an other year or two. Then you will be well and perhaps by then the prince will have real work for you. And you must have strength for that time. Your mother says I am right.” With that his mother stood in the doorway, regarding him with her calm eyes, and nodded to Pietro’s words. So it came about that Francois went back shortly to Virginia. On the day before he went he sat in the garden of the chateau with Alixe. on the stone seat by the sun dial where they had sat years before when the general had seen him kiss the girl's hand, in that unbrotherly way which had so surprised him. "Alixe," said Francois, ‘1 am going to the end of the world.” “Not for the first time," Alixe ans wered cheerfully. “Perhaps for the last,” Francois threw back dramatically. It is hard to have one’s best-beloved discount one’s tragedies. And Alixe laughed and lift ed a long stem of a spring flower which she held in her hand, and brushed his forehead delicately with the distant * V. "Smooth out the wrinkles, do not frown: do not look solemn; you always come back. Monsieur the Bad Penny; you will this time. Do not be melo dramatic, Francois.” Francois, listening to these sane sen timents, was hurt, and not at all in spired with cheerfulness. "Alixe,” he said—and knew that he should not say it—"there is something I have wanted all my life—all my life.” “Is there?" inquired Alixe in com monplace tones. “A horse, par ex emple?" He caught her hand, disre garded her tone; his voice was full of passion and pleading. "Do not be heartless and cold today, Alixe, dear Alixe. I am going so far, and my very soul is torn with leaving you—all.” It takes no more than a syllable, an inflection at times, to turn the course of a life. If Francois had left his sen tence alone before that last little word; if he had told the girl that his soul was torn with leaving her, then it is hard to say what might nave hap pened. But—“you all"—he did not wish then to have her think that it meant more to leave her than to leave the others. Alixe readjusted the guard which had almost slipped from her, and stood again defensive. “I won’t be cruel, Francois; you know how we—all—are broken-hearted to have you go.” Francois caught that fatal little word "all,” repeated, and dimly saw its significance, and his own responsibil ity. Alixe went on. “I wonder if I do not know—what it is—that you have wanted all your life.” Eagerly Francois caught at her words. "May I tell you Alixe, Alixe?” “No.” Alixe, spoke quickly. “No, let me guess. It is—it is”—and Fran cois, patching his breath, tried to take the word from her, but she stopped him. "No, I must—tell it. You have ''wished—all your life”—Alixe was breathing rather fast—"that—I should care for—Pietro.” A cold chill at hearing that thing said in that voice seized him. Very still, his eyes down, he did not speak. "Is—is that it?" There is an angel of perversity who possesses our souls at times. He makes us say the unkind thing when we wish not to; he tangles our feet so that we fall and trip and hurt ourselves and our dearest—and behold long after we know that all the same it was an angel; that without that trouble we should have gone forever down the easy, wrong way. We know that the perverse angel was sent to warn us off the pleasant grass which was none of ours, and by making things disagree able at the psychological moment, save our souls alive for right things to come. Some such crosswise heavenly mes senger gripped the mind of Alixe, and she said what she hated herself for saying, and saw the quick result in the downcast misery of poor Francois’ face. And then the same cruel, wise angel turned his attention to Francois. "If she thinks that, let her," whispered the perverse one. “Let it go at that; say yes.” And Francois lifted mournful eyes and repeated, “That you should love Pietro—yes—that is what I have wished for all my life.” CHAPTER XXXV. SUMMOND. On the morning of May 9, 1840, the sun shone gaily In London. It filtered In Intricate patterns through the cur tins which shaded the upper windows of a house In Carlton gardens, and the brooze lifted the lace, and sunlight and breeze together touched the bent head of n young man who eat at a writing table. A lock of hair had escaped on his forehead and the air touched it, lifted It, as If to say “Behold the Napol eonic curl! See how he Is like his uncle!" But the pen ran busily, regardless of tho garrulous breeze; there was much to do for a hard working prince who found time to be the hero of ball rooms, the center of a London season, and yet could manipulate his agents throughout the garrisons of Prance, and plan and execute a revolution. It was the year when the body of Napoleon the first was brought from St. Helena to Paris, and Louis Bona parte had resolved, In that steady mind which never lost Its grip on the reason of being of his existence, that with the ashes of the emperor his family should come back to France. For months the network had been spread, was tighten ing, and now the memory which held Its friendships securely always, took thought of a Frenchman living In Vir ginia. As soon as his letter was fin ished to his father—the pen flew across the lines; "The sword of Austerlltz must not bo In an enemy’s hands," ho wrote to his father. "It must stay where It may again be lifted In tho day of danger for tho glory of France," His letters were apt to bo slightly oratorical; It was moreover tho fashion of tho day to write so. Ho raised his head and stared into tho street. It was enough to decide his expedition for this summer that Gen eral Bertrand, well meaning, and ill judging, had given to Louis Fhllltpo the arms of t'na emperor, to be placed In tho Invalldes. ldvery member of tho Bonaparte family was aroused, and to the heir It was a trumpet call. Ho DETROIT RECEIVES CIVIL WAR VETS Only Former Department Com manders Favored For Posi tions Oi Highest Office. Detroit, Mich.—Special—All Detroit shook hands wlih white-haired heroes of the civil war. More than 5.000 mem bers of the Grand Army of the Repub lic and affiliated organizations had reached the city when the 4Xth annual encampment was officially opened this forenoon. Every train, boat and ln terurban car arriving in Detroit car ried scores of old soldiers and their wives and daughters. It was stated at G. A R. headquarters that 30,000 dele gates would be here by tomorrow. Today was devoted to committee meetings at the headquarters of the G. A. R. and several of the associated bodies. The committees worked in ex ecutive sessions "to get the conven tion decks cleared for action," as a veteran expressed It. it was hoped to complete the routine work today, so the committee members would be able to join their comrades and wives to morrow on boat rides. Meet Tomorrow. The first public meeting w ill ho held Id the Light Guard armory tomorrow , night, when the veterans will he wel- ] corned by Governor Fen and other, citizens of Michigan. Several re sponses will be made by the com manders of tho various orders, lnclud lg Washington Gardner, of Albion, commander in chief of the 41. A. It. Prominent Grand Army officers have commented pleasantly on tho arrange ments for receiving t lie wearers of the blue. Hoy scouts, who have played no particular part "on the receiving line," have won much praise. They form the veterans' needy guard. Several per sons have been mentioned as prospec tive candidates to succeed Washington Gardner as commander In chief. No veteran can hold tho office twm sea sons In succession, and sentiment has not favored the election of li man who has not been a department commander. The following post commanders are said to be in the race: C. W. Blodgett, Ohio; David J. Pal mer, Iowa; O. A. Somers, Indiana; Frank O. Cole, New Jersey; P. H, Coney. Kansas, and Thomas II. How ard, Oklohoma. UTAH SANITARY CONTEST. The cities and towns of Utah are en gaged in a contest of a new kind. The struggle Is to earn prizes for sanitation and cleanliness. The prizes ure drink ing fountains and bronze tablets. Fifty three towns were formally entered by their mayors. The scoring begun on August 17, and when it has been Com pleted the prizes will be awarded. The cities and towns are divided ac cording to population Into five groups and there is a prize In each group. Th« grouping is as follows: Class A—10,000 and over. Class B—5,000 to 10,000. Class C—3,000 to 5.000. Class I)—750 to 3,000. Class IS—Under 750. The score card is as follows: 1— Sewage, disposal of—privies, cess pools, etc.—perfect . 15 2— Stables and corrals, dlsposul ot manure, etc.,—perfect . 15 I— Garbage; collection and disposal perfect . 10 4—water supply—perfect . 10 E—Sanitation of school houses and other public buildings . S 6— Sanitary marketing of foods. 5 7— Scarcity of flies .'. E 8— Sanitation of the home, cleanli ness of the home, ventilation, etc. S 9— Condition of streets, parks and alleys . 10 10—General appearance of homes, barns, barnyards . E II— Lawns and flower gardens. 6 12—Vacant lots . 5 18—Fences . E Total . 100 OWUDIUO vvaa UtlVIHCU uy J, xl. Klrkham, of the Utah Farmer and sec retary of the Utah Development league. He went with It to Governor Spry and Dr. Beatty of the state board of health. Tho three counseled together on the plan, worked out the score card, and Drought the contest to the attention of the mayor and association of commerce of each town In the state. In order to get results In a town, the people of the town are divided Into two cleanup armies—the red and the blue. Each has a general, who maps out the work and directs the effort. A prize Is given by the commerce body to the army doing the best work. Each war rior wears a 'clean city button, red or blue, as the case may be. In the city hall a large map of the city Is placed. Whenever the commit tee reports any man as having excel lently kept premises a star Is placed on this man’s location on the map. The effort to get a star for one’s home Is one of the best Influences of the con test. The scoring will be done by inspect ors from the state board of health, and the prizes, based on these reports, will be given by the committee meeting at the state caplto!. For weeks the people of Utah have been having clean up meetings of every sort. The churches have done their part. The papers have carried columns of news and editorial matter. In an excellent editorial the Deseret Evening News says the towns are working not eo much for the prizes offered us they are for honor of being known us the cleanest towns in the state. The Utah Development league has set a good ex ample for organizations in other states. FEE SPLITTING. Against Public Policy For Physicians To Split. From the West Publishing Co. Docket Where a person requiring a surgical op eration Is treated by the family physician, and the operation ts performed bv another physician assisted by the family physi cian, can the hitter act as agent for both parties and draw pay from both parties without the knowledge of the patient? The supreme court of Michigan In McNair vs. Parr, 143 Northwestern Reporter, 42, holds that any tacit understanding or agree ment between the two doctors for di vision of fees would be against public policy and void, and that tho patient, in an action by the operating physician for hts fee, has a right to show that plaintiff has charged an unreasonable sum for his services In order to divide the fees with the family physician. Education and Euaenic Progress. From the Atlantic. It Is a well known fact that the educated classes, reprsented by such professions as lawyers, clergymen, doctors, and profes sors. as a rule marry late and produce few children, whereas the feeble minded, the shiftless .and the Imprudent usually have a birth rate far above the average. Graduates from our colleges and universi ties have as a general rule scarcely enough children to perpetuate their fami lies. The average number of children of the graduates of Harvard is less than two. tho record of Yale Is no Improve ment; and the showing of various other colleges and universities Is but little better. CHAPTER XXXIII—(Continued). Mademoiselle sent a fair sheet of papqr with a few unsteady scratches across It, and sat down to live over night, a hard business at times. But It was accomplished. The colonel had ridden to Norfolk for the day—had Francois known of that, one wonders? Lucy, waiting In that small stately Btudy with the dim portraits and the wido vague view acres the fields of the James river, heard the gay hoof beats Of Aquarelle pound down the gravel under the window, hear Francois' deep gentlo voice as he gave the horse to Sambo, and waited one minutes more, the hardest minute of all. Then the door had opened and he stood there— the mlraclo, as It seems at such mo ments to a woman, possibly to a man— if all the gifts and qualities worth lov ing. The light on the thick bronzed hair with Its dramatic white lock, the diag onal of fresh color across the dark face, the wonderful brilliant eyes, the strong leanness of his hands—there was some thing in each detail, as the two gazed at each other In a short silence, which caught at Lucy’s soul. That he was short, and so unliko all the men she had admired before, was somehow an added charm. The compact light figure seemed worth 100 big hulks of men. The Injured arm In Its sling gave her a pang of tenderness, a thrill of eag erness to do anything, everything for him. A tumult of these thoughts and a thousand others beat about her as Francois stood grave, alert. In the door way. Then he had made his precise bow, and she had hear his voice say ing gently, “Good morning. Madem oiselle,” and the door was closed; and they were alone together. In a flash she felt that It could not be endured, that she must escape. She rose hast ily. I m sorry I must go; I can not stay—” But Francisco had laughed and ta ken her hand and was holding It with a tender force which thrilled her. He understood. She knew he understood the shame and fear of a woman who has given love unasked; she was safe In his hands; she knew that. With a sigh she left her fingers rest in his and sat down again and waited. "Dear Mademoiselle Lucy," said the deep kind voice, “my first friend In Virginia, my comrade, my little scholar—” Why did Lucy grow cold and quiet at these words of gentleness? Francois was sitting beside her, holding her hand in both his, gazing at her with the clearest affection in his look. Yet she braced herself against she did not know what. The voice went on with Its winning foreign infections, its slip of English now and then, and its nover-to-be-described power of reach ing the heart. "See, Mademoiselle," said Francois, "wo are too real friends, you and I, to havo deception between us. We will not protend, you and I, to each other—Is it not, Mademoiselle? There fore I shall not try to hide from you that I heard that day those words so wonderful which you spoke to me so unworthy. I have thought of thoso words ever since, Mademoiselle, as I lay ill with this troublesome arm; ever since—all tho time. My heart has been full of a — gratification to you which can not be told. I shall remem ber all my life; I shall be honored as no king could honor me, by those words. And because you have so touched mo, and havo so laid that little hand on the heart of me, I am going to tell you, my dear comrade and scholar, what Is most secret and most ■acred to me.” **» ouuuuout uui y«i she did not draw It away. Francois had not begun the way a lover begins— she felt that surely—but—it was Francois. What faithfulness and truth there was In any one answered always to the truth and faithfulness of this man. In Lucy Hampton there was much of both; she left her hand lying between the strong hands of the man who did not love her. In as few words as might be, he told her of the peasant child who had been lifted out of his poverty-bound life with such large kindliness that no bound which held him to that poor, yet dear life had been broken; who had been left all the love of Ills first home and yet been given a home and a train ing and an education which set him ready for any career; he told of the blg-aouled, blunt, Napoleonic officer, the seigneur; of the gray, red-roofed castle, with Its four round towers; of handsome silent Pietro, and of the un failing long kindness of them. Then his voice lowered, holding the girl's hand still, he told her of Allxe. of the fairy child who had met him on that day of his first visit and had brought him to her father, the seigneur. He described a little the playmate of his childhood, fearless, boyish In her In trepid courage, yet always exquisitely a girl. He told of the long summet vacations of the three as they grew up. and the rides in the Jura valley, and of that last ride when he knew that he was to go to Italy next morning, and of how he had faced the seigneur and told him that he loved his daughter and had given her up then. Instantly, for loyalty to him and to Pietro. And then he told her of the peasant boy In Riders' Hollow In the gray morning light after the night of his escape— and bow, by hand on the bridle and seat in the saddle, and at last by the long curl of the black lashes he had known the reasant boy for Allxe. Lucy Hampton, listening, was so thrilled with this romance of a life long love that she could silence her aching heart and her aching pride and could be—with a painful sick effort— but yet could be, utterly generous. There la no midway In such a case be tween entire selfishness and entire unselfishness. The young southern girl wounded, shamed, cruelly hurt in vanity and In love, was able to choose the larger way, and taking It, left that sharp Joy of renunciation which Is as keen and difficult to breathe and as sweet in the breathing as the air of a mountain-top. Trembling, she put her little hand on Francois’ hands. "I see,” she said, and her voice shook and she smiled mlsily, but very kindly, "You could not love any one but that beautiful Allxe. I—I would not have you.” And Francois bent hastily, with tears In his eyes, and kissed the warm little hands. The uncertain sliding voice went on. ' I am not—ashamed—that I said lliat—to you. i would not have said It—not for worlds. I—though you were killed. I—don't know what I said. Hut I am not ashamed. I am glad that I—am enough of a person to have known—thu finest things—and”—her — ; 18 voice sank and she whispered the next words over the dark head bent on her hands—"and to have loved them. But don't bother. I shall—get over it." The liquid tones choked a bit on that and Francois lifted his head quickly and his eyes flamed at her. "Of course you will, my dear little girl, my brave mademoiselle. It is not as you think; It Is not serious, mon amie. It Is only that your soul is full of kind ness and enthusiasm and eagerness to stand by the unlucky. I am alone and expatriated; I have had a little of misfortune and you are sorry for me. It Is that. Ah, I know. I am very old and wise, me. It would never do,” ho went on. “The noblesse of Vir ginia would rise In a revolution If It should be that the princess of Roa noke house gave her heart to a French peasant. I am come to be a man of knowledge”—and he shook his head with as worldly wlso an expression as If one of Guido Rent’s dark angels should talk politics. Ho went on again, smiling a little, an air of daring in his manner. “Moreover, Mademoiselle Miss Lucy, there is a fairy prince who awaits only the smallest sign from you.” Lucy smiled. “No,” she said. And then, “a fairy prince—In Virginia?” “Ah, yes. Mademoiselle Miss Lucy. Of the true noblesse, that one. A fine, big, handsome prince, the right sort.” “Who?” demanded Lucy, smiling BliU. “Of such a right sort Indeed that It Is no matter—ah, no, but perhaps Just tho thing to make one love him more, that he Is lame.” “Harry!" Lucy’s smile faded. "But yes, Indeed, mon amle,” and Francois patted tho little hand with his big one. “Henry, Indeed, Henry, who Is waiting to kill me for love of you; Henry, the best, truest fellow, the manliest bravest fellow. Who rides like Henry? Who Is respected by the old men, the great men, for his knowl edge and his thinking and his state craft almost—like Henry? Who has such a great heart and brain and such fearless courage as Henry?” Lucy listened to this euloglum rather astonished. It strikes a girl ns ab surd often, when a brother or a cousin Is pointed out as a personage. But It pleased her; yet she did not say so, “Harry Is a good boy," she spoke calmly, “but—but It Is only for conve nience, for Joining the lands, that he and my father wish us to marry. I will not marry a man to shape some fields of corn.” Francois answered gravely. “But, no, mademoiselle, never must you do that. It Is not the case, however, that your cousin cares about the shape of corn fields. He is not Interested In that. If you had no corn fields, If you had nothing whatever, Mademoiselle Lucy, he would give his life to marry you Just the same. It Is you whom he loves and not corn fields, of any shape at all. Also ho loves you to madness. For that he has hated me—me full of gratification to him forever—because he has believed that I would try to win from him your heart. Mademoiselle Miss Lucy. I could not do that It I might. If my life were not as I have told you I could not play him false, my Henry—that dear boy w'ho wishes to kill me.” Francois smiled a little, half amused, half wistful. “And in all case,” he went on, “what chance should I have in the end against that splendid Henry Hampton? Made moiselle, you will thank me so one day that it will bo very painful to me, for showing you how It was not Francois Beaupre, the Frenchman, but Henry Hampton, the Virginian, who was fitted to win that warm, generous, proud heart of mademoiselle.” “You are very loyal to your friends,” Lucy said, half pleased, half stabbed “Certainly. What for Is gratification worth, otherwise?” Francois threw at her earnestly. There were a few Eng lish words too much for him still; “gratitude” seemed to be one. He stood up and his great eyes glowed down at her. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “two women of earth, my mother and Allxe, are for me the Madonnas, the crown of women.” and his glance lift ed to the ceiling as if to heaven, with out pose, unconscious—a look no Amer ican could ever have worn. “And, voiia, mademoiselle, my little scholar will always stand next to and close to them.” He bent over her hand and his lips touched it long and tenderly. "Is It right between us, mon amie? Are we friends always? It is Indeed so for life with mo.” And little Lucy felt a healing pace settling on her bruised feelings and heard herself saying generous words of friendship which healed also as she spoke them. Then “I must find that savage boy Henry, and beseech him to spare my life," spoke Francois at last. “My life is of more value today, that it possesses a sure friend in Mademoiselle Lucy,” he said and smiled radiantly. And was gone. Lucy, to her astonishment, felt light hearted, felt as if moved into a large, clear, sunshiny atmosphere out of the stormy unrest which had lately held her. Also she found herself thinking over the astonishing things which Francois had said of her cousin Harry It would seem indeed as if the undying love for the Chevalier Beaupre which had possessed her yesterday might, after all, have been a very young girl's Infatuation for an older man, for a dramatic charac ter—a manner of hero wqrshlp It might have been. Such things happen. Lucy Hampton, level-headed as well as warm-hearted, began to see In an unphrased way, even as soon as her knight had left her, that It might be so with her. And, with that thought came the thought of Harry. “He said—that Harry loved me! What nonsense!” she whispered to her self. And the broken hearted one was smiling. CHAPTER XXXIV. ONCE MORE AT HOME, In fewer words, with less told, Fran cois’ straightforwardness metamor phosed the angry lad Harry Hampton into a follower more devoted than he had been even In the first flush of en thusiasm for his rescued prisoner, Again the boy dogged his footsteps snd adorned him frankly. And Francois, enchanted to bo friends again with His friend, wondered at the goodness end generosity of the people of this world, it Is roughly true that one finds life In general like a mirror; that If one looks Into It with a smile and a cordial hand hold out one moots smiles and out General Paul Pai* General Paul Pau is on# of the eleven members of the French mili tary board of strategy and is a hero of the Franco-Prusian war of 1870, where he lost his right arm. He ia now in active command of one of the French brigades.