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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 17, 1914)
Work Weakens the Kidneys Many occupations weake the kidneys, I pausing aching backs, urinary disorders and a dull, drowsy, discouraged feeling. If ark exposing one to chills, dampness or sudden changes; work in cramped positions: work amid the fumes of turpentine; constant riding on lotting vehicles, Is especially hard on the kidneys. Taken In lime kidney trouble isn’t hard to stop; neglected It Is dangerous. As a kidney tonic, there is no other medicine so well recommended, so widely used and so universally successful as Doan’s Kid* osjr Pill*. A South Dakota Case. 3■ * McConn.Il. W a Story g27 N Cliff Avo> Sioux Falls. 8. D.. says: "My bsck pained me all the time, especially at night. I couldn't sleep well, X often got so weak 1 had to lean against something for sup port, My kidneys were in bad shape and nothing helped me until 1 used Doan’s Kidney Pills They removed all the ailments and I have never suffered piece, Doan's Kidney Pills are certainly a fine cure for kidney ills." Gat Doan's at Any Store, 50c a Box DOAN’S WAV F03TER-M1LBURN CO, BUFFALO. N. Y. The Army of Constipation |a Growing Smaller Every Day. CARTER'S LITTLE UVER PILLS responsible — they ftot only give relief A ‘ •— they perma Bentlycure Con-^ •tlpation. Mil^ Qons use, them for , Rilioumeu, 1 bdigcition, Sick Headache, Sallow Skin. SMALL PILL, SMALL DOSE, SMALL PRICE. Genuine must bear Signature QUICK RELIEF I ETE TROUBLES That uarK Brown Taste. Toast—They say that dark brown Is to be one of the fashionable shades next fall. Crlmsonbeak—Well, I can't say I like that taste. Titles and Taxes In Spain. In Spain titles ot nobility are taxed In the same way as houses or land. Moreover, each separate title Is taxed, and for this reason certain members of ancient families in which a number of titles have accumulated drop some In order to save money. Owing to the system long prevalent In Spain by which women of noble birth transmit their title not only to their children but to their husbands — so that a plebeian marrying a duchess becomes a duke, Spanish titles rarely become extinct unless the holders deliberately -discard them. Two Classes Barred. ▲ successful agricultural show Is carried on each year In a certain vil lage In the south of Ireland. Among the many competitions for the encour agement of thrift and cleanliness is one for the best turned out donkey cart The prize for this was usually won by either the local doctor or the local solicitor. After one year’s show the farmers and working classes pro tested that It was not quite fall* to ex pect their hardly used animals to com pete successfully with the well-cared for and well-groomed animals of those whe generally won the prize. In consequence of this protest the following proviso In connection with this competition appeared In the show placard the following year: “AH legal and medical donkeys ex cluded.” LEARNING THINGS We Are All In the Apprentice Clasa When a simple change of diet brings back health and happiness the story is briefly told. A lady of Springfield, 111, •ays: “After being afflicted for years with nervousness and heart trouble, I re ceived a shock four years ago that left me in such a condition that my life was despaired of. ‘1 got no relief from doctors nor from the numberless heart and nerve remedies I tried, because I didn’t know that coffee was daily putting me back more than the doctors could put me •head. "Finally at the suggestion of a friend f left off coffee and began the use of Postum, and against my expectations I gradually Improved in health until for the past 6 or 8 months I have been entirely free from nervousness and those terrible Binklng, weakening •pells of heart trouble. "My troubles all came from the uss of coffee which I had drunk from childhood and yet they disappeared when I quit coffee and took up the use of Postum.” Name given by Postum Co, Battle Creek, Mich. Many people marvel at the effects of leaving off coffee and drinking Postum, but there Is nothing marvelous about It—only common sense. Coffee la a destroyer—Postum Is a rebuilder. That’s the reason. Look la pkgs. for the famous little book, “The Road to Wellvllle.” Postum comes in two forms: Regular Postum—must be well boil ed. 15c and 25c packages. Instant Postum—Is a soluble pow fler. A teaspoonful dissolves quickly In a cup of hot water and, with cream and sugar, makes a delicious beverage Instantly. 30c and 50c tins. The cost per cup of both kinds is About the same. "There’s a Reason” for Postum. —sold by Grocers, Afiomaice of Maordinaiy Distortion The Marshal By Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews A,y,ar The Perfect Tribute, eta Copyright. The Tlobbo-MerrCl CHAPTER XXXV—(Continued). "Lucy! oh, Lucy!” a voice called from the lawn, and In a moment more the colonel was upon them. "Lucy,” he began, "somebody must arrange about the new harnesses; my time Is too valuable to be taken up with de tails. Uncle Jack says they are needed at once. It has been neglected. I do not understand why things are so ne glected." "I have seen to It, father. They will be ready in a week,” Lucy answered. Then the colonel noticed Francois. "Good day, Chevalier," he spoke con descendingly. "Ah—by the way”—he put his hand Into one pocket and then anpther of his linen coat. "They gave me a letter for you, Chevalier, knowing that you would be at Roanoke house today. Here It Is”—and Lucy saw a light leap Into Francois’ eyes as they fell on the English postmark. "About those harnesses, Lucy. Why did you not ask my permission before having them made? I do not understand how you can take so much on yourself." And Lucy spoke quietly again. “I did ask you, father, but you did not see to It and they were necessary. So I did It.” And then: “Chevalier, read your letter. I see It Is a foreign one.” "Will mademoiselle pardon?” At that moment an uneven step came down the slope and Francois flashed a smile at Harry Hampton and retreated to the other side of the sum mer house with his letter; while the colonel, murmuring complaints about harnesses, went strolling up the shad owy, bird-haunted lawn. Harry Hampton stood by his sweet heart with a boyish air of proprietor ship, radiant, as he had been through these two years of engagement ’’I have It” he announced. "Don’t you Want to see It?” wan, .ntti-ry, uie gin giimceu at Francois. But the lad caught her wrist. "Look," he said, and opened his free hand and a plain gold ring glittered from It With a quick move ment he slipped It over the little third Unger. "There,” he said, "that will be on to stay pretty soon, and then Undo Henry shall not badger you about harnesses. He has made me wait two years because he needed you, but I won’t wait much longer, will I Lucy? Next Wednesday—that Is the wedding day, Lucy.” With that Francois turned around. His face shone with an excitement which could not escape even prooccu pled lovers. "What Is It, Chevalier? You have news—what Is It?” the girl cried. For a moment he could not speak. Then: “Yes, mademoiselle, great news,” he said. "The prince has sent for me. And I am well and fit to go. I have lived for this time; yet I am grieved to leave you and Hairy, my two old friends.” "But Francois, you cannot go be fore Wednesday,” Harry Hampton cried out. “We cannot be married without you.” And Francois considered. "No, not before Wednesday,” he agreed. That last French lesson In the sum mer house on the banks of the smooth flowing James river was on a Satur day. On Monday the Chevalier Beau pro rode over from Carnlfax and asked to see Miss Hampton. "Madomoiselle Lucy,” he said, "I have something to ask of you.” ”1 will do It,” Lucy promised blithe ly, not waiting for details. Francois laughed. "You trust one, Mademoiselle Lucy—that Is plain." Then his face became serious. “Do you remember a talk we once had together when 1 told you of my old playmate, Alixe?” The bride-to-be flushed furiously as •he recalled that talk. Then she nodded In a matter of fact manner. "I re member very well,” she Bald. "It was when I threw myself at your head and you said you didn't want me.” x-.ancuiB snouiaers and hands and eyes went upward together “n eminently French gesture. What a horror!" he cried. "What an unspeakable manner to recollect that talk! How can you? How can you be so brutal to me?” „ Both of them, at that, burst into light-hearted laughter. Lucy was grave suddenly. "But you have something to ask me, Francois. You spoke of your—Dlav mate—beautiful Alixe.” "It is only you whom I could ask to do this, Mademoiselle Lucy. I have never told any one else abo.it her. Only you know of"—the words came slow ly— of my love for her. She does not know It. Alixe does not know. And I may be killed, one sees, in this fight for the Prince. Quite easily. And Alixe will not know. I do not like that. In fact I cannot bear it. So this Is what I usk of you, dear Mademoiselle." He brought out a letter and held it to her. If you hear that I am killed, will you send it to Alixe?" Lucy took the letter and turned it over doubtfully. "I do not like this sort of post-mortem commission, h rancols. I feel as if I were holding your death warrant.” “But it is not by a bit of writing, I Ehall meet my finish, Mademoiselle. I promise not to die one minute sooner for that letter. It Is only that it will make me happy to know you will send So Lucy, holding the letter gingerly, agreed. But as Francois rose to go she stood by him a moment and laid her hand on his coat sleeve. "Francois_1 want to tell you something.” "But yes. Mademoiselle—yes, Lucy.” "It is something wrong." "Yes—Lucy." "I am going to tell Harry I said it" "Yes.” “This is it, then”—and Francois, smiling, waited and there was deep si lence in the big, cool, quiet drawing room for as long as a minute. “This is it, then. I don’t know how I can be so unreasonable—but I am, I love Harry —I am happy. But I am quite—jealous of Alixe. And I think you are the most wonderful person I have ever known— much more wonderful than Harry. If there had been no Alixe; if you had— like me—I can imagine having adored you. I do adore you, Francois. Now, how is all that compatible with my joy in marrying Harry? I don’t know how it i3—but it is so. I am a wicked sin ful person—but It is so.” Francois, bent over her two little hands, kissing them more than once, shook with laughter.^ ”1 cannot guess the riddle,” ho said. “They say the heart of a woman is an uncharted ocean. A man must sail blindly over those waters and take the captain’s word for it, even if one seems to be sailing two rvays at once. For me. I am not very worldly wise, but I am not such a fool as to stop believing in my 19 friends because X cannot understand them. You are yourself, little Lucy, and Harry and I both know better than to let anything you do alter our faith In that beautiful thing which you are —an American woman, Mademoiselle Lucy—you.” The next time Lucy saw Francois It was when, white-robed and sweet In her enveloping mist of veil she went up the chancel steps of the little Virginia country church, and looking up met a smile that was a benediction from the man whom she had loved, who stood close now at the side of her lover, her husband. CHAPTER XXXVL AAAU AUli’IV.JiO UAIVJJO.A OnAl/U IY There are old people living In Eng land today who remember hearing their fathers and mothers speak of a young Frenchman of uncommon personality, constantly seen with Prince Louis Na poleon during the last days of his life In London in the year 1840. Lady Con stance Cecil nicknamed this Frenchman “the Prince's bright shadow." There seemed to be a closer tie than broth erhood between them, and the tradition runs that the mystical Prince had a superstition that his luck went with I him In the person of the Chevalier Beaupre. The days of that summer month were ! full days for the conspirators. On the surface, arranged to been seen of the world and to throw the world off Its guard, was a steady round of gaiety; at one brilliant function after another the peasant Francois shared the honors and the lionizing of the Prince. Because his visionary eyes looked through things of tinsel to realities, the tinsel did not dazzle him. He gazed at the butterflies of the world who fluttered about him and saw people with kind hearts. And the butterflies themselves were seldom so tawdry but that they responded to the simplicity and loving kindness which he held out to them. Few human telegraph sta tions fall utterly to take the message when the great unlversay wireless of reality sounds the note. So that Fran cois, not suspecting It, gained in a few weeks on many English hearts a hold whose memory has not yet died away. Beyond this evident social side of the London life lay the hidden life of prep aration for the event to come—the at tempt on Boulogne. And In this both the prince and his close follower and friend really breathed and had their being. There was constant excitement, constant labor, constant anxiety. Once, toward the end of the time, Francois was sent ona flying trip to France, to make arrangements unsafe to trust to writing, for the prince's affair. While on French soil he found time for a two hours' visit to Vieques and saw his mother and Allxe and the general. Pietro, also, he saw, Pietro, who was to have Joined the prince in London by now, and who had Instead Incapacita ted nlmself for fighting for months to come. A village child had run sud denly out under his horse's feet, and Pietro, saving the child, had thrown the horse and had been badly hurt. So he lay fretting his heart out silently at the castle, and when Francois stood by his bed, brilliant and tense as an ar row on Its way, Pietro took his friend's hand In both his own and gripped it with all his force and then turned his face to the wall without a word. It was always Francois who was the hero. mot uio prince s secretary sped back to England, soro In heart to miss the friend of his lifetime at his side In the good fight to come, yet too whole hearted ready for the work to bo any thing but an eager sword in the prince’s hand. The day for which he had longed all his life was at hand. The general had sent him off to It with a rough soldierly blessing; Allxe had kissed him sisterly; his mother had stood In the farm house door, shielding with her hand those calm saint-like eyes, and he saw her lips move as he looked back and knew what she said as she watched him ride away to fight for Prince Louis. To fight for the prince I Who could tell If ever he might ride back down that familiar road under the chestnuts? But it was all as It should be; he was entirely happy. He had asked three wishes of the good farles, as he had said long ago; that the prince should be emperor—that he might be come “a marshal of France under an other Bonaparte’’—that Allxe should love him. The first two he believed about to be realized. The last? It was not now the time to think of that Allxe had kissed him good-bye. That would more than do till the fight was over. So he sped back to London, missing Pietro, but hopeful and buoy ant And In London there was a let ter for him from Virginia. ’’Dear Francois,” Lucy began. "To think that the first letter sent to you by Harry's wife should be to tell you that she has betrayed your trust in her. I am distressed beyond words, for I have made a mistake which may mean distress to you. You remember the letter to Allxe which you trusted to me to send her In case anything should happen to you? I had it In my hand the week after my wedding when I had gone upstairs to get other letters for Europe which my father had com manded me to send by the next packet. And In some stupid unexplainable way I slipped your—your precious letter— among them in place of one to my father’s agents In London, and I hur ried down and gave the parcel to Sambo, who was waiting to ride to Norfolk with htme. And then Harry and I went away on a visit to Martin’s Brandon for three days, and it was only when I came back that I discov ered the dreadful mistake I had made. Can you ever forgive me? Harry and I thought over every possibility of stopping it, but there seemed to be no chance. Are you very angry with me, dear friend of Harry’s and of mine?" The letter went on with reproaches and regrets and finally slipped into a tale of a new happy life which Fran cois had made possible for the two. He read It over several times. His let ter to Allxe, which should have been sent only after his death, had gone to her. What then? She would know that he loved her; that he had loved her always; that he would love her . forever; that the one wish of his life had been that she should love himself I —not Pietro. He had said that In the letter; that was all. He was glad that I she should know, though he would 1 never have told her In life. It was done and he would find out now If , Pietro indeed cared for her, If she cared for Plerto. And If not. then one j had waited long enough; then at last— the joy of the thought choked him. ^ Through the years of renunciation that j ' hope had not died. And now his lettei had gone and the consequences mus! follow—after the fight. Everything must go till after the fight, Alixe had not had the letter be fore he saw her, this last time In Vieques; he was sure of that as he j thought back and remembered each word, each look of those short hours. But she would have it soon; in fact she had It now likely; his heart beat fast—she know now that he loved her. A knock came at the door of the room In the London lodging where he sat with Lucy Hampton's letter before him. Fritz Rlckenbach stood there; his highness would like to see the Chev alier. All personal thoughts were locked swiftly Into the drawer with Lucy’s letter and “the prince’s bright shadow" went to the prince. CHAPTER XXXVIL THE THIRD WISH. On the day when Francois In Lon don ILea? that letter of Lucy Hampton’s which had awaited his return from France, a letter from Lucy Hampton reached Alixe at the chateau of Vie ques.. She carried it to Pietro’s room where he sat In a deep chair at a win dow which looked over Delesmontes valley and the racing Cheulte river, and the village strung on the shores. Hi3 elbow on the stone window sill, his chin In his hand, he stared at the familiar picture. Alixe, coming In without knocking at the open door, stopped across and stood by him, and he did not yet lift his head, his listless eyes did not yet shift their gaze from the broad landscape. A’lxe, looking down at the black head with its short curia set in thick locks—after the manner of the curls of Praxiteles' , ®s was startled to see many bright lines of gray through the dark mass. Was everybody getting old? Francois with the broad band of white in his hair—and now Pietro—big little Pietro who had come to them and learned to ride Coq and played with them. Was Pietro getting old and gray? By one of the sudden impulses char acteristic of her, her hand flew out and rested on the curled head as if to pro tect It, motherly, from the whitening of time. a icuv tunica siowiy ana lookea up at her with eyes full of hopelessness and adoration. Such a look he had never before given her; such a look no one could mistake except a woman who would not let herself understand. ‘‘It Is good to be up and at the wln *sri’t It?” Allxe spoke cheerfully, and her hand left his head and she went on In a gay disengaged tone. You will be down stairs In two or three days now, and then It Is only a Jump to being out and about, and then —then In a minute you will be well again." “Oh, yes,” Pietro answered without animation. “It will not be long before I am well.” “Look, Pietro”; Allxe held out the paper In her hand. “Such a queer let ter! From Virginia. From the little Lucy Hampton of whom Francois talks. I don't understand it Will you let me read it to you?” “Surely,” said Pietro, and waited with his unsmiling eyes on her face. “My dear Mademoiselle,” Allxe read. “I am writing to beg your forgiveness, as I have begged that of the Cheval ier Beaupre, for the very great fault I have committed. The Cheavaller trusted to me a letter for you which was to have been sent you only In case of a certain event; by a carelessness which, unmeant as it was, O shall never forgive myself,I I gave it with other letters to our negro Sambo to be posted at once. By now It may have reached you. I can not tell If I have made trouble or not, but In any case, I can not rest without saying to you —as well as to the Chevalier—how sorry I am. If you can find It In your heart to forgive me, please do so, dear Mad emoiselle. That I should have made trouble for one as dear to the Chevalier as you are is a deep grief to me. He has talked to me of you. With a very earnest prayer again for your forgive ness I am. Mademoiselle, yours faith fully and sincerely—Lucy Hampton Hampton.” it about?" ho asked. "I wonder," and Allxe laughed and frowned at the paper in her hand. "It seems Francois wrote me a letter and left it with little Mistress Hampton to be sent ‘in case of a certain event.’ What event? What a strange thing for Francois to do I And then he came to us here and said nothing of mys terious letters left cooking in Virginia. I can not make it out. Pietro—can you?” “Not I.” said Pietro. "The letter of Francois has not come; that is certain; I wonder if the negro Sambo lost it.” “Probably," Pietro said. "It should have come before this one, otherwise." "It is a riddle.” Allxe decided, “and I never guess them." Then, dropping Into a seat on the wide window sill, "Pietro—you are letting yourself be depressed.” The gray eyes met hers with some thing that seemed a wall of reserve in their steady glance. "I think possibly I miss having no exercise.” he said. "I will feel more natural when I can get about.” Allxe looked at him. "You are eating your heart out to be with Francois.” she said, and laid her hand on his. Pietro started as if the light touch had shaken htm; then slowly his large Angers twisted lightly around the small ones, and he turned his face again, holding her hand so, to the win dow and the view of the valley and the river and the village. A moment they sat so, the girl’s hand loose in the hol low of the man’s; a slow red crept into AUxe’s face; there was confusion in her brain. She had laid her hand on that of her brother; her brother had taken it lr his—and behold, by a witchcraft It was all changed. This delicate big grasp that held her was not brotherly; through all her veins suddenly she knew that: the flush shot up to her eyes, to her forehead, and she tried, with an attempt at an every day manner, to draw her hand away. But Pietro, his set pale face toward the window, his eyes gazing out. held her hand. With that the world had reeled and was whirling past her. Pietro had caught both her hands in a tight grip and had drawn them against him. was holding them there, was looking at her with a face which not even she, this time, might mistake. "Allxe,” he said. "I know you don’t care for me I know you love Fran cois. I did not mean ever to speak, but when you put your hand on mine—” He held her palms together and parted the palms and kissed the Anger tips. Arst of one and then of the other, a.3 if he kissed something holy. “I shall never speak again, but this once I will. I always loved you-—one must. I knew always that a slow silent person like me would have no chance against a fellow like Francois. So I have kept still, and it was hard. It won't be so hard now that you know. Are you angry. Allxe?” Alixo. with her head bent so that Pietro did not see her face, with her head bending lower—lower, suddenly was on her knees by the choir and her face was on Pietro’s arm. Allxe.” ho whispered, “what Is it— what have I done?" But the brown waves of hair with the blue ribbon tied around them lay motionless on his arm. And suddenly a thotfght shook him. “It can not be!" he gasped. And Allxe lifted her face, and th< exaggerated black lashes lifted, anc the blue glance lifted and rested oi Pietro’s black hair bent down when the light shone on the silver Ilnej through it Up flashed her hand im pulsively, gently—as Allxe did things and touched the thick lock with an Infinitely delicate caress. "Your hail —is all turning gray." she whispered in two quick breaths, and at that. In some occult fashion Pietro knew. It makes little difference of what wood the match Is made which sets fire to the mine: it makes little differ ence what words are spoken when that tale Is telling. Anything says it. At a certain moment a man might re mark that’grass was green, and a woman might answer that It appeared pink to her—and It would be love making. The voice and the look and the very atmosphere about would do the work: words are a detail. So does the soul out-fly Its slow vehicle of speech when the rushing mighty wind of such a feeling lifts and speeds it. Pietro knew; for all his self-distrust he drew her into his arms and held her without one shadow of doubt that she loved him and belonged to him. For moments they had no need of that makeshift, language; the great house was very quiet, and one heard the horses stamping in the paved ancl lhe eT00ms singing, and yet one did not hear it Distant sounds came from the village, but one only “i”™ tllat lon« after, in remembering that morning. All they knew was that the ghost of a lifelong affection of brother and sister stood before them, .hanged by a miracle to a shining angel into whose face, for these first moments, they dared not look. Then exquisitely, courage came and. hand close in hand, they looked at each ^ astonished, glad. It was Pietro and Allxe still, the ancient play-fel lows. the childhood friends—all the dear familiarity was there vet, ,n° longer were they brother and sister. And then, after a while hidden6*3" t0 conlpare °°tes of things tVH* ™Cn TOd *y°2, begln““to llkQ this way, Pietro? t „^now.” answered Pietro encer,y' Does U mak® any differ “A great deal," Alixe Insisted. "It’s important. It’s historical." »?.ut thl8 isn-t history," said Pietro. Alixe, however, returned to the charge. "Last year?” "Last year—what?" Pietro asked; he had already forgotten the question. “Oh —that I began to—Mon Dieu—no. Last year! Why, I think it was the day I came and saw you riding Coq.” “Oh, Pietro—if you will talk only nonsense." Alixe’s voice was disap pointed. “But why, then, didn't you ever say so before this? We are both a thousand years old now. If you—. loved me"—she spoke the word In a lower voice—"why, then, were you as quiet as a mouse about It all these years” “I thought you cared for Francois," Pietro said simply. And added, “Didn’t you ?" Alixe considered. “I don’t—think—I ever did. Pietro. Not really. I thought I did perhaps. He dazzled me—Fran cois—with his way of doing all sorts of things brilliantly, and that wonderful something about him which makes everybody love him. He believed in his star; there was around him the ro mance of the Emperor's prophecy and the romance of the career which is, we believe, about to begin now; there was always a glamour about Francois." "Yes,” Pietro agreed. "The glamour of his courage, Alixe, of loyalty and un selfishness; the qualities which make what people call his charm. Francois is unlike the rest of the world, I be lieve, Alixe.” Pietro stopped, then went on with an unaccustomed eloquence. “Whatever may be the fibers from which souls are woven, those of Fran cois were so adjusted from his birth that things hard to most of us are easy to him. It has never been an ef fort for Francois to love mankind and to believe the best of every one. Also, things unreal to most are his realities. He lives very close to that line over which Is Inspiration or madness—men call it either, according as it succeeds or falls in this world. There are ques tions yet to be understood, I believe, which will account for Francois’ trick of vision-seeing. Perhaps a hundred years from now, perhaps BOO, people will know things about the human mind which may make clear that strange gift of his. It may be that there are powers of the mind not now understood. There may be a world of mental possibility beneath conscious nMS) ” Pietro talked on, the silent Pietro, as if delivering a lecture. He had read much and thought much; it was seldom he spoke of the speculations which often filled his scholarly mind; today it seemed easy to talk of everything. Joy had set wide all the doors of his be ing. Alixe opened her eyes In astonish ment. “Pietro!" You are—talking like a book! But it is true; something of that sort has come to me, too—which proves it to be true. I have felt always that Francois had notes in him which are not on our pianos." Pietro smiled, looking at her. “And yet, Alixe, you do not love Francois, with all these gifts and all his power over hearts—but only com monplace me?" Alixe straightened against his arm. “Monsieur the Marquis Zappi, the gen tleman I—care for, is not commonplace. I thank you not to say It,” she shot at him, and then melting to a sudden in tensity, she put a hand on each side of his dark face and spoke earnestly. "Pietro, dear, listen. I believe I always cared for you. When I was little it hurt me to have Francois forever the one to do the daring things. Do you remember how I used to scold at you because you would not fight him?” Pietro smiled again. “Then he was captain of the school and you only a private, and I cried about that when I was alone at night. And when you went off to Italy so quietly, with never a word said about the danger, I did not know that you were doing a fine deed—I thought it a commonplace that you should go back to your country, till Francois opened my eyes.” ‘Francois?” Pietro asked. “Yes. The day before he went to Join you we were riding together and he told me what it meant to be a patriot in Italy under the Austrians. That day I realized how unbearable K would be if anything happened to you. But I thought I cared for Francois; if he had spoken that day I should have told him that I cared for him. But he did not; he went—and -was in prison five years.” "And all that time I believed you loved him, and were mourning for him,” Pietro said gently. “I half believed it too," Alixe an swered. "Yet all the time I was Jeal ous for you, Pietro, for it was still Francois who was the hero—not you. Then when there came a question of his rescue I was mad with the desire to have you do it—and you did it.” “It was still Francois who was the hero,” Pietro said. “Only the common place things fell to me, as is fitting.” "No,” Alixe cried. “I know better now. Was it commonplace the other day when you saved little Antoinette Tremblay and lamed yourself for— months, maybe? That was enough for a lifetime, Pietro. And you have never . faffed any one—not one*. As Franco!# said, you are 'a heart of gold, a wall of rock.’ " , Her voice dropped. She laid her hand against hie shoulder and spoke, in a quick, cautious way: “But all that Is Immaterial. I dust. Iovo you—that's the point.” A moment, later she spoke again. “I want to fin ish telling you—and then we need nev er speak of it again. I did think you. were—commonplace. Asd yet I knew in my heart you were not, for I resent ed your seeming so. So I urged you into danger. I wanted you to be a hero. I had that echo of a schoolgirl'* romance about Francois in my mind, and I clung, all along, to the Idea c«iat I loved him and that perhaps he se cretly loved me but would not say It because he was poor and a peasant; that he was waiting till his future wai made. Then, one day, only the other day, he told me that he had asked three wishes of life—‘of the good fairies’ he said. One was to make Prince Louis emperor, one was to be marshal of France; the third—" she stopped. ‘‘What?’’ Pietro demanded, his mouth a bit rigid. Allxe flushed and srnlled and took Pietro's big band and covered her eye* with it. “That I should—love you, mon sieur. He said he had wished that all his life.” “May heaven grant him his wish,” said Pietro fervently, and then, reflect ing, "It seems a strange wish for Fran cois. You are sure, Allxe?” “Yes, he said so,” Allxe Insisted. “Our dear Francois,” she went on soft ly, and the blue Intensity of her eye* grew misty. "Dear Francois,” she re peated, “It Is only he who could have had those three wishes. The single one that was for himself was not because he cared for it himself, but because It was the emperor’s prophecy.” "I always thought Pietro spoke slowly, “that it was not Indeed for him self that he wished to be a marshal some day, but because It might make him, in a manner, your equal. It wa» for you." “For me!” Allxe was astonished. “I never thought of that. 1 think you thought of It, Pietro, only because you —eared for me—and thought Francol* must care also.” "Yes, I thought he cared.” Pietro considered. “I can not believe other wise yet.” “You may believe It" Allxe was firm. “For he said that what he had wished always was that I should—love you. I did It mostly to please Fran cois,” she added serenely. And Pietro's response to that wa» apt, but not to be given here. The minds of those two happy lovers were full of that third who had been so close always to each of them. »» AH__s__ _ U-* -SUIHCOU)', cum" lng back to the same subject, “you know that I love Francois—of course. But you do not know in what way. I love him as If he were one of the saints—but also as If he were a helpless little child. Yet not—Pietro—as if he were—the man I love. I would give my life for him in a rush of delight, if he needed it. But I know now, what ever were my vague dreams in past years, that it is not in Francois to care for a woman as a human man. Some how, among all his wonderful quali ties that one thing was left out. He never could have cared for me so that —the touch of my hand counted, or—or so that all other women should seem— different. I think, indeed, that If some dear girl should have loved him he might easily have married her out of pure friendship and gentleness, not knowing what the real love of a man to a woman is like. That is impossible to him.” “1 am not so sure,” said Pietro, and shook his head. (Continued next week.) A Woman’s Voice. O heart! what is it you hear above the noise of a nation. Above the sound of clamor and shouting And men making ready for war? Only a single voice, little more than a broken whisper, Patient and unprotesting—only the vole* of a woman. Yet I hear it above the sound of guns And the turmoil of men embarking. L There’s no use praying any more; the prayers are done and said; But daytime going through the house, or nlghtlme in my bed, They trouble me, the old prayers, still ringing in my head. The young men from the papers, they brought the word to me, I’m thinking of their mothers, how glad they ought to be, Who never said "Good-by” to them and let them off to sea. As strong as any man he was, and bold to do and dare, And why should I bo hearing, then, all night above the prayer, A little lad that’s calling me—and wanting me—somewhere ? n. He said what he thought was right; "Let you be proud,” he said, “That you gave a son to the fight; ’Tis a glory over your head!” 'Tis never a good man’s words I’d scorn. And he said what he thought was best; But I knew my pride when the lad waje born. And his head was warm on my breast “Let you be proud,” he said. 'Twas the word that stabbed me through Proud—and my one son dead In a land I never knew. ’Tis the women know when glory's worn (Tho’ he meant the word for the best); I knew my pride when the lad was horn And his head was warm on my breast Only a woman’s voice—patient and unpro testlng, But I hear it above the sound of guns And the turmoil of men embarking. —Theodosia Garrison, In the Delineator. The Business of College-Begging. By Henry S. Pritchett, In the Atlantic. We read In the dally papers half humor ous allusions to the college president as a beggar, but few appreciate how large a business college-begging has becomo. It Is a business; and It has come to be prose cuted In the most systematic and persis tent way. The amount of money annually "lifted” In cities like New York, Boston Philadelphia, Chicago and St. Louis, as the result of these systematic and contin uous efforts, aggregates many mllllona When a new college la organized in any part of the United States, tho first movo Is to send an agent—generally the presi dent, sometimes a salaried solicitor—to canvass first the eastern cities, then ths near-by cities. In New Y’ork the business men have for the last 20 years subscribed to nearly all such efforts as a matter of course. It has been assumed that any col lege was necessarily a good thing to help. The business man has had no means of scrutinizing these efforts. He gives as the Lord sends His rain, to the just and to the unjust. The total which he con tributes is enormous. Night Calls. By Joseph Husband In the Atlantlo. Night has come, and a dozen girls watoh the long, deserted boards. Llko the occa sional glimmer of a cab lamp upon ths street, the signals, one by one, flash and are gone. The world Is fast asleep. Far down at the end of the panel a signal brightens. “Number Please?’’—■’Policer* It was a woman’s voice. From the card Index “Central” picks out the street ad dress which corresponds to the number and the nearest station Is advised of tho call. Had the woman no time to finish her message? There Is another light burning on the panel. Already she Is for gotten and the slim hands are making an other connection. Police or doctor—th* night calls are laden with portent