,;.i
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i
V
CHAPTER XVII.
Tk sun shone, the white ice glittened,
raata redbreaata winged their way amid
tfce trees, scarlet berrlea ahone from the
tfMNtai. the wind atirred the great
torn branches, the blue sky looked down
ami ad calm, while the girl's grace-
fal tear darted away with the lightness
ud swiftness of a bird. Amce atooa qune
atiD; only heaven knew what was in her
kaart oa her face waa calm, grim expec-
tartoa- the beauty had all gone from it
wafai paaaion looked out of the dark eyes;
fa whit liDa were locked in dumb si
Uaea. She atood quite calm, silent and
till. How many minutes passed be never
know it might have been hours or any;
aba took no note of time.
Bat suddenly on the clear air row a ter
rlbla cry only one cry, bat it seemed to
doar the high heavea and quiver in the
annlirfar. It pierced her like a snarp
word, but she did not move no sound
caaae from her lip, no atir to her limbs.
She looked across the glittering ice;
there was nothing to be seen the bend
of the water and a group of trees hid Pret
ty Bay from her sight. Silent and mo
tionless she atood there. The cry came
gain; fainter thig time, and more despair
ing: It did not cleave the sunny air; it
did not reach the high heavens, but seem
ed to fall over the waters and die under
the ice.-' For the second time, she reeled
under the shock, then again stood motion
leaa no aonnd, no movement. The wind
stirred ; the big bare branches, and the
aound roused her. With murder iu her
fare, abe walked round the pool, looking
with mad, frightened eyes at the lirw,
white surface.
Ah. there there in the midst of Pretty
Bay, the ice was broken, and the water
appeared above it; and there lay a white
handkerchief she knew well. The old
refrain came to her "Under the ice. cold
and dead; he will be free to marry me."
Waa she there? Was she dead? Let
assurance be doubly sure. She stood wiib
murder in her eyes, listening; but no fur
ther aound came, none. The wind swept
jover the ice; once the water stirred slight
ly, but the terrible cry that had risen to
.the high heavens was silenced, to be heard
no more.
.Then recollection came to her; a sud
den shudder seized her, and turning from
the apot, she flew rather than ran, with
a cry for help on her lips.
"Help," when she knew that the fair
young girl lay dead. Help," when she
knew that she had compassed her death
as aurely as though she had slain her
with her own hand. "Help." when she
knew that no power on earth could lend
her aid.
She flew rather than ran; she reached
the ground where a group of laborers
were busy at work; she seemed to them
to apring from the earth.
"Help! help!" she cried, as she Bank ex
hausted on the ground near them. "Oh,
for heaven's sake, help! My sister was
kating on Ladydeep Pool, and has fallen
through the ice. Help, for heaven's
aake."
They rushed off, leaving her lying there;
there waa a life to be saved, and no time
waa to be lost.
"I know where there is a rope," cried
one; rnwaites always Keeps one in tne
boat house.",.
They hastened, they worked as hard as
men could work. In less time than it
takea to write it, the rope was fastened
round one who dived into the water where
the ice waa broken.
There was not a sound; the nun shone
on bravely, the lovely, bright morning
bad in it no shadow; nature had no sym
pathy with the tragedy enacting before
her.
Three men stood silent on the banks,
while the fourth dived beneath the ice.
Once he came to the aurface, holding
in his hand a cuff of brown fur.
"I have found this," he gasped, "but
I cannot find her."
Anice rose from the spot where they
had left her.
"Help!" she cried again, as she flew
rather than walked to the house.
Lady Piteairn came first to meet her;
he aaw ber from the drawing room win
dow. "What is the matter, Anice?" she cried.
"Great heavens, how you terrify me!"
"Mamma, send help; Cecile has fallen
throng the ice ou Ladydeep Pool."
There was one cry of startled horror,
one momenr of dismay, then Lady Pit
eairn waa herself attain. She never for a
moment dreamed of the worst it was but
a fall, an accident; she hastened quickly,
ordered blankets, bt-suidy everything that
could be useful sent men and women, and
then went herself. She left Anice lying
where ahe had fallen on the drawing room
floor.
All help waa in vain. The man dived
three times before he found her, and then,
when the beautiful body was laid on the
bank all life bad fled from it.
Mother, father, frienda, servants crowd
ed round; it waa hopeless, she bad been
dead for some time before ahe was taken
from the water. All help was useless, all
n:n, all un needed; there waa nothing to
be done but carry the fair, dead body
home, through the sunshine. - Then they
crowded round Anice, who still crouched
with her wild, white face where they had
Jeft her. How did It happen?
Clamorous grief, wild-eyed wonder; all
asked the same question bow did it bap
pen? She sat up, and looking round on
them, toM roe same aaa story, it was so
sad. so simple. They had gone together
to skat on the pool. Cecile went first;
She had helped her on with ber skates,
so that abe was ready first, and went on
without waiting for her sister.
Then, froai out that listening, horror
ami' ken group came Lady Hilda, her face
' wale nod set. She went np to Anice and
looked at ber.
"Vid you give your sister Sir Leo flic's
warning?" she asked.
"What warning r said Anice, shrinklag
frvm the questioning eyes,
"Did you tell ber ahat the part of the
awoi railed Pretty Bay waa unasfe?" aba
-1m.- raoiied Aaica. "I dJd tell ber. I
Mbl. M go aear Pretty Bay, the let
frr-Nw thaw.'"
J't baa yar asked Lady ESda.
. ' "lilmM m; ato answered ma.
; J 1VJ a UwM, Aate.' tta,
did not start in the direction of Pretty
Bay, or I should have noticed it."
"Yet she was found in Pretty Bay,
aid Idy Hilda.
"She must have forgotten what I said,
and have gone in that direction, after all,"
aid Anice.
She rose and flung herself in her moth
er's arm.
"Maairaa," ahe cried, "take that horri
ble ahriek from my ears I cannot bear
it."
Lady Hilda still went on with her ques
tions. "How long had your sister left you be
fore you heard her cry for help?" she
asked.
Not king no three minutes. I had
oniy time to fasten one skate. Ob, mam
ma, do not let them torture me. 1 could
not save her; but I did my best, t did my
bent:
They moved aside with murmured
words of pity as the wretched girl fell
senseless in her mother's arms; they car
ried ber to her room, where kindly hand
tended her and warm tears fell over her.
There was nothing more to be done the
once bright house was shrouded in grief
and mourning, while the unhappy parents
wept for the fair-haired daughter whose
life was so abruptly cut short.
ords are too weak to tell what passed
when evening brought Sir Leofric lie
was frantic with grief; he would see An
ice; it was useless to persuade him he
would fee her and hear from her own lips
the story of his darling's death.
"xou are sure you warned her, Anice?"
he repeated a hundred times. "I told you
the ice was broken on Pretty Bay."
I did warn her," was the never-failing
reply. 1 told ncr not to go near. She
said ahe would be careful. I could not
do more. I never dreamed she would dis
regard my caution; I cannot tell why she
went there."
The false words died on the false lips.
She buried her face in her hand, and
he, touched by the passionate sobs, did all
he could to console ber.
"We are left alone," she cried. "Oh,
Leofric, you must love me now, or I shall
die, too."
He did not know of what love phe spoke,
but he took her trembling hands in his
and Maid:
"Of course I will love you always, An
ice; I have no one else on earth now to
love except you, who should have been
ray sinter."
She hid her face, lest he should see the
guilty love there; she waa thinking of a
lover's love, and he of a brother's affec
tion. Was she mad? God, who sees all
things, alone can judge. Is not all pas
sion madness? Is not sin or crime mad
ness .' Who shall say where reason be
gins and where it ends' Who shall pro
nounce her judgment' for her sin began
when she opened her heart for a love she
knew could never be hers.
CHAPTKU XVIII.
The funeral was over; the sullen gloom
that follows sudden and terrible death
bad fallen over Branksome. Neither
wealth nor rank had been powerful
enough to evade the usual routine. There
had been a coroner's inquest, and the
verdict unanimously given was "acci
dentally drowned." The jury declared
that they could not attach blame to any
person, and they exprestd the deejet
sympathy with the young lady who had
witnessed the terrible accident without
being able to help. Sir Leofric had gone
from his home. He told them he should
return when the smart of her grief had
passed by; but at present he could not see
them nor endure the place
The di.y came when Anice Piteairn wag
able to leave her room and take her place
once more in her father's house. For
many long weeks she had refused to quit
her room; she would not have the blinds
drawn. One morning she sent for Lady
Hilda.
"Miss Dunn," she said, "I want to know
why you never come near me? I have
been ill so long, and you have never en
tered my room."
Then Lady Hilda went to the door and
closed it. She fastened it carefully, and,
coming beck to Anice, stood over her.
"I will tll you," she said; "since you
ask me for the truth, yon shall hear it;
I have no sorrow, no pity for you, for I
befieve before heaven you are guilty of
your sister's death!"
A low cry came from the white lips.
She lay silent then. Lady Hilda watched
her keenly her eyes were bright with the
fire of indignation, her face with the light
of a just and righteous wrath.
"I ought to have denounced you at the
time," he said; "I ought to have said then
that I believed you to be a murderess in
deed, as I knew you to be one in heart.
I ought to have cried out that you were
guilty, but I did not; I looked at your
mother's fae, at your father's gray hair,
and I could not. But, speaking before
heaven, Anice Piteairn. I believe you
caused your sister's death." s
"You are cruel, wicked, and unjnst!"
cried Anice. "You have no proof of what
you say. Yon speak to me in this cruel
manner, and it Is all suspicion nothing
but base, false suspicion. Yon have no
proof."
"I have no proof, except my own 9t8m
conviction, and my knowledge of the ter
rible passion that swayed your heart. I
believe that you have told a false story,
that you have deceived us all, that yon
neve warned your sister, but let her go
without one word of caution, when you
knew that death awaited her. I believe
that you delayed, instead of hastening,
when yoc heard her cry. May heaven par
don me if I misjudge you! I do not think
that I do."
A low, hoarse voice Interrupted her:
"You are wrong quite wrong wicked
ly, cruelly wrong "
"That Is as heaven see," said Lady
Hilda.
On of the white, trembling hands
cratdied at hers.
"You are quite wrong," said Anice,
"your words are quite false; but promise
me you will never repeat them, (hat yon
will aarer tell any one what yon think:
others might suspect ma if yon did, a ad
K la falsa ail false. My mother waa kind
to yon; she brought yon borne here, and
aid on ova of us Ob, promise me, for
my mother's taks, you will not tell others
what you think!"
"I am not quite sure wtiat I ought to
do. I am hardly able to decide for my
self. It s ferns to me rhat my duty is clear,
that I ought to teU others my strong sus
picions and have them examined."
The white face ou the pillow could grow
no whiter, but a dreadful quiver p&Med
over it
"Suppose you do so. Miss Dunn; only
suppose let us imagine it suppose you
did so, and those suspicious were found
to be correct, what then?"
"What then? The law of God and of
man says, a life for a life," said Lady
Hilda slowly.
"A life for a life! Ah, dear heaven!
how many lives have I given?" said Anice,
with a vvoful sigh. "How many deaths
have I died? Then you, whom my moth
er rescued from death in the high roads,
you would Rend me to a felon's dock, to
the scaffold, if you could!"
"1 do not say so. I am puzzled as to
what I ought to do."
Again the trembling hands grasped her.
"You can do nothing you have noth
ing to do 1 am only talking for argu
ment's sake, to show you how wild your
notions are. See to what you expose me
if you ever give them to others. Prom
ise me you never will wear to me. Miss
Dunn, you will not. I shall not rest un
less you swear!
"I cannot. I am sure I ought to tell
some- one. I am afraid what I think is
true."
Anice flung herself back on her pillows
with a gesture of despair.
"You w' l not listen to mo," she said.
"You are ... nt ou my destruction, and on
your own. If you tell this foolish, this
wicked story of me, who will believe you?
I can bring heaven and earth to prove
how falsi your words are. I can swear
as sternly as you can. The world will
have to judge between your word and
mine. I say that it will take mine.
"Truth always prevails," said Lady Hi
da slowly.
"There is no truth in this case to pre
vail. It is mere suspicion without proof.
I would defy you, dare you to say it open
ly, but that I know some scandal must
come of it. I cling to you, and pray you
to keep sil 'tice over your suspicion, not
because it is true, but because I know how
cruel the world is, and if such things are
said of me, however false they may be
some one will believe them. I ask you
solemnly, in the name of heaven, promise
me not to mention to any one living what
you have suid to me."
Lady Hilda was silent for a few min
ntes.
"I promise you," she said, at length,
and, turning from the beautiful woman,
she quitted the room.
Days, weeks and months wore on. An
ice recovered her health. Lady Pitcairt:
became more cheerful, Sir Peter related
into his old sleepy state and Cecile's
grave was covered with grass.
Then Sir Leofric returned. His great
grief had changed him, then had worn
itself away. People tried to eonsole him;
they told him he must not mourn all his
life, that, although he had lout his dearest
and bet, others were left. They said it
was a duty he owed to himself and his po
sition to marry.
He believed them, and his heart turned
to Anice. Who so near and dear to him
as the sister of his dear, dead love? The
day come when the very desire of her
heart was gratified, and Sir Leofric asked
her to be his wife.
"I cannot give you, Anice, the same fer
vent love I gave to Cecile, he said; but
I will make you very happy."
So for the second time Sir Leofric be
came en'jged. Lady Hilda heard the
news with surprise that bordered on hor
ror. She went to Anice direct.
"Is it true, she said, "that you are
going to marry Sir Leofric?"
"It is quite true," was the brief reply.
"Then it seems to me that the very
heavens cry for vengeance. I. for one,
Anice Piteairn, will never stand by to see
you married it would Ik watching yon
put the seal uion your sin."
CHAPTER XIX.
Lady Hilda had resolved to go. It
would be far easier, she thought, to beg
her bread than to remain in this luxurious
home, where the spirit of murder lay over
the threshold. Nothing could shake her
conviction nothing could take from her
the certainty that Anice .Piteairn had
done the most foul wrong.
Of course it was useless to speak no
one would believe ber. She would be de
rided as mad and wicked: she bad no one
single proof to give of the truth of her
words nothing, but that she read murder
in Anice's face. To speak of it would be
worse than useless; but she could not
stand by in silence and see that sin
crowned with success. She could not
remain to see Anice triumph In her wick
edness. She sought Lady Piteairn and
told her she must go.
The mistress of Branksome looked up
from her work in wonder.
"Go, my dear," she said, in surprise.
"after you have ben with us three years
and have become one of ourselves?"
"I shall mver cm c to be .Hateful,
said Lady Hilda, "but I must go."
"Just as we wete pi r'nn ig tor Anice's
marriage at least slay until that is over,"
said Lady Piteairn.
But the girl turned away with a sick
shudder.
"I cannot," she said; and from the tone
of her voice Lady Piteairn knew that it
was useless to say more.
"Will you tell me why you are going.
Miss Dunn?" she asked, sadly.
"I cannot. Dear Lady Piteairn, you
have been kind as an angel to me; add
one more kindness to the rest let me go
witbout question."
"What have you thought of doing?"
continued the kindly lady.
Lady Hilda sighed.
"I must go out as companion," she said.
"I do not know enough to be governess."
"I will help you, then," said Lady Pit
cairn. "Indeed, I think I know of some
thing that you would like. Lady Harvey,
who dined here yesterday, was speaking
to me of her young cousin, the Duchess of
Nairn. She wants a companion."
"You have been very good to me," she
said, "and hare overlooked all my faults
and failings. Do yon think I should be
able to undertake such a post as that?"
"Yes, I do," said Lady Piteairn, decid
edly. "Three years have improved yon,
until 1 myself see no fault In you. I
think your mani"rs perfection. I tell
Anice that if slie would out topy your
high-bred grace she would do well."
"Then you think I might please the
Duchess of Nairn?" she asked, anxiously,
"I am quite sure of it," replied Lady
Piteairn. "The duchess Is a young girl
qufte young only ssventeen, and marrel
ously lorely; they married ber to the Duke
of Nairn, who la tity If he is a day."
"IIw cme!P cried Lady Hilda.
"Cruei!" repeated Lady PltcalM, sad
ly. "It is the way of the world, wraith
and title can always purchase beauty.
Lurliue that Is her name Lurliue al
ways knew that she must marry tie high
est bidder, and he happened to be ou o.d
duke instead of an old earl. The di:ke
and the duchess are both in the norta
now," continued Lady Piteairn. "Every
now and then the duke grows madly
jealous of his child-wife, and whirls her
away to Woodheaton Abbey, one of the
most gloomy spots in England. We will
drive over to Lady Harvey's and ask her
to write and mention you."
After a few days it was settled and
every arrangement made. Miss Dunn
was to leave Iiranksome for Woodheaton.
She had received two or three letters from
the duchess: kind, gracefully written, aud
full of kindly sentiment. The journey
from Branksome to Woodheaton was a
long and tiresome one. It was evening
before I.ady Hilda reached the little sta
tion of Arlhorn. A carriage awaited her
from the Abbey. She had expected some
thing dreary, but she had never dream
ed of the reality; yet the very dreariness
had a beauty of its own. There was
beauty in the weird silence that reigned
over these great moors; iu the great green
expanse that in its undulation resembled
a great green sea; there was beauty iu
the bloom of the heather, in the short
grass, iu the groups of trees that every
now and then broke the monotony, in the
vast expanse of blue sky, in the great
stretch of purple hills that lay behind the
moors.
A broad road shaded by trees wound up
to the Abbey. Lady Hilda looked at the
scene in wonder the gray, frowning
walls, covered with ivy, the huge towers,
the green valley Mow. and the trees that
seemed to Im ho curiously mixed with the
ways and pillars. The gnat entrance
gates swung open when the carriage
stopd, and she found herself in a large
stone entrance hall with a superb rtHif
of grained oak, a hall quite ns large as
any ordinary house; a pretty maid, neatly
dressed, came up to her with a smiling
courtesy.
"Are you Miss Dunn?" slip asked; and
Lady Hilda's beautiful face Hushed ns she
answered :
"Yes."
"Her grace wishes me to sny that she
feels sure you mus' be tired after that
long journey, and she hopes rhat you will
ordr what you wUh and go to your own
room to rest." '
She w as only too grateful. She follow
ed the pretty maid up tb long, steep, ,
vaulted staircase, through the long, dark 1
corridors, through rooms of gloomiest as
pect; even the pretty maid breathed more
freely when they reached the western
wing; it was far more light and cheerful;
besides which the fittings were of a mod
ern kind. .
(To be continued.)
A Pioneer Mother's Ingenuity.
Some years ago the mother of a fam
ily found herself at the tMglrtnUig of
winter wl'Ji the tnoM mear provis
ion for warmth. Khe was In a new
country and a long distance from mar
ket, and although the farm on -which
she lived yielded plenteotisly, the prod
uct brought but a "trifle arid acarcely
paid for the marketing: Among the
serious lacks was bedding and furni
ture for sleeping rooms. It was not
dlfllcuk to fajstcn together some pieces
of timber to tnnko bed-frames, and,
after tlu old fajtliiou, cord were laced
through and through as a foundation.
At tills stage the careful woman stud
led and thought out a new plan.
In the granary were score of bags of
wheat bmu. A sudden attack of croup
In the little circle and the need of a
warm bran bag gave Iwr the cue. Pro
viding suitable tlcka, she tilled them
with bran and spread them evenly over
a not very full straw bed placed over
the rope. Half a dozen bran bags the
size of a pillow, but not very fall, were
then basted together at tlu? edge and
fatened to the corners of the bed
frame by suitable strings. I'udor the
little bags and above the larger ones
three little tots slept for an entire win
ter. A thick comfortable was spread
over all, and they all agreed that a
nicer bed It would be InipoKwiblo. to
find.
j
The'
Where It Is Really Cold.
Cold is merely a relative term.
resident of semi-tropical countries shiv
ers wh;n the thermometer falls to 50
decrees, while the I Laplander and Es
lultuo think It comfortable at zero. i
For roal cold and plenty of it, one
must go to the Polar region. Think of
living where the mercury goes down to
35 degrees below zero In the house, in
spite of the stove. Iu such a case fur
garments are piled on until a won
looks like a great bundle of skms. i
Dr. Mom, of the Polar expedition of
ltt'-Tfl, among other odd things, tells
of the effect of cold on a wax candhj
which he burned there. The tempera
ture was 35 degrees below zero; and
the Dotor must liave beeo considera
bly discouraged when, upon looking at
bis candle, he discovered that the flame
had all It could do to keep warm. It
was so cold that the flajn could not
melt all the wax of the candle, but
wns forced to cut It way down, leav
ing a sort of skeleton of the candle
standing. There was heat enough,
however, to melt oddly-hnped hob
In the thin walls of wax, and the result
was a beautiful bvce-llkfl cylinder of
white, with a tongue of yellow flame
burning Inside It, and sending out into
the darkness many streaks of light.
Explained.
Insecta are ordinarily unable to fly !
through a net whose meshes are three.
or four times tbe alze of their bodies. '
A bird would dart through such an
aperture without hesitation. Several
explanations bare been offered for the
conduct of inaecta in this renpect. Felix
Plateau lately made experiment, re
ported to the Royal Academy of Bel-'
glum, from which be concludes that
the peculiar farrtod structure of the
eyea of itisecta la tbe cause of their dif-
flcuUj in traTraJng ne-ta. To an Insect,
he think, a net looks like a continuous!
partially opaque aurface, tiie separata
line being unnoticed, and according
ly on approaching a rxrt the Insect
altghta bafor discovering that It
might bart continued Ira flight and
passed taroagfe.
CANOVAS.
(U Inspired tbe Horrid Crneltlea
Practiced In Cnlia.
The tragic taking off of Senor Cano
vas, the Premier of Spain, cannot blur
the historical fact Unit be was lihe mou
ster who lnxpired tbe 'Itnrlniritieti In
Cuba. He the archfiend behind
the butcher Weylcr, ami supported him
in all bis atrocities toward the Cuban
patriots. Tl undoubted fait t lint t'.ui-
ovas acted only in accordance with lib.
training ami his conception of iwitrlot
Isin does not change the nature of his
conduct nor ameliorate It horrid sav
agery.
i He was tbe instigator of the most
awful scheme of wholesale asasina
tion the civilized world lias seen for
years in a civilized land, and the great
strength of his character aud his dosnl
nation of his official associates serve to
render his cruel nature more eonspicu
ous. There 1ms lieveo lMen an attempt
' to deny that Weyler In his present po
sition has !een a creature and tool of
Canovas. It has even been hinted that
I the two bad some sort of secret busl
( n ess alliance, rmssibly In connection
J with a division spoils. But the bus
' luiiss considerations are not material to
outside Kic-tator of the Cultaii tnig
edy. The fact that Weyler was the
ageflt who executed tb. decrees of Can
ovas, his chief, is the fact that stands
out with awful plainness from the nt
'ord of this conflict
There have been tbe most serious
complaints agamst Weyler from his
troops, from bis officers, from tbe more
humane Spanish citizens In Havana
from thousands of prominent citizens
In Madrid, and these complaints have
wen or sucti magnitude tunt any man
les strongly fortified in bis position
must have been overwhelmed. But
Weyler has withstood them all aud has
not abated by one Jot his policy of iu
.humanity. There U nothing of inher
ent strength In Weyler lo justify such
successful renistatiee. He has not Ix-cn
the man of power who lias disconcert
ed his foes. Caiiovas alone has been
bis bulwark aud to Canovas abme does
he owe Immunity from the wrath of
his outraged pwple.
' Hue there Is a worse phase yet of the
situation. Canovas lias not only pro
tected Weyler but he barf been bis M'n
sor In a way that shows that on Ca
novas has rested tfie chief responsibil
ity for the cruel ties. In Cuba. Canova.s
lias been cognizant of the character of
j Weyler' s campaigns. The whole world
i has been told with infinite and horrible
detail of tlie butcheries perpetrated by
that man. The burning of hospitals,
the killing of women aud children, the
murder of old men, the assassination
of non-comlmtants, the torture of sus
pects lu prison, the assassination of
prisoners, the whole category of atroc
ities has been laid bare to the world
faithfully aud with horrible clretim
stantlal evidence.
These have been the apparent acts
of Weyler, but the man who must Ik
held rcKjKinsible in hi.wtory bt Canovas.
Weyler was Canovas' creature and sub
ject entirely to bis will. If Canovas
had disapproved of Weyler's course, if
he had obje-1ed to Uioe butcheries, if
be had not desired a reign of barbarous
methods in the carrying on of the Cu
ban war, a word from Llin would have
changed it all. He could have com
pelled a cessation of the cruelties In a
day, or If Weyler had dared to disobey
be could have stripped the butcher of
his command in an Instant
Canovas has escaped! exposure liefore
because the Cuban Junta has feared to
tell tlx truth about him. The Culsin
patriots in the United States have riot
dared place the responsibility where It
In-longed bst Weyler should In ordered
to be more cruel and bloodthirsty. De
nunciations have been poured out
against Weyler, but the real villain was
granted temporary Ituufunity in. the
hope that some io!itlcal exigency
would cause tbe recall of Weyler and the
substitution of a less savage command
er. The American press has followed
this same course, heaping execrations
on Canovas' tool ami ImiLgiiian Instead
of on himself, ou whom iH) per cent, of
the blame must rightfully rest.
Canovas selected Weyler to do this
cruel work bcause be knew Weyler
wa snaturally Inhuman and savage,
and Canovas was the villain on whom
American denunciation should have
fallen, hot, vitriolic, and sulphuric.
The Italian anarchist had rid the work!
of one of the hardes-bearUni creatures
that ever disgraced It One thing Is as
sured, no sulmequent SMtnlsh Premier
can escape responsibility for the acts
was naturally Inhuman and savage,
of the general In command In Cuba. If
atrocities are kept up by Weyler or a
successor to Weyler the successor to
Canovas will be made to feel the wrattl
of civilization.
Manitoba's Premier Incognito.
Alsut one year ago a respected citi
zen of a small town la North Dakota
walked into the hotel with his wife for
tbe noonday meal. He saw at his tuble
two strangers, one a young man, pret
ty well dressed, and tbe other, evident
ly a farmer, about S0 years of age, w 1th
a gray, rough lxard and well-worn and
lll-nttlng clothing. Little attention
was paid to the pair, beyond a hasty
scrutiny. Tbe citizen and his wife
were thinking of taking n trip fo a
lake In Manitoba, near Crystal City,
for a few. days, and were talking about
the trip, Inquiring how long tbe fishing
would be good, etc., question which
those who were talking seemed unable
to answer. Tbe old fanner spoke up,
and, venturing to explain that he lived
quite near the lake, told all altout the
situation there, where to go, nt whose
bouse to stop and other needed lufor-
matu.n i.Mtle else was said hut h
im-oresslon made on the Htiton .ml
wife waa not sufficient to cause them
to make very much inquiry, and no one
about the hotel knew who the two men
were. .:
"Well, he aeemed to be a nice old fel
lw," aaid tbe wife, "though I noticed
lie seemed quite helpless in regard to
disposing of his lettuce. Probably ua
flist meal at a hotel."
"Very likely," replied the citizen.
Tlie next day the citizen met bis
friend, the liveryman, who said:
"By tbe way, did you see Premier
;reenway of Manitoba when he was
her,, yesterday? His driver brought
h.iu down here from Crystal City,
where he lives, you know, to catch the
train for St. Paul and then to Ottawa,
as he was in a hurry to go. He said he
thought Creeuway was called there to
confer with Iaurier and li P ne
school qnestion. He took dinner at the
Columbia, and I didn't know but you
might have seen him." Boston Tran
script. Old-Fashioned Journalism.
lie was a tenderfoot from Illinois.
He was hungry, ragged and dead broke,
ami was making for Carson Flats with
tlu idea of finding something to do as
an editor, reisirter or compositor on the
American Eagle. It was a scrub week
ly, but up to the average ami work of
some sort was his last hope. He was
within a mile of tbe town, and had sat
down on a stone for a rest, when a
crowd of alsuit thirty men turned In
from the Snake gulch trail. They were
mostly hard looking cases, nnd as they
came up the leader looked the tender
foot over and queried:
"Why don't ye hang yerself ?"
"Because I've got no folic," was the
reply.
"Whar's ye golnT
"Down to Carson Flat."
"What fur?"
"To hit a job on the Eagle."
"Ar' ye a newspaper man?"
"Yes."
"Then cum along."
He followed the crowd down the bill
and across the level to the town of tents
and shiuitlcs. and the first stop was
made In front of the Eagle office. The
lender and two of his crowd entered.
and pretty soon reappeared with the ed
itor and proprietor, who had a rope
around his neck and was somewhat per
turbed." There were cries of "Hang
him:" from various Individuals, but the
boss of the gang waved bis baud for
silence and said:
"All In reg'lar order, boys. Now,
Mister man, we don't like yer paper,
ami we've cum over to give ye a choice.
Will ye git or hang?"
"What's the matter with my paper?"
demanded tbe editor.
"Will ye git or hang? We hain't no
time fur1 foolln."
"Why, I'll git."
"Then go."
They gave blm time to make up a
bundle of clothes and stnrted him off
up the trail, and then the 1kss turned
to the tenderfoot with:
"Now, young feller, step in and take
possession. We may bang ye IrHde of
two weeks, or ye may pull along fur
two or three months."
Ten minutes later he was In full pos
session of the office. The editor waa
his own compositor and pressman, and
there was enough white paper on hand
to get out three issues. The entire out-,
fit, press and all, could have leen pack
ed on the back of a mule, but In those
days the newspafwr reader neither
looked for quantity nor quality. He
got out a fairly decent looking sheet,
and ns each copy sold for 50 cents, spot
cash, It was better than mining. The
third number had just been Issued and
tlie tenderfoot was sticking type for
the fourth, when a gang of about fifty
men came marching down from Dog
Hill and baited In front of tbe office.
Only one man came In. He had a hang
man's rope over his left arm and a gun
Iu bis right hand, and after a look
around be said:
"Well, young man, it's time fur ye to
move on:
"What's tbe row?" was asked.
"Oh. nutiilu' In pertlckler, but the
loys don't like yer paper. Will ye hang
or gltr
'i'll git of course. How much time?"
"Five mlnlls!" ;
The man from Illinois didn't need
three. He had an extra shirt and pair
of boots, and picking tltcui up he struck
out and down the trail and was seen no
more at Carson Flats. Denver New.
First Person Photographed. ,
It' was In 1842 that John Draper, then
a professor In the University of New
York, made the first portrait photo
graph. The subject was Elizabeth
Draper, his sister. Prof. Draper had
the Idea that In order to produce dis
tinct facial outlines in photography It
would lie necessary to cover the coun
tenance of the person photographed
with flour. This seems a strange no
tion now, and It proved not to be a good
one then, for all of Prof. Draper's early
ot tempts were failures. Finally he left
out the flour and then wax quite suc
cessful. This so delighted film that he
sent tbe picture to Sir William Hcrseh
el, the eminent EnglUth astronomer.
Sir William was In turn delighted, and
made known Prof, Draper's success to
the scientific men of Europe. He also
si-tut Prof. Draper a letter of acknowl
edgment and congratulation, which
1ms been carefully preserved In the
archives of the Draper family.
The Hopreme Court.
Two of the Justice of tho Supreme
Court tf the United States are more
than ." yent-s of age. They are Justice
Jray, of Massachusetts, who Is 09, and '
Justice Held, of California, who Is 81.'
The present bench of tho Supremo
Court, though representative of all sec
tions of the country, has a larger nuni
lnr of Justices born In New England
than In any other section. Chief Jus
tice Fuller Is a native of Mnlnc, Justice
Held or Connecticut, Justice Cray of
Massachusetts, Justice Brown of Mas
sachusetts, and Justice Brewer, though
born out of the United Htatea. la of
New England ancestry.
An Atchison man la wrttdiur a ru.r.j
In which the villain la avenged br htm
rival marrying the heroin.
" 1 '
If
