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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (April 29, 1898)
INTERNATIONAL RRZSS ASSOCIATION. CHAPTKP. IX.—(Continued.) "You frighten me.” she cried, trem bling still. "And I am so alone now. I used to have Auntie. I could have borne anything then, hut now I feel like a poor little rudderless boat going out to an unknown sea.” “Not rudderless while I live," he re plied tenderly. “Well, Dorothy, my darilr.g, I may as well make a clean breast of tin worst at once and get It over. Don t be frightened, dear, but my name is not Harris at all.” "Dick!” she cried, then sit staring at him as If she could not believe her own ears. “Dick!” "Yes, I know. But wait till you hear all, dear, and then you will see that It ; was not my fault, to begin with, and that 1 ttvcr meant really to deceive either of you.” And then he told her everythlng how I^ady Jane must have mistaken him for his friend Haines; how uncon scious he had been that the mistake had bei;n made until she—Dorothy, that is—had called hint Mr. Harris; how that fellow Stevenson had passed Just as she spoke, and he had forgotten until he got back to I»ady Jane’s, near ly, that he had parted from her leav ing her under a wrong impression about him; h,ow, oddly enough, al most the same thing had happened at IjUH y JcUlt? P. J urn Ilf -I about his uncle’s letter—gave it to | her to read, in fact—and told her how ho bad come to call on Miss Dimsdale, and had been prevented from giving ids real name to Barbara by Dorothy s coming to meet him and introducing him to her aunt as "Mr. Harris,” and, 1 finally, how he let the mistake pass, feeling that the whole situation was a very awkward one for him, but having always the full Intention of making a clean breast of it to Miss Dimsdale sooner or later. "And the fact was,” i he ended, half apologetically, ”1 thought if you both got to like me you wouldn't care whether my name was Tom, Dick or Harry.” "But It is Dick?” she cried quite piteously. "It is Dick—Dick Aylmer, at my darling’s service,” he answered, "and, after all, Aylmer is a better name than Harris any day." "And you will be Lord Aylmer one 1 day!” she said, her soft eyes Oiled with wonder to think of it. "Yes. always supposing the old saw- 1 ave does not contrive to carry his threat about an heir of his own Into actual fact," Dick replied. "Hut then you won't like me any the less for that, I hope." "Oh, no, l was not thinking of that," she aaid. "1 was only thinking how wonderful it was that you should want to marry me. But, Dick, what will your uncle say when he finds out I about It?" "He will cut off my allowance ; promptly." Dick answered. "Oh, Dick!" she said. “Well, now. my darling, that is what | 1 want to tail: to you about. You see. .lobody about here, not even I*ady lane, knows me except as Harris, reg iment vague. And if the old savage find* out that 1 am married he will make it a necessity fur me to go to India, which I don't want to do it I can help It. But If you would consent to marry me privately under the name of Richard Harris, we should be perfectly safe, ao long as yon were no: known by any of the people In the rtgimeai that Is. If you Ihert a mile or two away, or in the nett town" j "It would lie quite legal'" said Ikiro ihy. In a trembling voice. "It would be perfectly legal," he an swered "Oh, mv dear'" h» hurst out. • de you think I would be such a vil lain •» to make » suggestion which would not be legal wh.le your aum. who took eat* of you all h i Ilf--, and who left you la m* tUelg* la de»d In the house ’ l.islen I ha»<- though It ail Ml, We shall be nt*>rlr I, if you . sswst as soon a* *'■ tswsib'v ten hs tterbath elM wtin*»» da u»< age M will »«» know m> r*al asm* I • ill gt one* make a deed de* Utiwg that | was married on eu» h a day andef the name of Hard# end teat* it sealed in s*m piece of pMj eo ihai th ru e*a hover he eny trtsnhle a bow -he tdghliPewiUMK of the Hiehard '• »rr « sfes ten* asan ted t* imrothy A “*w Ww Mil MB Her her* that i* la »*♦• •HD the married* should hw kepi Me • Hm*k wad eh# hill Me* •'** you ami lane tare 01 you wu;u a aui absent. There, that ts mv Idea. I know that it is a great sarriflee to ask of you, and I hardly like to ask It, but you see I am in this old savage’s hands, »o to speak. Then, cn the other hand. If you don’t feel that you ought to do this, or that your aunt would have objected very strongly to it, I will write at once and tell Lord Ayl mer what I have done, and he must make him3clf as disagreeable as he pleases. Only, my dearest, that will mean India." "Dick, dear," said Itorothy, slipping her hand within his, " we will be mar ried privately. I don’t think Auntie would have minded a bit. If she knew a thing was right, she never cared what the world had to say about It.” CHAPTER X. ND so It was set tled. When Dick had gone again, Dorothy rang the bell for Barbara. "Come In here Bar bara." she said, "I have something to tell you. Listen— rtt down, Barbara, and promise me that what I tell you shall be a dead secret for ever un til 1 release you from your promise." “Miss Dorothy," said Barbara, snif fing, "I promise, but surely you know it Isn’t necessary.” jvo, Barbara, no,’ soothingly, "but It Is best to say all first, Isn’t It? First, do you know that this house all belongs to Mr. David Stevenson?” "To David Stevenson!” burst out IJarbara, Indignantly (she had known David from a lilttle boy and detested him always). "But, Miss Dorothy, surely the dear mistress never let him get round her to that extent?” "No, no,’’ cried Dorothy, "but Auntie had to sell the Hall to somebody, and she sold It to David, and I never knew It till he told me yesterday.” "Then I think, Miss Dorothy,” cried Barbara, in dignified disgust, "that be might have bad the decency to wait a day or two before lie told you.” "No, Barbara, you arc too bard on David, He has been very kind and considerate to me—most kind and con siderate, Indeed. But he jiffit had to tell me, he couldn't very well help him self. Of course, lie does not want to turn us out- he—be wouldn't mind If we stopped hero for years; but then, you see, Barbara, I am engaged to Mr. Harris, and- sud this no place for nie.” "Does Mr. David know?” Barbara in quired. "Not yet; and that is what I wanted to tell you. You see, Barbara, Mr. Har ris is very awkwardly placed. He has a relation who insists that he does not get married because be would not mar ry some rich girl or other that they wanted him to marry. And. of course, he wants to marry ine, and be means to.” "Ye*?” said Barbara, Intensely in terested In this very romantic situa tion. "Yes, M'ss Dorothy; well?” “Well, Barbara dear, we are going to be married quietly,' said Dorothy, edging her chair a trifle nearer to the elderly woman’s chair, “without letting anybody know, do you see?" “Without any of the folk round ahout knowing?” Barbara asked. "Just so. It won't be for always, you know. Barbara- only until Dick comes into hi* property; and he hasn’t asked me to do anything but exactly what he had made up his mind to ex plain to Auntie, and ask her to give her consent to. And 1 feel sure she would have done so. dear Auntie, for she did get so fond of Dick." "Yes, she did.” Barbara agreed. "But Miss Dorothy, you are sure it will lie done properly -that you’ll be mar ried In church aad have .• vur line.,, and ail that?” "You are to see me married. Bar bum." Dorothy answered, simply; "Mr. Harris says so." And after that Barbara gave her con sent, ao to apeak, and promised to lie true to her trust and *taad by her a mi i< • i or fiNiMr pit VUm Ihwofc) «• t»«« •• she lived | think tbs deal niotvsi would bn ft id it »hw knnw Mum Dumb “ "dfce did kn«* UarhMi. «•»<! Ib*c«b i thy. wuk • twnd*, •am* vkiuiM I tktwwdk «*•>» tent* dn ik* It* Ml hn* fur • tuny t« m* tnlbmc hmt and *** aad UM weeping m some word brought bnefe the memory of their lose. And Doro thy told the faithful servant all th* plans that DleS and she had made for the strange and almost unknown fu ture which seemed so terrible to her who had lived all her life—all that she could remember, at least—under the same roof and guarded by the same tender care. It was so sad to have so little Joy In her engagement and her coming mar riage, and yet, "You mustn’t think that I don’t love Dick,” she cried to Bar bara, when she had another passionate burst of grief over the dead woman lying above. "I do love him with all my heart, and I know that I shall be quite, quite happy by-and-by. But It Is all so sudden, so strange and new; everything Is going from me at one stroke, and after we go away from Gravelolgh I shall have nothing but you to remind me of the past at all. Why, I don’t know. I am not at all sure that everything here does not belong to David. Perhaps he can even take my Lorna Doone away and—and even drr’wn her.’’ “Nay, nay, Mr. David won’t want to do that," returned Barbara, soothingly. "Besides, Lorna never did belong to the mistress. Her ladyship gave her to you—the dear mistress had naught to do In the matter. Then, Miss Doro thy, dear, aren’t you going to tell her ladyship about It?” “Lady Jane last of anybody," <?ried Barbara—"last of anybody." "I see," said Barbara, with an air ot wisdom; but all the same, Barbara did not see anything. She thought the whole arrangement very strange and ' unusual, and she reminded herself that j she had never been mixed up with any- ; thing of the hind In her life befoii, and now that she was being drawn into something distinctly clandestine she did not at all like It. Still, on the other hand, there was only the pros pect of remaining at Graveleigh Hall under David Stevenson, and Barbara cordially detested David, as she ha>’ always done. So, between her dislike j of David Stevenson and Dorotffy's j promise and Mr. Harris’ wish tha. she should see the marriage take place Barbara graciously gave her sanction to the private union, and did not try to place any obstacles In the youn& folks' way. CHAPTER Xf. i|ieu iu iiLi, uiiu bitter were the tears that fell that day for the just and kind friend who was gone. Naturally a good deal of curiosity was felt about Dorothy's future, and many were the speculation! as to whether she would remain at the Hall alone with Miss Barbara or whether she would eventually decide to go to Holroyd, or to take the good-looking officer who had been so frequent a vis itor at the Hall for three months past. With regard to Dick, there was al most a quarrel, for Dorothy, as a mat ter of course, had invited him to tha funeral, as indeed she had asked all her aunt's friends who would be like ly to attend It. Now. Dorothy had not a relation in * t_/.vnontlnir nnn .... that time wintering in Egypt, and therefore unable to attend the cere mony, She did not enter the large drawing-room until the last moment bpfore starting, and then only spoke a few words to those nearest the door And when the time came for them to go, David Stevenson came forward and, with a very authoritative air solely doe to the presence of bis rival offered Dorotby his arm. (To be continued.) Natural IVrfuiuaa and Fumre*. The preparation of natural essences, 1 according to the Popular Science j Monthly, is still a genuine agricultural Industry. Flowers and leaves are the ; raw material, amt (hey have to !>e I treated fresh. The original laborato ries are iheruforw generally established very near where the plants cats enjoy the most favoiable climatic condition-, lienee the crude essence* generally i come to us from various distant re* | gums essence ot Hung from Manila, of geranium from Heiinlon and Algeria i of lemon and citron from Cevion am* China, etc. Hut as the Imported mate rials are generally scandalously adui* . tvrated. European manufacture** hav* ; tieen Impelled US bring home *ltch ot the crude Material as will bear trans portation Mo mtndalwood. cloves, pat chouli leave* and vet (vert grata route brought dried and with their went* I unimpaired at* di-'ilind in Ftanr* and j derm.ay rather titan tu the eouhtfie* 1 uf their origin The ntuat impurtani -enter of lb ui.i ,iuf I-'nr* in the 11-1'« illy of tiro- r it- ti Nee and Conn-* j which, lentil** Ding a >arg- renter ul pticlocth'u hir it** distillation uf plants amt *>*«) t* th* thief plve where the** *t-- cl pro* wane* whi -v ; hove hev* transmitted through as* *, and nr* the only ones l<s the entrm | ipm of the perfume* of fuwvr*. am ;* j use 1 he only • -i nit* ai spent* em- ; ' p’oved In the** pr»-so- are v*puc and fat. The inanctaiti-nna of *tt.g I - ii paefu.*-- v au tips ot he r hatvd am a* inhorai->rte- f - It"ail *1 p* -duel* • he -* the hahtluai agauii of thansisi) industry am m*tars4 rsnmnag tht i«i*. .eaii--u of -hemista sad envpa-stn, and if* *a aut «n--.» hy prsfsmnta at . tha grant iml - **<ai isswta. TALMAGE’S SERMON. “STORM CLOUDS BRIGHTENED” SUNDAY’S SUBJECT. From the Text .lob 37:31 ■a Follow*: “And Now Men See Not the Itrlght I.lght Which I* In the Cloud*'*—Com fort of Chrlxtlau Tcnchlng*. Wind eaat. Barometer falling. Storm signals out. Ship reefing uiulutopsail! Awnings taken In. Prophecies of foul weather everywhere. The clouds con gregate around the sun, proposing to abolish him. But after a while he as sails the flunks of the clouds with fly ing artillery of light, aud here and there Is a sign of clearing weather. Many do not observe it. Many do not realize It. "And now men see not the bright light which Is In the clouds.” In other words there are a hundred men looking for storm where there Is one man looking for sunshine. My object will be to get you and myself Into the delightful habit of making the best of everything. You may have wondered at the sta tistics that In India, in the year 1875. there were over 19,000 people slain by wild beasts, and that In the year 1876 there wero in India over 20,000 people destroyed by wild animals. But there Is a monster In our own land which Is year by year destroying more than that. It is the old bear of melancholy, and with gospel weapons I propose to chase It back to Its midnight caverns. I mean to do two sums—a sum In sub traction and a sum In addltlon--a sub traction from your days of depression and an addition to your days of Joy. If Qod will help me I will compel you to sec the bright light that there is in the 'iuuub, iiiiu vwkiyyi .. • best of everything. In the first place, you ought to make the very beat of all your financial mis fortune*. During the panic a few years ago you all Ic3t money. Some of you lost It In most unaccountable ways. Kpr the question, "How many thous ands of dollar* shall I put aside this year?” jo;j substituted the question, “How shall I pay my butcher, and baker, and clothier, and landlord?" You had the sensation of rowing hard with two oars, and yet all the time going down stream. You did not gay much about it be cause it was not politic to speak much of financial embarrassment; but your wife knew. I.ess variety of wardrobe, more economy at the table, self-denial In art aud tapestry. Compression; re trenchment. Who did not feel the ne cessity of It? My friend, did you make the best of this? Are you aware of how narrow an escape you made? Sup pose you had reached the fortune to ward which you were rapidly going? What then? You would have been as proud as Dueifer. How fev; men have succeeded largely In a financial sense and yet maintained tbeir simplicity and religious consecra tion! Not one man out of a hundred. There are glorious exceptions, but the general rule is that in proportion as a man gets well off for this world he gets poorly off for the next. He loses his sense of dependence on God. He gets a distaste for prayer meetings. With plenty of bank stocks and plenty of government securities, what does that man knows of prayer. “Oive me this day my dally bread?" How few men largely successful In this world are bringing souls to Christ, or showing self-denial for others, or are eminent tor piety! You can count them all up on your eight fingers and two thumbs. One of the old covetous souls, when he was sick, and sick unto death, used tfi havp ti ltufiin KpmitrKt In » Knaln filled with gold, and his only amuse ment and the only relief he got for his inflamed hands was running them down through the gold and turning it up in the basin. Oh. what infatuation and what destroying power money has for many a man! Now, you were aailiug at thirty knots the hour toward these vortexes of worldliness—wbat a mercy it was, that honest defalcation! The same divine hand that crushed your store-house, your bank, your office, your Insurance company, lifted you out of destruction. The day you honestly suspended lu business made your for tune for eternity. "Oh, you say, "I could get along very well myself, hut 1 aui so disap pointed that 1 cannot have u compe tence for my children." Vy brother, the same financial misfortune that Is going to save your soul will save your children. With the anticipation of large fortune, how much industry would your children have? without which habit of Industry there is no safety. The young man would say. Well, there'* uo uee«l of my working, my father will soon step out. and then I'll have just what I want." You can not bide from him how much you are I worth You think you are hiding It; ! hr knows nil about It. IU ran tell you almost lu a dollar. I'rrhape h has been to ills roomy uffice and searched the records of deeds and moi t papas and he ha« added It all up, and he has made an estimate of how lung you will i probably stay hi this world, and Is no' as mu* b * or. t»<t about vowr rheumat* IttM tail shot: Ursa of breath is you i are the only fortuih* worth anything that urn ran iit*< tunr < hlld u the for i tune you put in kb h*ad and heart tlf alt the runup Stas who started life With lit* tent - apt al how oust turned •ut well* I do nsM know half a dome .tSpin. I ■ emark yurt ought lu Utah* the Very best nf tout bereavement* The whole tendency tg to brpswl over I th *# *epo r at lone and to give mu h time to the hahdllnp I mementoes nf i the deported and to metre tamp stal e i ti.ro* to th* cWVeVer «. and to toy, tin I ran neve* lutth up ty.nH my hop* is f ( roe tor lrtiuyfag-t ka mm* my re.tpma I I put ot faith to IkM ig pone * tkfc I tkg s*st sod lent and v k»w* tap «f I this loneliness!” The most frequent bereavement is the loss of children. If your departed child had lived as long as yon have lived, do you not suppose that he would have had about the same amount of trouble and trial that you have had? If you could make a choice for your child between forty years of annoyance, loss, vexation, exaspera tion and bereavements, and forty years in heaven, would you take the respon sibility of choosing the former? Would you snatch away the cup of eternal bliss and put Into that child's hands the cup of many bereavements? Instead of the complete safety Into which that child has been lifted, would you like to hold It down to the risks of this mortal state? Would you like to keep It out on a sea In which there have been more shipwrecks than safe voy- j ages? Is it not a comfort to you to know that that child. Instead of being hesoiled and flung Into the mire of sin, Is swung clear Into the skies? Are not those children to be congratulated that the point of celestial bliss which you expect to reach by a pilgrimage of fifty or sixty or seventy years, they reached at a flash? If the last ten thousand children who had entered heaven had gone through the average of human life on earth, are you sure all those ten thousand children would have Anally reached the blissful terminus? Besides that, my friends, you are to look ut tbla matter as a self-denial on your part for their benefit. If your children want to go off In a May-day party; If your children want to go on a flowery and musical excursion, you consent. You might prefer to have them with you, but their Jubilant absence satis fies you. Well, your departed children have only gone out In a May-day par ty, amid flowery and musical entertain ment, am!d Joys ar.d hilarities forever. That ought to quell some of your grief, , the thought of their «'“e, Sotr.e of you talk aa though God had exhaust d himtelf in building th s world, and that all the rich cu.tatm he ever made he hung around this plan et, and all the flowers be ever wew he has woven Into the carpet of our dais ied meadows. No. This world Is not the best thing God can do; this world Is not the best thing that God has done. One week of the year Is called blos som week—called so all through the land because there are more blossoms In that week than In any other week of the year. Blossom week! And that Is what tho future world is to which the Christian Is invited—blossom week forever. It Is as far ahead of this world as E’aradlse la ahead of Dry Tor tugas, and yet here we stand shivering and fearing to go out, and we want to stay on the dry sand, and amid the stormy petrels, when wo are Invited to arbors of jessamine and birds of par adise. One season I had two springtimes. I went to New Orleans In April, and I marked the difference between going toward New Orleans and then coming back. Ab 1 went on down toward New Orleans the verdure, the foliage, be came thicker and more beautiful. When I came back, the further I came toward home the less the foliage, and less and less it became until there was hardly any. Now, It all depends upon the di rection In which you travel. If a spirit from heaven should come toward our world, he is traveling from June toward December, from radiance to ward darkness, from hanging gardens toward Icebergs. And one would not he very much surprised if a spirit of God sent forth from heaven toward our world should be slow to come. But how strange it Is that we dread going out toward that world when going Is from December toward June—from the snow of earthly storm to the snow of Edenlc blossom—from the arctics of tennhUi tnusml thp trnnli'H nf otftrnal joy. Ob, what an ado about dying! We get so attached to the malarial marsh in which we live that we are afraid to go up and live on the hilltop. We are alarmed because vacation is coming. Kternal sunlight, and best programme of celestial minstrels and hallelujah, no inducement. Let us stay here and keep cold and Ignorant and weak. Do not introduce us to Klijah, and John Milton and llourdaloue. Keep our feet on the sharp cobble-stones of earth In stead of planting them on the hunk of amaranth in heaven. (Jive us this small Island of a leprous world insteud of the Immensities of splendor and de- j light. Keep our hands full of uettles, and oiii shoulder under the burden, and our neck In the yoke, nud hopples on our ankles, anil handcuffs nu our wrists. Dear laird," we seem to sty. "keep u* down here where we have to suffer, instead of letting us up where w* might live and reign and rejoice." I am amazed at myself and at your self for this infatuation under which we all leal. Men you would suppose would get frightened gt having to atgv ! la this world instead of netting fright- | rued at having to go toward heaven. I congratulate ni^ytody who has a right to die H> that I mean through al.k aim yon cauiioi avert, or through accl dent you cannot avoid yum wink con suniiuateii Where did they bury ■ 1.11k*" said one lll.le child to another j Oh. ' she replied, they honed her la j 'he giooad What! la the catil | ground*" 1 tld no, Mo, Mat in the .hihi ground bol In i h* w aim ground a her* Ugly »e*d* be • use beautiful dower* " "Hut *aye », m* one. it pain* me to nin.it to Ihtuk that i most jo«e th tauiv With Wht-b Hit eowi ha* *M Mug mopanloM'd ' You do u*u lone it You tie inure in## your body by death 'ink you luee usir »at<h when ywu • >4 |t to have II tepatred or tour • wel whew tow *#gd t» to have H mti or the fao»d picture a baa vtau owl it In ba>e t two. bed Up ef the photo gtaph of k titewd »k*w you have ll pul la a ms k . k* Yon u *#. loan ust ..It l*tul will go is Htuwa la gwt hi* IVyiwa sih go lu iv*iiaw.i to ge* ha 'r|| itdw lid* gill go lo ft SiVu* to get bis, George Cookman will go to the bottom of the Atlantic to get his. and we will go to the village church yardo and the city cemeteries to get ours; and when we have our perfect spirit rejoined to our perfect body, then we will be the kind of men and women that the resurrection morning will make possible. So you see 70U have not made out any doleful story yet. What have you proved about death? What Is the case you have made out? You have made out Just this—that death allows us to have a perfect body, free of all aches, united forever with a perfect soul free from all sin. Correct your theology. What does It all mean? Why, It means that moving day Is coming, and that you ure going to quit cramped apart ments, and be mansloned forever. The horse that stands at the gate will not be the one lathered and bespattered, carrying bad news, but It will be the horse that St. John saw In Apocalyptic vision—the white horse on which the King comes to the banquet. The ground around the palace will quake with the tires and hoofs of celestial equipage, and those Christians who In this world lost their friends and lost their prop erty, and lost their health, and lost their life, will find out that God was always kind, and that all things work ed together for their good, and that those were the wisest people on earth who made the best of everything. See you not now the bright light In the clouds? GLADSTONE PICTURES. story or Ills Physiognomy m* Told by the llrunti. One of the curious things about Mr. Gladstone: Is the difference which years have produced both In his appearance and expression. At all times he must have been a hnn''some man. But strangely enough, when he entered tne house of common* In hi* twenty-sec ond year, It waa the beauty that seem ed to point to premature death. "Hl» face," tald Mr. McCarthy, "was pallid, almost bloodless," and the pallor was brought Into greater life by the abuu-^ dant and Intensely black balr and the largo, fiery black eyes that blazed up on the world. Different portraits of Mr. Gladstone form an interesting study. The face that looks out from the portrait of 1832 Is thin: the fea tures look sharp; the cheeks have the smoothness and the moderate fullness of youth; of the mouth, beautifully shaped, full, and yet not large, the dominant expression Is sweetness and tranquillity. In a later picture one Bees the cheeks expanding, the chin getting squarer, the brow heavier and the mouth stronger, larger and grim mer. The expression Is altogether one of seriousness, strenuousness, almost of frowning earnestness. And then when one comes to the portraits of old age there is another and quite as great a transformation. The heavy, black locks have, of course, disappeared, and this brings out the enormous size of the bead, large in brow and In back; the mouth appears, again, to he fuller than even In middle age, and the whole face has broadened; but the expression has lost all the stern and strenuous gravity of middle age, as well as the 3weet softness of youth, and there Is a genial smile, as of the warrior who has done all his fighting and can now look with some detachment, and even with some humor, on the battlefield which knows him no more—McCar thy’s Life of Gladstone. ltled for HU Mlitrfii. A fine instance of canine devotion comes to us from Kansas, through the columns of the Topeka State Journal. Samuel Dodge, a ranchman, living southwest of Topeka, went to Vinlta. Indian Territory, on business, and aff#»r hf> hnfl ernnp Hp3r1p hi.* five-year-old girl, wandered away from home In an attempt to follow him. Mrs. Dodge discovered the child's absence about two hours after Mr. Dodge's de parture. She made a search of the premises, and failing to find the child, notified the neighbors of her disap pearance. They turned out in force, and scoured the prairies all day, ami all that night and all the next day, searching for the little wanderer, l.ate the following evening an Indian tame upon her fast asleep just south of Post Oali creek. In an old road known as the "whisky trail.” Across her body stood a Newfoundland dog. which had always been her companion about the ranch. The dog was torn and bleeding, and near hi* feet lay the bodies of two Wolves. Although the little girl’s cheeks were stained with tears and covered with dust, she was quite un harmed. She anti her protector were taken borne, a distance of twelve miles. The dog died that night. He received a detent burial, and his master at <m«e ordered a marble monument which will lie placed at the head of the faith ful animal's grate Ik* »•••” I'rttepertly • IwiailtthM. limittt Bill—' There'* no use talking hostile** f* improving The farmer* nr* feeling easier than for four year* pact " Hi auger llrip .No dream, parduvr' i ran report Ibree gold brick sale*, eight i ber ks < ashed and Sixteen jay* ahotVU ■ round lawn fin i«*i week, as against niching but I tie sal* of a ticket In I'sutral Park fur the rorreaiumdlpg we*k uf l ist year.” I‘u< k Wettest t. rt sfUaginn Uisaisi Xist; 1 ti *e*m katdci fm men in b* really greet suss. ■fay* than II * as years ago, said the siu4*ai w* k.slots ' Tha' a xeiy true • epiied Wsaaim 4».gb •tm t *t y uni. ie-ie«l He | am Ins'tlneu la iklaX ee g*i belies paid fuc it nowaday#.u • '■gets aie nftea tsfsi rest ia || as«aa Tks ■ •»*«# b tsfeslssas *• sorbets gad •uaaip* *r« glaaya