HIS WORD OF HONOR
A Tale of the Blue and the Gray.
BYE WEFNEP
Copyright. 1S0-I, br Eobert Bcnner'n Son*
CHAPTER III.—(Continued.)
‘‘I believe you, Edward,” she said.
In a low tone. “I will be ready this
evening."
Edward raised her hands to his lips
and rose.
“Thanks! And now one fuvor more!
Captain Wilson asks permission to pay
his respects to you. Will you receive
him?"
“Not now. I must go to my father.
The captain will excuse me if I receive
him later.”
"As you please. And when may I
see my uncle?"
“As soon as he wakes. I am ex
pecting the doctor. He promised to
come toward evening and bring Doctor
lilackwood, who is to reach the city
this morning. Perhaps he can give
me hope."
“Hope? You know as well as I that
It' Is only a question of time, a short
addition lo the days of life. The phy
sicians have left us no doubt on that
score. Hut I won't detain you from
the sick-room now. Farewell! I shall
hope to see my uncle In half an hour.”
He kissed her hand again, and left
the room,
Florence remained alone. She, too,
had risen, and now, slowly approach
Ing the fountain, bent over Its basin.
The sultry air oppressed her till her
breathing almost failed. Perhaps It
was also the burden of dread of the
coming hours and the torturing de
cision which they must bring.
The water leaped and plashed. The
fragrance of the (lowers stole softly
nnd sweetly to her. While her eyes
mechanically followed the falling
drops, their pattering and the fra
grance wove a dreamy haze of remem
brance about her and ltd her hack
into the past—this last year, which at
first had promised her ho much happi
ness, only to bring such hitter suffer
ing
Kveu this brief period of bliss had
at first cost a struggle. She was
obliged to conquer a prejudice of her
followed the former’s serious illness
den. Instead of using the main en
trance, and now, unannounced, hur
riedly entered the drawing-room. The
young lady Involuntarily took a step
toward the table, on which stood a
bell.
“Florence!"
She started, for she recognized the
voice, then the features, and with a
cry of mingled fear and joy she held
out both arms to him,
"William!"
He was already at her side and
clasped her passionately In his arms,
exclaiming with a deep sigh:
“Thank heaven! At least I have not
lost you!"
Florence clung closely to him, as If
seeking protection. Everything that
had tortured her vanished In her
lover’s presence, in the delight of see
ing him, and she eagerly exclaimed:
“Have you come at last? Why have
you left me alone so long—so endlessly
long? I despaired of your return.”
“I could not hasten to you,” replied
William. “My regiment was one of
the first to receive marching orders.
Not a day. not an hour was granted
me, and every march Increased the dis
tance between us. You know what It
cost me to submit to this Iron neces
sity; my letters told you.”
“Your letters? You wrote to me?”
"Then you did not receive them? 1
suspected It when no answer came, yet
1 still tried every means of communi
cating with you. Florence, we have
been shamefully treated. I have never
had one line from your hand.”
“From me? I did not write," said
Florence, In a low, hesitating tone.
William, who was still holding her
In close embrace, suddenly released
her and stepped back.
“You did not? You have not sent
me a single line during the long
months of our separation? You have
not once attempted to elude the watch
set on your movements? Yet you must
have known that 1 would make every
effort to send you tidings of me."
The reproach was felt, but at the
SHE STARTED FOR SHE RECOGNIZED THE VOICE.
father, who had long intended to wed
her to hta nephew and would hear of no
other marriage. He considered the
young officer who had won his daugh
ter's love as an insolent intruder, who
was destroying the peace of his house
hold; and the political opiuions of the
two men, which were strongly opposed
to each other, also threatened danger.
Nevertheless, for the time. Mr. Har
rison, couquered by the tears and en
treaties of his only child, yielded,
though with reluctance; Edward, who
had just returned from a long jour
ney, found himself confronted with a
fact against which his fierce jealous.'
was powerless. Hut he knew how to
maintain his influence over Ills uncle,
and never ceased to stimulate his aver
sion to the sou In-law who had been
forced upon hint.
CHAPTER IV
\t last, the outbreak of th • war fur
nished the long -desired opportunity f »r
an open breach. Harrison Imp.i d
conditions which he knew the young
officer would never accept and. on his
refusal, withdrew hta promise. In this
way be had a semblance of justice on
bis aids, and Roland's refusal was >!•
•fritted under the must hateful rotor*
Florence was neither energetic nor in
dependent Hhe had b«*«n brave so
long as William stood at her aide aud
•he w«a sure of hi* love and protec
tion Alone she •«• unable to contend
with her father and Edward, and now
and Edward's passionate entreaties,
for the latter was determined to amure
her hand at any c >si At last, sup
p.Miitg too self de*ert< d by the man »h*
loved, aha yielded to these creatures
and gave up her resistance
The young **»• ■*« suddenly startled
from her reverie by a hr«*»<l height bar
u< sunshine The Minds el the glam
duuta lead lug uul upon the terrace had
been opened, uul a loan ap > »r« I In
a light anmmer suit, with a broad
itrimmed straw hat pulled an low ever
bln pm that hta leaturaa could
scarcely ha dtallagutab* I The visit *»
•lrange in any, rsn* through the gal
same time the old sting also pierced
her heart, and. with a touch of de
fiance. the young girl answered:
“Tidings of you did come, but they
were not addressed to me—the letter
in which you renounced me and all of
us.”
“Your father—not you. What other
answer could [ make to his shameful
demand? Either he never knew me,
or he could not have set such a choice
before me—or he knew my decision In
advance, and my refusal was to seal
a sepal atlon on which he had long
determined.”
' Well, at least you made your choice
promptly enough' You uttered the re
fusal, and—gave me up.”
“No, Florence, no!” William Im
petuously answend ' I did not give
you up, and never wili, as long as
breath remains in my body. 1 know
that we are parted for the time, that
there . an be no thought of marriage
while 1 am serving in the t it ion army
It would be expecting the Impossible
from your father If I were to ask his
consent before the war la over Hut
tny fe«r wan not vain that the effort
would be made to wrest you front me.
that estrangement and distrust would
<onie between us while 1 was absent.
You have doubted me. | ace. and It was
. to destroy th.a doubt that 1 took the
i dangerous rtde here Hut you will
i now believe lu m« and my love, my
1 Florence, as nrmly as I trust you
Will you not r*
The last words etpressed the ulin el
tenderness lie believed so implicitly
, in the loyalty of hta (•# ■•*. and >h*
V sudden fear awoke In her with the
memory of what had happened and
wss yet to coma William most know
II yet she could not force her Itp* III
utter the eonfeaalun
ithe waa to he spared the aecasally
While still struggling 1,1 hnd the words
with nhtrh lu begin her story Edward
returned and paused un the Hireshuid
in astonishment as he mi the
etranger «iasplng the youag gitl'e hand
so familiarly In hta own At the list
glance ths civilian * dress and the dim
light deceived him; but as the young
officer, with a sudden movement,
turned toward him, Harrison started
back, exclairaingiy furiously;
"Mr. Roland—is it you?"
"Certainly," replied the other, coldly,
with a gloomy glance at the man whom
he had long recognised as his foe. "You
probably did not expect to find me
here?"
Edward had already regained his
self-control. He instantly perceived
what threatened him and the peril in
volved by his rival's unexpected ap
pearance. A few hours later, the latter
would have had no power to cross his
path; but now lie must face the danger,
and Harrison was not the man to
shrink and give up the game as lost.
“No, indeed," he said, answering the
last question. “So far as I am aware,
the Union forces have not reached
Springfield."
‘Yet 1 am here, as you see."
"On hostile soil. And for what pur
pose?"
"Do I owe an account to you? You
seem to be usurping the place of the
master of the house, Mr. Harrison. I
regret that I cannot acknowledge It;
for I, too. have a son's privilege here,
and will speak only to the father of
my betrothed bride.”
“My uncle will hardly be disposed
to recognize your claim. At any rate,
you must forego an Interview with
him.”
“Will you prevent it?" demanded
Roland, threateningly.
But Florence, who had anxiously
noticed the rising wrath of the two
men, now interposed.
"My father is ill, William," she said
gently; “hue been very ill for months.
During the last few weeks his disease
has assumed a dangerous phase, and
yesterday the doctor prepared me for
the worst.”
Her voice was choked with tears.
William listened in perplexity; what
ever wrath he had cherished against
his future father-in-law, this news
disarmed him.
“I had no thought of this," he said,
deeply moved. "My poor Florence!”
He put his arm around the weeping
girl. Hut this movement, the quiet
confidence with which he asserted the
rights of a betrothed lover, enraged
Harrison to the utmost; his hands
clenched as if he longed to tear the
couple apart, and his voice sounded
hoarse, almost stifled.
"You don’t seem to be aware of
what has happened recently, Mr. Ro
land. I am compelled to inform you
of It; 1—"
“I know and suspect more than
might be agreeable to you," inter
rupted the young officer, releasing
Florence and approaching him. "I
just heard from Miss Harrison that
not one of my letters has reached her
hands, though I used every precaution.
Her father cannot have interfered,
since for months he has been on a sick
bed; yet an Intrigue has been carried
on which 1 see with tolerable distinct
ness. Perhaps I shall apply to the
right person if I ask you for informa
tion. You will, of course, deny—"
“Who tells you so?" asked Edward,
coldly. “The letters are in my
hands."
William started back. This cold
blooded acknowledgment completely
destroyed his self-command for a mo
ment; but Florence exclaimed in con
sternation:
"Edward! You did that?”
He turned to her with a perfectly
unmoved manner.
"1 think I can explain it. At first I
acted only at your father's request,
afterward on my own authority; but
then I was simply exercising my rights,
for you will remember that three
weeks ago you consented to become
my wife.”
"That is a lie! A shameful slander!”
cried William. "Speak, Florence! De
fend yourself! You see I don't be
lieve one word of the calumny."
(To be continued.)
Orritt Hell*.
In the manufacture of great bells
Russia has always taken the lead.
The "Giant," which was cast in Mos
cow in the sixteenth century, weighed
288,000 pounds, and it required twen
ty-four men to ring it. It was broken
by falling from its support, but was
recast in 1W>4. On June 19. 170ti, it
again fell, and iu 1732 the fragments
were used, with new materials, in cast
ing the "King of Kells," still to lie
seen In Moscow. This bell is nine
teen feet three inches high, measures
around the margin sixty feet nine
inches, weighs about 413.732 pounds,
and its estimated value In metal alone,
is at least $3uo,ooo. st Ivans bell,
also In Moscow, is forty feet nine
Inches In circumference, sixteen and
a half Inches thick, and weighs 127,*
830 pounds The bells of China rank
next to those of Russia In slse in
Rekin there are seren bells, each is
said to weigh )20.noo pounds. The
weight of the leading great bells of the
world sre as follows "Great Hell of
Moscow," 443.732 pounds. Hi Ivan’s.
Moscow, 127 silo pounds, IVkln. l.o,
umo pounds; Vienna. 4>.2Uu pounds,
Olmuti. Ituhenita, lu.utio pounds. Rou
en, France 4«mm»> pounds, Hi l*atil'a.
Iwmdon 38.470 pounds, ' tllg Hen, '
Westminster 30.140 pounds. Montreal,
28 480 pounds. Ht Peter's Home,
18,809 pounds.
JsltsUl I w| i*.
It».y You are going to ftghl sgallUM
the Fngitsh aren't you. Capl Mruwa*
Cap* tiro w a tiadtsasHlIi i light
the Kagttsh' What on earth put that
into your head *
I tor Why. daddy said you wars a
horrid ttuor' Punch
ttxwa when man wishes his own op
portoattlos they arw tut mads Iw suit
him
By M. S. Jameson.
"Well, If those fellows are coming
around to see the old year out they
had better show up pretty soon."
yawned H. Parker Baxter as he slam
med down the cover of a ponderous
and gruesome medical book and turned
a pair of sleepy eyes to the clock,which
was complacently ticking away the
last fifteen minutes of '98. No other
sounds were to be heard, save the oc
casional settling of the fire In the
grate, for the snow lay deep and soft
over the cobble and flagstone outside.
The old year, after a stormy life, was
dying calmly and beautifully.
To our frieud Baxter, one of these
unimpassioupd, dusty men who never
"Join In," this ancient ceremony of
seeing the old year out appealed but
feebly. He used to say of New Years,
“an arbitrarily fixed point In time
which has become the inaugural date
for good resolutions, to the necessary
neglect of all other dates for their
formation,” but most of his friends
thought this simply a speech that he
was gratified to make. He was trying
hard to pose as a "rising young phys
ician," and was really acting the part
to himself, as many an ambitious man
will do.
But however this may be, as the
seconds ticked along, H. Parker grew
more and more drowsy. He settled
himself back In the chair, stared at the
fire, and blinked. Then his eyelids
d mimed
"This will never do," says he,
straightening up with a jerk and
reaching out to the table for something
to read or look at, "1 must keep awake
a few minutes longer.” Chance put a
stack of photographs under bis hand,
tind though they were stale enough he
began to look them over again—lnci
deutally yielding to the comfort of ly
ing back in the big chair. Some were
portraits of hi3 friends at school and
college, some were old faded prints
that ought to have had romances at
tached, but which were really very
prosaic, even to him. Others bore the
brand of the amateur’s first attempt—
these to be passed by quickly; a few
were the products of his own photo
graphic skill at Granite Head last sum
mer-bathers in the surf, the hotel, a
clam bake, etc.—all very fair photo
graphs In their way—but hold! here
is one that might be studied critically.
There is no hurry. It is too late now
for the revellers to come. H. Parker
shifts to a still more comfortable posi
tion and the soft lamp light shines
over his shoulder upon as pretty a lit
tle picture as you would ask to see.
It is the picture of a dark-haired girl,
dressed in a suit of duck. She Is stand
ing on a log of driftwood with her
hands behind her and her handsome,
happy face turned squarely to the cam
era. In the developing of this pic
ture H. Parker had conceded that more
care was required than in ordinary
work; he had watched its delicate lines
appear with the enthusiasm of a true
lover of the chemist's art. With any
other passion? Possibly, but that was
past and gone four months ago.
The young doctor liked that photo
graph, somehow. He had examined it
time anil again until he knew its every
detail, it did not grow stale like the
others. But tonight there seemed to
be a new light upon it, a new tone In
the unfocused background of sand and
STANDING ON A LOG OK DRIFT
WOOD,
M-a, an undeflualiltt i-huiiKe of expres
alon In thoao brown eyea looking out
of thi* albumen paper. Our Imagine
tlon U aubject to arndt unhealthy Hut
tera a« thU. yet moat Intimating grew
that picture, and II Parker'* eyea and
lo-art were won. If hta retaon ».»m
Dotted not.
I'repoeteroua and Incredible! Tha
duck aklrt began lu note *Itghtl>. aa
If allrrvd by a brewu from (hr aea, and
[ the mar«lna of the picture draw far
• thar and farther apart, until on on#
j alda a row of bath hottaee raw* into
I tilt, while on tha other tha broad.
I bine mean aparhltng in the tuaaii
•untight* Mura than ihia. H Parker
1 waa ronaciutta of a alight odor of aall
! In tha air. a* of aeawaad ami wet rock a
left by tha tide Tha dUtant boom of
break era, aoft at Mrat. grew louder and
nearer When the girl atepped down
j from the drift log to the aand before
! hta eyee, the doctor'* agiile of inerednl
|ty auddenly aaplred Whew ahe I talked
at hint and a puke he felt a Irani or
In the *er> ma»row of hie tnutew, and
not n tremor wb dly of mryttw alt her
Thera he waa on tha haarh with
her again. nut (Ms tar of eurgUal treat
tag* an I teat tehee '*nt the idaiaier
clad, sun-tanned devotee of Giunlte
Head, aud the very ardent, though un
assuming, admirer of Grace Maraton.
Her first words confused his thoughts,
he felt a ghostlike atmosphere about
him, but after that the glaring August
sun warmed him through, the sea
breeze exhilerated him, he was filled
with energy and real live happiness.
“Dear me," she was saying, "to think
that there is nothing better for you to
photograph than a summer girl mak
ing a guy of herself on an old log!
There go those Sewall girls from the
‘Pines;' if you hurry you ran catch
them to pose in a group for you. I've
heard they are great at it.”
"At posing, I suppose," he answered.
“No, Miss Maraton, I have graduated
from the snap-’em-whenever-you-can
class and have entered the art school—
hence l have chosen you for the pic
ture."
“Ha-ha-ha! I appreciate that,'
laughed the girl as they began to saun
ter down toward the cliffs, "but have
you considered, Mr. Baxter, the proba
bility of my breaking the plate?"
"What! An angler, too? I shall
not humor the weakness in you, still,
if you are a summer girl, as your own
confession would indicate-”
“Pardon me, Mr. Baxter, “you know
I like the assertion better when you let
me make It."
"Of course. Observe that I advance
no statements on the subject myself. I
THE DOCTOR LIKED THAT PHO
TOGRAPH.
was merely going to say that if you are
a summer girl of the approved, news
paper-joke sort, your likeness upon
the plate eouid not fail to produce the
effect that it has upon—er—men’s
hearts, to wit—complete fracture."
“Why, I am surprised at you,” said
Grace, a faint blush hardly perceptible
under the healthy tan which she had
found no difficulty in acquiring at
Granite Head.
H. Parker studied her face in Its
mock severity and watched the dainty
little hand go up to push back some
annoying hair that blew across her
eyes. A great wave of admiration for
that noble girl rose up In bis breast—
admiration very unlike that with
which be had heard his brilliant class
mates proclaim their knowledge. His
heart told him, “1 love her.” Why not
let his heart be heard?
They strolled along together to the
music of the sea. H. Parker felt that
there was melody even in the scream
ing of the gulls overhead. He won
dered why it had never seemed so be
fore.
i,ei us su up mere unuer me oig
rook," suggested Grace, pointing to the
nearest of the cliffs which leaned for
ward over the sand and made a cosy
shelter from the sun. Here the sand
was cool, the glare softened and the
view of cheap cottages and decrepit
hath houses cut off, while the whole
stretch of beach on the right lay be
fore them like a broad white highway.
Grace sat with her back against the
rock, and at her side reclined the doc
tor, full length upon the sand.
“Are you ever serious. Miss Mars
ton?" quoth he with but a trace of
that quality in his own tone,
“Sometimes.”
"On what rare occasions would It be
possible for one to find you in that
mood ?”
“Oh, well. I'm not naturally so, you
know, but once in a while when some
thing goes wrong to Induce it I get
very serious even blue—and as I al
ways end by finding out what a silly,
useless creature 1 am, there is very lit
tle enjoyment in being serious. Please
let's not be serious, Mr. Baxter,’’
“Never moll light -ntiuded In my
j life. Miss Marston never. Hut tell me
1 how you deduct your conclusion which
proves you a silly, useless creature. I
I am very clever at showing fallacies In
reasoning.”
' Weil, unless because 1 live a use
| less life. Just look at my diary for a
| winter. Just look it through and see
j if you find anything accomplished.
. anything Improving or worthy. Gances
calls teas, over and over again. IN)
you call that sort of thing living? The
I people | meet day by day there; do I
know them, are they friends, do they
j know me* No, It's all vanity ariilt
| del- a waste of time ”
Grace was serious enough now and
[ slar«d out to sea with a frown upon
Her brow* as dark as any that ever
j hovered there
A pause aed her companion spoke
It may ha vanity for aunt#, hut not
for you, Mlae Marti m linctety fur
alshea a Meld for superAclal character
, to breed and thrive In, hut yuan la
(tout and strung a ad sincere '*
“I have begun to forget and dtare
gwrd » hal it naturally la | am llreal
**# that life | lute the wood# awl
the sen the open air sad the seas*
of freedom, freedom to go where I
pleava*. he ae I want in he, ehmm* com
panbana that I like "
then the view of slits and fresher#
a »ute i« » me bn;! - it ha
room with its music and flowers? That
cottage half buried in the pines seems
a truer home than many a brown atona
front on the avenue?”
‘‘Ah. a thousand times,” answered
Grace with the frown dying out of her
face. His words were slow and earn*
eat, but she seemed not to connect
them with the speaker. They put her
Into a brown study and she fell to ex
amining a handful of sand for garnets.
Watching the search, he continued
even more quietly than before.
"Would there be happiness for you
In a little home such as that cottage,
far from town, with all its parties and
things, where you would be with real
people, whero you would be loved and
served by real friends?”
Closer scrutiny of the sand.
"Would you give up that luxurloua
life that you have followed for this,
and for a fellow whose every energy
would be turned to your happiness
such a fellow, In fact, as I?”
The sand slipped away, and the gar
nets were lost.
"Oh, Grace, Grace, would you—could
you——?”
Ding, dong—ding, dong—ding, dong;
twelve o’clock.
H. Parker Haxter awoke with a great
start and looked around astonished. Ha
had seen the New Year come In Au
gust.
NEW YEAR’S DAY IN KITCHEN.
Cook will probably have her New
Year's callers, and if you are wise you
will close eyes and ears for the nonce,
nor Investigate too closely the contents
of dish or demijohn. For her friends
are hale and hearty, with old fashioned
Ideas on the subject of hospitality and
an aversion to such foolish fripperies
as tea or coffee!
If you have a few flowers or ribbons
that you do not need, they will be well
bestowed upon her, and will add to her
attractiveness as she sits In state be
hind a well filled table in her kitchen
presiding over some such scene as
this;
Tlng-a-ling-llng!
"Mary, there's the basement bell.
G’wan now an' open the dure.”
The kitchenmaid does so, and re
ports:
It’s Mr. Duffy."
"Arrali! come right in, Mr. Duffy.
It's th' first ye are, an’ good luck to
you."
"Good luck to you, Miss Kelly.
Shure it’s a fine night, God ha
praised!"
"Awiu! Sit down."
Duffy does so, and stares around in
awkward fashion.
‘‘An’ are ye makin’ many calls, Mr.
Duffy?"
"This is the first. Shure I didn’t
lave the dumps till sivin."
"True for you. An'pwhat will you
have to drink? There's sherry wine
an’ port wine, an’ claret wine an’ soma
whisky."
Mr. Duffy’s dull eye brightens.
“i’ll take a little of th’ ould stufT,"
he says with a grin.
He takes it. but not a little.
“Will yez have some cake or a sand
wich?”
"Have yez arrah a corn bafe san’
wich in th’ house?"
"Shure I have! Take two of thlm.'*
He docs so, and munches till the bell
rings again.
The maid announces "Mr. Geo
hogan.”
Duffy rises with some show of per
turbation.
"I think 1 11 be goinV’
"Arrah don't hurry. Ye know Mr.
Geohogan?"
"I know no good av him.”
"Arrah, phat talk have you more?"
Duffy moves to the door as the new
KOINE NIUHT. CO!) HB 1'ilAMKD.
comer enter*, and the Urn men nod to
each other in a *i ly fushlon
"Good night," aaya Duffy
Cook follow* him to the door, and
her aibllant whiaper tan be heard *
plainly.
‘ Why don't you litfe him, Mr.
Duffy r
“ffhure he'* a *cnb? An', bealdea,
he'a from Tyrone I nlvrr give a coun
ty Tyrone man more than th‘ tip a* we
Hager,"
And the baaeiueat dour clanga be
hind him.
Mr. tieohogan partake* freely of re
freahmanl. and la proposing marriage
when a new bat, b of rallera arrive.
‘tit*an »U you now," aaya funk,
pleaaed and Huatered, ' an' cue* bark
whin your aoher i<*mo»roe Here com**
the Donnelly‘a..'*
from title time on the -ouat become*
a rendeavoua for Cook # many ac
quaintance*.
The policeman loaka in th* door to
•change hie *«ud nUhea for kite and
•op." the grocery rterh drupe in. the
Ire man rail*, and *e the n«w year t*
uahertd in with belle and aoaga and
borne and ahouu. C*»»k • gueeta are
there, to aid la the **ad off Net*
York Herald