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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 2, 1906)
Loup City Northwestern J. W. BURLEIGH, Publisher. r LOUP CITY, . • - NEBRASKA. The Fascination of the Harvest. "Thrust in thy sickle and reap; for \he time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe.” There Is a fascination in the harvest that weaves a wisp of romance into the sheaves that are bound up these long, sun-flooded days, where the harvest of the earth is ripe. It is not alone a selfish rejoicing in the knowl edge that a generous yield means an absence of want that awakens the uni versal interest in the sturdy army now marching against the battalions of bearded grain and will move north ward gradually as the harvest of the earth ripens in regions where the sun shines less ardently. There is some thing Inborn in even the most urban of men that causes him to feel a thrill of joy at the sight of a great wheat field waiting for the sickle. It is not alone the hope of profit that causes the student to hasten from his books and the man to drop his accustomed vocation to join the busy toilers in the fields. Many of those who arise with the earliest lark and labor until the long shadows are lost in the dusk are not In pressing need of the wages they receive. They could find more profitable employment in less arduous work. There is some other cause that sends them among strangers for a sea son. There is a call of the harvest, says the Kansas City Star, as there is a call of the wild. The call of the harvest was learned in the days when Ruth, the Moabitess. bound up the heart of Boaz in the sheaves she gleaned in the fields of the mighty man of the family of Elimelech. The vivid imaginations of those early gleamers saw cause for wonder and speculation in the annually recurring miracle of the harvest. It is this lin gering fascination that draws men to the wheat fields even in this utili tarian age. Exit the Khaki. If Gen. Humphrey’s recommenda tions are adopted the khaki uniform will soon disappear. The American soldiery will not return to the dark blue of civil war times, but will take up the olive-drab service uniform, lined for winter and unlined for sum mer. The khaki will be retained only for troops serving at oversea stations. The trouble, says the Des Moines Reg ister, is not so much in the color of .the cloth as in the apparent inability of the manufacturers supplying the government to keep up with the de mand. Gen. Humphrey claims that the supply of gray cotton goods in this country is now practically the monopoly of one corporation located In Baltimore, where selling agents hold and control the secret of khaki dyeing. Neither of these concerns, according to statements made in the quartermaster’s department of the war department, has materially advanced the price of khaki cloth or duck over that of former years, but for some reasons, which are not known at the war department, the contractors are so far behind in two of their con tracts for khaki cloth that the gov-> eminent contractors for the manufac ture of khaki coats and trousers, Gen. Humphrey says, cannot obtain the ma terial called for by contracts. This has entailed much inconvenience to the army and organized militia. Gen. Humphrey says that any first-class cloth mill can produce olive, drab, which is entirely the result of blend ing colors, while the khaki dye is piece dyeing and a secret process, so l'ar as obtaining a fast color. The international woman's congress, sitting in Paris, recently witnessed a ludicrous scene. The ladies were in solemn conclave when suddenly there appeared a pair of trousers on the scene. For a moment the ladies were too perturbed to identify the spectre, but after a moment of benumbing si lence, the president rallied, and in an icy tone identified it is “a man.” Then the apparition relieved the ten sion by explaining that it was the mortal presence of M. Legendre, of Sens, an ardent femininist. “I stood.” he said, “as femininist candidate at the last elections, and I have to-day taken 11 trains to appear among you. 1 am happy to enjoy this opportunity of supporting your cause.” Alas for enthusiasm when it is of the male per suasion and relates to matters femi nine! The president rose, and, accord ing to the London Globe, after ex plaining to M. Legendre, in tones of eMS, calm severity, that the taking of Z' .11 trains at a stretch did not confer the right of entry to that assemblage, had him expelled. The unsecured paper money of the South American republics amounts to a face value of $1,700,000. Nearly everybody who touches on the subject is particular to mention that this is the face value. if they will put sawdust in the breakfast food, let the consumer in sist that it be clean sawdust. The English railroad wreck imita tion is the sincerest flattery to Amer icans. . The South Dakota man who blew himself up by using 25 sticks of dyna mite when one would have done must have had as exaggerated an idea of himself as is possessed by the young man who, having won $200 in the stock market, thinks he has discovered a system through which he can beat the combination. A Michigan capitalist who died re cently left 27 wills. He must have been determined that his heirs should 5 not live in idleness. V - CHAPTER L It was a December morning—the Missouri December of mild tempera tures and saturated Bkies—and the Chicago & Alton’s fast train, dripping from the rush through the wet night, had steamed briskly to its terminal in the Union station at Kansas City. Two men, one smoking a short pipe and the other snapping the ash from a scented cigarette, stood aloof from the hurrying throngs on the platorm looking on with the measured interest of those who are in a melee but not of it. “More delay,” said the cigarettist, glancing at his watch. “We are over an hour late now. Do we get any of it back on the run to Denver?” The pipe smoker shook his head. “Hardly, I should say. The 'Limited’ is a pretty heavy train to pick up lost time. But it won’t make any particu lar difference. The western connec tions all wait for the 'Limited,' and we shall reach the seat of war to morrow night, according to the Boston itinerary." Mr. Morton P. Adams flung away the unburned half of his cigarette and masked a yawn behind his hand. “It’s no end of a bore, Winton, and that is the plain, unlacquered fact,' he protested. “I think the governor owes me something. I worried through the Tech because he insisted that I should have a profession; and now I am go ing in for field work with you in a howling winter wilderness becanse he insists on a practical demonstration. I shall ossify out there in those moun tains. It’s written in the book.” ~ "Humph! it’s too bad about you,” said the other, ironically. He was a fit figure of a man, clean-cut and vig orous, from the steadfast outlook of the gray eyes and the close clip of the Van Dyck beard to the square finger tips of the strong hands, and his smile was of good-natured contempt. “As you say, it is an o trage on filial com plaisance. All the same, with the right of-way fight in prospect, Quartz Creek canyon may not prove to be such a valley of dry bones as— Look out, there!” The shifting engine had cut a car from the rear of the lately arrived Al ton, and was sending it down the out bound track to a coupling with the Transcontinental “Limited.” Adams stepped back and let it miss him by i hand’s-breadth, and as the car was passing Winton read the name on the panelling. “The •Rosemary;’ somebody’s 20 lon private outfit. That cooks our last chance of making up any lost time be tween this and to-morrow—” He broke off abruptly. On the square rear observation platform of the pri vate car were three ladies. One of them was small and blue-eyed, with wavy little puffs of snowy hair peep ing out under her dainty widow’s cap. Another was small and blue-eyed, with wavy masses of flaxen hair caught up from a face which might have served as a model for the most exquisite bisque figure that ever came out of France. But Winton saw only the third. She was taller than either of her companions—tall and straight and lithe; a charming embodiment of health and strength and beauty; clear skinned, brown-eyed—a very goddess fresh from the bath, in Winton’s in stant summing-up of her, and her crown of red-gold hair helped out the simile. Now thus far in his thirty-year pil grimages John Winton, man and boy, had lived the intense life of a work ing hermit so far as the social gods and goddesses were concerned. Yet he had a pang—of disappointment or pointed jealousy, or something akin to both—when Adams lifted his hat to this particular goddess, and was re warded by a little cry of recognition, and stepped up to the platform to be presented to the elder and younger bisques. So, as we say, Winton turned and walked away as one left out, feeling one moment as though he had been defrauded of a natural right, and de riding himself the next, as a sensible man should. After a bit he was able to laugh at the "sudden attack,” as he phrased it, but later, when he ana Adams were settled for the day-long run in the Denver sleeper, and the "Limited” was clanking out over the switches, he brought the talk around with a carefully assumed air of lack interest to the party in the private car. "She is a friend of yours, then?” he said, when Adams had taken the bait ed hook open-eyed. The technologian modified the as sumption. “Not quite in your sense of the word, [ fancy. I met her a number of times at the houses of mutual friends in Boston. She was studying at the con servatory.” "But she isn’t a Bostonian," said Winton, confidently. “Miss Virginia?—hardly. She is a Carteret of the Carterets; Virginia born, bred, and named. Stunning girl, isn't she?” “No,” said Winton, shortly, resent ing the slang for no reason that he could have set forth in words. Adams lighted another of the scented villainies, and his clean-shaven face wrinkled itself into a slow smile. "Which means that she has winged you at sight, I suppose, as she does most men.” Then he added, calmly: "It's no go.” “What’s ‘no go’?" Adams laughed unfeelingly. You remind me of the fable about the head-hiding ostrich. Didn’t I see you staring at her as If you were about to have a fit? But It Is just as I tel\ you; it’s no go. She'Isn’t the marrying kind. If you knew her, she’d be nice to you till she got a good chance to fla "Break it off!” "Presently. As I was saying, she would miss the chance of marrying the best man in the world for the sake of taking a rise out of him. More over, she comes of old cavalier stock with an English earldom at the back of it, and she is inordinately proud of the fact; while you—er—you’ve given me to understand that you are a man of the people, haven’t you?” Winton nodded absently. It was one of his minor fads to ignore his lineage, which ran decently back to a colonial governor on his father’s side, and to assert that he did not know his grand father’s middle name—which was ac counted for by the very simple fact that the elder Winton had no middle name. “Well, that settles it definitely,” was the Bostonian’s comment. “Miss Car teret is of the sang azure. The man who marries her will have to know his grandfather’s middle name—and a good bit more besides.” Winton’B laugh was mockingly good natured. “You have missed your calling by something more than a hand’s-breadth. Morty. You should have been a novel ist. Give you a spike and a cross-tie and you’d infer a whole railroad. But you pique my curiosity. Where are these American royalties of yours go ing in the Rosemary.?” “To California. The car belongs to Mr. Somerville Darrah, who is vice president and manager in fact of the Colorado & Grand River road; the ‘Rajah,’ they call him. He1 is a rela tive of the Carterets, and the party is on its way to spend the winter on the Pacific coast.” “And the little lady in the widow's cap; is she Miss Carteret's mother?” “Miss Bessie Carteret’s mother and Miss Virginia's aunt. She is the chap eron.” Winton was silent while the "Lim ited” was roaring through a village on the Kansas side of the river. When he spoke again it was not of the Car I i 1,4 WINTON TURNED AND WALKED AWAY. terets; it was of the Carterets’ kins man and host. “I have heard somewhat of the Ra jah,” he said, half musingly. "In fact, I know him, by sight. He is what the magazinists are fond of calling an ‘industry colonel,’ a born leader who has fought his way to the front. If the Quartz Creek row Is anything more than a stiff bluff on the part of the C. & G. R. it will be quite as well for us if Mr. Somerville Darrah is safely at the other side of the conti nent—and well out of reach of the wires.” Adams came to attention with a half-hearted attempt to galvanize an interest in the business affair. “Tell me more about this mysterious jangle we are heading for,” he re joined. “Have I enlisted for a soldier when I thought I was only going into peaceful exile as an assistant engineer of construction on the Utah Short Line?” "That remains to be seen." Win ton took a leaf from his pocket mem orandum and drew a rough outline map. "Here is Denver, and here Is Carbonate,” he explained. "At present the Utah is running into Carbonate this way over the rails of the C. & G. R. on a joint track agreement which either line may terminate by giving six months’ notice of its intention to the other. Got that?” “To have and to hold,” said Adams. “Go on." “Well, on the first day of September the C. & G. R. people gave the Utah management notice to quit” “They are bloated monopolists,” said Adams, sententiously. “Still, I don’t see why there should be any scrap ping over the line in Quartz Creek canyon.” “No? You an not up in monopo listic methods. In six months from September let*the Utah peoi^wm ILtWH their line alive, it they want a share of that traffic after March 1st, they will have to havn a road of their own to carry H over." "Precisely,” said Adams, stifling a yawn. "They are building one, aren’t they?” “Trying to,” Winton amended. “But; unfortunately, the only practical route through the mountains is up Quart* Creek canyon, and the canyon is al ready occupied by a branch of the Col orado & Grand River.” “Still, I don’t see why the^e should be any scrap.” "Don’t you? If the Rajah’s road can keep the new line out of Carbonate till the six months have expired, i! will have a monopoly of all the carry ing trade of the camp. By consequence, it can force every shipper in the dis trict to make iron-clad contracts, so that when the Utah line is finally com pleted it won’t be able to secure any freight for a year at least.” "Oho! that’s the game, is it? I be gin to savvy the burro; that’s the prop er phrase, isn’t it? And what are ou* chances?” “We have about one in a hundred, as near as I could make out from Mr. Callowell’s statement of the case. The C. & G. R. people are moving heaven and earth to obstruct us in the can yon. If they can delay the work a lit tle longer, the weather will do the rest. With the first heavy snow in the mountains, which usually comes long before this, the Utah will have to put up its tools and wait till next summer.” Adams lighted another cigarette. "Pardon me if I am inquisitive,” he said, “but for the life of me I can’t understand what these obstructionists can do. Of course, they can’t use force.” Winton's smile was grim. "Can’t they? Wait till you get on the ground. But the first move was peaceable enough. They got an injunction from the courts restraining the new line from encroaching on their right of way.” “Which was a thing that nobody wanted to do,” said Adams, between inhalations. "Which was a thing the Utah had to do,” corrected Winton. “The canyon is a narrow gorge—a mere slit in parts of it. This is where they have ue." “Oh, well; I suppos? we took an appeal and asked to have the in junction set aside?” "We did, promptly; and that is the present status of the fight. The appeal decision has not yet been handed down; and in the meantime we go on building railroad, incurring all the pen alties for contempt of court with every shovelful of earth moved. Do you still think you will be in danger of ossifying?” Adams let the question rest while he asked one of his own. “How do you come to be mixed up in it, Jack? A week ago some one told me you were going to South America to build a railroad in the Andes. What switched you?’ Winton shook his head. “Fate, I guess; that and a wire from Presi dent Callowell, of the Utah, offering me this. Chief of Construction Evarts in charge of the work in Quartz Creek canyon, said what you said a few minutes ago—that he had not hiret out for a soldier. He resigned, and I’m taking his berth.” Adams rose and buttoned his coat; "By all of which it seems that w« two are in for a good bit more that the ossifying exile,” he remarked. Anc then: "1 am going back into the Rose mary to pay my respects to Miss Vir giniaCartaret. Won’t you come along?’ “No,” said Winton, more shortly than the invitation warranted; and the tech nologian went his way alone. CHAPTER XL ‘‘Scuse me, sah; private cab, Bah.” It was the porter’s challenge in th» vestibule of the Rosemary. Adam: found a card. “Take that to Miss Carteret— Misi Virginia Carteret,” he directed, ant waited till the man came back wit! his welcome. The extension table in the open reai third of the private car was closet to its smallest dimensions, and th« movable furnishings were disposet about .the compartment to make it t comfortable lounging room. CTO BE CONTINUED.) Xoney> with Immigrants. [ a }iocottCo.) CHAPTER II.—Continued. Mrs. Carteret was propped among the cushions of a divan with a book. Her daughter occupied the undivided half of a tete-a-tete chair with a blonde athlete in a clerical coat and a re versed collar. Miss Virginia was sit ting alone at a window, but she rose and came to greet the visitor. “How good of you to take pity on us,” she said, giving him her band. Then she put him at one with the others: “Aunt Martha you have met; also Cousin Bessie. Let me present you to Mr. Calvert, Cousin Billy, this is Mr. Adams, who is responsible in a way for many of my Boston-learned gaucheries.” Aunt Martha closed the book on her finger. "My dear Virginia!” she pro tested in mild deprecation; and Adams laughed and shook hands with Rev. William Calvert and made Virginia’s peace all in the same breath. "Don’t apologize for Miss Virginia, Mrs. Carteret. We were very good friends in Boston, chiefly, I think, be cause I never objected when she want ed to—er—to take a rise out of me.” Then to Virginia: "I hope I don't in trude?” “Not in the least. Didn’t I just say you were good to come? Uncle Somer ville tells us we are passing through the famous Golden Belt, whatever that may be—and recommends an easy chalr and a window. But I haven’t seen anything but stubble-fields—dis mally wet stubble-fields at that. Won’t you sit down and help me watch them go by?” Adams placed a chair for her, and found one for himself. “ ‘Uncle Somerville’—am I to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Somer ville Darrah?” Miss Virginia’s look was non-com mittal. Quien sabe? she queried, airing her one Westernism before she was fair ly in the longitude of it. "Uncle Som erville is a law unto himself. He had a lot of telegrams and things at Kan sas City, and he is locked in his den with Mr. Jastrow, dictating answers by the dozen, 1 suppose.” "Oh, these industry .colonels!” said Adams. "Don’t their toilings make you ache in sheer sympathy some times?” "No, indeed,” was the prompt re joinder; ”1 envy them, it must be fine to have large things to do, and to be able to do them.” "Degenerate scion of a noble race!” jested Adams. “What ancient Carteret of them all would have compromised with the necessities by becoming a captain of industry?” “It w-asn’t their metier or the metier of their times,” said Miss Virginia with conviction. “They were sword soldiers merely because that was the only way a strong man could conquer in those days. Now it is different, and a strong man fights quite as nobly in another field—and deserves quite as much honor.” "Think so? I don’t agree with you —as to the fighting, I mean. I like to take things easy. A good club, a choice of decent theaters, the society of a few charming women like—” She broke him with a mocking laugh. “You were born a good many cen turies too late, Mr. Adams; you would have fitted so beautifully into de cadent Rome.” "No — thanks. Twentieth-century , America, with the commercial frenzy taken out of it, is good enough i for me. I was telling Winton a little while ago—” “Your friend of the Kansas City sta tion platform?” she interrupted. “Mightn’t you introduce us a little less informally?” "Beg pardon. I’m sure—yours and Jack’s: Mr. John Winton, of New York and the world at large, familiarly known to his intimates—and they are precious few—as ‘Jack W.’ As I was about to say—” But she seemed to find a malicious satisfaction in breaking in upon him. “ ’Mr. John Winton;’ it’s a pretty name, as names go, but it isn’t as strong as he is. He is an 'industry colonel,’ isn’t he? He looks it.” The Bostonian avenged himself for the interruption at Winton’s expense. "So much for your woman’s intui tion,” he laughed. “Speaking oi idlers, there is your man to the dotting of the ‘i;’ a dilettante raised to the nth power.” Miss Carteret's short upper lip curled in undisguised scorn. “I like men who do things,” she as serted, with pointed emphasis; where upon the talk drifted eastward to Bos ton, and Winton was ignored, until Virginia, having exhausted the rem iniscent vein, said: “You are going on through to Denver?” “To Denver and beyond,” was the reply. “Winton has a notion of hi - bernating in the mountains—fancy it; in the dead of winter!—and he has persuaded me to go along. He sketches a little, you know.” "Oh, so*he is an artist?” said Vir ginia, with interest newly aroused. “No,” said Adams, gloomily, "he isn’t an artist—isn’t much of anything, I’m sorry to say. Worse than all, he doesn’t know his grandfather’s middle name. Told me so himself.” • That is inexcusaDie—m a dilet tante,” said Miss Virginia, mockingly. “Don’t you think so?” , “it is inexcusable in anyone,” said the technologian, rising to take his .leave. Then, as a parting word: “Does the Rosemary set its own table? or do .you dine in the dining car?” “In the dining car, if we have one. Uncle Somerville lets us dodge the Rosemary’s cook whenever we can,” ‘was the answer; and with this bit of information Adams wentUtfs way to i the Denver sleeper. •f, FiMingWtnton in his section, por Afaig over a blue-print map and mak jta^notes thereon after the manner of a man hard at work, Adams turned back to the smoking compartment. Now for Mr. Morton P. Adams the salt of life was a joke, harmless or otherwise, as the tree might fall. So, during the long afternoon which he wore out in solitude there grew up in him a keen desire to see what would befall if these two whom he had so protesquely misrepresented each to the other should come together in the pathway of acquaintanceship. But how to bring them together was a problem which refused to be solved until chance pointed the way. Since the “Limited” had lost another hour during the day, there was a rush for ' the dining car as soon as the announce ment of its taking on had gone through the train. Adams and Winton were of this rush, and so were the mem bers of Mr. Somerville Darrah’s party. In the seating the party was sepa rated, as room at the crowded tables could be found; and Miss Virginia’s fate gave her the unoccupied seat at one of the duet tables, opposite a young man with steadfast gray eyes and a Van Dyck beard. Winton was equal to the emergency, j or thought he was. Adams was1 still within call, and he beckoned him, j meaning to propose an exchange of seats. But the Bostonian misunder stood willfully. “Most happy. I’m sure,” he said, . coming instantly to the rescue. “Miss > Carteret, my friend signals his di lemma. May I present him?” Virginia smiled and gave the re quired permission in a word. But for Winton self-possession flew shrieking. “Ah—er—I hope you know Mr. Adams well enough to make allow ances for his—for his—” He broke down piteously and she had to come to his assistance. "For his imagination?” she suggest ed. “I do, indeed; we are quite old friends.” Here was “well enough,” but Wil ton was a man and could not let it alone. "I should be very sorry to have you think for a moment that I would—er W INTON FOUND MISS CARTERET HOLDING HIS OVERCOAT. —so far forget myself,” he went on, fatuously. “What I had In mind was an exchange of seats with him. 1 thought it would be pleasanter for you; that is, I mean, pleasanter for—” He stopped short, seeing nothing but a more hopeless involvement ahead; also because he saw signs of distress or of mirth flying in the brown eyes. “Oh, please!” she protested, in mock humility. “Do leave my vanity just the tiniest little cranny to creep out of, Mr. Winton. I’ll promise to be good and not bore you too desperately.” At this, as you would imagine, the pit of utter self-abasement yawned for Winton, and he plunged headlong, holding the bill-of-fare wrong side up when the waiter asked for his dinner order, and otherwise demeaning him self like a man taken at a hopeless dis advantage. But she had pity on him. “But let’s ignore Mr. Adams,” she went on, sweetly. “I am much more interested in this,” touching the bill of-fare. "Will you order for me, please? I like—” When she had finished the list or her likings, Winton was able to smile at his lapse into the primitive, and gave the dinner order for two with a fair degree of coherence. After that they got on better. Winton knew Boston, and next to the weather Bos ton was the safest and most fruitful of the commonplaces. Nevertheless, it was not Immortal; and Winton was just beginning to cast about for some other safe riding road for the shallop of small talk when Miss Carteret sent it adrift with malice aforethought It was somewhere between the en trees and the fruit, and the point of departure was Boston art. “Speaking of art, Mr. Winton, will you tell me how you came to think of sketching in the mountains of Colo rado at this time of year? I shoulid think the cold would be positively pro hibitive of anything like that.” Winton stared—open mouthed, it is to be feared. “I—I beg your pardon,” he stain mered, with the inflection which takes its pitch from blank bewilderment. Miss Virginia was happy. Dilettante he might be, and an unhumbled man of the world as well; but, to use Rev erend Billy’s phrase, she could make him “sit up.” "I beg yours, I’m sure,” she said, de murely, “I didn’t know it was a craft secert.” Winton looked across the aisle to the table where the technologian was sitting opposite a square-shouldered, ruddy-faced gentleman with fiery eyes and fierce white mustache, and shook a figurative fist. ‘T’d like to know what Adams has been telling you,” he said. “Sketch ing in the mountains in midwinter: that would be decidedly original, to say the least of it. And I think I have never done an original thing in all my life.” For a single instant the brown eyes looked their pity for hint; generic pity it was, of the kind that mounting souls bestow upon the stagnant. But the subconscious lover in Winton made it personal to him. and it was the lover who spoke when he went on. “That is a damaging admission, is it not? I am s«rry to have to make it —to have to confirm your poor opinion of me.” “Did I say anything like that?" she protested. "Not in words; but your eyes said it, and I know you have been think ing it all along. Don't ask me how I know it; I couldn't explain it if I should try. But you have been pity ing me, in a way—you know you bave.” The brown eyes were down ear . Frank and free-hearted alter her kin 1 as she was, Virginia Carteret w -s finding it a new and singular experi ence to have a man tell her baldly at their first meeting that he had read her inmost thought of him. Yet she would not flinch or go back. “There is so much to be done in the world, and so few to do the work,” she pleaded in extenuation. “And Adams has told you that t am not one of the few? It is true enough to hurt.” She looked him fairly in the eyes. “What is lacking, Mr. Winton—the spi»r?” “Possibly,” he rejoined. "There is no one near enough to care, or to say: ‘Well done!’” “How can you tell?" she questioned, musingly. “It is not always permitted to us to hear the plaudits or tha hisses—happily, 1 think. Yet there ara always those standing by who ara ready to cry ‘Io triumpbe!’ and mean, it, when one approves himself a good soldier.” l ne conee had been served, ar.d Winton sat thoughtfully stirring the lump of sugar in his cup. Miss Car teret was not having a monopoly of the new experiences. For instance, it had never before happened to John Winton to have a woman, young, charming, and altogether lovable, read him a lesson out of the book of the overcomers. He smiled inwardly and wondered what she would say if she could know to what battle-field the drumming wheels of the "Limited” were speeding him. Would she be loyal to her men torship and tell him he must win, at. whatever the cost to Mr. Somerville an. Darrah and his business associates'* Or would she, woman-like, be her uncle's partisan and write one John Winton down in her blackest book for daring to oppose the Rajah? He assured himself if would make no jot of difference if he knew. Hu had a thing to do, and he was pur posed to do it strenuously, inflexibly. Yet in the inmost chamber of his heart, where the barbarous ego stands unabashed and isolate and recklessly contemptuous of the moralities mino * and major he saw the birth of an in fluence which must henceforth be des perately reckoned with. Given a name, this new-born factor was love; love barely awakened, anl yet no more than a masterful desirj to stand well in the eye of one wom an. None the less, he saw the possi bilities; that a time might come wbe'jj this woman would have the power t> intervene; would make him hold aiv hand in the business alfair at the very moment, mayhap, when he shnui J. strike the hardest (TO BE CONTINUED.) Deaf Mute Nun. The first deaf mute in this country to become a nun is Mi$5 Etta Wait Holman, who was recently receive t into t he Dominican order at Hu at 1 Point,' N. Y.