Dance at Hotel Burnt. Nero's fiddling while Rome burned has a modern parallel in the action of a crowd that kept •■turkey-trotting” and "tangoing" by the light of a burning hotel at Horseshoe Lake. HI., until the dancing pavilion also caught fire, relates the St. l.ouis Re public. Not until the heat and smoke be came unendurable did the strains of the “trot” and the "tango" cease. Always Popular Car. “Well. Bildad,” said Jimsonberry. "I suppose now that you are living out in the country, you have a car.” "Yes,” said Bildad. "That is, my neighbors and 1 have one together." •Really?'' said Jimsonberry. "Co-operative arrangement, eh? Not a bad idea. What make is it?" "Oh, just plain Trolley.”—Judge. Not Near-Wit. "What do you think of that Joke about the end of the world?” "It is too far-fetched." For the treatment of colds, sore throat, etc.. Dean's Mentholated Cough Drops give sure relief—5c at all good Druggists. 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She repairs thither in search of him, laughs during the service and is asked to leave. Abbott Ashton, superintendent 'of schools, escorts Fran from the tent. . He tells her Gregory is a wealthy man. deeply interested in charity worn, and a pillar of the church. Ashton becomes greatly interested in Fran and whi.e tak ing leave of her, holds her hand and Is seen by Sapphira Clinton, sister of Rob ert Clinton, chairman of the school board. Fran tells Gregory she wants a home with him. Grace Noir. Gregory’s private secretary, takes a violent dislike to Fran and advises her to go away at once. Fran hints at a twentv-year-old secret, and Gregory in agitation asks Grace to leave the room. Fran relates the story of how' Gregory married a young girl at Springfield while attending college and then deserted her. Fran is the child of that marriage. Gregory had married his present wife three years before the death of Fran's mother. Fran takes a liking to Mrs. Gregory. Gregory explains that Fran is the daughter of a very dear friend who is dead. Fran agrees to the story, j Mrs. Gregory insists on her making her home with them and takes her to her arms. Fran declares the secretary must go. Grace begins nagging tactics in an effort to drive Fran from the Gregory homo. Abbott, while taking a walk alone at midnight, finds Fran on a bridge tell ing her fortune by cards. She tells Ab bott that she is the famous lion tamer, j Fran Nonpareil. She tired of circus life »ml sought a home. Grace tells of see ing Fran come home after midnight with a maj>. She guesses part of the story and surprises the rest from Abbott. She decides to ask Bob Clinton to go to Springfield to investigate Fran’s story. Fran enlists Abbott in her battle against Grace. Fran offers her services to Greg ory as secretary during the temporary absence of Grace. The latter, hearing of Fran’s purpose, returns and interrupts a touching scene between father and laughter. Grace tells Gregory she in tends to marry Clinton and quit his serv ice. He declares that he cannot continue his work without her. Carried away bv passion, he take? her in his .arms. Fran walks in on them, and declares that Grace must leave the house at once. To I Gregory’s consternation he learns of | Clinton’s mission to Springfield. Clinton j returns from Springfield and, at Fran’s re | quest. Ashton urgest him not to disclose what he has learned. On Abbott’s assur ance that Grace will leave Gregorv at once. ! Clinton agrees to keep silent. Driven in i to a corner by the threat of exposure. ! Gregory is forced to dismiss Grace. Grace j offered the .1ob of bookke*»p^r in Clin I ton's grocery store. Gregory declares he ! "rill kill himself if she marries Clinton. I Gregory’s infatuation leads him to seek Grace at the grocery. He fir.ds/her alone and tells her the story of his past. Grace point** out that as he married the pres ent Mrs. Gregory before the death of Fran’s mother, he is not now legally mar ried. They decide to flee at once. CHAPTER XXI.—Continued. “We’d better separate.” Gregory hoarsely whispered. "We'll meet at the station.” “No. If he sees tis, what would be the use? Anywray. he'll have to know tomorrow . . everybody will know tomorrow! No.” said Grace, overcom ing a slight indecision, “the important thing is not to ba stopped, whoever *ees. Come this way.” "But there’s no chance out, that wy,” Gregory returned, with the ob stinacy of the weak. "And if he does see us, it w'on’t do to be seeming to try tr hide.” "Bu; we are hiding,” Grace said defl i nitely. “Possibly we can keep moving >bout, and he will go away.” “Why should we hide, anyhow?” de manded Gregory, with sudden show of spirit. To that, she made no reply. If he didn’t know', what was the use to tell him? Gregory moved on, but glanced back over his shoulder. “Now, he’s getting down,” he said in agitation “He’s making his way right toward us. . . . All right, let him come!” "In here—quick!” cried Grace, drag ging him to one side. Quick!” A voice stopped them with. "Your tickets, please.” "Oh, no," wailed Gregory, "not Into a show, Grace. We can’t go into a show. It’s—it’s impossible.” She spoke rapidly: "We must. We'll be safe in there, because no one would ever suppose we’d go into such a place.” “But Grace,” said Gregory firmly, "I cannot—I will not go into a show.” The voice addressed him again: “It’s first-class in every particular, lady. There is nothing here to bring the blush of shame to the cheek of the most fastidious. See those fierce man eating lions that have been captured in the remotest jungles of Africa—” Gregory looked back. Robert Clinton was drawing nearer. As yet he had not discovered them, but his eyes, grown fiercer and more impatient, were never at rest. With a groan, Gregory thrust some money into the showman’s hand, and he and Grace mingled with the noisy sight-seers flocking under the black tent. ' ' CHAPTER XXII. The Street Fair. Littleburg was trembling under the fearful din of a carnival too big for it, when Abbott Ashton, after his weeks of absence returned to find himself at Hamilton Gregory’s door. He discov ered old Mrs. Jefferson in the front room—this July night—because old age is on no friendly terms with fall ing dew; but every window was open. “Come in,” she cried, delighted at sight of his handsome, smiling face— he had been smiling most of the time during his drive from Simmtown with Robert Clinton. “Here I sit by the window, where sometimes I imagine I hear a faint, far-away sound. I judge it's from some carnival band. Take this chair and listen attentively; vour ears are younger—now!” Abbott did not get all of this be cause of the Gargantuan roar that swept through the window, but he gravely tilted his head, then took the proffered ear trumpet: "You are right,” he said, “I hear something.” “It's the street fair,” she announced triumphantly. “But sometimes it’s louder. How fine you look. Abbott— just as if your conscience doesn’t hurt you for disappearing witnout leaving a clue to the mystery. You needn’t be looking around, sir—Fran isn’t here.” “I wonder where she is?” Abbott smiled. "I’m dreadfully impatient to ‘.ell her the good news. Mrs. Jeffer son, I'm to teach in a college—it’s a much bigger thing than the position I lost here. And I have a chance to work out some ideas that I know Fran will like. I used to think that every thing ought to be left precisely as it is, because it’s been that way so long —I mean the church; and schools; and—and society. But I’ve made up my mind that nothing is right, unless it works right.” Mrs. Jefferson listened in desperate eagerness. “A watch?” she hazarded. “Exactly,” he responded hastily. "If a watch doesn’t run, what's the use of its being pretty? And if churches de velop a gift of tongue instead of char acter, what's the value of their pray ers and songs? And I’ve concluded that if schools don’t teach us now to live, they have the wrong kind of springs and wheels. Where is Fran. Mrs. Jefferson?" “Still,” she temporized, “we can’t get along without watches, Abbott.” “No, nor schools, nor churches. But they must have good works. Is Fran down at the fair, do you think?” The other bent toward him stealth ily. “Ask where Mrs. Gregory is." she said, wonderfully significant. “Well?” Auoott, listen: bhe s gone a-visit ing!” "Visiting!” Abbott was surprised. "Yes, visiting, she that hasn’t been off this place to visit a soul for ages. I tell you, boy, times have changed, here. Maybe you think nobody’d be left at home to visit; but Fran has found that there is a woman in town that she used to know, and the woman has a mighty sick child, and Lucy has gone to sit by it, so the mother can rest Think of that, Abbott, tnink of Lucy going anywhere. My! Have you heard that we’ve lost a secretary at this place? I mean the future Mrs. Bob. Yes, she's gone. I’d as soon have thought of the courthouse being picked up and set in the parlor.” Mrs. Jefferson drew back and said succinctly: “Fran did it!” Her cap quivered as she leaned for ward again. “Get her to tell you all about It. We darsen't speak about it much because of the neighbors. We conspired, Fran and I. Yes, shb’s down at the carnival, you boy!” Abbott hastily departed. Later he found himself in a cloud-burst of con fetti, on the “city square” and when he had cleared his eyes of the red and white snow, he saw Fran disappear ing like a bit of crimson glass at the bottom of a human kaleidoscope. Fran had thrown the confetti, then fled— how much brighter she was than all the other shifting units of humanity. He fought his way toward her de terminedly, finding she was about to be submerged. Was she actually try ing to elude him? “Fran!" he cried reproachfully as he reached her side. “How have you the heart to run away from me after I’ve been lost for weeks? Nobody knew I’d ever be found.” Frau gave up flight, and stopped to look at him. A smile slipped from the corner of one eye, to get caught at the corner of her demure mouth. “WTien you disappeared, you left me yourself. A friend always does. I've had you all the time.” Abbott glowed. “Still, it isn’t exact ly the same as if I had been able to touch your hand. Suppose we shake hands, little friend; what do you say?” “I don’t say anything,” Fran retort ed; “I just shake.” Her handclasp was so hearty chat he was slightly disconcerted. Was her friendship so great that it left no room in her heart for something greater. “I want to talk to you, Fran, talk and talk, oh, just about all the long night through! Come, .let me take you back home—” “Home? Me? Ridiculous! But I’ll tell you the best place that ever was, for the kind of talking you and I want to do to each other. Abbott, it won’t matter to you—will it?—at what place I say to meet me, at about half past nine?” "Why, Fran! It’s not eight o’clock,” Abbott remonstrated, glancing toward the courthouse clock to find it stopped, and then consulting his watch. “Do you think I am going to wait till—” "Till half-past nine,” said Fran, non chalantly. "Very well, then.” “Hut what will we do in the mean time. if we're not to talk till—” “We?" she mocked him. "Listen, Abbott, don’t look so cross. I've a friend in town with a sick daughter, and she's a real friend so I must go to help her, a while.” He was both mystified and disap pointed. "I didn't know you had any such friends in Littleburg,” he remon strated, remembering how unkind tongues had set the village against her. Fran threw back her head, and her gesture was full of pride and confi dence. "Oh!” she cried, "the town is full of my friends.” He could only stare at her in dumb amazement. "All right, then,” she said with the greatest cheerfulness, "at half-past nine. You understand the date—nine thirty. Of course you wouldn’t have me desert a friend in trouble. Where shall we meet, Abbott—at nine-thirty? Shall we say, at the Snake-Eater’s?” “Go, Fran,” he exclaimed. "I’ll wait for you as long as I must, even if it’s Her Handclasp Was So Hearty That He Was Slightly Disconcerted. the eternity of nine-thirty; and I'd go anywhere in the world to meet you. even to the den of the Snake-Eater.” “That's the way for a friend to talk!” she declared, suddenly radiant —a full Fran-sun, now. instead of the slender penetrating Fran-beam. Seeing a leg-lined lane opening be fore her, she darted forward. Abbott called—“But I can’t promise to talk to you as a friend, when we meet—I mean, just as a friend.” Fran looked back at him, still daz zling. “I only ask you to treat me as well," she said with assumed humility. (COPy&lGHT 1912 B0BB5-MEPPILLC0.) "as we are told we ought to treat our —enemies.” CHAPTER XXIII. The Conqueror. After the extinguishment of the Fran-beam, Abbott wanted to be alone, to meditate on stellar and solar bright ness, but in this vociferous wilderness, reflection was impossible. One could not even escape recognition, one could not even detach oneself from a Simon Jefferson. "Got back to town again, hey?” said Simon. That was enough about Ab bott; Simon passed at once to a more interesting theme; "Taken in the Lion Show, yet?” “I'm just waiting for nine-thirty. ... I have an engagement." Fu tile Words, indeed, since it was now only eight o’clock. “You come with me, then, I know all the ropes. Hey? Oh, yes, I know mother thinks me in bed—for good ness' sake don’t tell on me, she'd be scared to death. But actually, old man. this carnival is good for my heart. 'Tisn’t like going to ciyurch, one bit. Preaching makes me feel op pressed, and that's what scares me— feeling oppressed.” He rubbed his griz zled hair nervously. "Just for fear somebody'd go tell. I’ve had to sneak into all these show's like I’d been a thief in the night.” Simon urged Abbott along in the di rection taken, but a few minutes be fore, by Hamilton Gregory and Grace Xoir. "You see,” Simon panted, "when the girl fell off the trapeze— heard about that, hey? Mother was overjoyed, thinking I’d missed the sickening sight. But bless your soul! —I was right at the front, hanging on to the railing, and I saw it all. Why, she pretty near fell on me. Her foot slipped just so—” Simon extended his leg with some agility. "Was she killed?” Abbott asked, concealing his astonishment over Si mon’s evident acquaintance with the black tent before which they had paused. “Well,” Simon reluctantly conceded, "n-n-no, she wasn't to say killed—but dreadfully bruised up, Abbott, very painful. I saw It all; this carnival has put new life into me—here! Get your ticket in a jiffy, or all the seats’ll be taken. You can’t stand there like that —give me your quarter, I know how to jump in and get first place. That ticket agent knows me; I’ve been in five times.” From a high platform before the black tent, a voice came through a megaphone; "The Big Show. The Big Show. See those enormous lions riding in baby carriages while La Gon lzetti makes other lions dance the fandango to her violin. See those—” "Here, Abbott, follow!” called the breathless Simon Jefferson. "Of course well see what's there—no use listen ing to him, like an Introduction in a novel of Scott’s telling it all first. You follow me.” Abbott laughed aloud at Simon’s ability as they pushed their way un der the tent. “Uh-huh, now see that!” groaned Simon reproachfully, as he looked about. "Every seat taken. I tell you, you’ve got to lift your feet to get into this show. Well, hang on to the rope —don’t let anybody gouge you out of standing room.” At least two-thirds of the space un der the tent was taken up by tiers of seats formed of thin, and apparently fragile, blue planks, springy to th6 foot and deafening to the ear. From hardened ground to fringed tent-ceil ing, these overlapping rows of narrow boards were brimming with men. wom en and children who, tenacious of their holdings, seemed each to con tain in his pockets the feet of him who sat immediately behind. The seats faced an immense cage which rose almost to the roof. As yet, it was empty, but smaller adjoining cages promised an animated arena when the Bignal should be given. Gregory and Grace Noir had sought refuge on the highest seat, where they might overlook the crowd; here, with heads bent forward as if to avoid the canvas, they hoped to escape observa tion. Thanks to the influx of country folk, Littleburg citizens were rare!/ to be seen at such shows until a later and more fashionable hour. Gregory was relieved to find his topmost plank filled with strangers. “All goes well,” he said, pressing Grace’s hand. “Nobody will find out that we have been in here.” "Watch for Mr. Clinton.” Grace counseled cautiously. “If he comes in, stoop lower.” “They’re all strangers, Grace. Provi dence is with us—there’s Simon Jeffer son!” He was too amazed to think of concealment. “Hush! Yes—and Abbott Ashton.” Gregory pulled his hat over his eyes. Into the tent streamed a fresh body of sight-seers. Simon, swinging to the rope that was stretched in front of the big cage, grumbled at being elbowed by weary mothers and broad-chested farmers. The band entered and squatted upon blue boxes In one corner. Showy red coats were removed in deference to sweltering heat, and melody presided in undress. Three bears, two clowns and a bicycle sharpened interest in what was to come, whetting the mind upon jokes blunter than the intelli gence of the audience. Even the band ceased playing though that had not seemed possible; its depressing an dantinos had not only subdued the bears, rendering them as “harmless as kittens, but had mournfully depressed the audience. Into this atmosphere of tamed inert ness, suddenly flashed a little figure whose quivering vitality communi cated electric thrills. Even the clowns moved less like treadmill horses, as they took their stations at the smaiiet cages, waiting to lift the gates that would admit the restless lions into the central cage. • The form that had appeared—one knew not whence—was that of a slight woman, dressed in a short skirt of blue, and bodice of white satin. The trimmings w'hich ran in all directions, were rich in pendants of gold and rubies. Above all, there was the al luring mystery of a crimson mask which effectually hid the woman’s face. Simon whispered into Abbott’s al ways unready ear: ‘‘That isn’t La Gonizetti. Wonder what this means' La Gonizetti is much more of a worn an than this one, and she doesn’t >veai a mask, or much of anything el3e. Lc Gonizetti doesn’t care who sees her Why, this is nothing but a more—; tell you now, if she ain’t on to her job, I mean to have my money back ” Si mon glowered. Abbott stared in great perplexity “Then who is she?" he exclaimed “Si mon—doesn’t she remind you ol—o: some one we know?” “Naw. She’s got on La Gonizetti’i dress, and her voice has the show girl’s clangy-tin-panny-whangdoodle but that’s all I recognize.” Abbott wondered that Simon failed to notice the similarity between the show-girl’s movements and those o! Fran. This woman had Fran’s form. To be sure the voice was entirely dif ferent, but the rapidity and decisive ness of action, and the air of authority were Fran's very own. However, thi show-girl’s hands were as dark as an Italian's, while Fran’s were—well, no' so dark, at any rate. Abbott’s brow did not relax Hi stood motionless, staring at every thing before him with painful intent ness. Up near the roof, Gregory anf Grace scarcely observed the entranci of the lion-tamer. Secured fro a espial, absorbed in each other, they were able, thanks to the surroundinf clamor of voices, to discuss their fu ture plans with some degree of eonfi dence. Simon told Abbott—"Anyway, nc amateur would rub up against thosi beasts, so I guess it’s all right. They ain’t but two lions; bill says ten, man that wrote the bill was the othei eight, I reckon ” (TO BE CONTINUED.) Work for Men and Women. After all, you know, there is room for both men and women in this world. , Men have their work to dc and women have theirs. It is the woman’s work to provide for the innej man and it is the man’s to provide for die outer woman. SHREWD SCHEME IS WASTED Man Who “Beat” the Customs In spectors Might Be Excused for Feeling a Little Annoyed. The exacting regulations of the cus toms service bear heavily on the Amer ican returning from a trip abroad. The man or woman who cannot find more than the legal limit of $100 to invest in trinkets, presents, and various person al articles of apparel is rare. To be held up like a criminal and be forced to discuss with inquisitive custom in spectors the value of every little ar ticle in one’s baggage is vexatious. So people frequently resort to subter fuge. A man who had been In Siberia on business had an opportunity to buy there at very reasonable rates some beautiful sable skins. He decided that it was too good a chance to make his wife a desirable gift to be overlook ed; so out of hundreds of skins he se lected a dozen of great beauty. On reaching New York he sought the co operation of several men friends, and each of them slipped a akin or two -'•* ■ down the legs of his trousers, tying them with twine to his suspenders to prevent them from dropping too far. It was a very hot day, and as they stood about on the pier waiting to be passed by the customs men the skins got warm and smelled villainously. Finally, passed by the inspectors with their baggage, they hastened to a place where in seclusion they > ould remove the sable skins and turn them over to the owner. Later the latter told the honse that was to make them up of his ruse, and was considerably startled when the manager said: "That was a good deal of trouble to take with an article that is not dutiable.”—The Sunday Maga zine. Truth and Error. Verily, there is nothing so true that the damps of error have not warped it. Verily, there is nothing so false that a sparkle of truth is not in it For the enemy, the father of lies, the gi ant Upaa of creation, can but per vert the good, but may not create the evil. He destroyeth, but cannot build; for he is not an antagonistic deity. Mighty in his stole? power, yet he is a creature and a subject; not a maker of abstract wrong, but a spoiler of concrete right. The fiend hath not a royal crown; he is but a prowl ing robber, suffered for some myste rious end to haunt the king’s highway. And the keen sword he beareth once was a simple plowshare. His pano ply of error is but a distortion of the truth. The sickle that once reaped righteousness, beaten from ita useful surve, with ax, and spike, and bar, headeth the marauder’s halibert Seek not further, O man, to solve the dark riddle of sin; suffice it that thine own bad heart is to thee thine origin of eviL—Martin Farquar Tupper. Paris Dress Expert In Paris the authors have a woman who sets them right as to the dress of the women they write about She tells them whether they have used the right words to describe the dress and whether the colors that are fashion able are named. The woman who does this is always anonymous, and no one but herself and the author Is aware pt her existence. TRULY A VALUABLE HOUND Visitor From Costa Rica Tells Story Which Some People Might Find It Hard to Believe. At last the existence of the banana hound has been shown to be a fact! A man who just arrived in this country from Port Limon. Costa Rica, not only knows all about the banana hound, but has a drove of them him self. The gentleman is Hezekiah Spottiswood. and for many years the owner of a banana plantation in Costa Rica. Is the banana hound a new discov ery up here?" he asked in surprise. "My word, how singular! Why. we al ways have them. They are a very es sential adjunct to a banana planta tion; indispensable almost, I should say. What is the breed? They are a cross between a pointer and a South American tapir. "It’s a very necessary thing to know when to pick the bananas from the trees, you know. When they have at tained a certain shade of green, then U the time. Now it’s very difficult to have a man so thoroughly up in color that he can determine this matter That is where the banana hound comes in. He trots the groves witb a man behind him, and scents the bunches which should be picked. He stands in front of the tree and gives a long moan, which sounds familiar to the siren at Sandy Hook. Then he points to a particular bunch with his tail. The scent of the hound is unerring. It has never been known to fail. "And you never heard of them?” No Joy Visit. A Glasgow journalist who was care less of his personal appearance was assigned to write something about a show at a leading Glasgow theater. He presented his card at a box-office. The maanger came out and looked at the disheveled visitor dubiously. Did you come here to write some thing about the play—to work?” he asked. Do you think I’d come to your theater for amusement?" asked the Journalist as he stalked out.—Satur day Evening Post.