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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (March 12, 1914)
SYNOPSIS. *■'** >* B• a-pre. a peasant UW of PIrt" -earn. -ft *i u iirxlrni In ■ »’«■■ Ocurrm. » mailr a ' A Frir.i » by th. Rn.peror X» P1’■»**• »t." piiptmird that I he boy ♦***■« one ua) be a inrnia of Franco •WnOe: j|;rf -if U -:.aiMr1r AI the nr*- of ■**** Fran- «as i isit# <>rBrrai baron tlas *“rd UlMr(»ll4. *h» with A :\e. * Si* ->«mr-ohl dsuctiM. Uj« at 1 be A K blf i of (be Knipiir under lt» ftr« tbe bur n IntoK nation WUL, tu«vs .f i.ts ampaj<r>>« Tin- c« u «al #6 ii F-anc-.s a home it the Cia '*•*■ Tu bur ret .»m to '.nr I.Js pu J*S*a. but Is (bo end brcenim a copyist f*r ib* c'M-rai .su In ina of the friend ship ucis- • [: Hi* gena-ral .iru Miruui.« i-a-e. ■ aim (Unpa:cnnl a.tb the C'lH-ra! »*“ei Ntpuk-us Marquis /ait), and bis •or- I'Mrw anil a at the I'tiuiKi: The •T» a; tons to rare for t ,e Marquis' » former goes to ’America Tfc* Marquis before ieavlnc for America aescd I ras. , is to be a friend of hie son The boy solemnly promises Francois pie* w the Chateau to live. Marquis Zapta die* leaiin* Pietro as a ward of th farm A fixe Pietro and Francois ♦e! a atraace boy a'u pm,ea to le Pn»ee Napoleon Fran » eaves bis life Ttie general discoveii. Francois b,>» Aliie. an 1 ext rai ls s promise from Itin. Ural he a ill not interfere between the 4it: and Pietro Francois for to Italy as ,errlarjr to Pietro queen H> rlense plans tike ► -■■-ax by disc sine him and Marquis tifi- as her lackey a Francois t.,lo binjdi /ani l pU,». who is ill. In the •sci ;■* ,,f li rrt.-rise and la> : s Pres.- -d ns Li s » brother Fra-ieop -ires the Aialdaia !n» the hotel allowing the Jpnn e and his nutlsr to escape Fran «Ms ts a prisoner of the Austr'an* for Si- years m the castle owned by Pietro Is Italy He dm over* in his fund one of PP-'le » oM fanuiy sen ants. CHAPTER XIV.—Continued. A person of more importance than ‘ fcuksa had fallen under the speli of yrae«ois' personality. The governor hirer—If had been attracted by the yoawg Frenchman The governor. ; Ooom roe Geradorf. was a vain, dis contented. brilliant Austrian, at odds j vlll the world because he had cot i risen further in it. He was without ! arid? in this mountain fortress of j hi*. sr.d longed for it; he had a fine i vote* and so one to sing to: be liked to iw and had no one to talk to. Franonis. with bis ready friendliness. wt*B hi* gift of finding good in ever owe. with his winning manner and { •>1 i*Ticity which had the ease of so- . phVticalion. was a treasure-trove of • «»«D«rt to the bored Austrian. Thing* stood so with the prisoner ml the time of his discovery of the identity of his jailer and of his jail. The governor at that time was away Sc a visit to Vienna, looking for a pro motion: he cime back elated and good-humored in the prospect of a Change within the year. But the heart of Francois sank as he thought what j jh* change might mean to him. * 'Some day a marshal of France un der another Bonaparte. ~ he said to i himself one day. staring through the , bars at bis window—he called the sky ■ so He smiled. "But that is nothing. ] To beip place my prirce on the throne 1 of France—that is my work—my life ” He talked skied at times, as prison «n come to do. He went on then, in • low voice. • Tf there were good fairies, if I had three wishes Alixe—the prince made emperor—Francois Besupre. s marshal of France." He laughed happily. “It Is child's play. Nothing matters ex cept that my life shall do its work £>ea that is so small: but I have a great desire u> do that. I believe I shall do that—I know It " And be fell to work on a book which be was plan ning. chapter by chapter, in his brain. But. tf be were to escape ever, the chance was increased infinitely by the going hock and forth U> the governor e Toots A new governor might keep him shot op absolutely It had been s» while the count was away: then he ban been ill. and the lieutenant in command would not let a doctor see him till he became delirious: that was the ordinary treatment of prisoners. Ft mucous, thinking over these things Co a day. fell with a sudden accent , «■ th< steady push of his longing for freedom. the conviction that he must It Wss Whispered Quickly. |rt free before the count left, else op portunity and force for the effort would both be gone forever. And on feat day Battista brought in bis mid Pay meal with a look and a manner which Francois remarked. "What is it. Battista?" he asked hoftiy. The man answered not a word, but turned and opened the door rapidly aad looked oat. "1 thought 1 had left the water-pitcher. Ah, here it is—I am atop id." he spoke aloud And then, huger on Up dramatically, he bent over the yoang man "My son—the little Battista—has had a letter. The young master wiahes hits to come to him in % France, to nerve him. He is going In two days." It was whispered quickly, and Bat (HU Stood erect Ttie signor’s food will get cold if (he signor does not eat it.” he spoke graflly. "I do not like to carry good ggffd (or prisoners wfe> do not appre ciate It. 1 afaaU bring leas tomorrow.'* |hi Francois, hardly hearing the / surl> tones, had his hand on Battista's arm. was whispering back eagerly. "Where does he go. in France?" "To Vieques," the low answer came. Francois sank back, tortured. Going to Vieques, the little Battista! From <'astleforte! And he, Francois, must stay here in prison! His soul was wrung with a sudden wild home sickness. He wanted to see Alise, to gf*e ns mother, to see the geaeral; to see the peaceful little village and the stream that ran through it, and the steen-arched bridge, and the poppy fields, and the corn! The gray castle) with its red roofs, and the beech wood, and the dim. high-walled library, how he wanted to see it all! How hie heart ached, madly, fiercely! This was the worst moment of all his captivity. And with that. Battista was over him. was murmuring words again. Something was slipped under the bedclothes. Paper—pens. The signor will write a letter this afternoon. And tomor row little Battista will take it." Aid the heart of Francois gave a sudden throb of joy as wild as its an guish. He could speak to them before he died; it might be they could save him His hands stole to the package under the coarse blanket. It seemed as if in touching it he touched his mother and his sweetheart and his home. CHAPTER XV. Good News. In he garden of the chauteau of Vieques, where the stiff, gray stone vases spilled again their heart's blood of scarlet and etching of vines: where the two stately lines of them led down to the sundial and the round lawn—on one of the griffin-supported stone seats Alixe and Pietro sat. where Alixe and Francois had sat five years before. As they sat in the garden, they had been going over the pros and cons of his life or death for the thousandth time. Pietro's quiet gray eyes were sad as he looked away from Alixe and across the lawn to the beech wood. God knows 1 woutd give my life quickly if I could see him coming through the trees there, as we used to see him, mornings long ago, in his patched homespun clothes." Alixe followed the glance consider ingly. as if calling up the little, brow n, trudging figure so well remembered. Then 'she tossed up her head sharply —“Who?”-—and then she laughed. ”1 sht.ll be seeing visions next, like Fran cois,’ she said. "I thought it was he —back in the beech wood.” ■ I see no one." Pietro stared. ‘ But you have no eyes, Pietro—-I can always see a thing two minutes before you." Alixe threw at him. "There—the man." "Oh." said Pietro. “Your eyes are mere than natural, Alixe. You see in to a wood; that is uncanny. Yes, I see him now. Mon dieu! he is a big fellow” "A peasant—from some other Til lage. ’ Alixe spoke carelessly. *‘I do not know him," and they went on talk ing. as they had been doing, of Fran cois. And with that, here was Jean Phil lirpe Moison. forty now and fat, but still beautiful in purple millinery, ad vancing down the stone steps between the tall gray vase*, making a sym phony of color with the rich red of the flewers. He held a silver tray; a let ter was on it. “For mademoiselle.” Mademoiselle took it calmly and glanced at it, and with that both the footman and the Marquis Zappi were astonished to see her fall to shiver ing. as if in a sudden illness. She caught Pietro s arm. The letter was clutched in her other hand thrust back of her. "Pietro!” V "What is it. Alixe?” His voice was quiet as ever, but his hand was around her shaking fingers, and he held them strongly. “What is it, Alixe?" She drew forward the other hand; the letter shook, rustled with her trembling. “It is—from Francois!" Jean Phillippe Moison having stayed to listen, as he ought not, lift ed his eyes and his hands to heaven and gave thanks in a general way, volubly, unrebuked. By now the un steady fingers of Alixe had opened the paper, and her head and Pietro's were bent over it. devouring the well-known writing. Alixe. excited, French, ex ploded into a disjointed running com ment. “From prison—our Francois—dear Francois!” And then: "Five years. Pietro! Think—while we have been free!" And then, with a swift clutch again at the big coat sleeve crowding against her: “Pietro! See. see! The bate—it is only two months ago. He ; was alive then; he must be alive now; j lie is! I knew it. Pietro! A woman ! knows more things than a man.” With that she threw up her head and fixed Jean Phillippe. drinking in all this, with an unexpected stern glance. "What are you doing here. Moison? What manners are these?” Then, relapsing in a flash into pure human trust and affection toward the anxious old servant: "My dear, old. good Moison—he is alive—Monsieur Francois is alive—in a horrible prison in Italy! But he is alive, Moison!" And with that, a sudden jump again nto dignity. "Who brought this. Mot ion?” Jean Phillippe was only too happy to have a hand in the joyful excite ment. “Mademoiselle, the young per son speaks little language. But he told ®e to say to monsieur the mar quis that he was the little Battista.” Pietro looked up quickly. “Alixe, it is the servant from my old home of whom I spoke to you. I can not imag ine how Francois got hold of him, but he chose a good messenger. May I hare him brought here? He must have something to tell uv” Alixe, her letter in her hands, strug gled in her mind. Then: "The letter will keep—yes, let him come, and we can read it all the better after for what he may tell us." So Moison, having orders to produce at once tht) said little Battista, retired, much excited, and returned shortly— but not so shortly as to have omitted a fling of the great news into the midst of the servants' hall. He con- ! ducted, marching behind him, the lit tle Battista, an enormous young man of six feet, four, erect, grave, stately. This dignified person, saluting the lady with a deep bow, dropped on one knee before his master, his eyes full of a worshiping joy. and kissed his hand. Having dene which, he arose silently and stood waiting, with those beaming eyes feasting on Pietro’s face, but otherwise decorous. First the young marquis said some j friendly words of his great pleasure in ; seeing his old servant and the friend of his childhood, and the big man stood with downcast eyes, with the j “You Must Save Him! color flushing his happy face. Then. ; "Battista,” asked the marquis, "how did you get the letter which you brought mademoiselle?" "My father,” answered Battista la conically. “How did your father get it?” “From the signor prisoner, my sig- j nor.” Alixe and Pietro looked at him at tentively, not comprehending by what means this was possible. Pietro, re membering the little Battista of old. I vaguely remembered that he was ,n- I capable of initiative in speech. One j must pump him painfully. "Was your father in the prison j where the signor is confined?" Alise asked. The little Battista turned his eyes on her a second, approvingly, but briefly. They went back without delay to their affair of devouring the face of his master. But he answered promptly. “Yes, signorina; he is there always." “Always?" Pietro demanded in alarm. “Is Battista a prisoner?" "But no. my signor." “What then? Battista, try to tell us.” So adjured, little Battista made a violent effort. "He is one of the jail ers. my signor." "Jailers? For the Austrians?" The face of the marquis took all the joy ful light out of the face of little Bat tista. "My signor.” he stammered, “it could not be helped. He was there. He • knew the castle. They forced him at first, and—and It came to be so.” « "Knew the castle!” Pietro repeated. “What castle?" Battista's eyes turned to his Mas ter's like those of a faithful dog. trust ing but not understanding. "What cas tle, my signor? Castelforte—the sig nor's own castle—what other?” A sharp exclamation from Alixe summed up everything.. “Your castle is confiscated; they use it as a prison. Francois is a prisoner there. Pietro! , All these years—in your own home!” j “I never dreamed of that." Pietro spoke, thinking aloud. "Every other ; prison in Austria and Italy I have tried to find him in. I never dreamed of 1 Castelforte." At the end of the interview the little ' Battista put his hand into his breast pocket and brought out another letter, thickly folded. Would mademoiselle have him instructed where to find the mother of the signor prisoner? He had promised to put this into her own hands. He must do it before he touched food And Jean Phiilippe Moison. who had lurked discreetly back of the nearest stone vase, not missing a syllable, was ■ I given orders, and the huge little Bat i tista was sent off up the stone steps between the scarlet flowers, up the ! velvet slope of lawn, in charge of the ! j purple one. Half an hour later the general walked up from the village, walked . slowly, thoughtfully through the beech wood, life face hardly older than when he had come to Vieques, but sterner , and sadder; his still soldiery gait less ■ buoyant than it had been five years ! ago. lie saw Alixe and Pietro coining joyfully toward him, running light heartedly, calling to him with excited gay voices. It stabbed the general’s heart; a quick thought came of that other who had been always with them, now dead or worse, of that other whom these two had forgotten. And with that they were upon him, and Alixe was kissing him, hugging him, push ing a letter into his hand, up his sleeve, into his face—anywhere. “Father—good news—the best news —almost the best! Father, be ready for the good news!” “I am ready,” the general growled Impatiently. “What is this foolery? i Sabre de bois! What is your news, then, you silly child?” And Alixe, 6haking very much, laid her band on his cheek and looked earnestly into his eyes. "Father, Francois is alive!” For all his gruff self-control the gen eral made the letter an excuse shortly to sit down. Queer, that a man's knees should suddenly bend and give way because of a thrill of rapture in a man's psychological make-up! But the general had to sit down. And then and there all that had been extracted from little Battista was rehearsed, and the letter read over from start to fin ish. "But he is alive, father! Alive! That is happiness enough to kill one. 1 never knew till now that I feared he was dead.” "Alive—yes! But in prison—in that devil's hole of an old castle!” And Alixe looked at Pietro and laughed, but the general paid no attention. “He must be got out. There is no time to waste. Diable! He is perishing in that vile stable! What was that the lad said about the doctor's speech, that only a long sea voyage could save him? One must get him out, mon dieu, quick!” Alixe, her hand on his arm. put her head down on it suddenly and stood j so for a moment, her face hidden. Pietro, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, looked at the general with wide gray eyes, considering. With that Alixe flashed up, turned on the young Italian, shaking her forefinger at him; i her eyes shone blue fire. "That is for you, Pietro. If we» should lose him now. just as we have found him! Now is the time for you : to show if you can be what is brave and strong, as Francois has shown. It is vour castle; you must save him.” Pietro looked at the gi^l. and the j color crept through his cheeks, but he said nothing. "Alixe, my Alixe,” her father put an arm around her. "One may not de- ; mand heroism as if it were bread and butter. Pietro will not fail us.” "Alixe always wished me to be bril liant like Francois.” Pietro spoke gently. "But 1 never could.” "Yet, Pietro, it is indeed your time.” j Alixe threw at him eagerly. “Francois must be rescued or he will lie.” "Yes,” Pietro answered quietly, j “Francois must be rescued.” He was silent a moment, as if think ing. His calm poised mind was work ing swiftly; one saw the inner action . in the clear gray eyes. The general and Alixe. watching him. saw it. "1 think I know- how." he said. CHAPTER XVI. t The Stone Staircase. Battista's prisoner stood at the barred window high up the steep side of the castle and stared out wistfully at the receding infinity of blueness— his meadow. In the three months since his letter had gone to France, he had grown old. The juices of his youth seemed dried up: his eyes were bloodshot, his skin yellow; there was no flesh on him. The waiting and hoping had worn on him more than the dead level of the hopeless years ! before. There was a new tenseness in the lightly-built figure, even in the long, delicate, strong fingers. The prisoner had caught a whiff of the air of home and was choking for a full breath. "You are not well, my friend." said the governor. "The doctor must see ' you.” But Francois refused lightly and laughed and fell to singing an old peas ant song of France which he had re- j me inhered lately; he got up on the table and droned it to an imaginary ! fiddle which he pretended to play after , the manner of old Jacques Arne, who played for dances in Vieques. And the ! governor was taken with a violent i fancy for it. He roared at It. and sang it over in fragments till he had learned it. and then he sang it and roared j again and slapped his knee; there was a droll comedy in Francois' rendering also, not to be explained—and the count said that Francois must come to his rooms the next night for dinner and sing him the song again and also i listen to a new one of his own. So Francois was taken down the stone staircase and conducted to the two rooms which were the governor's suite. He knew them well, for he had dined many times with the count. But tonight he was left alone a few mo ments in the outer room, the living room. while the governor was in the bedroom, and he looked about keenly with a strained attention which grew ! out of the suppressed hope of escape. Who knew what bit of knowledge of the castle might be vital, and who knew hew soon? He noted the swords and pistols hanging on the wall, and marked a light saber whose scabbard was brightly polished as if the blade also were kept in good order. On the table he saw the flint and steel with which Count von Gersdorf lighted his pipe; he stepped to the window and bent out. scanning the wall. A stone coping, wide enough for a man’s foot, but little more, ran, four feet below; J ten feet beyond the window it ended in the roof of a shed, a sloping roof where a man could drop down, yes, or even climb up with ease. A man, that is, who had climbed when a boy as Francois had climbed—like a cat for certainty and lightness. But what then, when one was in the courtyard? It was walled about with a stone wall sixteen feet high; these old ancestors of Pietro, who had built this place, had planned well to keep Pietro's friend in prison. So Francois, not hopeful of a sortie by that point, crew in his head from the open window and took to examin ing the walls of the governor’s room There were three doors—one from the hall by which he had come, one be hind'which he now heard the count moving in his bedroom, and a third. The count had gone through this last door one night a month before. Into a dark, winding, stone staircase, and dis appeared for three minutes, and brought up a bottle of wonderful wine. “A fine stock they put down there— the Italians who ruled here for eight hundred-odd years,” he bad said. “I’ve lowered it a bit. A good spacious wine cellar and grand old wine. You will be the better for a little.” And Francois had watched him as he put the brass key back on the chain which hung from his belt At this point of memory the bed room door opened, and the governor came out, in great good humor and ready to eat and drink as became an Austrian soldier. The dinner was brought in. but Francois, for all his efforts to do his part, could not swal low food, or very little. The fever, the unrest burning in him. made it impos sible. Count Gersdorf looked at him seriously when dinner was over; as yet Francois, talking, laughing, sing ing. had eaten not over half a dozen mouthfuls. “Certainly you are not well,” he said. “I think the doctor should see you.” And then he nodded bis head and his small eyes gleamed with a brilliant thought. "I know a medicine belter than a doctor's." He stood up and his fingers were working at the chain of keys at his belt. Francois watched them and saw the thin, old. brass key which he slipped off. “A bottle of wine of our Italian ancestors—yours and mine, Beaupre"—the count chuckled—“that will cure you of your ills for this evening at least.” He slid the key into the lock and said, half to himself, ‘My little brass friend never leaves the belt of Albrecht von Gers dorf except to do him a pleasure, bless him!” And then. “Hold the candle Beaupre—well, come along down—it can do no harm and I can’t manage a light and two bottles.” So Francois followed down the twist ed. headlong, stone staircase and found himself, after rather a long descent, holding the lamp high, gazing curious ly about the walls of a large stone room lined with shelves, filled with bottles. "A show, isn't it?” the Count von Gersdorf demanded. "Here, hold the light on this side." and he went on talking. "The wine is so old that I think it must have been stocked be fore the time of the last lord of the castle." And Francois, holding the light, re membering the Marquis Zappi. thought so too. The count pointed to a square stone in the wall which projected slightly, very slightly. ‘‘That is the door to a secret stock of some sort, 1 have always thought." he said. "Probably some wonderful old stuff saved for the coming of age of the heir, or a great event of that sort. 1 wish I could get at it.” and he stared wistfully at the massive block. 'But 1 cannot stir it. And I don't let anyone but myself down here—not I." The count turned away and they mounted the two stories of narrow steps, for the governor's rooms were on the second floor, and the staircase ran from it between walls, down un derground. "The old chaps must have thought a lot of their wane to have the cellar connect directly with their own rooms—for Battista tells me these were always the rooms of the Za—of the lords of the castle,” the governor explained. And to Francois, considering it. the fact seemed an odd one. And then the governor set to work drinking Pietro's wine, and little thought, as he urged it on his prisoner, how mnch more right to it the prisoner had than he. It was a wonderful old liquid, full of a strange dim sparkle, and of most exquisite bouquet. As he drank it Francois silent v toasted its owner on his return to his own again. He took so little as to disgust the gov ernor. but it put fresh life into him, and when at last he could leave the count, who was by that time more than fairly drunk, he went up to his cold prison under the roof quieter and more at peace than he had beetle for months. CHAPTER XVII. A Loaf of Bread. The next morning Battista came in with a manner which to the observing eye of his prisoner foretold distinctly some event. He talked more than usual, and more gruffiy and loudly, but at last, after wandering about the room some minutes, all the time talk ing. scolding, he swooped on Francois and thrust a thick paper mto his coat and at the Bame instant his heavy left hand was over Francois’ mouth. “Not a word.” he whispered, and then— “The loaf of bread.” Francois, struck dumb and blind, turned hot and cold, and his shaking hand in his coat pocket clutched the letter. But Battista prodded him with his hard forefinger. "Be careful,” he mut tered, and then again, “The bread”— : with a sharp prod—"The loaf of bread” —and the door had clanged. Battista was gone. A strong man. who had not beejt shut away from life., would likely have read the letter instantly, would ia 1 stantly have examined the long round loaf lying before him. Francois was ill and weak and it was the first word for five years from his own people, which lay in his hand; he sat as if turned to stone, touching the paper aa j if that were enough; he sat perhaps fifteen minutes. Then suddenly a breathlessnes* came over hftn that something might happen before he could read it—this writing which, whatever it should say, meant life and death to him. Taking care not to rustle the paper, deaden- j ing the sound under his bedclothes, he read it, kneeling by the bed. It w as four letters—from his mother and Alexe and the general and Pietro; but the first three were short. He felt, indeed, reading them, that no words had been written, that only the arms of the people he loved had strained i about him and their faces laid again«t j The Count Pointed to a Square Stone in the Wall. his. and that so, wordlessly, they had told him but one thing—their undying love. Weak, lonely, his intense tem perament stretched to the breaking point by the last three months of fear ful hope, it was more than he could bear. He put the papers against his cheek and his head dropped on the bed. and a storm of tears tore his soul and body. But it was dangerous; he must not be off his guard; he remem bered that swiftly, and with shaking fingers he opened Pietro's letter— Pietro's letter which, yellowed and faded but distinct yet. in the small clear writing, is guarded today with those other letters in the mahogany desk in Virginia. “My dear brother Francois," the let ter began, and quick tears came again at that word "brother." which said so much. "My dear brother Francois— this is not to tell you how I have searched for you and never forgotten you. I will tell you that when I see you. This is to tell you how to get out of that house of mine which has held you as a prisoner when you ought to have been its welcome guest. When Italy is free we will do that over; but we must get you free first. Francois. I am now within five miles of you—” The man on his knees by the prison bed gasped; the letters staggered be fore his eyes. “1 am living on a ship, and I will explain how I got it when I see you. in a few days now. Francois. Every night for a week, beginning with tonight, there will be a person watching for you in Riders' Hollow, from midnight till daylight. Aft^r that we shall go away for two weeks so as to avoid giv ing suspicion, and then repeat the ar rangement again every night for a week. You do not know Riders’ Hoi low. and it is unnecessary to tell you more about it than that it is a lonely place hidden in trees, and supposed to be haunted by ghosts of men on horse back; the people about will not go there for love or money except by broad daylight. (TO BE COXTINTED.) BOTH PERSONAL AND SOCIAL Items of More or Less Interest That Concern the Doings of the 4 Best Families.'* The engagement is announced of Miss Tuffie i'.how,- daughter of Mrs. Hoaleigh Shew, to Mr. William Mar tingale Yuceless, only son of Mr. and Mrs. Worsen Yuceless. Mr. Worsen Yuceless. by the way. comes of a g**>d old family. They have a! says 1-eec fashionable. His uncle, G. How-Y»ursen Yuceless. is an intellectual mar. having written the society notes for a fashion paper near ly a whole season. And his son. Mar tingale, once too'*, a prize at a horse show. It is rumored tl-at Miss Tootoo Ryl ling has broken her engagement to Mr. Dedleigh Bcbr. But Dedleigh seemed quite cheerful last Saturday at his club. It is whispered that the P. Spend ing-Spendars are not so happy togeth er as they might N>~ Our readers will remember that Spendar was the charming Miss Freeks, a noted belle of Boston. Mr. Spendar is more than attentive to Mrs. Jimmy Over load, while Mrs. Spendar Is constantly seen with the young dttke of Borro and Keape. He comes of an ancient family. A greater part of this last season he was a visitor at Koopon Cliffs, the summer home of the F. j Spending-Spendars. Mrs. l«eeds Thegang Is preparing for an active social season. She is now visiting ter sister, Mrs. P. de V. Blasee Rounders. Their charming cousin. Mrs. McEvoy Ondek. returns from Europe Saturday on the Nausea —or is it the Crown Princessen von Gotter Dame rung ? Time will tell.— Life. There Are Wars and Wars. As one glances over the pages of history, one finds wars, it is true, which are blots upon the records of man; but one also finds wars without which the world would have been in comparably the poorer that we could never have done without them. And one also perceives to his astonish ment if be is a "practical man,” that the wars which have been gigantic blunders and crimes have all been wars for the attainment of practical ends, like territory, or markets, or wealth, while the wars which the world could not have done without have all been wars for abstract prin- i ciples, for beliefs, for religions, for mad dreams and seemingly impossible 1 hopes. The world could well spare the I conquests of Napoleon, because the ' wars were merely for Napoleon; but I the world could not spare the martial ' conflicts surrounding and realizing the I French revolution, because it was a war for those abstract and sensible | absurdities, liberty, equality and fra- | ternity. We could well spare the i Mexican war, which was a fight for territory, but we could not at all get along without the Civil war, which was a war for mao.—The Atlantic. ii CASGARETS" FOR A BUS LIR For sick headache, bad breath, Sour Stomach and constipation. Get a 10-cent box now. No odds how bad your liver, stomach or bowels; how much your head aches, how miserable and uncomfort able you are from constipation, indiges tion, biliousness and sluggish bowels —you always get the desired results with Cascarets. Don’t let your stomach, liver and bowels make you miserable. Take Cascarets to-night; put n end to the headache, biliousness, dizziness, nerv ousness, sick, sour, 3sy stomach, backache and all other distress; cleanse your inside organs of all the bile, gases and constipated matter which is producing the misery. A 10-cent box means health, happi ness and a clear head for months. No more days of gloom and distress if you will take a Cascaret now and then. All stores sell Cascarets. Don't forget the children—their little in sides need a cleansing, too. Adr. Talked Enough in Life. An agent called on Mr. Hoolihan one morning and asked for a photo graph of the lately departed Mrs. Hool ihan. “You just let ine have that photo graph about two weeks,” said the agent, “and I'll send you a life-size portrait of Mrs. Hoolihan that'll be a speaking likeness.” An expression of considerable appre hension appeared in Mr. Hoolihan's dim blue eyes, and he passed his hand twice across his mouth with a nervous gesture. “Well, now, Oi don’t know as that d be annyways nicessary,” he replied in a whisper, “Oi ll jist have a pictut that shows her looks, widout anny me chanical eontroivance to reprojuce her v'iee.”—Illustrated Sunday Magazine. THICK, GLOSSY HAIR FREE FROM DANDRUFF Girls! Beautify Your Hair! Make It Soft, Fluffy and Luxuriant—Try the Moist Cloth. Try as you will, after an application of Danderine, you cannot find a single trace of dandruff or falling hair and your scalp will not itch, but what will please you most, will be after a few weeks’ use, when you see new hair, fine and downy at first—yes—but real ly new hair—growing all over the scalp. A little Danderine immediately dou bles the beauty of your hair. No differ ence how dull, faded, brittle and scraggy, just moisten a cloth with Danderine and carefully draw it through your hair, taking one small strand at a time. The effect is im mediate and amazing—your hair will be light, fluffy and wavy, and have an appearance of abundance; an incom parable luster, softness and luxuri ance, the beauty and shimmer of true hair health. Get a 25 cent bottle of Knowlton’s Danderine from any store and prove that your hair is as pretty and soft as any—that it has been neglected or injured by careless treatment—that's alL Adv. Insurmountable Barrier. Friend—"We’ve come to see if wa can't persuade you and Bob to maka it up even at this late hour.” Fair Prospective Divorcee—"Simply im possible—why, I’ve got the very duckiest gown for the occasion.” Constipation causes many serious dis eases. It is thoroughly cured by Doctor Pierce’s Pleasant Pellets. One & laxative, three for cathartic. Adv. Its Definition. What's a stage wait, pa?” “I don’t know exactly, son. but 1 guess it's the heavy man.” WHAT $10 DID FOR THIS WOMAN The Price She Paid for Lydia ILPinkham’s Vege table Com pound Which Brought Good Health. Danville, Va.—“ I have only spent ten dollars on your medicine and I feel so did when the doctor was treating me. I don't suffer any bearing down paini at all now and I sleep well. I cannot say enough for Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegeta ble Compound and Liver Pills as they have done so much for me. I am enjoy ing good neajui now anu unc u ‘ your remedies. I take pleasure in tell ing my friends and neighbors about them.’’’-Mrs. Mattie Haley, 601 Co! quhone Street, Danville, Va. No woman suffering from any form of female troubles should lose hope un til she has given Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound a fair trial. This famous remedy, the medicinal ingredients of which are derived from native roots and herbs, has for forty years proved to be a most valua ble tonic and in vigors tor of the fe male organism. Women everywhere bear willing testimony to the wonderful virtue of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegeta ble Compound. If you have the slightest doubt that Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegeta ble Compound will help you, write to Lydia E. Pink hum Medicine Co. (confidential) Lynn, Mass., for ad vice. Your letter will be opened, read and answered by a woman and held in strict confidence.