Nebraska Newspapers

    1
IVNAfOk
True, .ev |a«uprr a peasant t*ah* of i
Ci-f . - . r* tf r w u..»x:c .xm*u1- ru In
*U-* H.I*I *. N- ■ tte'.r** .» mode a
• inaiM «f Fr*» •* l»> U Kjwptmr Na
te- * vh« p. J t x! a* hoy
a : b« • ‘ France
«m-» «; t’ ■ - '.>iari V- aae "f
a«* Fraa.uk* 1*1* «i**a-r*l Baruxi «**» ,
teaxtj oniasuf who with All**. Lis •
a***a-year-old dnugtx*x lx-** al ti*
CBotnnu. * *oM*rr «f th* Kr..r>r* under j
wyar-f- t he nr*o li* buy'* Imagxwattnw
vuk aim of tit* rmwpotgn* “* gen
e-ax «•*** Praaxsw a I one al lb* O.a
b*< TU hay refua*-* to le»' * 1*1* te»
MbU. SB tr u* ead krxuMM a *«*•• !»'
t--* rh- r- -ra! «al W*rr4 d iti* xrk-id
tea# kd*<*t. The r-tafml aad Btamut*
y .p>. mtm . vnxea'.gn-d with « * «- n*ral
WhS*- Kapateoe Marqui* *app and ht*
a ■ r-Mi* ami - at iv 0-.at*au The
**■-■*»• xjrr-a to -ar* for th* MarrJl*’
>u a • « - 'umirt «-■*• to Aww*
TV- M .M-a* Before leak la* foe Am*rt*a
tnuas ti- h* a fr-.nd «* W* •»"
T»- u-r a- >i**»«n tr |0«»» *•
r». •- the Town to live “•'A"*
hte oe-* t*» in* Pkarro a* a ward
the cne-ral Atet* PV-tro and !
te*a* a aursaw- tear who pt«*» to h* j
Ptrnxe U*ut* XtteteHi Frawwda aavea
Bla hf* Th* general .hr - .**• »ranrot*
Mae# <ti- end Miartk a t*™->4e flWJB
hit* that he will not nstertte# *•-tween the
gir1 and Pwt*" Fcnnot** W* '*J<2
#* ee retOO l* P*'* Mu'** " r
■kaee l'X*r re-al* . ,f he- aofl L" 4 *a'
leieaai to da# -n* '» and tlarquie
tap* aa her U — »» Frnti •*» «■*£•
kteto .^MI * O'wce whe W in, *-1^
teraik 1 fl.etena* and l««» I r»a#*a
a> lev.!#* brother Frmo rda Hir*« the
4uer.ua (run th* b***t all-•win*'h*
nrtna. and fete neither to **• -’!• Frmr.- !
ran* b a prisoner rf th* Austrian* for
h. years »r *h* raatl* owned be Flelr.
f» ]Uit !!«• 4ur- Ifl SW*fa ***** °
rv-trr>» <44 f»-lf mt-rxmntt
Irtr Md* mi* t* Ms frr-«d» of JJhi
•fcgftt The *• xeill. A!iv» A**1 fho"® <
C»«1 *f-dt Kranruta and plan tits rescue ,
France* aa a gu*UI -f Ifr A Hainan ff**< *
an>r f the -aa»V pnaaeti Inspects til*
tnierho eg th* win* ret'.ar «f •*** Zaprt*
teraoeuaa mu. *• a no*.- fmxn p.-tro **
pUv-xng la detail hew t eorap* fro*" "
pel-,'* atae await* h-m on Ivors*nor*
and -nda ban to Bla fnend* on _ hoard
Che tntdtai anlthkg ■ i msL the Tetrlv
Kr*V'i.p a* • '»f Harr1'
f*.e tgnr • Lott - co**» to
I., nar.tf. Ihetro'e .-rtat* tn
VpVm«>m» wnrt» the »n<1
r .? im-'-'TtU* •*■ :fVxe*m- i
CHAPTER XXI.
Hero Worship
ft Bad coate about that Lacy Matrp j
tM was a achoUr of Fraarma Th*
eolnaol. lit.-r.i i t oe a day that there (
were ao capaBi# trarhMi of French in j
Us* neteBBorhuod that U»cy » school I
g ri roanaan-d of the language wan
fas’ fBtpiacflH and an accomplish- |
went aa mal to a tad> was likely soon
to B* kwt —this saga of regret being
sang By Ute rakarl at tBe dinner-table. |
Francois had offered ’o teach madt m
•is*!le hit mother tongue And the
cotuaei had accepted the offer.
'If you are not too busy. Chevalier
And I suppose yonr—ah—accent—is
entirely good' On* can not be too
carefwi. vow know. At least we shall
■M qaarrei about the terms, for what
ever tnooey yon think right to ask I
•Ball be ready to pay." and the colonel
felt lumsetf a mac of the world and
extremal) generous
Father•" Lacy cried quickly
Francois' eyes were on his plate but
they swept up with i heir wide brown
gam full oe the colonel's face. "1 mm
not too Busy. Monsieur tbe Colonel
As for my accewt -I am a p-asan'. as
Monsiewr knows, but yet I to in
structed I was for years at Saint
Cyr the greuu military school of
France i believe my accent Is right
As for money"— a quick motion, all
French spoke a whole sentence. "If
Monsieur insists on that—that must
ffatak A To me it would be impos j
tebU to take money for tbe pleasure
of teaching mademoiselle ~ He |
Bashed at Later a smile all gentleness,
and Lacy's eyes, wwitieg for that
•mile, met km shyly.
Ti e colon*i blustered a bit, but the
F reams were arranged as Francois
wished, twice a week throughout the -
winter be rode over from Carnifax to
give them And little by little he came
to know the small mistress of the mi
nur as few had known her People
thought Lakey Hampton too serious and
Lucy Stood in the Doorway.
staid for a young girl; no one realized
that, her mother being dead and her
father such as he was. tbe clear-head
ed little person bad “begun at tea or
twelve years old to know that she
SB oat make her own decisions, and
many of her father's also. At four
teen she bad taken tbe keys and the
r»» possibilities of tbe borne, ynd now.
gt sixteen, she was tn reality tbe head
Of tbe whole great plantation. The
eoionet. who would hare been most In
dignant to be tcid so. leaned on her
tn every detail, and It was she who
planned and decided and often execut
ed tbe government of tbe little king
A1I thin lay on tbe slender shoulders
of Lucy Hampton, and besides all this
abe bad begun In very childhood to
bald up tbe hands and do the thinking
of an incompetent father. It was not
wonderful that she was graver and
•loser to frolic than other girls of
sixteen. Her conscientious young
brain was full of care, and light-heart
i itnnsr of youth had never had a
chance to grow tn that crowded place,
■or coos in bad some to live with them
i nly the year before, when his mother
bad died, his father being dead long
igo, and Lucy knew quite well that
tier father had planned that the two
Hiopid marry and unite the broad
teres of the Hamptons.
But the young longing for romance
which was in her in spite of the chok
ing sober business of her life, re
belled at this. She would not give
herself as well as all her thought and
'•fTort for Roanoke. She wanted to
love somebody, and be loved for her
self as other girls were; she would
not marry Harry because he and her
lather considered It a good arrange
ment. %<> strongly had this determi
nation eeit«-d her that, looking entire
ly down that way of thought, she
Failed to see that Harry might not be
l i&sst-d with the colonel in his view
[>f the plan. She failed to see that if
she had not been heiress to Roanoke
House, or to anything at all. Harry
Hampton would still have been in love
with his cousin Lucy. For Harry saw
how the young life had been pressed
into a service too hard for it almost
from babyhood; Harry saw how un
selfish she was and trustworthy; how
broadminded and warm-hearted; how
she would like to be care free and ir
res’xinsibie like other girls of her age.
n:y that the colonel and the estate
were always there, always demanding
her time and her attention. He could
do little to help her as yet, but he
longed to lift the weight and carry It
with h.-r, not away from her. for the
:airy of a person was not the sort to
:»‘Hn on others or to be happy without
r share of the burden. Yet, Harry
ib -ught. "If I might only help her. and
make it all a delight instead of a
labor t ”
But Lucy, going about her busy
ia\s r.ever guessed this. She thought
it Harry as the boy whom she had
grown up with, to be cared for ten
lerly always because of his misfor
-ne. to be helped and planned for
md loved indeed, because he was lame
»nd her cousin, and because he was
i dear boy and her best friend. But
i* the hero of her own romance to
••me, she refused to think of him at
- ■•- More firmly sl’e refused such an
dea. of course, because her father
. id hinted that it would complete both
Harry's and his happiness.
Francois, with quick insight, saw as
'Mich as this, and was anxious for the
boy who had been his warm and
steady friend. What he did not see
»as that Luck was fitting his own
personality into that empty notch of
t er imagination where an altar stood
and a candle burned, ready for the
mage that was to come above them,
hat never entered his mind, for in
bis mind Alixe was the only woman
living to be considered in such a re
lation. And. in spite of the seigneur,
:n spite of Pietro, in spite of his whole
hearted giving up of her, there was a
happy obstinate corner in the depths
of his soul which yet whispered
against all reason that it might be
that Alixe loved him, that It might
be. lor unheard-of things happened
every day. it might be yet that—with
all honor, with all happiness to those
others whom he loved—he might some
day bo free to love her. So that as
lie grew to care for and understand
Lucy Hampton more and more, no
faintest dream of caring, for her as
he did for Alixe came ever into his
mind.
On an evening when winter was
wearing away to cold spring. Francois
waited in the dining-room of Roanoke
House for his scholar. The room had
a sweet and stately beauty, a graceful
stiffness like the manners of the
women who first lived in it, a hundred
years before. The carved white wood
work over the doors was yellowed to
ivory; the mantelpiece, brought from
France in 1732. framed in its fluted
pillars, its garlands and chiseled
nymphs and shepherds, as if under
protest, the rollicking orange of the
fire. Over a mahogany sofa, covered
with slippery horsehair, hung a por
trait of the first lady of the manor
and Francois, sitting soldierly erect
in a straight chair, smiled as his gaze
fell on it—it was so like yet so unlike
a face which he knew. There was the
delicate oval chin and straight nose,
and fa r loose hair. But the portrait
was staid and serious, while Lucy’s
face, as this man had seen it, had
kindly eyes and a mouth smiling al
ways. He shook his head in gentle
amusement at the grave dignity of the
picture.
"But no. Madame—you are not so
charming as your granddaughter,” he
said, addressing it aloud.
And then he stepped across the room
to the fire, and held his bands to It
and stared into it The clock ticked
firmly, the logs fell apart with soft
sliding sounds, and he stared down at
them—his thoughts far away—a look
came into his eyes as if they concen
trated on something beyond the range
of sight, the characteristic look of
Francois, the old look of a dreamer, of
a seer -of visions.
1 hen Lucy stood in the doorway,
«tentle, charming from the slippered
feet, locked over the instep to the
shadowy locks of light hair on her
forehead.
•Good evening. Monsieur. 1 am
sorry I kept you waiting. Hannibal
hurt bis foot and I must find plaster
and bandage for him. But you will
have enough of my talking even now.
Father says I talk a great deal. Do
I, Monsieur?”
Francois stood regarding her, with
frank admiration in every muscle of
his face. He smiled, the same gentle
amused smile with which he had ad
dressed the portrait "You never talk
too much for me. Mademoiselle. It
is a pleasure to me always to hear
your voice,” he answered in the deep
tone of a Frenchman, the tone that
has ever a half note of tragedy, as of
; some race-memory which centuries do
not wipe out. “Only,” he went on
speaking in French, "one must not
talk English. That is breaking the
law, you remember, Mademoiselle.”
She answered very prettily in his
own tongue, in words that halted a
little. “Very well. Monsieur. 1 will
do my best." He still gazed at her
smiling, without speaking. One could
understand that, to a girl of more
self-contained people, this open hom
age of manner, this affectionate gen
tleness, might seem to mean more
than a brotherly loyalty. The girl's
pulse was beating fast as she made an
effort for conversation. "What were
you thinking.vof as you looked at the
lire when I came in, Monsieur? It
had an air of being something pleas
ant. Did 1 not say all that beauti
fully?” she finished in English.
He corrected a lame verb with seri
ous accuracy and she repeated the
word, and laughed happily.
"But you haven't said yet what you
were thinking about."
The large brown eyes turned on i
hers. “It was of my old home in
France, Mademoiselle, when I was |
Stretched Out His Arm as If to Hold
a Sword.
very little," he said 6imply. “A large
lire of logs makes me think of that”
“Tell me about it,” she begged with
quick interest. “Will you? Was there
always a fire at your house?"
"But no. Mademoiselle—not of
course, in the summer. It was of the
winter time I thought, when the neigh
bors came, in the evening, and we sat
about the hearth, sometimes twenty
people, each at his different duty, and
my brothers and sisters were there,
and the dear grandmere, was there
and—” he stopped. "Does Mademoi
selle really wish to hear how it was
in that old farm-house of ours. In the
shadow of the Jura Mountains?”
“Indeed, Mademoiselle wishes It,"
she assured him. "It will be a trip
to Europe. I am sure I shall speak
better French for going to France for
ten minutes, and being among the
French people, your friends. Wait
now, till I am comfortable.” She
turned a deep chair so that it faced
him, and dropped into it. "Put a foot
stool for me,” she ordered, as south
ern women order the men they care
for—and the men they do not And
she settled back with her little feet
on it and smiled at him. For a mo
ment the man’s brilliant gaze rested
on her and the girl saw it, and thrilled
to it. “Now, Monsieur, racontez-moi
une histoire,” she spoke softly.
Francois Beaupre’s look turned from
her to the tire, and the air of gazing
at something far away came again.
“It is a picture 1 see as 1 think of
that time of my childhood," he began,
as if speaking to himself. “A picture
many times painted in homelike col
ors on my brain. Many a night in the
winter I have sat, a little boy, by the
side of my grandmother, at that great
hearth, and have looked and have seen
all the faces, have heard all the voiceB
and the fire crackling, and the spin
ning-wheel whirring, even as I see
them and hear them tonight.
“And from time to time one of the
men, as he talked, rose up and strode
across the room to the great oak table
where lay always on a wooden plate
a long loaf of black bread, with a
knife, and always a glass and a bottle
of eau-de-vie—brandy. And I remem
ber how manly it looked to me, watch
ing, when I saw him take the loaf
under his arm and hold it. and slice
off boldly a great piece of the fresh
rye bread, and pour out a glass of
brandy and toss it off as he ate the
bread. The stories seemed to grow
better after the teller had done that.
“And always I waited, even through
the tale of the ghost and the fire
breathing hound, till the talk should
swing round, as it did ever toward
the end, to the stories of Napoleon
that were fresh in men’s minds in
those days. It was as if I sat on
needles before my bedtime came, yet
1 did not dare to be restless and move
about for fear that my mother might
send me suddenly to bed. But I always
gave a sigh of content and always the
grand-mere patted my head softly to
hear it, when my father cleared his
throat and began—”
“‘There is a small thing that hap
pened when the Emperor was march
ing’—and then he was launched on
his tale.”
A great hickory log fell, rolled out
toward the hearth. The carved nymphs
and shepherds seemed to frown in
disapproval at this irregularity, and
the girl in the deep chair smiled, but
the man sprang up and put the log
back in place with quick efficiency.
He stood silent by the tall mantel
piece. deep yet in his reverie, as the
flames caught the wood again and
sparkled and spluttered.
“Did any of them ever see Napo
leon—those men who talked about
him?” the girl asked.
.-.-., '
The Frenchman turned a queer
look on her, and did not answer.
“Did any of your family ever see
him, Monsieur?" 6he asked again.
The alert figure stepped backward,
sat down again on the gilded chair
and leaned forward consideringly.
Francois nodded as if to the fire. “But
yee. Mademoiselle,” he said, in a whis
per.
“Oh, tell me!” the girl cried, all in
terest. “Who was it? How was it?
It couldn’t be”—she hesitated—“your
self! If you, whom I know so well,
should have seen the Emperor!” She
caught a deep breath of excitement.
This was another Lucy Hampton from
the serious young mistress of Roanoke
House whom the country people knew.
“Quickly, Monsieur, tell me if it was
yourself!”
Francois turned his eyes on her.
“Yes. Madamoiselle,” he answered.
“You have seen Napoleon!" she
said, and then, impetuously, “Tell me
about it!" But. though he smiled at
her with that affectionate amusement
which she seemed, of all sentiments,
oftenest to inspire in him, he did not
answer.
“Monsieur! you will not refuse to
tell me when I want to know so
much!” she pleaded, and went on.
“How old were you? Did he speak to
you? What did he s^y to you?”
And the Frenchman laughed as If
at a dear child who was absurd.
“Mademoiselle asks many questions—
which shall 1 answer?" he demanded,
and the tone to her ear was the tone
of love, and she trembled to hear it.
“Answer”—she began, and stam
mered and flushed, and stopped.
Francois went on, little thinking
what damage he was doing with that
unconscious charm of voice and look.
“It is as Mademoiselle wishes, most
certainly. I will even answer Ma
demoiselle's two questions at once to
please her. It was when I was not
quite three years old. Mademoiselle,
at home in the farm-house in the val
ley of the Jura.”
“And he spoke to you, to your own
self? Are you sure?"
“But yes, he spoke to me, Mademoi
selle.”
“What did he say?” The smile on
Francois' face went out and into its
place swept an intensity of feeling;
he answered solemnly: "There were
but few words. Mademoiselle, but they
have been much to my life. They
shall lead my life, if God pleases,
those words shall lead it to the fate
which they foretold.”
“What were the words?" whispered
the girl, impressed with awe.
Francois suddenly stood erect and
stretched out his arm as if to hold a
sword. “ ‘Rise Chevalier Francois
Beaupre, one day a Marshal of France
under another Napoleon,’ ” he repeat
ed dramatically. "Those were the
words the Emperor eaitf'
CHAPTER XXII.
The Story Again.
The girl, her face lifted to him.
looked bewildered. “I don’t under
stand.”
The visionary eyes stared at her un
certainly. "I have never told this
thing,” he said in a low tone.
"Ah—but It’s only me,” begged the
girl.
"Only you, Mademoiselle!” His voice
went on as if reflecting aloud. “It is
the guiding star of my life—that
story; yet I may tell it”—he paused—
“to ’only you.’ ”
Again the girl quivered, feeling the
intensity, mistaking its meaning. ‘T
should be glad if you would tell it,”
6he spoke almost In a whisper, but
Francois, floating backward on a
strong tide to those old beloved days,
did not notice.
“It may seem a simple affair to you.
Mademoiselle—1 can not tell that. It
has affected my life. The way of it
was this: Napoleon marched to Ger
many in the year 1813, and passed
with his staff through our villaga. The
house of my father was the largest
in the village, and it was chosen to
be, for an hour, the Emperor’s head
quarters, and the Emperor held a
council of war. he and bis generals,
there. I, a child of three, was sleep
ing In a room which opened from
th6 great room, and 1 wakened w-ith
the sound of voices, and ran in, un
noticed, for they were all bent over
the table, looking at the maps and
lists of the mayor—and I pulled at the
sword of Marshal Ney. And the mar
shal. turning quickly, knocked me
over. 1 cried out, and my grand
mother ran to me, and 1 have often
heard her tell how she peeped from
the door under the shoulder of the big
sentry who would not let her pass,
and how she saw a young general
pick me up and set me on my feet,
and how all the great officers laughed
when he said that the sword was in
contest between Marsha! Ney and me.
And how, then, the young general sug
gested that, to settle the point amic
ably, the marshal should draw his
sword and give me the accolade—the j
blow of knighting. And so. Mademoi
selle, to shorten the tale, it was not
the marshal, but the Emperor himself j
who chose to do it. He made me j
kneel before him. I— a baby—and he
struck my shoulder the blow of the
accolade, and said the words which
I have told you."
Francois sprang to his feet and
stood as he repeated once more the
Emperor’s words. His voice shook.
”‘Rise Chevalier Francois Beaupre,
one day a Marshal of France under
another Bonaparte,’ ” he cried, thrilled
through with the words which he re
peated.
The girl leaning forward, watched
him; with a gasp 6he spoke. “Then
that Is why you are really Chevalier
Beaupre? Did the Emperor have the
right to—to knight you?”
“But yes. Mademoiselle.” Francois |
answered with decision. “1 have stud
led the question, and I believe that tbe
accolade—the knighting—was always
a right ef tbe monarchs of France,
disused, perhaps at times, hut yet held
in abeyance, a right."
The glance of the brilliant eyes met
hers with a Jrank calmness which
showed that he claimed nothing which
he did not feel; that this haphazard
nobility had lived in his soul and
grown with his growth, and come to
be part of him. With a gentle humil
ity, very winning as it sprang from
bis gentle pride, he went on.
"I know. Mademoiselle, that I am a j
peasant and that I must be content
with a small plaoe in life at the pres
ent. I know this. And even that;
position which I have is more than ;
my brothers. For you must know,
Mademoiselle, that tbe others grew up j
to be farmers or tradesmen.” He hes- i
itated, and then In a few words told
her of General Gourgaud, tbe seigneur
of Vieques, and how he had given the
peasant boy all the opportunities
which his own son could have had.
And as he talked he remembered how.
after his father’s ruin, he had stood
inside the bare, little, new cottage and
watched through the window his
mother standing at the gate and talk
ing to the seigneur, who held Lisette's
bridle. It seemed to him he could
see the dark braided hair of La Claire,
coiled around her bead, and the deep j
point of her white neck-handkerchief |
as she stood with her back to him,
and the big bow of the apron tied
about her waist. The picture came
vividly. And it opened his heart so
that he talked on, and told this strang
er in a strange land many things that
had lain close and silent In his heart.
He told her about the general’s gruff
ness, which could not hide his good
ness; and how he had come to be the
child of the castle as well as of the
cottage; something of Pietro also he
told her; but he did not mention Alize.
“You spoke of three children. Mon
sieur; who was the third?” asked
: Lucy.
j Francois went on as if he had not
i heard the question. “It was a happy
i life. Mademoiselle,” he said. “And it
has been so #ver since—even, for the
i most part, in prison. I have wondered
i at times if the world is all filled with
such kind people as I have met, or if
| it is just my good luck.”
Lucy Hampton had been reading
aloud to her sick black mammy that
day. and some of the words of the
book she had read came to her, and
seemed to fit. “The kingdom of God
and was tried for it—and all that—fa
ther talked about It so much I could
not help knowing a little about It, but
I don’t remember distinctly."
“But certainly. Mademoiselle. It
was *the prince.”
“Then, haven't they just done some
thing to him? Isn't there something
people are interested in just now
about that Prince Louis?”
The grave bright smile flashed out
at her. “In truth. Mademoiselle,
there is. The prince was shipped by
his jailers on the frigate Andromede
more than four months ago, for what
port is unknown. One has not heard
of him lately, and there are fears that
he may have suffered shipwreck. But
I do not fear. It is the hope of France,
it is France's destiny which the An- j
dromede carries. It will carry that
great cargo safely. The young prince '
will yet come to his own, and I—and
I perhaps you. Mademoiselle—who
knows?—will cry for him ‘Vive l’Em
j pereur’!”
The tone full of feeling thrilled
through the girl. She flushed and
stammered as she went on, but Fran
cois, carried away bv his enthusiasm,
did not think of it. “If you will let
me ask just one question more, Mon
sieur, I will promise not to ask any
| after."
The flicker of amusement lighted
his face. “Ask me a thousand. Mad
} emoiselle."
“No, only one. Did that seigneur— ;
that General Gourgaud—did he have
! any—any daughter?"
The Frenchman rose in a business
! like way, the way of a teacher of lan
guage at the end of a lesson.
“One,” he answered briefly in a mat
ter-of-fact tone. And then, “Made- j
molselle has talked enchantingly well
this evening, but I have perhaps talk
ed too much. I may have tired Mad
emoiselle. I have the honor to wish
you a good evening."
His heels together, he stood in the
doorway and made his bow. “Au
plaisir de vous revoir," be said, and
was gone.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Prince Comes.
The glittering morning sunlight of
late March flooded the eastern dining
room of Roanoke hcuse. A Are blar
ed on the hearth; hot dishes steam>-d
on the table; the gin s face, the crack
ling fire, the polished silver reflected
from polished mahogany; the soft
shod, solicitons service of a white
aproned negro; all this made the
room fragrant with homeliness in
spite of the fact that one could see
one's breath in the air. But they
were used to it—the iiardy Virginians
of those days of open fires and no fur
naces, of many luxuVies and few com
forts, and in happy ignorance of world
progress, they suffered cheerfully and
were strong.
Colonel Henry Hampton faced a por
trait of the first Hampton of Roaiyoke,
stately with brass buttons and silver
lace, set in the panels seventy-five
years before. Lucy had concluded
her broiled chicken and bacon and hot
bread, and now as he, late for break
fast always, followed in her wake,
he read the Norfolk and Portsmouth
Herald with which a colored boy had
that morning rjdden out from Norfolk,
eight miles away. It was before the
time of daily papers, except in a large
city or two, and this of once a week
was an event; a boy was sent to Nor
folk the day before its publication
that the colonel might have it at the
earliest moment.
“How wonld you like to see a live
prince, Lucy?" he inquired. “The Her
eld states that we have one with us,
not ten miles from Roanoke. Prince
Louis Napoleon was laqded from the
Andromede, in Norfolk, only yester
day. Poor young man," he went on
condescendingly, “he has no money,
I understand, and here he is stranded
in a strange country with his fortune
to make, and no assets but a title.
It's little that will help him in the
states!"
Colonel Hampton glanced over to
see if she were listening to his words
of wisdom; he liked an attentive au
dience. He was enchanted with her
expression. She had dropped knife
and fork and. with her blue eyes
stretched wide, her white teeth shin
ing, was drinking in his sentences.
"Father! Is Prince Louis in Nor
folk? How can it be? Monsieur
Beaupre was talking to me about him
last night, and he did not dream of his
coming here. Surely he would have
known if the prince were, expected."
Colonel Hampton smiled sarcastical
ly. “You will find that your father
occasionally knows more than even
Monsieur Beaupre, and even on
I'Tench questions, 1 may add," he an
nounced, from a mountain height.
“But in one point you are right, my
dear. The prince was not expected
by any one, not even by the great
Chevalier Beaupre. He was exiled
from France, as you may or may not
know, some four and a half months
ago, on account of his attempt on Stra»
burg, and was sent out on the Andro
mede, with sealed orders. No one
knew his destination until he landed,
on the twenty-eighth, in Norfolk.
There”—the colonel got up and walk
ed to the fireplace and stood with his
back to the blaze, and hip legs far
apart, masterfully. “There, my dear. '
I have given you a dose of history for
a female mind. How are you going to
amuse your little self today?"
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Dreadful.
“Mercy, child!” exclaimed Mrs.
Harlem. “I never would have be
lieved my little boy could use such
language. Been playing with bad
children again, haven’t you?” “No’m.” j
replied her little boy. “Teddy Bacon
and 1 have been playing with a par
rot his uncle sent him from Chicago.”
WAY FOR THE YOUNG MEN!
I Condition That Must Be Recognized
Is Pointed Out by Writer in
Magazine
Clear the way for the young men.
They are entering “the strong, fiour
: ishing. and beautiful age of man's
life.” They decree the changes. The
map of the world may be rolled up—
every acre tramped upon and inhab- j
' ited But still they come, claiming all
the rights of the adventurer and pio
neer. Domains must be found for i
them if the old earth has gone stale.
I If the life of danger and discovery is
• ended, then they will turn their hand
'■ against our secure world and refash
' ion the pleasant places. They will
uproot tradition and shatter the insti
tutions. We should like them better
1 if thdv fitted into our scheme, if they j
were ruddy and cheery and ended
; there. But they come earnest and
critical. They jeer at our failures,
ieject our compromises. It isn't our j
idea of youth ,our peaceful picture of
waht youth should be. Poets sing it j
■ as if it were a pretty thing, the gentle j
possession of a golden race of beings. I
But it is lusty with power and disas- |
trous to comfort. Men sigh for it as
if it had vanished with old Japan at
the hour when it is romping in their
courtyard and challenging their dear
beliefs. They are wistful for it in
their transfigured memory, and they
curse it in their councils, for youth
i never is what the elders would have
It It does unacceptable things, while
age stands blinking and sorrowful. It
is unruly, turbulhnt power on its end
less track.—Collier's Weekly.
Thing Never Paid For.
Anyone who does his work well or
gets satisfaction out of it, puts him
self Into It. Moreover he does things
that he cannot be given credit for,
finishes parts that no one else will
notice. Even a mediocre amateur mu
sician knows that the best parts of;
liis playing, his personal tributes to
the genius of the composer whom be
plays, are heard by no one but him
self and "the God of things as they
are.*' There might be bitterness in
the thought that in ous work we get
paid or praised only fOr what Is not
particularly ours, while the work that
we put our hearts into is not recog
nized or rewarded. But in the strug
gle for spiritual existence we adapt
ourselves to the unappreciative fea
tures of our environment and learn
to look elsewhere for re.-ognition. We
do not expect people to pay us for our
best We look to the approval of I
conscience, to the ligtr of our ideal
seen more clearly whe.u our work is 1
good, or to the judgment of God. Our
terms differ more tha.i our tenden
cies. The essential point is that for
appreciation of our besf work we lock |
to a judge more just r.od keen-sight
ed than our paymaster.—Richard C.
Cabot in the Atlantic.
Hi Failed to Come Up.
Hi Larity treated his peg leg to a
handsome coat of white paint one day
this week, after which he paint<?d
inches and half inches on it and baa
since been using it as a measuring
stick when digging post holes and co
ing other work. Our road overseer
tame along a few days later and placed
s white pole in the creek with inches
ind half inches painted on it so team
sters can tell when the creek is too
high to ford. Link Lollop passed that
way shortly after and found Sirup
Summers staring at the pole most tn
:ently. Link asked him what he was
watching. “I've been settin’ here
iearly an hour,” Simp replied, “waitin’
:o see what Hi's divin' after, but hit
seems like hit takes him a long time
o come up."—Kansas City Star.
Queer Things.
Queer how things even themselves
ip. Even when a woman’s love grows
mid her temper is apt to remain a*
lot as ever.—Philadelphia Recoil
ROAD *
BUILDING
USE BURNED CLAY ON ROADS
Sticky or Plastic Qualities Are De
stroyed and Bears Traffic in
Wettest Kind of Weather.
•By QUIVER BENNOCK. Colorado Ag
ricultural College.)
In some sections of the country the
i only material available from which
roads can be constructed is clay. In
; such localities traffic is almost en
tirely impossible during the wet sea
sons. as the wheels of the heavy ve
| hides will sink to the hub.
In order to correct this condition,
the United States office of public roads
made the experiment of burning the
day. It was found that by burning the
; day, even at a moderate heat. Its
Entrance to Ute Pass, Near Mani'tou,
Colo.—One of the Best Examples of
Mountain Road Building in West.
sticky or plastic qualities are de
stroyed, so that even in the wettest
weather it will bear traffic. This per
mits the firing of the clay along the
entire length of the road, thus avoid
ing the cost of hauling it, and at the
same time gaining the advantage of
burning the foundation of the roaci as
well as the material to be placed upon
i It.
Good solid wood is laid at intervals
along the side of the road, about one
cord for eight linear feet of roadbed,
twelve feet wide. The road bed i3
first evenly graded and then plowed
as deeply as practical. Furrows about
; four feet apart are then dug across
the road and extended beyond the part
to be burned on either side. The first
| course of cord wood is laid longitudi
nally, so as to fire a series of flues in
which the firing is started. From 15
to 20 of these flues are fired at once.
The rest of the cord wood is then
placed on this flooring and then the
clay is placed over the whole struc
ture as evenly as possible, in a layer ^
of not less than six to eight inches. /
This is tamped and rounded off. so
that the heat will be held within the
flues as long as possible.
After burning, the road is graded
and rolled until the road bed is smooth
and hard.
GOOD ROADS AID SANITATION
%
If All Highways Were Improved There
Would Be Appreciable Better
ment of Public Health.
Friends of good roads should add to
their usual arguments one which is
not so frequently used, but is very im
portant—namely, that good roads are
direct aids to sanitation. J
Weeds and other rank vegetable
growths are prolific breeders of flies,
mosquitoes and other disease-carrying
insects. Sound road building causes
the removal of weeds and similar
trash. Weed and brash undergrcwths
by the roadside invite deposit of gar
bage and offal. Good roads do away
with these disease-breeding agencies.
Good roads also prevent disease by
providing good drainage. Many farms
have no drainage except by ditches
along the side of the road. Open —
ditches, clear of brush and debris, of
hard surface and proper fall afford
farms an opportunity to rid them
selves of stagnant pools.
Oiling of roads destroys insect lar
vae. Dry, hard roads also enable pe
destrians, especially the thousands of
school children who, in country locali
ties, walk quite a distance to and from
school, to keep their shoes and stock
ings dry, thus preventing colds, and
their frequent consequences, pneu
monia and tuberculosis.
Logical tracing of effects to causes
leaves no ground for doubt that if all
the roads in the United States were
good roads there would be appreciable
betterment of the public health.
A Difference in Roads.
Two farmers living in separate coun
ties, but at an equal distance from the
cotton market, learned by telephone
that cc.ton had advanced In price $t
per bale. The farmer living on a bad
road, according to Arkansas Home
stead, responded by hauling one bale
of cotton, which was all he could get
over the unimproved road, while the
other farmer was able to haul four
bales, owing to favorable road condi
tions. The rise in price gained a
•profit of $4 to one and $1 to his neigh
bor.