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» f the II r-l a m*R * IP !♦ fuTr er
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• - a-mitsky I'tUI- rtk cue* If. the <
• I.a team '» |tVr Marfjui* 7spj» die* |s*v
Hsf Pmfa as a ward of the genera’
' f*Ve!'. and Krpis'<*» *nee* a «tr»nC'
i-- *t..i i f-*«e* t<» he P: .» l>»ui* N'a*
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era* Mam t«ii Frar^-s# lutes A Use. and
eairarta a »*r**mta» fry mi him t’.at he will i
■e-4 tftterfef toaweer t».e Ctrl and Pietro
Kr»e it* gt.es to full a* ssrrsiarr to ,
PV?r (fke f Itsneiiu plana the *** 4je
wf tir-r man | a>-jJs N»P>4soii t»s dl«fi:Hlinr ,
tom sad Markup a* f*rr talker* i
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»b. la 111. In the ewapr of llonense and ,
I wail* Ikmirl a* lank' i*r**t! sr Kran
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*da»a f if ft» eases i*» the suiik- warned
hr PWtro la Italy. He disposer* *.n fells 1
CtMsrd Me af PV»ro i old famth ears ants i
#*d ihra^fc Idea send* word to hi*
hv-Ms af :* isJUCt.f T e fenefxl. Alike
and fvtr* plana Vraar-od* esrmpr Fran
easla rwcltss a note ffntr Ptetr** e»platn
h< la detail haw te ee-aps from ht*
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*•< lead* fcs*n ta ba friend* an bc»ard
•he Amer'.ean *a*£fnc mw
Iwn ** Vraw- oia. a* a »wa! of Harrs
Hawp*te> aw the k*fa>.eir Lafy.** re* to
.Asaertra la asuf* Pietro** #*ta?e In
VkftiuA l-u y flsmp'ur. fall* In love
trtth I’raardk Prttrs taut* Napolson
ta Awe r a herotwa the cue** af die
llsa p* e* where he meet* Franco**
larf Hampton rereala h*f lore for Fran
A* -f *-r tt-e UUrf state* fie life #>f
^torr lUaptft and ta h.moe.f 1 n«^rwd
In the rf.et
CHAPTER XXVI.
Tbs Fittest Things.
Endurance Francois' own negro boy
brought a note to Roanoke house on a
•MM-ulng flee days after It read
*M« test Miss Hampton:
"The doctor has given me permis
sion to nde tomorrow and I wish to
nde to Roanoke house before all oth
er places Will mademoiselle see me*
Will mademoiselle permit me to see
her for a short time alone* I await
•sikmuIj a word from you and I am
your servant.
“FRANCOIS BEAl'PRE
Mademoiselle sent a fair sheet of
PoprT with a fen unsteady scratches
•crons H. and sat down to live over
It wns arcompi -bed The colonel bad
ridden to Norfolk for the day—had
Francois known of that, one wonders*
Lory, waiting in that small stately
•tody with the dim portraits and the
wide vague view across the fields of
the James river, heard the gay hoof
beau of Aquarelle pound down the
gravel under the window, heard Fran
cois' deep gentle voice as he gave the
horse to Sambo, and watted one tnln
nts move, the hardest minute of all
Then Che door had opened and be stood
there- the miracle, aa it seems at such
moments u> a woman, possibly to a
sssa- of all the gifts and qualities
north loving
He had made his precise bow. and
she had heard his voice saying gently:
tiood morning, mademoiselle,** and
the door was closed; and they were
•tone together In a flash she felt that
It could not he endured, that she must
•scape She rose hastily.
*Tm sorry 1 must go; I cannot
stay —"
Hut Francois had laughed and taken
h«r kaad and was holding It with a
leader force which thrilled ter. He
nad« ratood She knew he understood
Cbe shame and fear of a woman who
has given love unasked: she was safe
ta Us hands, she knew that With a
•«gh she let her fingers rest in his and
sat dona again and waited
“Dear Mademoiselle Lucy,' said the
Seep hind voice, “my first friend in
Virginia, my comrade, ray little
echnhsr—**
Why did Lucy grow cold and quiet
at these words of gentleness? Fran
cois was sitting beside her. bolding
He Bent Over Her Hand.
her band ta both bit. Razing at her
with the clearest aflectiou in hit look.
Yet she braced heraetf against the did
sot know * bat. The voice went on
with Us winning foreign inflection*, its
•tip at English now and then, and its
never-to-be described power of reach
ing the heart.
"Use. mademoiselle." said Francois,
-we are too real friend*, yon and I. to
have deception between us We will
■at pretend, you and 1. to each other—
to it sot. mademoiselle? Therefon? I
fS.n not try to hide from Sou that 1
heard that day those words *» wonder
ml which yon spoke to me ss unwor
thy I have thought of those words
ever since, mademoiselle, as I lay ill
with this troublesome arm; ever since
—ail the time. My heart has been full
at a—gratification ta yoa which cannot
be ttr-H 1 shall remember all my Me;
1 shall ha honored aa no king could
i& I - ■
honor me. by those words. And be
cause you nave so touched me, and
have so laid that little hand on the
heart of me. I am going to tell you. my
dear comrade and scholar, what is
mos* secret and most sacred to me."
Id as few words as might be. he told
her of the peasant child who had been
lifted out of his poverty-bound life
with such large kindliness that no
bond which held him to that poor, yet
dear life had been broken; who had
been left all the love of his first home
and yet been given a home and a train
ng and an education which 6et him
ready for any career; he told of the
big-souled. blunt. Napoleonic officer,
the seigneur; of the gray, red-roofed
<ast!». with its four round towers; of
handsome silent Pietro, and of the
unfailing long kindness of them all.
Then, his voice lowered, holding the
girl's hand still, he told her of Alixe.
of the fairy child who had met him on
that day of his first visit and had
brought him to her father, the seig
■*eur. He described a little the play
mate of his childhood, fearless, boyish
Id her intrepid courage, yet always ex
quisitely a girl. He told of the long
summer vacations of the three as they
grew up. and the rides in the Jura val
ley. and of that last ride when he knew
that he was to go to Italy next morn
ing and of how he had faced the seig
neur and told him that he loved his
daughter and had given her up then,
instantly, for loyalty to him and to
Pietro. And then he told her of the
pcasaut boy in Riders' Hollow in the
gray morning light afier the night of
his escape— and how, by hand on the
bridle and seat in the saddle, and at
last by the long curl of the black lash
es he had known the peasant boy for
Alixe.
Lucy Hampton, listening, was so
thrilled with this romance of a life
long love that she could silence her
aching heart and her aching pride and
could be—with a painful sick effort—
but yet could be, utterly generous.
There is no midway in a case between
entire selfishness and entire selfless
ness The young southern girl, wound
ec shamed, cruelly hurt in vanity and
in love, was able to choose the larger
way. and taking it, felt that sharp joy
of renunciation which is as keen and
d fficult to breathe and as sweet in the
b'eathing as the air of a mountain
top. Trembling, she put her other lit
tle hand on Francois’ hands.
“1 see," she said, and her voice shook
and she smiled misti y. but very kind
ly. "You could not love anyone but
that beautiful Alixe. I—1 would not
have you.“„
And Francois bent hastily, with
tears in his eyes, and kissed the warm
little hands. The uncertain sliding
voice went on:
"1 am not—ashamed—that I said
that—to you. I would not have said
it—not for worlds. I—thought you
were killed. I—didn't know w’hat I
said. But 1 am not ashamed. I am
giad that I—am enough of a person to
nave known—the finest things—and”
-her voice sank and she whispered
the next words over the dark head
bent on her hands—"and to have loved
them. But don’t bother. 1 shall—get
over it.”
The liquid tones choked a bit on
that and Francois lifted his head
quickly and his eyes flamed at her.
"Of course you will, my dear little
girl, my brave mademoiselle. It is not
as you think; it is not serious, mon
amie. It is only that your soul is full
of kindness and enthusiasm and eager
ness to stand by the unlucky. 1 am
alone and expatriated; I ha e had a
little of misfortune and you are sorry
for me. It is that. Ah. I know. I am
very old and wise, me. It would never
do. he went on. "The noblesse of
Virginia would rise in a revolution if
it should be that the princess of Roa
noke house gave her heart to a French
peasant. I am come to be a man of
knowledge—" And he shook his head
with as worldly-wise an expression as
If one of Guido Renl's dark angelB
i-hou'd talk politics. He went on again,
smiling a little, an air of daring in hla
manner. "Moreover. Mademoiselle
Miss Lucy, there Is a fairy prince who
awaits only the smallest sign from
you.”
Lucy smiled. “No,” she said. And
then. "A fairy prince—in Virginia?"
Ah, yes. Mademoiselle Miss Lucy.
Of the true noblesse, that one. A fine,
big. handsome prince, the right sort.”
"Who?” demanded Lucy, smiling
stUl
"Of such a right sort Indeed that it
is no matter—ah. no. but perhaps just
the thing to make one love him more,
that he is lame.”
"Harry!” Lucy's smile faded.
"But yes. indeed, mon amie." and
Francois patted the little hand with
his big one. "Henry. Indeed. Henry,
who is waiting to kill me for love of
you; Henry, the best truest fellow, the
manliest bravest fellow. Who rides
like Henry? Who has read all the
books in aU the libraries like Henry?
Who is respected by the old men, the
great men, for his knowledge and his
thinking and his statecraft almost—
like Henry? Who has such a great
heart and brain and such fearless
courage as Henry?”
"You are very loyal to your friends,”
Lucy said, half pleased, half stabbed
to the souL
“Certainly. What for is gratification
worth, otherwise?” Francois threw at
her earnestly. There were a few Eng
lish word* too much for him still;
"gratitude" seemed to be one. He stood
up and his great eyes glowed down at
her. "MademolseUe,” he said, “two
women of earth, my mother and Alixe,
are for me the Madonnas, the crown of
women,” and bis glance lifted to the
celling as if to heaven, without pose,
unconscious—a look no American
could ever have worn. "And, volla,
mademoiselle, my little scholar will al
ways stand next to and close to them.”
He bent over her hand land hie lips
touched It long and tenderly. “Is it
right between os, mon amie? Are we
friends always? U is Indeed so for
life with me."
And little Lucy felt a healing peace
settling on her bruised feellngB and
heard herself saying generous words
of friendship which healed also aa she
spoke them.
Then, “I must find that savage boy
Henry, and beseech him to spare my ''
life," spoke Francois at laet. "My life
is of more value today, that it pos
sesses a sure friend in Mademoiselle
Lucy," he said and smiled radiantly.
And was gone.
"He said—that Harry loved me!
What nonsense!” Lucy whispered to
herself. And the broken-hearted one
was smiling.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Once More at Home.
In fewer words, with less told. Fran
cois' straightforwardness metamor
phosed the angry lad Harry Hampton
into a follower more devpted than be
had been even in the first flush of en
thusiasm for his rescued prisoner.
Again the boy dogged his footsteps
and adored him frankly. And Francois,
enchanted to be friends again with
his friend, wondered at the goodness
and generosity of the people of this
world. It is roughly true that one finds
life in general like a mirror; that if
one looks into it with a smile and a
cordial hand held out one meets smiles
and outstretched hands in return.
Through all his days it had happened
so with this child of a French village.
So that when the day came at last
when he stood once more on the deck
of the Lovely Lucy, loaded with her
cargo of tobacco for foreign ports,
Francois felt as if he were leaving
home and family. The long green car
pet of the rolling lawn of Roanoke was
crowded with people come to tell him
good-by. All of his soldier boys were
there, the lads trained by him, one and
all ready to swear by him or to die for
him. Lucy and Harry stood together,
and the servants were gathered to do
him honor, and people had ridden from
all over the county for the farewell.
His eyes dimmed with tears of grate
fulness. he watched them as the gang
plank was drawn up and the sails
caught the wind and the ship swung
slowly out into the stream.
"Come back again—-come back
again,” they called from the shore.
Francois heard the deep tones of
the lad3 and the rich voices of the ne
groes and he knew that some there
could not speak, even as he could not.
So he waved his hat silently, and the
ship moved faster and the faces on
the lawn seemed smaller farther away,
!-r.-ram-mMss
His Voice Was Full of Passion and
Pleading.
and yet he heard those following
voices calling to him. more faintly:
“Come back again—oh. come back
again!”
And with that the negroes had
broken into a melody, and the ship
moved on to the wild sweet music.
Way Down Upon de S’wanee Ribber,
the negroes sang, And the ship was at
the turn of the river. The stately walls
of Roanoke house, the green slope
crowded with figures of his friends,
the sparkling water front—the current
bad swept away all of the picture and
be could only hear that wailing music
of the negroes' voices, lower, more fit
ful ; and now it was gone. He had left
Virginia; he was on his way to friends.
And for all his joy of going, he was
heavy-hearted for the leaving.
The weeks went slowly at sea, but
after a while be had landed, was in
France, was at Vieques. He bad Been
his mother, with her hair whitened by
those years of his prison life—a happy
woman now, full of business and re
sponsibility. yet always with a rapt
look in her face as of one who lived in
a deep inner quiet. He had talked long
talks with his prosperous father and
slipped into his old place among hie
brothers and sisters, utterly refusing
to be made a stranger or a great man.
And over and over again he had told
the story of his capture and the story
of his escape.
At the castle the returned wanderer
picked up no less the thread dropped
so suddenly seven years before. The
general, to whom the boy seemed his
boy risen from the dead, would hardly
let him from his sight; Alixe kept him
in a tingling atmosphere of tenderness
and mockery and sisterly devotion.
Vvhich thrilled him and chilled him and
made him blissful and wretched in
turns. The puzzle of Alixe was more
unreadable than the puzzle of the
sphinx to the three men who loved her,
to her father and Francois and Pietro.
The general and Francois 6poke of it
guardedly, in few words, once in a
long time, but Pietro never spoke.
Pietro was there often, yet more often
away in London, where the exiled Maz
zini, at the head of one wing of Ital
ian patriots, lived and conspired. And
other men appeared suddenly and dis
appeared at the chatean. and held con
ferences with the general and Fran
cois In that large dim library where
the little peasant boy had sat with his
thin ankles twisted about the legs of
his high chair, and copied the history
of Napoleon. These men paid great
attention nowadays to the words of
that peasant boy.
“As soon as yon are a little strong
er," they said, “there is much work
for yon to do,” and the general would
come in at that point with a growl like
distant thunder.
“He is to rest,” the general would
order. “He is to rest till he is well.
He has done enough; 1st the hoy alone,
you others.”
But the time came, six months aft
er his return, when Francois must be
sent to visit the officers of certain
regiments thought to be secretly
Bonapartist; whdn he, it was believed,
could get Into touch with them and
tell them enough and not too much of
the plans of the party, and find out
where they stood and how much one
might count on them. So, against the
general’s wish, Francois went off on a
political mission. It proved more com
plicated than had seemed probable; he
was gone a long time; he had to travel
and endure exhausting experiences for
which he was not yet fit. So that
when he came home to Vieques, two
months later, he was white and trans
parent and ill. And there were some
of the mysterious men at the chateau
to meet him, delighted, pitiless. De
lighted with the work he had done,
with his daring and finesse and suc
cess, without pity for his weakness,
begging him to go at once on another
mission. The general was firm as to
that; his boy should not be bounded;
he should stay at home In the quiet old
chateau and get well. But the boy
was restless; a fever of enthusiasm
was on him and he wanted to do more
and yet more for the prince's work.
At this point two things happened;
Pietro came from London, and Fran
cois, on the point of leaving for anoth
er secret errand, broke down and was
ill. He lay in his bed in his room at
the farmhouse, the low upper chamber
looking out—through wide-open case
ment windows, their old leaded little
panes of glass glittering from every
uneven angle—looking out at broad
fields and bouquets of chestnut trees,
and far off, five miles away, at the
high red roofs of the chauteau of Vie
ques. And gazing so. he saw Pietro on
old Capitaine, turn from the shady ave
nue of the chestnuts and ride slowly
to the house. With that he heard his
mother greeting Pietro below in the
great kitchen, then the two voices—
the deep one and the soft one—talking,
talking, a long time. What could his
mother and Pietro have to talk about
so long? And then Pietro’s step was
coming up the narrow stair, and he
was there, in the room.
“Francois,’’ Pietro began in his di
rect fashion, “I think you must go
back to Virginia.”
Francois regarded him with startled
eyes, saying nothing. There was a
chill and an ache in his heart at the
thought of yet another parting.
Pietro went out. "I have a letter
from Harry Hampton. The place needs
you; the people want you; and Harry
and Miss Hampton eay they will not be
married unless you come to be best
man at the wedding.” Francois smiled.
Pietro went on again. “Moreover, boy,
Francois—you are not doing well here.
You are too useful; they want to use
you constantly and you are ready; but
you are not fit. You must get away
for another year or two. Then you
will be well and perhaps by then the
prince will have real work for you.
And you must have strength for that
time. Your mother says 1 am right.”
With that his mother stood in the
doorway, regarding him with her calm
eyes, and nodded to Pietro's words. So
it came about that Francois went back
shortly to Virginia.
On the day before he went he sat in
the garden of the chateau with Alixe,
on the stone seat by the sun-dial where
they had sat years before when the
general had seen him kiss the girl's
hand, in that unbrotherly way which
had so surprised him.
“Alixe,” said Francois, "I am going
to the end of the world.”
“Not for the first time,” Alixe an
swered cheerfully.
“Perhaps for the last,” Francois
threw back dramatically. It is hard
to have one’s best-beloved discount
one's tragedies. And Alixe laughed
and lifted a long stem of a spring flow
er which she held in her hand, and
brushed his forehead delicately with
the distant tip of it.
"Smooth out the wrinkles, do not
frown; do not look solemn; you al
ways come back. Monsieur the Bad
Penny; you will this time. Do not be
melodramatic, Francois."
Francois, listening to these sane
sentiments, was hurt, and not at all
inspired with cheerfulness. "Alixe,”
he said—and knew that he should not
say It—“there is something I have
wanted all my life—all my life.”
“Is there?” inquired Alixe in com
monplace tones. “A horse, per ex
emple?” He caught her band, disre
garding her tone; his voice was full of
passion and pleading. “Do not be j
heartless and cold today, Alixe, dear '
Alixe. I am going so far, and my very
soul Is torn with leaving you—all.”
It takes no more than a syllable, an
inflection at times, to turn the course
of a life. If Francois bad left his sen- !
tence alone before that last little i
word; If he had told the girl that his
soul was torn with leaving her, then
it is hard to say what might have hap
pened. But—“you all”—he did not
wish then to have her think that it :
meant more to leave her than to leave
the others. Alixe readjusted the guard
which had almost slipped from her,
and stood again defensive.
“I won't be cruel, Francois; you j
know how we—all—are broken-hearted
to have you go.”
Francois caught that fatal little
word “all,” repeated, and dimly sow its
significance, and his own responsibil
ity. Alixe went on.
"I wonder if I do not know—what it
is—that you have wanted all your
lifer
Eagerly Francois caught at her
words. “May I tell you Alixe. Alixe?” '
"No.” Alixe spoke quickly. "No, let
me guess. It is—it is”—and Francois,
catching his breath, tried to take the
word from her, but she stopped him.
“No, I must—tell it. You have wished
—all your life”—Alixe was breathing
rather fast—“that—I should care for—
Pietro."
A cold chill at hearing that thing
said in that voice seized him. Very
etill his eyes down, he did not speak.
•is—la that itr
There is an angel of perversity who
possesses onr sonls at times. He
makes us say the unkind thing when
we wish not to; he tangles our feet so
that we fall and trip and hart our
selves and our dearest—and behold
long after we know that all the same
it was an angel; that without that
trouble we should have gone forever
down the easy wrong way. We know
that the perverse angel was sent to
warn us off the pleasant grass which
was none of ours, and by making
things disagreeable at the psycho
logical moment, save our souls alive
tor right things to come. Some such
crosswise heavenly messenger gripped
the mind of Allxe, and ehe said what
she hated herself for saying, and saw
the quick result in the downcast
misery of poor Francois’ face. And
then the same cruel, wise angel turned
his attention to Francois. “If she
thinks that, let her," whispered the
perverse one. "Let it go at that; say
yes.”
And Francois lifted mournful eyes
and repeated, “That you should love
Pietro—yes—that Is what I have
wished for all my life.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Summoned.
On the morning of May 9, 1840, the
sun shone gaily in London. It filtered
in intricate patterns through the cur
tains which shaded the upper windows
of a house in Carlton gardens, and the
breeze lifted the lace, and sunlight
and breeze together touched the bent
head of a young man who sat at a ,
writing-table. A lock of hair had es
caped on hie forehead and the air
touched it, lifted it, as if to say: "Be
hold the Napoleonic curl! See how he
is like his uncle!”
But the pen ran busily, regardless of
the garrulous breeze; there was much
to do for a hard-working prince who j
found time to be the hero of ball- r
rooms, the center of a London season,
and yet could manipulate his agents
throughout the garrisons of France,
and plan and eiecute a revolution. It
was the year when the body of Napole
on the Firet was brought from St. !
Helena to Paris, and Louis Bonaparte
had resolved, in that steady mind
which never lost its grip on the reason
of being of his existence, that with j
the ashes of the emperor his family
should come back to France. For
months the network had been spread,
was tightening, and now the memory
which held its friendships securely al
ways, took thought of a Frenchman
living in Virginia. As soon as his let- >
ter was finished to his father—the pen
flew across the lines:
"The sword of Austerlltz must not
be in an enemy’s hands,” he wrote to
his father. “It must stay where it
may again be lifted in the day of dan
ger for the glory of France.” His let
ters were apt to be slightly oratorical;
it was moreover the fashion of the day
to write so.
He raised his head and stared into
the street It was enough to decide
his expedition for this summer that
General Bertrand, well-meaning, and
ill-judging, had given to Louis Phll
lipe the arms of the emperor, to be
placed in the Invalides. Every mem
ber of the Bonaparte family was
aroused, and to the heir it was a trum
pet call. He could hardly wait to go to
France, to reclaim that insulted sword.
He wrote on, finished the letter to the
exiled king, his father, a gloomy and
lonely old man whom the son did not
forget through years spent away from
him.
Then he drew out a fresh sheet of
paper, and his faint smile gleamed;
for the thought of this adherent in
Virginia was pleasant to.him.
“Chevalier Francois Beaupre," he
headed the letter, and began below,
“My friend and Marshal of Some Day.”
He considered a moment and wrote
quickly as rf the words boiled to the
pen. “The baton awaits you. Come.
I make an expedition within three
months, and I need you and your faith
in me. Our stars must shine togeth
er to give full light. So, mon ami, join
me here at the earliest, that the em
peror’s words may come true.
“LOUIS BONAPARTE.”
Across the water, in Virginia, two
years had made few changes. On the
June day when the prince's letter lay
in the post office of Norfolk the last of
the roses were showing pink and red
over the gardens in a sudden breeze.
The leaves of the trees that arched the
road that led to Roanoke house were
sappy green, just lately fully spread,
and glorious with freshness. Their
shadows, dancing on the white pike,
were sharp cut against the brightness.
And through the light-pierced cave of
shade a man traveled on horseback
from one plantation to another, a man
who rode as a Virginian rides, yet with
a military air for all that. He patted
the beast’s neck with a soothing word,
and smiled as Aquarelle plunged at the
waving of a bough, at a fox that ran
across the road. But if an observer
had been there he might have seen
that the man's thought was not with
horse or journey. Francois Beaupre.
riding out to give a French lesson to
Miss Hampton at Roanoke house, as
he had been doing for four years, all I
unconscious as he was of the. letter I
awaiting for him at the moment In
Norfolk, was thinking of the event to
come to which that letter called him.
■‘Lucy! Oh, Lucy!” A voice called
from the lawn, and in a moment more
the colonel was upon them. “Lucy,”
he began, “somebody must arrange
about the new harnesses; my time ie
too valuable to be taken up with de
tails. Uncle Zack says they are need
ed at once. It has been neglected. I
do not understand why things are so
neglected.”
“I have seen to it, father. They will
be ready in a week,” Lucy answered.
Then the colonel noticed Francois, i
"Good day. chevalier.” he spoke con
descendingly. “Ah—by the way”—he i
put a band into one pocket and then
another of his linen coat. "They gave
me a letter for you, chevalier, knowing
that you would be at Itoanoke house
today. Here it le”—and Lucy saw a
; light leap into Francois' eyes as they
! fell on the English postmark.
And Lucy spoke quietly again. “I
• did ask you, father, but you did not
"You Have News—What Is It?” the
Girl Cried.
i
I see to it. and they were necessary. So
! I did it.” And then, “chevalier, read
| your letter. 1 see it is a foreign one.”
“Will mademoiselle pardon?”
At that moment an uneven 6tep
came down the slope and Francois
flashed a smile at Harry Hampton and
retreated to the other side of the sum
mer-house with his letter; while the
; colonel, murmuring complaints about
harnesses, went strolling up the
shadowy, bird-haunted lawn.
Harry Hampton stood by his sweet
heart with a boyish air of proprietor
ship. radiant, as he had been through
these two years of his engagement. “I
have it," he announced. “Don't you
want to see it?”
“Wait, Harry;” the girl glanced at
Francois. But the lad caught her
waist. "Look,” he said, and opened
his free hand and a plain gold ring
i glittered from it. With a quick move
ment he slipped it over the little third
finger. “There,” he said, "that will be
on to stay pretty soon, and then Uncle
Henry shall not badger you about har
nesses. He has made me wait two
years because he needed you, but 1
won’t wait much longer, will I, Lucy?
Next Wednesday—that is the wedding
day, Lucy.”
With that Francois turned around.
His face shone with an excitement
which could not escape even preoccu
pied lovers.
“What Is it. chevalier? You have
news—what is it?” the girl cried.
For a moment he could not speak.
Then: “Yes. mademoiselle, great
news,” he said. “The prince has sent
for me. And I am well and fit to go. I
have lived for this time; yet I am
grieved to leave you and Harry, my
two old friends.”
“But, Francois, you cannot go before
Wednesday,” Harry- Hampton cried
out. “We cannot be married without
you.”
And Francois considered. "No, not
before Wednesday," he agreed.
That last French lesson In the sum
mer-house on the banks of the smooth
flowing James river was on a Satur-i
day. On Monday the Chevalier Beau
pre rode over from Carnifax and asked
to see Miss Hampton.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Women and Exercise.
Most women, whether they Be fleshy
or thin, walk far too little. The wom
an who tends to be fleshy should walk
for at least an hour every day, and
do it regularly and systematically. As
she gets accustomed to the exercise
she should increase the number of
miles she walks a day until she is do
ing five miles.
WOULD DO FOR THE RABBITS
Old Gun Effective Enough Since the
Animals Did Not Know of It*
Condition.
Colonel Preston of Grand Beach.
Me., tells this story about a new
chauffeur he added to his household
this year.
Pat's knowledge of auto mechanics
is surprising, but like many another
man he despises his vocation and
yearns to be a sportsman. The colonel
possesses a collection of firearms of
which he is proud and this has been
a continual attraction for Pat. who
spends much of his spare time gazing
in admiration at the guns in their
glass cases and gently fingering them
with loving care when permitted to
polish them.
One day he came to the colonel very
bashfully and inquired. “Colonel, dear,
would yes be lettin' me hov th' loan
av this wan for this afternoon?”
The piece was an old muzzle-loader
of Civil war days, and his master,
thinking that Pat want id to play a
joke on some one, and knowing that
the gun could not possibly be fired,
readily consented.
Toward evening he observed Pat,
arrayed in full automobile toggery,
trudging off toward the woods with
the gun on his shoulder.
“Where are you going, Pat?” asked
the colonel.
"Shure. sir. an’ O'm goin- ter hunt
rabbits in th' woods beyant.'’
“But that gun is no good; it has
been out of order for 20 years!”
“Faith thot may be, sir; but shure
th’ rabbits won't know thot!”
Who Wants to Be a Camel?
A camel's hind legs will reach any
where—over his head, round his chest,
and onto his hump; even when lying
dow-n an evil disposed animal will
shoot out his legs and bring you to a
sitting posture. His neck is of the
same pliancy. He will chew the root
of his tail, nip you in the calf, or lay
the top of his bead on his hump. He
also bellows and roars at you, what
ever you are doing—saddling him,
feeding him, mounting him. unsad
dling him. To the uninitiated, a cam
el going for one with his mouth open
and gurgling horribly, is a terrifying
spectacle; but do not mind him, It la
only his way. “I heard,” says Count
Gleichen, “of one or two men having
a leg broken from a kick at various
times, but it was the exception and
not the rale, for a camel is really a
very docile animal, and learns to be
have himself in most trying positions
with equanimity, though 1 fear It la
only the result of want of brains.”
Sea Furnishes Their Living.
In Norway and Sweden 36 persona
out of every 1,000 live by seafaring.
The next best average in this parties
lar vocation is Great Britain.
WHEN BABYHOOD DAYS END
All Mothers Have Had, or Will Have,
the Experience of Which These
Three Were Talking.
The mothers were discussing—well,
what do you suppose mothers usually
discuss? Their children, of course.
And the topic under discussion was:
"When is your manchild no longer
your baby boy?”
Said one mother: “The first day
' mv boy went to school I cried and
I cried, for I knew I had lost my baby.”
“Oh, but I lost mine the first day
1 he put on trousers,” said another.
"And I didn't feel mine was gone
j until he asked: Please, mother, only
i kiss me w hen we’re alone.’ ”
“Well," said another, “although my
| bey is a great, husky lad, I still feel
I he is my baby. I'm always expecting
I him to rebel, and when he does, then
; It’s good-by, baby boy; but he still al
i lows me to kiss away the Psin of his
: bumps and bruises!” And sh^ beamed
‘with a smile, triumphant, jrhile the
| other mothers pofiftfUf**looked en
! vious. M
JUDGE CURED. HEART TROUBhir
I took about 6 boxes of Dodds Kld
i ney Pills for Heart Trouble froEi
which I had suffered for 5 years. I
had dizzy spells, my eyes puffed,
Judge Miller.
my Dream was
short and I had
chills and back
ache. I took the
pills about a year
ago and have had
no return of the
palpitations. Am
now 63 years old,
able to do lots of
manual labor, am
well and nearty ana weign &Dout
j 100 pounds. I feel very grateful that
I found Dodd* Kidney Pills and you
may publish this letter if you wish. I
am serving my thl.'A term as Probate
j Judge of Gray Co. Yours truly,
, j PHILIP MILLER, Cimarron, Kan.
Correspond with Judge Miller about
j this wonderful remedy,
j Dodd* Kidney Pills, &0c. per box at
i your dealer or Dodds Medicine Co.,
i : Buffalo, N. Y. Write for Household
: Hints, also music of National Anthem
| (English and German words) and re
, cipes for dainty dishes. All 3 sent free.
| Adv.
---
The Jury’* Action.
"When you poke a toad,” said old
Farmer Hornbeak, philosophically,
•■you can’t tell which way he will
jump, nor how far; an’ it is jeet about
the same way with the average jury.”
"That so?” returned young Jay
Green, in a noncommittal way.
‘‘Yep. For instance, in the case of
Plunk Jarvis, who has jest been tried
over at Kickyhasset courthouse for
: pullin’ out his brother-in-law’s whis
j kers by the roots in a fight, the jury
‘ discharged Plunk an’ fined his brother
: in-law ten cents, the regular price of
a shave.”—Puck.
Feminist Aphorism.
"We, of the weaker sex, are strong
er than the stronger sex, because of
the strong weakness of the stronger
for the weaker sex.”—Boston Tran
script.
Neighborly, Anyway.
"Is he an apostle of humanity?"
“Is he? He has 12 children and
won’t let one of them take music les
sons.”
Constipation causes and aggravates many
serious diseases. It is thoroughly cured by
Dr. Pierce's Pleasant Pellets. The favorite
family laxative. Adv.
But it is impossible to patch up a
reputation so that the patches won’t
show.
Don’t Sacrifice
Your Health
for anything, for once
it is lost it is hard to
regain. Guard it
carefully and at the
first sign of distress
in the Stomach, Liver
or Bowels, resort to
Hostetler's
Stomach Bitters
!t keeps entire system
normal and promotes
health and strength.
SPECIAL TO WOMEN
The most economical, cleansing and
germicidal of all antiseptics is
A soluble Antiseptic Powder to
be dissolved in water as needed.
As a medicinal antiseptic for douches
in treating catarrh, inflammation or
ulceration of nose, throat, and that
caused by feminine ills It has no equal.
For ten years the Lydia E. Pinkham
Medicine Co. has recommended Paxtino
in their private correspondence with
women, which proves its superiority.
Women who have been cured say
it is “worth its weight In gold.” At
druggists. 60c. large box, or by mail.
The Paxton Toilet Co., Boston, Mass.
Westem Canada Lands
The richest Mixed Perming lends in Wextern
Canada ere in the Battleford District. The sotr
ie a deep black loam on clay subsoil and lands
can be purchased at from S10 per acre up. Ex
cellent water in abundance, and railroad facili
ties and good markets. Write for list of selected
properties to L. H. GOOD, Secretary, Board
alTrade.Battletord. Saskatchewan, Canada
A of this paper deslr
fl bn bnO inS to buy anything
. , , . advertised in its
columns should Insist upon having what they
**“ refusing *11 substitutes or imitation*.
