&r GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
ILLUSTRATIONS &■ RAY WALTERS
COPYO/GrtT. fSW.
DY 0003, OfOAD
AW COPJPAttY
CHAPTER XIX—Continued.
—13
Brood stopped him with an impa
tient gesture. "I must ask you not to
discuss Mrs. Brood, Joe—or you, Dan."
“1 was just going to say, Jim, that if
I was you I'd thank the Lord that she's
going to do it,” substituted Mr. Riggs,
somewhat hastily. “She's a wonder
ful nurse. She told me a bit ago that
she was going to save his life in spite
of the doctor.” ’
"What does Doctor Hodder say?” de
manded Brood, pausing in his restless
pacing of the floor.
“He says the poor boy is as good as
dead,” said Mr. Riggs.
"Ain’t got a chance in a million,”
said Mr. Dawes.
They were surprised to see Brood
wince. He hadn’t been so thin-skinned
in the olden days. His nerve was go
ing back on him, that's what it was,
poor Jim'- Twenty years ago he would
have stiffened his back and taken it
like a man. It did not occur to them
that they might have broken the news
to him with tact and consideration.
"But you can depend on us, Jim, to
pull him through," said Mr. Riggs
quickly. “Remember how we saved
you back there in Calcutta when all
the fool doctors said you hadn’t a
chance? Well, sir, we’ll still—”
"If any feller can get well with a
bullet through his—" began Mr. Dawes
encouragingly., but stopped abruptly
when he saw Brood put his hands over
his eyes and sink dejectedly into a
chair, a deep groan on his lips.
“I guess we'd better go,” whispered
Mr. Riggs, after a moment of inde
cision and then, inspired by a certain
fear for his friend, struck the gong re
soundingly. Silently they made their
way out of the room, encountering
Ranjab just outside the door.
“You must stick to it, Ranjab," said
Mr. Riggs sternly.
“With your dying breath.” added Mr.
Dawes, and the Hindu, understanding,
gravely nodded his head.
“Well?” said Brood, long afterward,
raising his haggard face to meet the
gaze of the motionless brown man who
had been standing in his presence for
many minutes.
Miss Lydia ask permission of sahib
to be near him until the end,” said the
Hindu. "She will not go away. I have
heard the words she say to the sa
hibah. and the sahibah as silent as the
tomb. She say no word for herself,
just sit and look at the floor and never
move. Then she accuse the sahibah of
being the cause of the young master's
death, and the sahibah only nod her
head to that, and go out of the room,
and up to the place where the young
master is, and they cannot keep her
from going in. She just look at the
woman in the white cap and the wom
an step aside. The sahibah is now
with the young master and the doctors.
She is not of this world, sahib, but of
another.”
"And Miss Desmond? Where is she?”
"She wait in the 11811 outside his
door. Ranjab have speech with her
She does not believe Ranjab. She look
into his eye and his eye is not honest
—she see it all. She say the young
master shoot himself and—”
“I shall tell her the truth. Ranjab.”
said Brood stolidly. “She must know
—she and her mother. Tonight I shall
see them, but not now. Suicide! Poor,
poor Lydia!”
“Miss Lydia say she blame herself
for everything. She is a coward, she
say. and Ranjab he understand. She
came yesterday and went away. Ran
jab tell her the sahib no can see her.”
“Yesterday! I know. She came to
piead writh me. I know,” groaned
Brood, bitterly.
“She will not speak her thoughts to
the world, sahib.” asserted Ranjab
“Thy servant have spoken his words
and she will not deny him. It is for
the young master’s sake. But she say
she know he shoot himself because
he no can bear the disgrace—”
"Enough, Ranjab.” interrupted the
master. "Tonight I shall tell her every
thing. Go now and fetch me the latest
word.”
The Hindu remained motionless just
Inside the door. His eyes were closed
“Ranjab talk to the winds, sahib
The winds speak to him. The young
master is alive. The great doctor he
search for the bullet. It is bad. But
the sabihah stand between him and
death. She hold back death. She
laugh at death. She say it no can be.
Ranjab know her now. Here in this
room he see the two woman in her.
and he no more will be blind. She
Stand there before Ranjab. who would
kill, and out of the air came a new
spirit to shield her. Her eyes are tjie
eyes of another who does not live in
the flesh, and Ranjab bends the knee
He see the inside. It is not black. It
Is full of light—a great big light, sahib.
Thy servant would kill his master's
wife—but. Allah defend! He cannot
kill the wife who is already dead. His
master's wives stand before him—two
not one—and his hand is stop.”
Brood was regarding him through
wide-open, incredulous eyes. “You_
you saw it too?” he gasped.
“The serpent is deadly. Many time
Ranjab have take the poison from its
fangs and it becomes his slave. He
would have take the poison from the
serpent in his master’s house, but the
serpent change before his eye and he
become the slave. She speak to him
on the voice of the wind and he obey.
It is the law. Kismet! His master
have of wives two. Two, sahib—the
living and the dead. They speak with
Ranjab today and he obey.”
There was dead silence in the room
for many minutes after the remarkable
utterances of the mystic. The two
men, master and man, looked into each
other’s eyes and spoke no more, yet
something passed between them.
“The sahibah has sent Roberts for a
priest,” said the Hindu at last.
“A priest? But I am not a Catholic
—nor Frederic."
"Madam is. The servants are say
ing that the priest will be here too
late. They are wondering why you
have not already killed me, sahib.”
“Killed you too?”
“They are now saying that the last
stroke of the gong, sahib, was the
death sentence for Ranjab. It called
me here to be slain by you. I have
told them all that I fired the—”
“Go down at once, my friend,’ said
Brood, laying his hand on tho man's
shoulder. “I-et them see that 5 do not
blame you, even though we permit
them to believe this lie of otfrs. Go,
my friend!”
The man bent his head ac-i turned
away. Near the door he stopped stock
still and listened intently.
“The sahibah comes.”
“Ay, she said she would c<nme to me
here,” said Brood, and his Jaw hard
ened. "Hodder sent for me, Kanjab, an
hour ago, but—he was conscious then.
His eyes were open. I—I could not
look Into them. There Vould have
been hatred in them—hatred for me
and I—I could not go. I wan a coward.
Yes, a coward after all. Bhe would
have been there to watc:i me as I
cringed. I was afraid of what I might
do to her then.”
“He is not conscious fow, sahib,”
said the Hindu slowly.
“Still,” said the other, .\ompressing
his lips, "I am afraid—; am afraid.
God, Ranjab, you do not 6nowr what it
means to be a coward! You—”
"And yet, sahib, yon are brave
enough to stand on the spot where he
fell—where his blood floved—and that
is not what a coward wovld do.”
The door opened and closed swiftly
and he was gone. Brood allowed his
dull, wondering gaze sink to his
feet. He was standing on the spot
where Frederic had fallen. There was
no blood there now. The rug had been
removed and before his own eyes, the
swift-moving Hindu had washed the
floor and table and put the room in or
der. All this seemed *ges ago. Since
Brood Allowed His Dull, Wondering
Gaze tr Sink to His Feet.
that time h< aad bared his soul to the
smirking Buddha and, receiving no
consolation from the smug image, had
violently cursed the thing. Since then
he had waited—he had waited for
many things to happen. He knew all
that took place below stairs. He knew
when Lydia came and he denied him
self to her. The coming of the police,
the nurses and the anesthetician, and
later on, Mrs. John Desmond and the
reporters—all this he had known, for
he had listened at a crack in the open
door. And he had heard his wife’s
calm, authoritative voice in the hall be
low, giving directions. Now for the
first time he looked about him and felt
himself attended by ghosts. In that
Instant he came to hate this once-loved
room, this cherished retreat, and all
that it contained. He would never set
his foot inside of its four walls again.
It was filled with ghosts!
On the comer of the table lay a
great heap of manuscript—the story of
his life up to the escape from Lhasa!
The sheets of paper had been scat
tered over the floor by the ruthless
hand of the surgeon, but now they
were back in perfect order, replaced
by another hand. He thought of the
final chapter that would have to be
written if he went on with the journal.
It would have to be written, for it was
the true story of his life. He strode
^taSTTEe^vorFoTniiiny months wouia
have been torn to bits of waste paper.
But his hand was stayed. Someone
had stopped outside his door. He could
not hear a sound and yet he knew that
a hand was on the heavy latch. He sud
denly recalled his remark to the old
men. He would have to write the final
chapter after all.
He waited. He knew that she was
out there, collecting all of her strength
for the coming interview. She was
fortifying herself against the crisis
that was so near at hand. To his own
surprise and distress of mind, he found
himself trembling and suddenly de
prived of the fierce energy that he had
stored up for the encounter. He won
dered whether he would command the
situation after all. notwithstanding his
righteous charge against her. She had
wantonly sought to entice Frederic—
she had planned to dishonor her hus
band—she had proved herself unw'hole
some and false and her heart was evil!
And yet he wondered whether he
would be able to stand his ground
against her.
So far she had ruled. At the outset
he had attempted to assert his au
thority as the master of the house in
this trying, heart-breaking hour, and
she had calmly waved him aside. His
first thought had been to take his
proper place at the bedside of his vic
tim and there to remain until the end,
but she had said: "You are not to go
in. You have done enough for one day.
If he must die, let it be in peace and
not in fear. You are not to go in,"
and he had crept away to hide! He re
membered her words later on when
Hodder sent for him to come down.
"Not in fear,” she had said.
On the edge of the table, where it
had reposed since Doctor Hodder
dropped it there, was the small photo
graph of Matilde. He had not touched
it, but he had bent over it for many
minutes at a time, studying the sweet,
never-to-be-forgotten, and yet curiously
unfamiliar features of that long-ago
loved one. He looked at it now as he
waited for the door to open, and his
thoughts leaped back to the last
glimpse he had ever had of that ador
able face. Then it was white with de
spair and misery—here it looked up at
him with smiling eyes and the languor
of unbroken tranquillity.
He clenched his strong, lean hands
to keep them from shaking. A new
wonder filled him as he allowed his
eyes to measure the distance to the
floor and to sweep the strong, powerful
frame that trembled and was cold. He
was a giant in strength and yet he
trembled at the approach of this slen
der, frail creature who paused at his
gates to gather courage for the attack!
He was sorely afraid and he could not
understand his fear. With one of his
sinewy hands he could crush the life
out of her slim, white throat—and yet
he was afraid of her—physically afraid
of her.
Suddenly he realized that the room
was quite dark. He dashed to the win
dow and threw aside the broad, thick
curtains. A stream of afternoon sun
shine rushed into the room. He would
have light this time: he would not be
deceived by the darkness, as he had
been once before. This time he would
see her face plainly. There should be
no sickening illusion. He straightened
his tall figure and waited for the door
to open.
CHAPTER XX.
A Sister’s Story.
If she hesitated outside the room to
summon the courage to face the man
who would demand so much of her.
there was nothing in her manner now
to indicate that such had been the
case. She approached him without a
symptom of nervousness or irresolu
tion. Her dark eyes met his without
wavering and there was purpose in
them.
She devoted a single glance of sur
prise to the uncurtained window on en
tering the door and an instant later
scrutinised the floor with unmistakable
interest as if expecting to find some
thing there to account for his motive
in admitting the glare of light—some
thing to confound and accuse her. But
there was no fear or apprehensiveness
in the look. She was not afraid.
Brood remained standing, a little be
yond the broad ray of light, expecting
her to advance into its full, revealing
glare. She stopped, however, in the
shadow opposite. It wa3 he who moved
forward into the light, and there was a
deep searching look in his eyes. In an
instant it was gone; he had satisfied
himself. The curious experience of the
morning had been a phantasm, an il
lusion, a mockery. There was noth
ing in this woman’s smoldering eyes
to suggest the soft, luminous loveli
ness of Matilde's. He drew a long,
deep breath of relief.
She had put on a rather plain white
blouse, open at the neck. The cuffs
were rolled up nearly to the elbows,
evidence that she had been using her
hands in some active employment and
had either forgotten or neglected to re
store the sleeves to their proper posi
tion. A chic black walking-skirt lent
to her trim, erect figure a suggestion
of girlishness.
Her arms hung straight down at her
sides, limply it would have seemed at
first glance, but in reality they were
rigid.
“I have come, as I said I would," she
1 said, after a long, tense silence. Her
voice was low, huskier than ever, but
without a tremor of excitement. "You
did not say you would wait for me
here, but I knew you would do so. The
hour of reckoning has come. We
must pay, both of us. I am not fright
ened by your silence, James, nor am I
afraid of what you may say or do.
First of all, it is expected that Frederic
will die. Doctor Hodder has proclaimed
it. He is a great surgeon. He ought
to know. But he doesn't know—do you I
UVU* Uii A
let him die.” '
‘‘One moment, if you please,” said
her husband coldly. “You may spare
me the theatrics. Moreover, we will
not discuss Frederic. What we have
to say to each other has little to do
with that poor wretch downstairs. This
is your hour of reckoning, not his.
Bear that—”
“You are very much mistaken,” she
interrupted, her gaze growing more
fixed than before. "He is a part of our
reckoning. He is the one great char
acter in this miserable, unlooked-for
tragedy. Will you be so kind as to
draw those curtains? And do me the
honor to allow me to sit in your pres
ence.” There was infinite scorn in her
voice. “I am very tired. 1 have not
been idle. Every minute of my waking
hours belongs to your son, James
Brood—but I owe this half hour to you.
You shall know the truth about me, as
I know it about you. 1 did not count
on this hour ever being a part of my
life, but it has to be, and I shall face
it without weeping over what might
have been. Will you draw the cur
tains?”
He hesitated a moment and then
jerked the curtains together, shutting
out the pitiless glare.
“Will you be seated—there?” he
said quietly, pointing to a chair at the
end of the table.
She switched on the light in the big
lamp but instead of taking the chair
indicated, sank into one on the oppo
‘‘Do You Remember When You First
Saw Me, James Brood?”
site side of the table, with the mellow
light full upon her lovely, serious face.
"Sit there,” she said, signifying the
chair he had requested her to take.
‘‘Please sit down,” she went on impa
tiently, as he continued to regard her
forbiddingly from his position near the
window.
“I shall be better able to say what I
have to say standing." he said signifi
cantly.
“Do you expect me to plead with you
for forgiveness?” she inquired, with an
unmistakable look of surprise.
“You may save yourself the humilia
tion of such—” ,
“But you are very gravely mistaken,”
she interrupted. “I shall ask nothing
of vou.”
"Then we need not prolong the—”
“I have come to explain, not to
plead," she went on resolutely. "I want
to tell you why I married you. You
will not find it a pleasant story, nor
will you be proud of your conquest. It
will not be necessary for you to turn
me out of your house. I entered it
with the determination to leave it in
my own good time. 1 think you would
better sit down.”
He looked at her fixedly for a mo
ment, as if striving to materialize a
thought that lay somewhere in the
back of his mind. He was vaguely
conscious of an impression that he
could unravel all this seeming mystery
without a suggestion from her if given
the time to concentrate his mind on
the vague, hazy suggestion that tor
mented his memory.
He sat down opposite her, and rest
ed his arms on the table. The lines
about his mouth were rigid, uncompro
mising. but there was a look of wonder
in his eyes.
She leaned forward in her chair, the
better to watch the changing expres
sion in his eyes as she progressed with
her story. Her hands were clenched
tightly under the table's edge.
"You are looking into my eyes—as
you have looked a hundred times," she
said after a moment. “There is some
thing in them that has puzzled you
since the night when you looked into
them across that great ballroom in
London. You have always felt that
they were not new to you, that you
have had them constantly in front of
you for ages. Do you remember when
you first saw me. James Brood?”
He stared, and his eyes widened. “I
never saw you in my life until that
night in London, I—”
“Look closely. Isn’t there something
more than doubt in your inind as you
look into them now?”
“I confess that I have always been
puzzled by—by something I cannot un
derstand in— But all this leads to
nothing,” he broke off harshly. “We
are not here to mystify each other but
to—"
“To explain mysteries, that's it, of
course. You are looking. What do
you see? Are you not sure that you
looked into my eyes long, long ago?
Are there not moments when my voice
is familiar to you, when it speaks to
you out of—"
He sat up, rigid as a block of stone.
“Yes, by heaven, I have felt it all
along. Today 1 was convinced that
^uiuwawun v - -
sometmng tnat—" He stopped snort,
his lips parted.
She waved her hand in the direction
of the Buddha. “Have you never peti
tioned your too solid friend over there
to unravel the mystery for you? In
the quiet of certain lonely, speculative
hours have you not wondered where
you had seen me before—long, long
before the night in London? In all the
years that you have been trying to
convince yourself that Frederic is not
your son, has there not been .the vision
of—’’
“What are you saying to me? Are
you trying to tell me that you are Ma
tilde?”
“If not Matilde. then who am I,
pray?” she demanded.
He sank back, frowning. “It cannot
be possible. I would know her a thou
sand years from now. You cannot
trick me into believing— But, in
God’s name, who are you?” He leaned
forward again, clutching the edge of
the table. “By heaven, I sometimes
think you are a ghost come to haunt
me, to torture me. What trick, what
magic is behind all this? Has her
soul, her spirit, her actual being found
a lodging place in you, and have you
been sent to curse me for—”
She rose half-way out of her chair,
leaning farther across the table. “Yes,
James Brood, I represent the spirit of
Matilde Valeska, if you will have it so.
Not sent to curse you, but to love you.
That’s the pity of it all. I swear to
you that it is the spirit of Matilde that
urges me to love you and to spare you
now. It is the spirit of Matilde that
stands between her son and death. But
it is not Matilde who confronts you
here and now, you may be sure of that.
Matilde loved you. She loves you now,
even in her grave. You will never be
able to escape from that wonderful
love of hers. If there have been times
—and heaven knows there were many,
I know—when I appeared to love you
for myself, I swear to you that 1 was
moved by the spirit of Matilde. I—I
am as much mystified, as greatly puz
zled as yourself. I came here to hate
you, and I have loved you—yes, there
were moments when I actually loved
you.”
Her voice died away into a whisper.
For many seconds they sat looking
into each other’s eyes, neither pos
sessing the power to break the strange
spell of silence that had fallen upon
them.
"No, it is not Matilde who confronts
you now, but one who would not spare
you as she did up to the hour of her
death. You are quite safe from ghosts
from this hour on, my friend. You
will never see Matilde again, though
you look into my eyes till the end of
time. Frederic may see, may feel the
spirit of his mother, but you—ah, no!
You have seen the last of her. Her
blood is in my veins, her wrongs are in
my heart. It was she with whom you
fell In love and It was she you married
six months ago, but now the curtain is
lifted. Don’t you know me now. James?
Can your memory carry you back
twenty-three years and deliver you
from doubt and perplexity? Look
closely, I say. I was six years old
then and—”
Brood was glaring at her as one
stupefied. Suddenly he cried out in a
| loud voice: "Heaven help me, you
| are—you are the little sister? The
little Therese?”
She was standing now, leaning Tar
over the table, for he had shrunk down
into his chair.
The little Therese, yes! Now do
you begin to see? Now do you begin
to realize what I came here to do? Now
do you know why I married you? Isn’t
[ it clear to you ? Well, 1 have tried
| to do all these things so that I might
break your heart as you broke hers I
came to make you pay!" She was
speaking rapidly, excitedly now. Her
voice was high-pitched and unnatural.
Her eyes seemed to be driving him
deeper and deeper into the chair, forc
ing him down as though with a giant’s
hand. “The little, timid, heart-broken
Therese who would not speak to you,
nor kiss you, nor say. good-by to you
when you took her darling sister away
from the Bristol in the Kartnerring
more than twenty years ago. Ah, how
I loved her—how I loved her! And
how I hated you for taking her away
from me. Shall I ever forget that wed
ding night? Shall I ever forget the
grief, the loneliness, the hatred that
dwelt in my poor little heart that
night? Everyone was happy—the
whole world was happy—but was I?
I was crushed with grief. You were
taking her away across the awful sea
—and you were to make her happy, so
they said—ai—e, so said my beloved,
joyous sister. You stood before the
altar in St. Stephen’s with her and
promised—promised—promised every
thing. I heard you. I sat with my
mother and turned to ice, but I heard
you. All Vienna, all Budapest said that
you promised naught but happiness to
each other. She was twenty-one. She
was lovely—ah, far lovelier than that
wretched photograph lying there in
front of you. It was made when she
was eighteen. She did not write those
words on the back of the card. I wrote
them—not more than a month ago, be
fore I gave it to Frederic. To this
house she came twenty-three years
ago. You brought her here, the happi
est girl in all the world. How did you
send her away? How?”
He stirred in the chair. A spasm of
pain crossed his face. "And I was the
happiest man in all the world,” he said
hoarsely. "You are forgetting one
thing. Therese.” He fell into the way
of calling her Therese as if he had
known her by no other name. “Your
sister was not content to preserve the
happiness that—”
“Stop!” she commanded. "You are
not to speak evil of her now. You will
never think evil of her after what I am
about to tell you. You will curse your- j
self. Somehow, I am glad that my i
opportunity to see you curse yourbeu.
‘‘Her sister!" uttered the man unbe
lievingly. "I have married the child
J Therese. I have held her sister in my
j arms all these months and never knew.
I It is a dream. I—”
“Ah. but you have felt even though
M
He struck the table violently with
j his fist. His eyes were blazing. "What
i manner of woman are you? What
were you planning to do to that un
happy boy—her son? Are you a tiend
tO—M .
"In good time. James, you will know
what manner of Woman I am.” she In
terrupted quietly. Sinking back in the
! chair she resumed the broken strain,
all the time watching him through
half-closed eyes. “She died ten years
ago. Her boy was twelve years old.
She never saw' him after the night you
turned her away from this house. On
her deathbed, as she was releasing her
pure, undetiled soul to God’s keeping,
she repeated to the priest who went
through the unnecessary form of ab
solving her—she repeated her solemn
declaration that she had never wronged
you by thought or deed. I had always
believed her, the holy priest believed
her, God believed her. You would
have believed her, too. James Brood.
She was a good woman. Do you hear?
And you put a curse upon her and
drove her out into the night. That
was not all. Y’ou persecuted her to the
end of her unhappy life. You did that
to my sister!”
“And yet you married me," he mut
tered thickly.
dui uctauac 1 iu v cu ^uu — uu, liu.
She loved you to the day of her death,
after all the misery and suffering you
had heaped upon her. No woman evei
endured the anguish that she suffered
throughout those hungry years. You
kept her child from her. You denied
him to her, even though you denied
him to yourself. Why did you keep
him from her? She was his mother.
She had borne him, he was all hers.
But no! It was your revenge to de
prive her of the child she had brought
into the world. You worked deliberate
ly in this plan to crush what little
there was left in life for her You kept
him with you. though you branded him
with a name I cannot utter; you guard
ed him as if he were your most
precious possession and not a curse to
your pride; you did this because you
knew that you could drive the barb
more deeply into her tortured heart.
You allowed her to die, after years of
pleading, after years of vain endeavor,
wuthout one glimpse of her boy, with
out ever having heard the word mother
on his lips. That is what you did to
my sister. For twelve long years you
gloated over her misery. Oh. God.
man, how I hated you when I married
you!” She paused breathless.
“You are creating an excuse for your
devilish conduct,” he exclaimed harsh
ly. “You are like Matilde, false to the
core. You married me for the luxury I
could provide, notwithstanding the
curse 1 had put upon your sister. I
don't believe a word of what you are
saying to—"
“Don’t you believe that I am her sis
ter?”
“You—yes, bv heaven, I must believe
that. Why have I been so blind? You
are the little Therese, and you hated
me in those other days. I remember
well the—"
“A child's despairing hatred because
you were taking away the being she
loved best of all. Will you believe me j
when 1 say that my hatred did not en- ;
dure for long.' When her happy, joy
ous letters came back to us filled with
accounts of your goodness, your devo
tion, I—I allowed my hatred to die. I
forgot that you had robbed me. 1 came
to look upon you as the fairy prince,
after all. It was not until she came ail
the way across the ocean and began to
die before our eyes—she was years in
dying—it was not until then that I be
gan to hate you with a real, undying
hatred."
“And yet you gave yourself to me."
he cried. "You put yourself in her
place. In heaven’s name, what was to
be gained by such an act as that?"
“I wanted to take Matilde’s boy away
from you,” she hurried on. and for the
first time her eyes began to waver.
"The idea suggested itself to me the
night I met you at the comtesse’s din
ner. It was a wonderful, a tremendous
thought that entered my brain. At
first my real self revolted, but as time
went on the idea became an obsession.
I married you, James Brood, for the
sole purpose of hurting you in the
worst possible way; by having Ma
tilde’s son strike you where the pain
would be the greatest. Ah. you are
thinking that I would have permitted
myself to have become his mistress,
but you are mistaken. I am not that
bad. I would not have damned his
soul in that way. I would not have
betrayed my sister in that way. Far
more subtle was my design. I confess
that it was my plan to make him fall in
love with me and in the end to run
away with him, leaving you to think
that the very worst had happened. But
it would not have been as you think.
He would have been protected, my
friend, amply protected. He—”
"But you would have wrecked him
don’t you see that you would have
wrecked the life you sought to protect?
How utterly blind and unfeeling you
were. You say that he was my son
and Matilde’s, honestly born What
was your object, may 1 ioiiuire. in
striking me at such cost to him? You
would have made a scoundrel of him
for the sake of a personal vengeance.
Are you forgetting that he regarded
himself as my son?”
(TO BE CONTINT’ED.)
Their Use.
“Why do you advocate blanket
street-paving bills?”
“To cover the beds of the streets,
of course.”
SOULMUH TALKS OF POPE
Man Who Made Bronze Bust of Head
of Church Impressed With
His Appearance.
Raffaelle Romagnoli. the Florentine
sculptor, who was summoned from Pe
trograd to Rome to make a bust in
bronze of Pope Benedict, gives an in
teresting account of his work in the
Vatican
The pope refused to sit more than
three tiu.es, and even then the sit
tings were short. When the cast was ,
shown him the pontiff expressed him
self well pleased, gave the artist an '
autograph portrait and said:
I thank God that I am now done
with all painters and sculptors. You
are the only one who has had three
sittings. Now, go. You have my
benediction."
Romagnoli describes the pope’s fea
tures thus:
“His holiness has a most interest
ing head—large forehead and cranium
characteristic of a serene, well-bal
anced mind. The aquiline nose and
deep-set eyes show force of character
and intelligence; the eyes, though
short-sighted, gleam with intelligence.
The large, well-shaped mouth shows
constancy of purpose. The qhin is
prominent, of the classical shape of
Julius Caesar’s and Napoleon's."
His Intent.
‘See how that dog is licking your
hand.”
“1 suppose he wants to stamp me
with his approval.”
IS GREAT PATRIOTIC POEM
Deborah's Song of Victory Has Been
Put by Many at the Head of
the List.
Every element of patriotism is in
Deborah’s song of victory: “Praise ye
the Lord for the avenging of Israel”—
the triumphant onset dies down to a
beautiful lament for the forsaken high
ways, the ruined villages, the coward
ice of the past.
Then comes the call to arms, the
awakening—the gathering together of
the loyal princes and governors, yes,
and of penmen, scorn for the faint
hearted, curses for the treacherous—
Asher, Reuben, Meroz.
From these the song flames up again
into imaginative splendor, with its
stars and prancings, narrows its view
to the tent of Jael, to the mother of
Sisera hearkening in vain at her win
dow for the sound of the chariot
wheels and tl^ son that will never re
turn, and sinks like the peace of eve
ning to its close: “So let all thine ene
mies perish, O Lord; but let them that
love him be as the sun when he goetb
forth in his might.” There is no pa
triotic poem to compare with it.
Restricts Sale of Weapons.
A Greek law of July 30, 1914, pro
hibits the importation, manufacture
and sale of certain weapons, includ
ing stilettos, daggers and spring or
double-edged pocket knives. The im
portation of firearms of all kinds with
out government permission is likewise
prohibited. _
mitlffl bRNMJfl
Wheat and Other Grains Have
Had an Excellent Start.
The seeding of spring wheat was
pretty general this spring about 7th
of April or about as early as in Illinois
and Iowa. Oats and barley followed.
Information is to hand that on first
of May all seeding was practically fin
ished. Fanners will now be busy at
their breaking, and the land for sum
mer fallow will be entered upon. Some
who did not get their land prepared
last fall, will be later than the others,
but as the spring in Western Canada
has been very open they will be only
a few days later. At the time of
writing rain would be welcome, but
at seeding time, the ground contained
a splendid lot of moisture and the
lack of rain at the present time will
not be serious. The number of farm
ers who have gone into the raising of
cattle has been considerably in
creased, and the preparation lor ex
tensive cultivated grass pastures is
in evidence everywhere. The culti
vation of fodder corn is being largely
entered upon in Manitoba there be
ing upwards of 25,000 acres in corn.
In Saskatchewan there will be a
large increase In the area planted, and
in Alberta many of the more progres
sive farmers are taking hold of it
The yield varies according to the cul
tivation it receives, and runs from
five to nine tons per acre. In some
portions of Manitoba where it has
been poor for some years, success has
been achieved in ripening and it is
expected mat a variety will Boon b
developed that will provide seed for
the entire West, that will at an early
date give to Western Canada a tame
for the growing of a marketable corn
equal to that It has now for the
growth of smaller cereals.
A trip through Western Canada re
veals field after field of alfalfa, the
growth of which In any portion of
the^ountry is now absolutely assured
When these facts are made known to
the farmers of the com and alfalfa
growing states, where their value as
wealth makers Is so well know n, there
will be no hesitancy in taking advan
tage of the splendid gift of 160 acres
of land made by the Government of
the Dominion of Canada, where equal
opportunities are offered. Besides
these free grant lands, there are the
lands of some of the railway com
panies and large land companies, that
may be had at low prices and on
reasonable terms. During the month
of February a large number of in
quiries were received, asking for farm
lands.
An encouraging feature of the farm
land situation in Canada is the large
percentage of sales made to settlers
in the country who desire to Increase
their holdings or to others who will
take up farming In place of different
occupations previously followed.—Ad
vertisement.
Her Wise Papa.
She—Papa says that when coming
to see me you must not come in a
street car any more.
He—Really! Does he expect me to
walk all this distance?
She—Of course not. He says all he
asks is that you will come in a car
riage hired by the hour.—New York
Weekly.
THE SECRET
of good coffee is to get pure, sound coffee
If you ask your dealer he will tell you
that all coffees are pure, as the law pro
hibits the sale of substitutes as coffee.
Not all apples are pure although they
are apples. Some of them are often rotten.
Some coffees are windfalls, and whils:
the law allows them to be called coffee
they are impure and have a harsh taste
Denison's Coffees are picked coffees, the
berries picked by hand from the trees
consequently they are always pure and
sound in every sense of the word, rehab *
and delicious.
Denison's Coffees are always packed
cartons, bags or cans with the name -.
every package. All others are lmittf . «
If your grocer does not stock Per > n *
Coffees, write the Denison Coffee Co . C.
cago. 111., who will tell you where the
can lie obtained in your vicinity.—Adv.
First Aid.
An artillery battle was raging. The
din was terrific. Suddenly a wear cor
respondent, one of the favored few
permitted to see a little real fighting,
clapped his hands to his ears and
cried. "I fear my tympanum is split!"
"Too bad!" roared a friendly "Tom
my." "I've got a needle and some
thread in my kit, If that’ll help you
any."
CLEAN SWEET SCALP
May Be Kept So by Cuticura - Soap
and Ointment. Trial Free.
To have good hair clear the scalp
of dandruff and itching with shampoos
of Cuticura Soap and touches of Cuti
cura Ointment to dandruff spots and
itching. Nothing better than these
pure, fragrant, supercreamy emol
lients for skin and scalp troubles.
Sample each free by mail with Skin
Book. Address Cuticura. Dept. XY,
Boston. Sold everywhere.—Adv.
Recipe.
“Jack is such a favorite with the
girls.”
“Yes: he handles them with gloves
—about ten pairs per year.”—Puck.
VOIR OWN DRCGOI8T WILL TELL YOU
Tit Murine Bye Remedy for Red, Week. Watery
By^s and Granulated Hyelids; No Muartica —
iust Kye comfort. Write for Book of the *»•
1/ mall tree. Murine Bye Remedy Co. Chicago.
The Baltic has the greatest wreck
record of all the seas, averaging one
a day.
A good many prayers are made in
private that the devil would like to see
answered.
Happy is the home where Red Cross
Ball Blue is used. Sure to please. All
grocers. Adv.
Egypt’s cotton crop is being bought
up by government agent*.
t