15 WHITE
&r GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
mU5TRATI0N5 jSHfAY WALTERS
coPYP/c/tr. /s/+.
OY DC DP, DJZAD
AftD COnPAffY
CHAPTER XX—Continued.
—14—
“No. I do not forget. James. There
was but one way in which I could hope
to steal him away from you, and I
went about it deliberately, with my
eyes open. I came here to induce him
to run away with me. I would have
taken him back to his mother's home,
to her grave, and there I would have
told him what you did to her. If after
hearing my story he elected to return
to the man who had destroyed his
mother. I should have stepped aside
and offered no protest. But I would
have taken him away from you in the
manner that would have hurt you the
worst. My sister was true to you. I
would have been just as true, and after
you had suffered the torments of hell,
it was my plan to reveal everything to
you. But you would have had your
punishment by that time. When you
were at the very end of your strength,
when you tremble on the edge of ob
livion. then I would have hunted you
«ut and laughed at you and told you
the truth. But you would have had
years of anguish—years, I say.”
"I have already had years of agony,
pray do not overlook that fact,” said
lie. “I suffered for twenty years. I
was at the edge of oblivion more than
once, if it is a pleasure for you to hear
nne say it, Therese.”
"It does not offset fhe pain that her
suffering brought to me. It does not
counter balance the unhappiness you
gave to her boy, nor the stigma you
put upon him. I am glad that you suf
fered. It proves to me that you secret
ly considered yourself to be in the
wrong. You doubted yourself. You
were never sure, and yet you crushed
the life out of her innocent, bleeding
heart. You let her die without a word
to show that you—”
"I was lost to the world for years,"
he said. “There were many years when
1 was not in touch with—"
“But her letters must have reached
you. She wrote a thousand of—”
"They never reached me,” he said
significantly.
"You ordered them destroyed?” she
cried in sudden comprehension.
"I must decline to answer that ques
tion.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Revenge Turned Bitter.
She gave him a curious, incredulous
smile, and then abruptly returned to
her charge. “When my sister came
home, degraded, I was nine years of
age, but I was not so young that I did
not know that a dreadful thing had
happened to her. She was blighted
beyond all hope of recovery. It was to
me—little me—that she told her story
over and over again, and it was I to
yhom she read all of the pitiful let
ters she wrote to you. My father
wanted to come to America to kill you.
He did come later on, to plead with
you and to kill you if you would not
listen to him. But you had gone—to
Africa, they said. 1 could not under
stand why you would not give to her
that little baby boy. He was hers and
—” She stopped short in her recital
and covered her eyes with her hands.
He waited for her to go on, sitting as
rigid as the image that faced him from
beyond the table’s end. “Afterwards,
my father and my uncle made every ef
fort to get the child away from you,
but he was hidden—you know how
carefully he was hidden so that she
might never find him. For ten years
they searched for him—and you. For
ten years she wrote to you, begging
you to let her have him. if only for a
little while at a time. She promised
to restore him to you, God bless her
poor soul! You never replied. You
scorned her. We were rich—very rich.
But our money was of no help to us in
the search for her boy. You had se
creted him too well. At last, one day,
she told me what it was that you ac
cused her of doing. She told me about
Guido Feverelli, her music-master. 1
knew him, James. He had known her
Irom childhood. He was one of the
finest men I have ever seen.”
"He was in love with her," grated
Brood.
“Perhaps. Who knows? But if so,
he never uttered so much as one word
of love to her. He challenged you.
,Why did you refuse to fight him?"
"Because she begged me not to kill
him Did she tell you that?"
, "Yes But that was not the real rea
son. It was because you were not
sure of your ground."
“I deny that!”
"Never mind. It is enough that poor
Feverelli passed out of her life. She
did not see him again until just before
she died. He was a noble gentleman
He wrote but one letter to her after
that wretched day in this house. I
have it here in this packet."
She drew a package of papers from
ter bosom and laid it upon the table
before him. There were a half dozen
letters tied together with a piece of
white ribbon.
‘‘But one letter from him," she went
on. “I have brought it here for you to
read. But not now! There are other
letters and documents here for you to
consider. They are from the grave
Ah, 1 do not wonder that you shrink
and draw back from them. They con
vict you, James."
"Now I can see why you have taken
up this fight against me. You—you
know she was innocent,” he said in a
low, unsteady voice.
"And why I have hated you. ai—e?
But what you do not understand is
how I could have brought myself to
the point of loving you.”
"Loving me! Good heaven, woman,
w hat do you—”
"Loving you in spite of myself,” she
cried, beating upon the table with her
i hands. “1 have tried to convince m.v
j self that it was not I but the spirit of
Matilde that had come to lodge in my
| treacherous body. 1 hated you for
. myself and I loved you for Matilde.
| She loved you to the end. She never
I hated you. That was it. The pure,
; deathless love of Matilde was constant
ly fighting against the hatred I bore
for you. I believe as firmly as I be
lieve that I am alive that she has been
near me all the time, battling against
j my insane desire for vengeance. You
! have only to recall to yourself the mo
\ ments when you were so vividly re
j minded of Matilde Valeska. At those
1 times I am sure that something of Ma
I tilde was in me. I was not myself. You
have looked into my eyes a thousand
times with a question in your own.
Your soul was striving to reach the
soul of Matilde. Ah, all these months
I have known that you loved Matilde—
| not me. You loved the Matilde that
was in me. You—”
| “I have thought of her—always of
; her—when you were in my arms."
"I know how well you loved her,”
she declared slowly. “I know that you
went to her tomb long after her death
was revealed to you. I know that years
ago you made an effort to find Fever
elli. You found his grave, too, and you
could not ask him, man to man, if you
had wronged her. But in spite of all
that you brought up her boy to be sac
rificed as—”
“I—1—good God, am I to believe
you? If he should be my son!" he
cried, starting up, cold with dread.
“He is your son. He could be no
other man’s son. 1 have her dying
word for it. She declared it in the
i presence of her God. Wait! Where
are you going?”
“I am going down to him!”
“Not yet, James. I have still more
to say to you—more to confess. Here!
Take this package of letters. Read ,
them as you sit beside his bed—not !
his deathbed, for I shall restore him i
to health, never fear. If he were to j
die, I should curse myself to the end
of time, for I and I alone would have
; been the cause. Here are her letters
1 —and the one Peverelli wrote to her.
j This is her deathbed letter to you. And
! this is a letter to her son and yours!
You may some day read it to him. And
here—this is a document requiring me !
to share my fortune with her son. It
is a pledge that I took before my fa
ther died a few years ago. If the boy
! ever appeared, he was to have his
mother’s share of the estate—and it is I
; not an inconsiderable amount, James. |
I He is independent of you. He need
! ask nothing of you. I was taking him
home to his own.”
She shrank slightly as he stood over
her. There was more of wonder and
pity in his face than condemnation.
She looked for the anger she had ex
pected to arouse in him, and was
dumfounded to see that it was not re
vealed in his steady, appraising eyes, i
“Your plan deserved a better fate i
than this Therese. It was prodigious!
I—I can almost pity you.”
“Have—have you no pain—no regret
—no grief?" she cried weakly.
“Yes,” he said, controlling himself
with difficulty. “Yes, 1 know all these
and more.” He picked up the pack
age of letters and glanced at the sub
scription on the outer envelope. Sud
denly he raised them to his lips and,
with his eyes closed, kissed the words
| that were written there. Her head
| drooped, and a sob came into her
; throat. She did not look up until he
j began speaking to her again, quietly,
! even patiently. “But why should you,
1 even in your longing for revenge—why
| should yOu have planned to humiliate
j and degrade him even more than I
I could have done? Was it just to your
sister's son that you should blight his
j life, that you should turn him into a
j skulking, sneaking betrayer? What
would you have gained in the end? His
loathing, his scorn—my God, Therese,
j did you not think of all this?"
—. have told you that I thought of
; everything. 1 was mistaken. I did not
stop to think that I would be taking
“ at away from happiness in the shape
1 love that he might bear for someone
e'-se. I did not know that there was a
• Lydia Desmond. When 1 came to know,
J my heart softened and my purpose lost
' most of its force. He would have been
j safe with me, but would he have been
i happy? 1 could not give him the kind
I of love that Lydia promised. 1 could
i only be his mother's sister to him. He
was not in love with me. He has al
ways loved Lydia. I fascinated him—
just as I fascinated you. He would not
have gone away with me, even after
you had told him that he was not your
son. He would not do that to you,
| James, in spite of the blow you struck
him. He was loyal to Lydia and to
himself.”
“And what did he think of you?” de
manded Brood scornfully.
“If you had not come upon us here,
he would have known me for who I am
and he would have forgiven me. I had
asked him to go away with me. He re
fused. Then I was about to tell him
the whole story of my life, of his life
and of yours. Do you think he would
have refused forgiveness to me? No!
He would have understood."
“But up to that hour he thought of
you as a—a what shall I say?”
"A bad woman? Perhaps. 1 did not
care. It was part of the price 1 was to
pay in advance. I would have told him
everything as soon as the ship on
which we sailed was outside the har
bor yonder. That was my intention,
and I know you believe me.when I say
that—there was nothing more in my
mind. Time would have straightened
everything out for him. He could have
had his Lydia, even though he went
away with me. Once away from here,
do you think that he would ever re
turn? No! Even though he knew you
to be his father, he would not forget
that he has never been your son. You
have hurt him since he was a babe.
Do you understand? I do not hate you
now. It is something to know that you
have worshiped her all these years.
You were true to her. What you did
long, long ago was not your fault. You
believed that she had wronged you.
But you went on loving her. That is
what weakened my resolve. You loved
her to the end, she loved you to the
end. Well, in the face of that, could I
go on hating you? You must have
been worthy of her love. She knew you
better than all the world. You came
to me with love for her in your heart
You took me. and you loved her all the
time. I am not sure, James, that you
are not entitled to this miserable, un
happy love I have come to feel for you
—my own love, not Matilde's.”
“You—you are saying this so that I
may refrain from throwing you out in
to the street—”
“No!" she cried, coming to her feet,
“I shall ask nothing of you. If 1 am
to go it shall be because 1 have failed.
I have been a blind, vain glorious fool
The trap has caught me instead of you,
and I shall take the consequences. I
have lost—everything!"
“Yes. you have lost everything,” said
he steadily.
"}ou despise rue?”
“1 cannot ask you to stay here—
after this.”
"But I shall not go. I have a duty
to perform before 1 leave this house. I
intend to save the life of that poor boy
downstairs, so that he may not die be
lieving me to be an evil woman, a
faithless wife. Thank God. I have ac
complished something! You know that
he is your son. You know that my sis
ter was as pure as snow. You knoifr'
that you killed her and that she loved
you in spite of the death you brought
to her. That is something. That—”
Brood dropped into the chair and
buried his face on his quivering arms.
In muffled tones came the cry from his
soul. "They've all said that he is like
me. I have seen it at times, but I would
not believe. I fought against it, reso
lutely, madly, cruelly! Now it is too j
late and 1 see! I see, 1 feel! Damn you j
—oh, damn you—you have driven me :
to the killing of my own sou!”
She stood over him. silent for a long ;
time, her hand hovering above his j
head.
"He is not going to die,” she said at
last, when she was sure that she had
full command of her voice. “I can
promise you that, .lames. I shall not
go from this house until he is well. I
shall nurse him back to health and
give him back to you and Matilde, for
now I know' that he belongs to both of
you and not to her alone. Now, James, j
you may go down to him. He is not
conscious. He will not hear you pray
ing at his bedside. He—’’
A knock came at the door—a sharp,
imperative knock. It was repeated sev
eral times before either of them could
summon the courage to call out. Tjiey
were petrified with the dread of some
thing that awaited them beyond the
closed door. It was she who finally
called out: "Come in!”
Doctor Hodder, coatless and bare
armed, came into the room.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Closed Ooor.
The doctor blinked for a moment.
The two were leaning forward with
alarm in their eyes, their hands grip
ping the table.
“Well, are we to send for an under
taker?" demanded Hodder irritably.
Brood started forward. “Is—is he
dead?"
“Of course not, but he might as well
be," exclaimed the other, aud it was
plain to be seen that he was very much
out of patience. “You’ve called in an
other doctor and a priest and now I
hear that a Presbyterian parson is in
the library. Hang it all. Brood, why
don’t you send for the coroner and un
dertaker and have done with it? I'm
blessed if I—”
Y’vonne came swiftly to his side. “Is
he conscious? Does he know?"
“For God's sake, Hodder, is there
any hope?" cried Brood.
“I’ll be honest with you, Jim. I don’t
believe there is. It went in here,
above the heart, and it's lodged back
there by the spine somewhere. We
haven't located it yet, but we will. Had
to let up on the ether for awhile, you
see. He opened his eyes a few min
utes ago, Mrs. Brood, and my assistant
is certain that he whispered Lydia
Desmond's name. Sounded that way
to him, but, of course—”
"There! You see, James?" she cried,
whirling upon her husband.
“I think you’d better step in and see
him now, Jim," said the doctor, sud
denly becoming very gentle. “He may
come to again and—well, it may he the
last time he’ll ever open his eyes. Yes,
it’s as bad as all that.”
'“I’ll go—at once,” said Brood, his
face ashen. “You must revive him for
a few minutes, Hodder. There’s some
thing I’ve got to say to him. He must
be able to hear and to understand me.
It is the most important thing in the
—” He choked up suddenly.
“You’ll have to be careful, Jim. He's
ready to collapse. Then it's all off."
“Nevertheless, Doctor Hodder, my
husband has something to say to his
son that cannot be put off for an in
stant. I think it will mean a great
deal to him in his fight for recovery.
It will make life worth living for him."
Hodder stared for a second or two.
‘‘He’ll need a lot of courage and if any
thing can put it into him, he'll make a
better fight. If you get a chance, say
it to him, Jim. I—I—if it’s got any
thing to do with his mother, say it, for
pity's sake. He has moaned the word
a dozen times—”
"It has to do with his mother," Brood
cried out. “Come! I want you to hear
it, too, Hodder.”
“There isn’t much time to lose, I'm
afraid." began Hodder, shaking his
head. His gaze suddenly rested on
Mrs. Brood's face. She was very erect,
and a smile such as he had never seen
before was on her lips—a smile that
puzzled and yet inspired him with a
positive, undeniable feeling of encour
agement!
“He is not goiug to die, Doctor Hod
der," she said quietly. Something
went through his body that warmed it
curiously. He felt a thrill, as one who
is seized by a great overpowering ex
citement.
She preceded them into the hall.
Brood came last. He closed the door
behind him after a swift glance about
the room that had been his most pri
vate retreat for years.
He was never to set foot inside its
walls again. In that single glance he
bade farewell to it forever. It was a
hated, unloveiv spot. He had spent an
age in it during those bitter morning
hours, an age of imprisonment.
On the landing below they came up
on Lydia. She was seated on a win
dow ledge, leaning wearily against
the casement. She did not rise as they
approached, but watched them with
steady, smoldering eyes in which there
was no friendliness, no compassion.
They were her enemies, they had killed
the thing she loved.
Brood’s eyes met hers for an instant
and then fell before the bitter look
they encountered. His shoulders
"And What Did He Think of You?"
drooped as he passed close by her mo
tionless figure and followed the doctor
down the hall to the bedroom door, it
opened and closed an instant later and
he was with his son.
For a long time. Lydia's somber, pit
eous gaze hung upon the door through
which he had passed and which was
closed so cruelly against her, the one
who loved him best of all. At last she
looked away, her attention caught by a
queer clicking sound near at hand. She
was surprised to find Yvonne Brood
standing close beside her, her eyes
closed and her fingers telling the beads
that ran through her fingers, her lips
moving in voiceless prayer.
The girl watched her dully for a few
moments, then with growing fascina
tion. The incomprehensible creature
was praying!
Lydia believed that Frederic had
shot himself. She put Yvonne down as
the real cause of the calamity that had
fallen upon the house. But for her,
James Brood would never have had a
motive for striking the blow that
crushed all desire to live out of the un
happy boy. She had made of her hus
band an unfeeling monster, and now
she prayed! She had played with the
emotions of two men and now sho
begged to be pardoned for her foil?!
An inexplicable desire to laugh &'■ the
plight of the trifler came over Gfe girl,
but even as she checked it pother and
more unaccountable force ordered her
to obey the impulse to turn once more
to look into the face of her companion.
Yvonne was looking at her. She had
ceased running the beads and her
hands hung limply at her side. For a
full minute, perhaps, the two regarded
each other without speaking.
"He is not going to die, Lydia,” said
Y’vonne gravely.
The girl started to her feet. "Do you
think It is your prayer and not mine
that has reached God's ear?" she cried
in real amazement.
"The prayer of a nobler woman than
either you or 1 has gone to the thrond,”
said the other.
Lydia’s eyes grew dark with resent
ment. “You could have prevented
all—”
"Ee good enough to remember that
you have said all that to me Dt-iore.
Lydia."
"What is your object in keeping me
away from him at such a time as this.
Mrs. Brood?” demanded Lydia. "You
refuse to let me go in to him. is it be
cause you are afraid of what—’’
"There are trying days ahead of us.
Lydia,” interrupted Yvonne. "We shall
have to face them together. I can
promise you this: Frederic will be
saved for you Tomorrow, next day
perhaps. I may be able to explain !
everything to you. You hate me to
day. Everyone in this house hates me
—even Frederic. There is a day com
ing when you will not hate me. That
was my prayer, Lydia. I was not pray
ing for Frederic, but for myself.”
Lydia started. “For yourself? 1
might have known you—"
“You hesitate? Perhaps it is just as
well.”
"I want to say to you, Mrs. Brood,
that it is my purpose to remain in this
house as long as I can be—”
“You are welcome, Lydia. You will
be the one great tonic that is to re
store him to health of mind and body. !
Yes, I shall go further and say that
you are commanded to stay here and !
help me in the long fight that is ahead !
of us.”
"I—I thank you, Mrs. Brood,” the
girl was surprised into saying.
Both of them turned quickly as the
door to Frederic’s room opened and
James Brood came out into the hall.
His face was drawn with pain and
anxiety, but the light of exaltation was
in his eyes.
' “Come, Lydia,” he said softly, after
he had closed the door behind him.
“He knows me. He is conscious.
Hodder can’t understand it, but he
seems to have suddenly grown
stronger. He—”
“Stronger?” cried Yvonne, the ring
of triumph in her voice. “I knew! I
could feel it coming—his strength—
even out here, James. Yes, go in now.
Lydia. You will see a strange sight,
my dear. James Brood will kneel be
side his son and tell him—”
“Come!" said Brood, spreading out
his hands in a gesture of admission.
• "You must hear it, too, Lydia. Not
you, Therese! You are not to come
in.”
“I grant you ten minutes, James,”
she said, with the air of a dictator.
“After that I shall take my stand be
side him and you will not be needed.”
She struck her breast sharply with
her clinched hand. “His one and only
hope lies here, James. I am his sal
vation. I am his strength. When you
come out of that room again it will
be to stay out until I give the word
for you to re-enter. Go now and put
spirit into him. That is all that I ask
of you.”
He stared for a moment and then
lowered his head. A moment later
Lydia followed him into the room and
Y’vonue was alone in the hall. Alone?
Raujab was ascending the stairs. He
came and stood before her. and bent
his knee.
“I forgot.” she said,1 looking down
upon him without a vestige of the
old dread in her eyes. “I have a friend,
after all.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Joy of June.
On a warm morning toward the
middle of the month of June Frederic
and Lydia sat in the quaint, old-fash
ioned courtyard, in the grateful shade
of the south wing and almost directly
beneath the balcony off Yvonne's bou
doir. He lounged comfortably, yet
weakly, in the invalid's chair that had
been wheeled to the spot by the dog
like Ranjab, and she sat on r. pile of
cushions at his feet, her back resting
against the wall. Looking at him, one
would not have thought that he had
passed through the valley of the
shadow of death and was but new
emerging into the sunshine of secur
ity. His face was pale from long con
finement, but there was a healthy glow
to the skin and a clear light in the
eye. For a week or more he had been j
permitted to walk about the house and
into the garden, always leaning on the ;
arm of his father or the faithful Hin- j
du. Each succeeding day saw his I
strength and vitality increase and each i
night he slept with the peace of a j
care-free child.
As for Lydia, was radiant with
happiness. The long fight was over.
She had gone through the campaign
against death with unfaltering
courage; there had ’\srer been an in
stant when her sta"lch heart had failed
her; there had htfen distress but never
despair. If tte* strain told on her it
did not master, for she was of the
fighting ki*id. Her love was the sus
tenance cn which she throve despite ;
the boAi'arly offerings that were laid i
before', her during those weeks of fam- '
iw
Times there were when a pensive
mood brought the touch of sadness to
her grateful heart. She was happy
and Frederic was happy, but what of ;
the or;e who actually had wrought the j
miracle? That one alone was un
happy. unrequited, undefended. There
was no place for her in the new order i
of things. When Lydia thought of
her—as she often did—it was with an
indescribable craving in her soul. She
longed for the hour to come when
Yvonne Brood would lay aside the
■mask of resignation and demand trib
ute; when the strange defiance that
held all of them at bay would dis
spbear and they could feel that she
no longer regarded them as adversa
ries.
There was no longer a symptom of
rancor in the heart of Lydia Desmond.
She realized that her sweetheart's re
covery was due almost entirely to the
remarkable influence exercised by this
woman at a time when mortal agen
cies appeared to be of no avail. Her
absolute certainty that she had the I
power to thwar death, at least In tht*
instance, had its effect, not only on
the wounded man but on those whc
attended him. Doctor Dodder and th°
nurses were not slow to admit that
her magnificent courage, her almost
scornful self-assurance, supplied them
with an incentive that otherwise might
never have got beyond the form of a
mere hope. There was something pos
itively startling in her serene convlc
tion that Frederic was not to die No
less a skeptic than the renowned
Doctor Hodder confided to Lydia and
her mother that he now believed in
the supernatural and never again
would say “there is no God.” With
the dampness of deaih on the young
man’s brow, a remarkable change had
occurred even as he watched for the
last fleeting breath. It was as if some
secret, unconquerable force had sud
denly intervened to take the whole
matter out of nature's hands. It was
not in the books that he should get
well; it was against every rule of na
ture that he should have survived that
first day’s struggle. He was marked
for death and there was no alternative
Then came the bewildering, mystify
ing change. Life did not take its ex
pected flight; instead it clung, flicker
ing but indestructible, to its clay and
would not obey the laws of nature
For days and days lif 2 hung by what
we are pleased to call a thread; the
great shears of death could not ffevet
the tiny thing that held Frederic’s
soul to earth. There was no hour in
any of those days ic which the be
wildered scientist an 1 his assistants
did not proclaim that it would be his
last, and yet he gave the lie to them
Hodder had gone to James Brood al
the end of the third day, and with the
sweat of the haunted on his brow had
whispered hoarsely that the case was
out of his hands! He was no longer
the doctor but an agent governed by a
spirit that would not permit death tc
claim its own! And somehow Brood
understood far better than the man ot
science.
The true story of the shooting had
long been known to Lydia and her
mother. Brood confessed everything
to them. He assumed all of the blame
for what had transpired on that tragic
morning. He humbled himself before
them, and when they shook then
heads and turned their backs upon
him he was not surprised, for he knew
they were not convicting him of as
sault with a deadly firearm. Later
on the story of Therese was told by
him to Frederic and the girl. He did
his wife no injustice in the recital
Frederic laid his hand upon the soft
brown head at his knee and voiced the
thought that was in his mind.
"You are wondering, as I am. too,
what is to become of Yvonne after to
day,” he said. "There must be an
end, and if it doesn’t come now, when
will it come? Tomorrow we sail, it
is certain that she is not to accom
pany us. She has sfiid so herself, and
father has said so. He will not taka
her with him. So today must see the
end of things."
freaeric, l want you to ao some
thing for me," said Lydia, earnestly.
"There was a time when I could not
have asked this of you, but now 1
implore you to speak to your father
in her behalf. I love her, Freddy, dear
I cannot help it. She asks nothing of
any of us, she expects nothing, and
yet she loves all of us—yes, all of us
She will never, by word or look, make
a single plea for herself. I have watched'”'
her closely all these weeks. There
was never an instant when she re
vealed the slightest sign of an appeal.
She takes it for granted that she has
no place in our lives. In our memory,
yes, but that is all. I think she io
reconciled to what she considers her
fate and it has not entered her mind
to protest against it. Perhaps it !e
natural that she should feel that way
about it. But it is—oh, Freddy, it is
terrible! If he would—would only un
bend a little toward her. If he—”
"Listen. Lyddy, dear. 1 don’t be
lieve it’s altogether up to him. There
is a barrier that we can’t see. but the*
do—both of them. My mother stand*
between them. You see, I’ve come tc
know my father lately, dear. He’s not
a stranger to me any longer. I know
what sort of a heart he’s gU He
never got over my mother, and
he’ll never get over knowing that
Yvonne knows that she loved him to
the day she died. We know what it
was in Y’vonne that attracted him from
the first, and she knows. He’s no!
likely to forgive himself so easily. He
didn’t play fair with either of them
that’s what I’m trying to get at. 1
don’t believe he can forgive himself
any more than he can forgive Y'vonne
for the thing she set about to do. You
see, Lyddy. she married him without
love. She debased herself, even
though she can’t admit it even now
1 love her, too. She’s the most won
derful woman in the world. She’s got
the finest instincts a woman ever
possessed. But she did give herself
to the man she hated with all her soul,
and—well, there you are. He can’t for
get that, you know—and she can't.
Leaving me out of the q restion alto
gether—and you. too—there still re
mains the sorry fact that she has be
traved her sister’s love. She loves
him for herself now, and—that’s what
hurts both of them. It hurts because
they both know that he still loves
my mother.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” pro
nounced Lydia. "He loves your moth
er’s memory, he loves her for the
wrong he did her. but—well, I don’t
see how lie can help loving Yvonne, in
suite of everything. She—"
••Ah. but you have it from her that
he loved iny mother even when she
iivas in his arms, because, in a way. sh*
represented the love that had never
iied. Now all that is a thing of the
>ast. She is herself, she i? not Matilde.
rle loved Matilde all the time."
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
TELLS OF LIFE IN VIENNA
Wherein Condition* Are Different
From Those That Prevail in
American Cities.
Life In Vienna offers many incon
gruities to the American. First, he
will find, unless he has taken the pre
caution to equip himself with large
sums of money, that he cannot pos
sibly afford to live anywhere except in
a fin' No or.e except the nobility and
ax;: : '••'.ch foreigners can hope to
have a whole house to himself.
He will find that he can ride up
ward in an elevator, but that he must
walk down. He will find that if he
wants to see anything of the place,
and how its inhabitants enjoy thepi
selves, he must stay out all night.
When he comes home late he must tip
the doorkeeper in order to get into his
own bouse.
The people frequent the cafes of
Vienna so constantly that peddlers of
linen derive a smart income from sales
to be used on the spot. The guest who
is accepting hospitality may decline to
have a drink, but in all likelihood he
will accept a clean collar.
In Vienna the retired chorus girls
are pensioners, the flower girls are
grandmothers and the messenger boys
are men. These grown-up messenger
boys are known as “commissioners.”
They are dressed in distinctive uni
forms and are licensed to perform
many kinds of work other than run
ning errands. It would doubtless be
more correct to style them "men of
all chores” rather than “Jacks of ali
trades.” Witness the varied and un
usual service rendered by one of them
in a single day:
His first job was to rebqttle some
wine; then he cleaned a pipe for an
invalid bachelor. After that he clipped
a dog for an actress; next he beat a
carpet for a boarding-house keeper;
then he curried a cabman’s horse, pol
ished an officer's sword, and after
packing a trunk for a departing trav
eler wound up the day by helping a
plumber deliver a bathtub.
Yet the “commissioner" did not hesi
tate to complain of the times. He was
quite willing to be quoted as stating
that he hoped conditions would im
prove soon so that he might be kept
busy.
A Pathetic Letter.
In the height of the great cotton sit
uation many interesting letters were
received by representatives and sena
tors from Dixie. The following one
most pathetic in spite of its odd spell
ing—was received by Senator Bank
head:
“Gents: I have heard that forrein
countries in Europe are issuig merry
toriums, so that the people can put off
paying there detts a while. *Now, 1
have IS bales of cotton and owe detts
amounting to about six hundred dol
lars. I can't sell my cotton for enough
to pay out and leave anything to pay
taxes and live on next year. If they
are selling merrytcriums in New York
I wisht you would see what it will cost
to buy me one for the amount of my
detts, good for six mos.
“Yours truly,
MRS. LYON’S
ACHES AND PAINS
Have All Gone Since Taking
Lydia E. Pinkham’s Veg
etable Compound.
Terre Hill, Pa.—“Kindly permit wm
to give you my testimonial in fa\ r :
a-yuia b t tr sc «
Vegetable ( •• -
pound. When I first
began taking it I
was suffering from
female troubles for
some time and had
almost all kinds of
aches—pains in low
er part of bac .-. and
in sides, and pr-ss
ing down pains. I
could not s
nad no appetite, since 1 naw r..
Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetal -
pound the aches and pairs are a
and I feel like a new woman, f
praise yourmedicine toohighly i
Augustus Lyon, Terre Hill, Pa.
It is true that nature and aw .
work nas produced the grandest r- -
for woman’s ills that the wor
ever known. From the roots a
herbs of the field, Lydia E. Pi:
forty years ago, gave to worn:!.:
a remedy for their peculiar His v
has proved more efficacious tha:.
other combination of drugs ever
pounded, and today Lydia EL Pink:. _
Vegetable Compound is recogniz
from coast to coast as the standard
remedy for woman’s ills.
In the Pinkham Laboratory at Ly- r..
Mass., are files containing hundreds
thousands of letters from women -
ing health — many of them openly star
over their own signatures that theyhav
regained their health by taking Ly 1 a
E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Com pour
and in some cases that it has saved them
from surgical operations.
Make the Liver
Do its Duty
Nine times in ten when the liver :
right the stomach and bowels are r.„
CARTER’S LITTLE
L1VLK PILLS
gently butfirmly com^
pel a lazy liver 1
do its duty.
Cures Con
stipation, In
digestion,
Sick
Carters
■ ITTLE
IlVER
|PUA5.
Headache, ^
and Diatreaa After Eating.
SMALL PILL. SMALL DOSE, SMALL PRICE
Genuine must bear Signature
Not Proportionate.
‘ They say the national conscience «
growing.”
"They can’t prove it b> the na- t
conscience fund.’’
Drink Denison's Coffee.
Always pure and delicious.
A woman never entirely fors.
her husband for uot being a her
AreYour Kidneys Weak?
Do you know that deaths fr m kidney
troubles are 100,000 a year in the ’ >
alone? That deaths have :ncrea~e 1
in 20 years? If you are ran down. I s
ing weight, nervous, "blue" and r:> i
made, if you have backache, dizzi -
and urinary disorders, act quickly t -
Doan’s Kidney Pills. No other me i
cine is so widely used, cone so .
recommended.
A Nebraska Case
"Jwn flrtri
T»:i> a 3trrj”
F. M Gilliland.
Lincoln Si Blair.
Neb. says
was in a bud way
with dropsical
swellings in my
feet .. <1
had spells of d i
ziness. My heart
palpitated and
the annoying paic
in my back w is
awful. The kid
n e y secretions
were scant and
distressing A f
ter 1 nail trieu a lot or mecn me o
out benefit I took Doan's Kidn
and they acted like magi. . res’ r X I
me to tlie best of health."
Get Doen’a et Any Store. 50e a Bo*
DOAN’S VJWV
FOSTER-MILBURN CO- BUFFALO. N. Y.
A Soluble Antiseptic Powder to
be dissolved in water as needed
For Douches
In the local treatment of woman’s ilia,
Bnch as leucorrhoea and inflammation, hot
douches of Paxtine are very effica. .
Uo woman who has ever used medic-red
douches will fail to appreciate the clean .1 J
healthy condition Paxtine produces an : the
prompt relief from soreness and discomfort
which follows its use.This is because Pax tin*
fiossesses superior cleansing, djjdixltvt
ug and healing properties.
For ten years the Lydia E.
Pinkham Medicine Co. has rec
ommended Paxtine in their
private correspondence with wo
men, which proves its superi
ority. Women who have been
relieved say it is “ worth its
weight in gold.” At druggists.
50c. large box or by mail. Sample free.
The Paxton Toilet Co., Boston, Mass.
Safety First
It begins with a C and smells like “Camphor “
Wh.it is it? (ampbolalum, of course. 1,
U-ere a jar of Campbolatnm in your home'
cr is it possible you have never used this wua
derfui remedy, which is giving thousands re -r
and comfort every year from Hay Fever.
Files and Hemorrhoids, Nora Kyew,
Sprains, Rheumatism,Pneumonia. In
sect Mings, Neuralgia, Cuts, (happed
Hands, Burns and Scalds, and a ho-: of
other conditions? You should acquaint yo,.
self with its household usefulness by takicg
advantage of this gulden opportunity. Cute >•;
pon out before you forget, fid in your name.,. J
addressaud mail to us with 15 cents in stam:■ *.
receive a full size jar of this wonderful o:n
ment. There is but one Caiupholstum a:. '
thousands of imitations. Insist upon this
and no other
Campholatum Co.,
Name. I
I
| Address.
I-— —J
* \
