Let the graduation gift
be a
Conklin
Fountain
Pen
It is
Self tilling.
Easily cleaned.
Simple in con
struction.
Perfect in writing
And
Costs no more
than the other
kind.
A. E. JAQDET
The Old Reliable Jeweler & Optician
Opposite Post=Office
!! D. S. HcCarthy!
;; DRAY AND ;
:: TRANSFER | !
a i '
J | Prompt attention given |
J | to the removal of house- '
. ! ’ hold goods. ,
:: PHONE NO. 211
! Hill I M-l III..
JOHN L. CLEAVER
INSURANCE
REAL ESTATE AND LOANS
NOTARY IN OFFICE
Pi F*. ROBERTS
DEIM'FIS'F
Over Harlan’s Pharmacy.
Office phone 260. Res. phone 271
EDGAR R. MATHERS
DENTIST
Phones: Nos. 177, 217
STATE BANK BUILDING.
DR. C. N. ALLISON
ID £1 T3 'F ¥ © 'T
Phono 248 Over Richardson Count j
Bank.
FALLS CITY, NEBRASKA
THE NEW NATIONAL HOTEL
Sidney P. Spence, Prop.
Only Modern Hotel In the City.
Rat* $2,00 Per Day.
DR. H.S. ANDREWS
General Practloneer
Calls Answered Day Or Nlgtn
In Town or Country.
TELEPHONE No. 3
BARADA. - NEBRASKA
o °
o THE DAILY TRIBUNE O
o Delivered anywhere
o IN FALLS CITY o
o Per week.6 cents o
o Per month .. ..25 cents o
$Aim the C
Ad. Gun 9
fTRUE \ ■
p| Ifit’s hot weather, ad- I
j&3 vertisecool things,Mr.
% f'-i Merchant. When it’a
■ cold, boost warmth. |g r-l
You know what people M
jg want; when they want jpg |
|; Profit thereby. Send ?J
jsd your copy to-day for raj
L;g your ad. in this paper. P| \
Elizabeth’s
Warning
Outside the landscape was sodden
and dreary. A chill rain beat against
the pane and now and then sharp
gusts of wind shook the naked limbs
of the trees and sent flying tho few
withered leaves that still clung to the
branches.
it seemed to Elizabeth, sitting at
the window, that the day was typical
of her own life, for the rain of dis
content beat in upon her soul and tho
gusty winds of adversity shook her
faith in mankind and sent scurrying
through the void the dead leaves of
her withered ideals.
Tomorrow she would go back home
—home to the dingy little farmhouse
w'here she had toiled and slaved
through all her young life; back to
the drudgery of baking, sewing, and
tho thousand and one tasks of domes
tic life, yet in her hand she held a
letter which offered her an avenue of
escape nnd assured her a cessation of
the drudgery that had borne In upon
her soul ever since she could remem
ber.
Until recently she had been content,
for she knew' no other lot. Then had
come an invitation from her sister to
visit at the latter’s home through the
summer. Margaret, her elder sister,
had married for money through the
kindly offices of a summer boarder
who had taken an interest in the
clever girl. Her husband, Mr. Tobin,
was compelled to remain in town this
summer that he might be under the
care of a famous specialist and, de
prived of her accustomed visit “back
home,” Margaret had asked that
Elizabeth might come to her.
For four months Elizabeth had
moved through a dream life in the
expensively-furnished home of the To
bins.
There were always guests in the
evening, for Richard Tobin enter
tained lavishly, though he was for
bidden the rich foods that he loved
to set before those who enjoyed his
hospitality. Dicky Reldlng had called
it "eating Tobin's dinner for him.”
And now she was to leave it all, to
go back to the dull routine of the farm
until, in the spring, Guy Rawlings
should claim her as his wife. Mar
riage to Guy would mean only work in
a new home; perhaps even more work,
for his farm was small and a heavy
mortgage had been left upon it by his
father.
Cyrus Hartzell, too, had written her
an offer of marriage, and the letter
lay in her lap as she looked out of the
window across the park. Hartzell was
an-intimate friend of Tobin’s; a dry,
withered, money-making machine,
whose first wife had died—so it was
said—because of the privations she
had endured in Hartzell’B early days
of money-making, when every penny
was put back into the business to be
turned over and over again, multiply
ing itself until at last Hartzell was
at once a widower and a millionaire.
And now he honored Elizabeth by
offering her his hnnd and fortune. He
wanted someone to preside over his
home as gracefully as Margaret played
the hostess for his friend. It was a
business communication rather than
a love letter, but Elizabeth preferred
It so. She could not have endured
it had he spoken of love. As it was,
she rose, at length, and crossed the
room to the tiny writing desk. There
wms no real engagement with Guy,
and In a few short words she ex
pressed her appreciation of the honor
Hartzell had done her and accepted
his offer.
She still sat at her desk, the letter,
sealed and stamped, lying before her
when Margaret entered. Something In
the tenseness of her attitude alarmed
the younger girl and she sprang to
her sister’s side.
"What Is it, Meg?” she cried, as
she threw her arms about her. "What
has happened?”
Margaret bent and kissed the girl’s
white lips. "Richard is dead, thank
God,” she Bald simply. "He was seized
with an attack aud died before we
could get the doctor.”
Elizabeth recoiled at the harshness
of the tones and softly murmured
"Thank God?” Margaret turned to her
passionately.
“Yes, thank God," she cried. “Hess,
you don't know what I have gone
through with. No one will ever know
what I have suffered unless they, too,
have sold their lives for comfort and
wealth. For six years I have been tied
to a man 1 did not love, who did not
love me, denied even one word of
love. Now I have my reward. 1 am
rich and a widow, but—God help me—
I no longer have a heart. It is dead
within me, killed by my loveless life.”
Gently Elizabeth led the hysterical
woman to a sofa and while the house
hold, upset by the occurrence, hurried
about to see that, needful things w'ere
done, Elizabeth sat with her sister,
vainly trying to comfort the stunned
woman.
At last with an effort Margaret
roused herself. "I must go and see
that flow'ers are ordered. I must keep
up appearances to the bitter end,” she
said dully. "Rees, you will wait un
til—until afterward, won't you?”
“I shall not go until you no longer
need me.” promised the girl, as she
put her arm protecting!}' about Mar
garet. Slowly they moved toward the
door, but on the threshold Elizabeth
paused and ran toward the desk. In
the tiny grate a cheerful fire burned
to offset the disagreeable dampness
of the weather, and on the glowing
coals she laid the letter to Hartzell.
"Guy la not rich," she whispered to
herself, “except In his love—but that
la the beBt of all."
(Copyright, 1911, by AnhucUhmI Literary Tress.)
The room was bright with the soft
light of shaded lamps and the red
glow of an open fire and redolent of
the spicy breath of roses. On a little
spindle-legged tablo the blossoms
were glowing In a mass of deepest
crimson. Their heavy fragrance made
Margaret's head throb and she pressed
her hands to her eyes, wearily.
In her ears the applause was still
ringing. From pit to gallery the
storm had swept and again and again
she had been recalled. * When she
had, with difficulty, eluded tho black
coated throng about the stage en
trance, she had sunk back in the cush
ioned depths of tho barouche, too
weary to do more than smile faintly
In appreciation of her manager’s ex
travagant praises.
Only tho insistent ticking of tho lit
tle Dresden clock broke the silence
of the room, but from the streets be
low a dull, muffled roar came to her.
She crossed tho room and looked out
on the busy lighted streets.
How the people jostled and el
bowed! A good-natured crowd It was.
She, 1n all the wide city, seemed to
be aJone.
From the little church on the corner
came to her the hymning of the choris
ters, practicing the Sunday music,
their fresh glad voices rising exult
antly.
She put her hands to her ears, as if
to shut out the sound, and then, cross
ing the room, seated herself at the
piano, touching the keys softly. At
first her fingers wandered idly, caress
ingly, but after awhile they evoked a
plaintive little air, and she sang, her
glorious voice filling the room with
melody.
She broke off with a little discord
ant note and leaned her head against
the music rest, like a tired child.
Presently she rose and stood regard
ing herself in a long glass. Her cloak
had fallen to the floor and she stood
revealed in all the magnlflcance of
her stage gown, glittering vith jew
eled trimmings and billowy with cost
ly lace. Tho colls of her hair were
thrust through and through with jew
eled pins and about her throat was a
necklace of diamonds. She turned
her head this way and that, watching
the goms flash and sparkle. Then she
drew from the bosom of her gown a
note and read the words again that
she had read and reread many times,
a smile of scorn curving her lips.
He had sent her the note with the
diamonds and the roRes tins morning,
and tonight she had promised him an
answer. It was much that he offered
her—wealth, position and an old, if
tarnished, name—and his love!
She drew the crimson roses from
iho bowl and then thrust them back
with a gesture of loathing. They
were too heavy, too sweet, too
gorgeous. They reminded her too
forcibly of him. They suggested too
strongly the dollars and cents ex
pended on them. She sank into a
carved chair, and, faking a photo
graph from a silver holder on the desk
looked critically at the cynical, world
worn face. As she pushed the picture
back Into the holder a pile of letters
met her eye; she remembered that
her maid had reminded her of her
mail, on her return from the theater,
hut in the crowding thoughts which
had submerged her, she had forgot
ten it. She pushed aside the letters
contemptuously. She was used to,
and weary of the effusions.
Hut as she pusher] them from her a
little oblong box met her eye, and be
side it, addressed in (lie same hand
writing, lay a letter. With a smoth
ered exclamation she bent nearer,
and her face showed oddly white un
der the rouge.
With trembling fingers she tore
open the letter and read:
“My Little Love:
“You will doubtless lie surprised to
hear from me. In your new and gor
geous surroundings Ihe old life must
seem to you like a dream; the old
friends, like people of a dream. But
to me you are ever (lie same Margaret
—my little love.
“Even in this sleepy village rumors
of your great fame come to us. I hear
you have the world at your feet. Hut
it has not spoiled you, I know. For
with your beautiful voice and your
beautiful fare, God gave you a beau
tiful soul. You will grow weary of
your gaudy, empty life some day, for
love must conquer in the end.
“I passed our old trystlng place to
day. The roses were in bloom all
about it. A rush of old memories
i came to me and 1 plucked some of
i the half-opened buds to send to you.
“Goodbye, my dear, my dear,
“With faith and love,
“It."
She tore the cover from the box and
| drew out a cluster of white roses,
j From the flowers in her hand sha
I looked at the crimson blooms in the
| bowl, and again at the blossoms in
her hand; little blossoms they were,
looking insignificant and meagre be
side their regal sisters, but she
pressed them to her lips, a rush of
tears blinding her. Then she bowed
her head upon her hands—not sob
bing—only remembering.
The noises of the street grew faint
and far; instead, the grass was green
beneatli her feet, the sky was blue
overhead, and under a canopy of lit
tle white roses she stood, her head
upon her lover's breast, listening to
! the first whispers of love,
t The lumbering of some heavy ve
hicle roused her. With a sudden im
I petuous movement she unclasped the
diamond necklace from aoout her
throat and heaped It tn a glittering
pile upon the desk, and tossed the
photograph upon the glowing coals
Then she rose, white and trembling;
the voices of the choristers still
hmyning in the grey old church,
came to her. She stood listening,
with the roses crushed to her breast.
After a while she went luto the
room beyond, and. kneeling down,
drew from a druwer an oblong pack
age. She shook out the folds of a
white muslin gown and smoothed It.
caressingly.
"You child," Bhe whispered to hor
solf, "you child!" Hut she went on
smoothing out the crumpled folds.
Laughing softly, she slipped out of
the heavy, silken gown nnd donned
the simple white one. She let down
her heavy hair nnd braided It In one
long plait, washed the rouge from
her cheeks, and pinned (he white
roses In the laces at her throat.
Then she went hack to the sitting
room and stood before the mirror,
regarding, with grave eyes, the face
that looked back at her; no longer
that of a world-worn woman, but of
a radiant girl.
Tho little maid stared when she
entered with a card, but Margaret
was too engrossed to note her sur
prise.
‘ I will see him,” she said, and there
was a hard note in her voice.
She was standing with her back to
the door and at Art t he did not recog
nizo her, but ns she turned and ad
dressed him, he went forward drama
tically.
"Ah, it is you, Madanioiselle? It
is a new role, then? It is something
that, I have not seen before, is it not
so? It is not Elsa, nor Marguerite,
nor any of those others, and yet—
All, Mademoiselle, you are always
beautiful, but tonight you are more
than beautiful, you are—"
She held up her hand. “Xo,” she
said, ‘‘It Is not Elsa nor Marguerite,
nor any of those roles that you have
seen me play so many times. It is an '
old role which l discarded years ago.
but which I have resumed tonight,
and which I hope to continue In
throughout my life. It is a role which
I have played many times, the only
requisites of which are simplicity and
truth, and the applause, the only ap
plause worth while, the appreciation
of truth and honest hearts."
“Whon I came to the city,” she
went on, “this great, throbbing city,
with Its beautiful, sad, wicked life, 1
I was a young girl, untutored in the
hard lessons of the world. I had lived
among people whose w'omen were
good and men honest and I thought
all men and women good and honest.
When I think of the simple, untried
girl I was and the dangers that men
aced me, I shudder, even now.
“Hut the world was good to me.
My voice and the beauty men say 1
possess, stood me in good stead. The
world offered ni» l(s poor beRt, and I
was dazzled with Its glitter and glpani
I was like a fly, caught in a golden
web, fascinated and yet afraid.
“Today, Monsieur, you asked me
you did me the honor to aRk me to
become your wife; you offered me
wealth and position—"
“And my love, Madanioiselle.”
"And your love. Tonight I give
them back to you with these." She
held out the great string of diamonds.
"You did ine a great honor, nnd 1
thank you for it, but tonight an In
fluence that has exerted Itself
throughout my life lins spoken to my
heart In a voice which cannot be
silenced. And so I am going away.
I am going back to the old role again
the role of the simple, happy, quiet
life. I shall marry a man who Is not
great, perhaps, as the world counts
greatness, but who—”
Hut Madamoisetie, what or me"
I)o 1 deserve no consideration? Am
I to be thrust aside so? Surely 1—"
"You cannot say anything of me—
you cannot accuse me more mercl
lessly taan I accuse myseLf. But be
cause I have wronged you. would you
have me make my wrong still deeper"
My heart Is far away In tho south
land tonight where these little white
blossoms came from.” She touched
with gentle fingers the roses on her
breast.
The Frenchman stood with bowed
head. For the first time It came to
her that it was given, even to this
worldling, to love tdneerely. A great
pity, born of the* new beauty and light
in her own life, stirred within her
heart.
She laved her hand for a moment
on his.
"Forgive ire," slie said.
li< rr I her hand and kissed It,
reverently.
"Madamoiselie," he said earnestly,
"do ’on know what you are relin
quish'- i ? Arc you prepared to fore
go ail ■■■<■ luxi .■/ ti e pleasure, the
splendor of your ! -ont life—to give
up tlia which ins become almost a
part of your being?- to give up all
this for a life narrow and petty—a
life dull and, perhaps, even sordid?”
She raised her head proudly, and
! lie thought lie had never seen her
more beautiful than when she an
swered him.
"No," she said, "It is not sordid,
and It will not be dull. Monsieur. It
i will be glorified by love.”
For a moment he stood In silence.
Then he raised his head and looked
Into the clear eyes:
"Ah, Madamoiselle, it is worth an
eternity of misery—one hour of love
such as that.”
He touched her hand again with his
lips, and then went quickly from the
room, without a backward glance.
She sank down beside the window,
resting her bowed head on her arms,
and on the night atr came to her the
voices of the choristers, triumphant,
Joyous.
Open for Business
I have purchased the T. I. La
Forge general store on 9th and
Morton sts., and same is now
ready for business. A share of
your patronage is solicited. Be
ginning Saturday we will handle
fresh meat regularly. Butter and
Eggs bought. Prompt delivery
of goods. Phone 296.
Full line of cured meats.
C. T. LIPPOLD
H i, ^ i —-- -■ . ..
Buy FURNITURE
of us. If you don't, we both
lose money. We don’t claim to
have the largest stock in this
part of the state, but we do
claim to have the best assorted
stock, and it’s all new. Prices
as low as you will find any
where. Give us a chance, we
will show you.
SMITH BROS.
Funeral Directors Falls City. Neb.
ANOTHER BIO SPECIAL
Our Policy The BestCoods
for the Least Money.
Another Special
Chop Plates, Cake
Plates, Bread Plates
and Salad Bowls
Your
Choice
For
Nicely decorated and finished and good values
at 50c. See them at
Chas. M. Wilson’s
1Quality Place \
J W. F. Butler \
i ■ t
f Dealer in Dry Goods, Groceries, Queensware f
J| arid Notions. The famous Kirkendall shoe J
j our specialty. Highest market prices 4
4 for produce. * ^
| —
4 Millinery. J
4 An exceptionally fine stock, all new goods. ^
^ Swell spring hats just arriving. Miss Lei- ^
4 ta Butler in charge of this department. Al- |
f so special attention given to dress-making ^
4 and ladies’ tailoring. J
i W. B. Butler *
4 • f
J Barada :: :: :: Nebraska *
\ 4
