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MAX-OR HIS PICTURE By OCTAVE THANET Author of "The Ma. of the Hour." "The Lioe' SShare." "By Inheritance," etc. (Oovyrteih by the Dubob-bMer.ti Co.) (OyrtshL by tse KNOCK sounded on the principal's door. "That's Florence.' she thought; and she sigh ed in the same breath. The principal had se cretly liked Florence Raimund, the best of her two hundred girls, for three years; and, sometimes, she suspected that Florence knew it. Miss Wing sat at her desk. It was a large desk of oak, always kept in blameless order. No one could recall seeing more than one letter at a time lying on the blotter. Any others, yet unread, lay in the wicker tray to the left; the letters read but not answered were in the wicker tray to the right; the answered letters were in appropri ate pigeonholes or in ashes, Miss Wing being a firm believer in fire as a confl tential agent. About the desk hung the most Interesting object in the room, to the school-girls; in fact it would be hard to gauge justly the in fluence this one, mute and motior.less, had over their young imttginations; or how far it was responsible for the rose-tinted halo that beyond doubt, glorified the principal for them. The object was a picture, the picture of a young man in the uniform of a captain In the German cuirassiers. His tLick light hair was brushed back from a Ane and candid forehead. A smile creased his cheek under the warlike curl of his mustache. It was s smile so happy and so friendly in its hap piness, that it won the beholder. The eyes were not large, but even in the black and white of a photograph (the portrait was sn ordinary cabinet earte) they seemed to sparkle. The young fellow's flgurp was superb, and held with a military precision and jauntiness. One said, looking at the whole presence, "This man is a good fellow." Viewing him more closely, one might add, "And be is in love." The picture was framed handsomely In a gilded frame. On the desk below, an exquisite vaje of Venice lifted a single, erfect rose. For 15 years a tower had always bloomed thus. Miss Wing had hung the picture herself, 15 years ago. Then, she was the new principal, and the school was but half Its sime; and the village people ex claimed at trusting "such a girl" with so much responsibility. During those 15 years the new building had been built, the school had grown and flour tibed; and the gray had crept into Margaret Wing's bright hair. She had as often put on mourning for her near hidred that she had assumed it as her permanent garb. To the certain (and ecstatic) knowledge of the school, she had refused divers offers of mar nlags from citisens of good repute and substance. But during all the charging years, the picture had kept Its place and the fresh flowers had bloomed below. No girl could remem ber the desk without the picture; and their eyes would instinctively seek it in its old place; always with a little moving of the heart. Yet no one ever alluded to it to the principal; and no one, not her most trusted teacher, nor her best loved pupil, had ever heard the principal speak of it. The name of the pictured soldier, his story, his relation to Miss Wing; Miss Wing's nearest kindred and friends knew as much about all these as the school-end that was nothing. Never theless, the school tradition reported part of a name on the authority of a single incident. Years ago an acci deat happened to the picture. It was the principal's custom to carry it with her on her journeys, however brief; always taking it down and putting it back in its place herself. On this oc casion the floor had been newly pol. usbed, and in hanging the picture her chair on which she stood slipped and she ell, while the picture dropped out of her grasp. One of the girls, who was pasing, ran to her aid; but she Lhad crawled toward the picture and wod bave It in her hands before she alowed the girl to aid her to rise--a onumastance, you may be surb, not likely to escape the sharp young eyes. Neither did these same eyes mis the further eirmstance that the Jar had shifted the carte In the frame and a line at writinas, hitherto hidden, was starnlg out at the world. The hand was the sharp, minute German hand, but the words were English; the girl teek them in at an eyeblink, as shre Laded the plcture to Miss Wing: 'Thlne far ever, Max." Miss Wing made o comment; perhaps she sup poend that the girl had not seen,. per nge--In any ease she was silent. Of course, the new light flooded the shool gesip immediately. But there nmw ease any more; every new girl was ree to work her own will on Miss Wing's romance. Was "Mau" dead? Mad they parted because of any act on the woman's part? 8urely he could ot have been false, to receivo that daily oblation of Sewers. It was more ILely that she thus expressed an im perishable regret. Youth, ever fanid lh, played with all manner of dainty and plantive variations on the theme. Its very mystery was its poignant eharm; lnce each tender young soul create a new romance and a new ap peal. Elusive and pathetic, It hovered ep the edge of thin young lives, like the perfume of a Sower. And its ti Souss was the more potent that it eld hr nothaing, It is not too much ao m that the spectaele of that gen tit ad sa L east fahithtlunes was the etNegt element In the school at. Certainly, because of it, Wle had gater power over ';l$:a She was a woman of an gnit** torce; by natuee a - ls, a lttle prelse, able to but aet able to express serew, se woaul - mg sills a theat 6'st lm their perception that she had lived deeply, that she had suffered, that she had been loved and had loved eternal ly, opened their hearts. They would have admired her, now they adored her. By degrees, and Insensibly to herself, she became the confessor of her little world. After they left school. her girls brought her their perplexities of the heart. Wives came to her with cruel dilemmas which they shrank from revealing to their own mothers perhaps because the mothers could not be trusted to plead for the erring husband so well; for a woman who lives complains, not to be justified herself, but to hear her lover's mis conduct excused and his love proved against her doubts. Before they left school, the girls confessed their faults and failings and strivings of con sclence with the same eagerness with which they asked counsel in their in nocent romances of friendship or tlp sorrows of trigonometry, and they ac cepted any penance directed, not only with patience, but a kind of exalta tion natural to youth, which finds a secret joy in the exercise of its own fortitude. Today, however. Miss Wing sat be fore the picture which so many young eyes had studied with such vague, yet ardent, symp'athy, and pondered over a confidence that had not come. The lack of its coming hurt her; and the tap on her door was welcome, for she thought, "It is she-coming to tell me. Oh, I hope he is the right man." At her response, the door swung open with a jerk, and the dark-eyed girl who entered was catching her breath, although she tried to make the quick Intakes noiseless. There was a look of pale resolution on her features. "Have you come to let me congrat ulate you, my dear?" said the princi pal, rising. The girl colored scarlet "I've come because I had to, because I couldn't deceive you," she blu"ted. "Miss Wing, it isn't so. I let Miss Parker think so; but I'm not engaged to him." "Sit down. dear," said Miss Wing. The soft cadence of her voice did not roughen. She sat down when her guest sat, and leaned back in'her desk chair, folding her slim, white hands. There were flashing rings on her 'hands; and the girls used to wonder which ring "Max" had given her. They favored the, sapphire, set between two dia monds, because of its beauty ("a real Cashmere, you know"), and because, whether she wore other rings or not, this always kept its place. "Now, tell me," said Miss Wing. "I had a letter from him this morn ing; it was just a note in one of Helen Grler's"-the girl's lithe form was erect in the chair, every muscle tense; she looked past Miss Wing to the wall and spoke in toneless voice; no one could see that she was driving straight on to her purpose, over her own writh ing nerves-"all he said was that he had been called back to Germany-" "Is he a German? Miss Parker said his name was Cutler." "It is Butler," the girl said, flinging her head back. While a spark crept In to her liquid. troubled, dark eyes, "but he Is a German. Don't you know the Butlers in 'Wallenstein' You know he was a real man; and he founded a family. He-my-my friend is the Count von Butler." Miss Wing's chair, like other desk chairs, was set on a pivot; she turned very slightly and slowly, at the same time resting her elbow on the desk. The girl ventured a timid glance at her, and thought that she looked sterner, wherefore her heart sank; but she only continued the faster: "He isn't in America just to travel; he was sent by his govern ment to watch the Cuban war. He's very brave; and he isn't a bit like a foreigner and hasn't any nasty super cilious notions about women. Mr. Grier says he has a future. And real ly, Miss Wing, he is Just like a-a-a kind of knight" "Where did you meet him?" "At Helen's last summer. And be was going out to Minneapolis to see papa, I-I think. But he got a cable of his uncle's death. And his two lit tle cousins died last year; so now he is the head of the family; and be must go to Germany at once. For his father is dead, you know. So he wrote (in Helen's letter, because he is so-s awfully proper!)l asking to let him come here and take me to. drive-in the American fashion. I know who put him up to that scheme; it was Helen. I had to ask Miss Parker, be cause you were out; and she said if he wasn't a relation or the man I was going to marry I couldn't go. 'Of course, if he were the man you exlpect to marry,' bshe said, and-and I-I said, 'But he is!' Just like that. I can't fancy how I came to say such a thing, but when it was said I didn't know how to explain; and I was so awfully ashamed; and, besides"-she lifted her eyes In the frank and direct gase that Miss Wing always liked "besides, I do want to see him." "And do you expect him to ask you to marry him?" said Miss Wing, with a deepening of the color on her cheek. which went out suddenly like the flame of a lamp in the wind. Plorence Raimund blushed agan,t but this time she laughed: "I don't know. He is so awfully proper," said bshe, "and be hasn't had a chance to ask papa; but-I think he wants to" "In that case, isn't he the man whom you expect to marry'?" asked Miss Wing dryly. "But it wuas deceiving her just the same. 1 am glad you came, Florecea." Here the girl looked up; and se thing In Miss Wlngs eyu made her dasb aos-the rmO to Slug herself em her hknees bese that lady with am iartleulate gasp betw a sob amud a lagh, sad the stemess came la a lush: "I as to same! I em nt isr sir. 1v-e 3 1 m saw bhim spnL. And besides, I hoped you would think of some way!" "And you escape quite unpunished?" said Miss Wing gently. At which the black head sank low er, while a smothered voice mumbled: "Do you think I-liked it, coming to tell?" Miss Wing smoothed her hair. "It would have pained me very much if you had not come. Tell me; whether he sees you or not, will he not write to your father? Do you think tits feell , :s so ,; :.1t .it .at ditssc'pint ment will turn it?" The black head threw itself up bravely and the fearlkss young ecss met Miss Wing's pensive brown ones. i "No, Miss Wing, I know it will make no difference." Miss Wing stifled a sigh; it may be that she was not so sure of the firm purpose of a lover; she spoke more gently: "It is only the disappoint ment, then, if you can't see him?" * The girl's face quivered a little. 9 "Perhaps I am foolish," said Miss Wh ing, "but I think it would be a dis - appointment very hard to bear. Still, you must admit that parents do not send their children to school expecting them to become engaged to be mar ried; on the contrary, there is a tacit pledge that we shall protect our wards from any entanglement. But this did not happen at school; the only ques tion is. ought I to prevent it going any farther? My dear, do you have confl derce in me?" ' 'Yes, Miss Wing," said 'he girl. "Of course, I do not think that I ought to consent to your dri\ing alone y together." The girl drew a long; sigh. "I sup i pose not," she breatlihtd, in dismal resignation. "liut I should like him to come here, to see me; and then. if I find him to be what your father would ap prove, you may see him here; and we shall all have to explain things te e get her. I fancy, to your father." The girl drew another, a very dif e ferent, sigh, and impulsively kissed Miss Wing's hand. She tried to speak, and could only murmur, "Oh, I do love: you!" "And so, if you will tell Graf von r Butler-what is his Christian name. e Florence?" a "Max," said the girl, very low, for t, she felt the presence of the picture, on which she had not once turned her eyes. Before she spoke, under a pre tense of a pull at her skirt, she slipped her hand out of the hand with the sapphire ring. Yet 'her excited young nerves vibrated at the slight d cough which came as the principal changed her position, before she said, in her usual tone: "It is a fine name. Well, Florence, you will tell Count ' Max von Butler that I shall hope to t see him. And-will you trust me'" " The girl told her that she would e trust her utterly, and she knew that it would be right; and oh, she was so 9 happy. And she came back to say, with the tears In her eyes, "I shall be grateful to you as long as I live." Miss Wing stood in the center of the room, smiling until the door closed. But then in a second she was at the door, almost fiercely, but noise lessly, twisting the key in the lock. - From the door she passed to the win dows and dropped the shades. At last, safe from every chance of esplal. she sat down again in her chair be l1 fore the desk, leaned her elbows on e the desk, and looked desperately, mis t erably, into the joyous face of the pic " ture. She did not speak, but her e thoughts took on words and sank like hot lead into her heart. "Max But d ler! Max Butler! The little nephew he told me about. And he has been g alive all these years; and happy; with i- little sons, while I-I have lied to it these trusting girls. It. was wicked e and shameless. I deceived myself; r- then I deceived them. I wonder why. a I knew what they were thinking. How e dared I look that honest child in the r, face! I suppose she wonders like the a rest why I have not told anyone of my d romance. And It Is simply that there r was nothing to tell. Nothing." Sh9e 4 looked into the soldier's happy eyes t while her lips curled and she mur tr mured, drearily and bitterly, "I haven't 4 even the right to be angry with you, pt poor lad. What did you do? You are a. not my Max; I only made him up out 'a of my heart-like children playing a a game!" Her mind drifted diszily r- through shapeless and inconsequent r. visions of the past. She was seeing i- again the grim pile of the ruined cas a tie, the masses of broken shadow, the intricate carving on arch and archl trave and plinth, the wavering mass of limbs and tree-trunks on the kreen Saward; and she, with her twisted Sankle, was kneeling, trying to peer . through the shrubbery 'for her lost Scompanions. Did he come by chance? t She had seen the handsome young of ri oer daily, for a week. His great Saunt was Margaret's right-hand neigh Sbor at the pension table d'hote, a withered relic of Polish nobility with Safine, black eyes I a face like a hick o ory nut; who wore shabby gowns and Smagnificent Jewels, frankly smoked cigarettes, and seemed to have a if venomous tale ready to fit any name mentioned in conversation-with one Sexception, her nephew's. Margar garet's .first sight of him was not un der the shelter of conventlonalltkie. SIt happened that the countess' terodc a ous pet (and the terror of the pen ,t sion), a Great Dane, was trying to eat up a little girl, but fortunately had begun with her petticoats. The court of the house was the scene of the Sfray; a large, timid cook, the only wit ness, was waving a copper kettle full of the meringue that she was beating, in one hand, and the great wire whip in the other, while she shrieked tm partially on heaven and the police. SMargaret heard the din. She ran to the spot. Being a New England wom an. she didn't scream; one 'swift L glance went from the child's writhing Id body and the dog's horrible head to to the walling cook. In two strides she caught the kettle out of a fat and ag m tated German hand and hurled the a whole sticky, white mass full at the 3 dog's eyes; then, a the blinded anji ' astounded beast flung his head back to howl and spattered the world with Smeringnue, she snatched up the child r and nt her flying into the door and if the cook. The dog was smeared with a me.lngue, she was smeared, the child a was smeared, the eook was smeared; a and ow a beautitful white ad gold a oAeer, who bomdeud or the wa and a ni u ea the dme with his hbe nad two heels, was smeared the moat lay ishly of all! No wonder Frau Muller e (visible aloft, in an artless German s toilet of ease and without her teeth), oi the countess who was a gazing stock. y for the same reason,. and Augustine. p her maid. the three Russians on the ! second floor, and the three Americans on the third, tilled the windows with polyglot consternation! The conse- s (iquncie of it ;!ll was that when the Count von Itutler was formally pre- ; sented to Miss Wing that evening, she o'ushed. She was too pale and list l'ss to be pr-i iy, but when she blushed she was enchanting. lIRememblering the meringue, she smiled and ventured an upward glance; and, for the tirst time in her life, mtc the admiration in t the eyes of a man. At this time Mar garet nas thirty years old and had never been asked in ma:rriage. She had spent most e4 the thirty years in a boarding-setrool, as pupil or as ten'her: ;nd she had brought from her cloistert(d life a single vivid feel ing, a passionate friendship v.which death h;dl ellded. The sapphire ring \was her poor friend's last token. To he thirty and never to have been I sought like other girls. leaves a chill in th! !hart. It may be lonely never to have loved, hbut it is bhlak never to have been loved. M1argart r(nmelm-t ;hered htIr deli. ate, girlish dreams withl a recoil of huzmliation; thely stemed to her almost immnodest. She thotght she, waa too old to wear hats, and wond reed ahbthr-r she ot:sht not to discard the piinks and light bluots " hi it loor Elly -id liked on her, for more -t date colors itut she wore pink after she me' Mix ltutl r. Yet he never saw her save in the pr's ence of others. 114' was tnil of little. graceful aitt ntions, h:lt hle show d the rsame attentiolls to tilt' irtly elhrgy man's awidow aidl the :reritorious but Scro:,s-y'Edi :,tachr of litty, who formed Miss \\ ing's "ap:ty"; it was only his eyes, his ayes allw;ys following her., approvingly, deliehting. admiring, pleading, speaking to her as they spoke to no other woman. She told herself that it was just the pleasant, foreign way; and she wrote to her friends in America, "The German of ticers have very agreeable, deferential manners; I think they are much more gentle and polite and have a higher respect for women than the French or t Italians." And he said no word, even of friendship, until that afternoon at the Heidelberger Schloss. C lie came upon her almost imme diately, scrambling up the bank at a rate which had worked woe to his uni form. He was torn, he was scratched, t he was stained with mud and grass: E and he was beaming with delight. I t have seen you from below," he ex claimed in his careful English, "so I came up. Will you excuse?" Then his mood changed, perceiving her plight, and he insisted on tearing his handkerchief into strips to bind her ankle. It seined absurd to refuse his aid, which he offered quite simply; but his hands trembled a little over the knots. "It will be most easy, I think," said he, "that you should let me assist you a small way, to the res tauracion; so I can get the carriage, and you can have some ice cream. I Again, to-day. is it burned-" She had laughed and said that she never had heard of burned ice cream. He laur.hed, too, and explained that I it was burned as a custard, and some how under cover of this she let him 1 put her hand on his shoulder and his I arm about her waist. She was grate ful to him for the matter-of-fact man ner in which he did it all, saying, "You will have to be my comrade that t has been wounded, and I will help 1 him off the field; so I did, once, with t my colonel; it is better than to wait until I could bring help." In this fash- 1 ion they walked for some twenty min- t utes. He told her of his country and his I home; and how he loved the hills: that his fathers had always owned, and the rugged, simple, faithful peo ple; he told her of the plans of his father and himself for them; he told her of his father, who had the best heart in the world, but was credited with a fierce temper simply because his voice was loud; and his mother, who was so gentle that every one loved her; and his handsome stater, and his brother, who was a diplomat and far cleverer than he; and his lit tle brother who died and would have no one carry him in his pain but Max ("Ah, he was the most clever and the most beautiful of us all!"), and Max, hisl little nephew, who lookd like the dead boy. "I hope you will see my home and them all." he said; "tomor row, I shall see them, then, the same day, I shall be back here-with you." And then, by degrees, she won him to talk of his profession, of his hopes, his ambitions, his ideals; of all those intimate and cherished things which lie at the bottom of the soul and only rise for a friend's eyes. It seemed to her that she could read his character in the hints given by his words, as one would fill an outline sketch with perspectlve 'and details. There was certainly a fascination In this revela tion; cndor, after all, was a virtue, as well as reticence. Perbaps her new friend was a little mediaeval, but he was as refined as if he had been all modern. By now they were rattling through the modern town of Heidelberg, the plain walls of which looked bare after the lawless pomp of carving and form on the old castle; they had not even the bizarre, affected grace of the ar chitecture then decking American countrysides. But Margaret thought how homelike and honest the houses looked; staunch and trusty, like the German. Butler. Just then, was prais ing American buggies, from which he made a general transition to the cus toms of society. "In America, is It not," says he, "the young ladies drive alone with young men?" 'Yes, vety often. But not with you?" "Oh, no, meln fraulein, this is the Bfirst time I am alone with a young lady!" She had called herself old for so long that there was a distinct pleas ure in being "a young lady" to him, and she had not time to remember It partook of the nature of deceit, be cause be sent a wave of confualon over her by continuing: "In America, also, one would propose marriage to a lady, bherself, before to her father?" "It is oar custom," agrseed Margaret ."bt"--with her prim teacher's air "l'm eastmn is far mor ueeorom" His face fell, then promptly bright ened. "Perhaps it would be best to speak to both, so near the same time one can. But this is another thing you must explain me. How is it most preferable to the lady, that one shall write or shall come-" "Oh. write." said Margaret quickly. "Look!" he exclaimed. "at the sun set. Ah, is it not lovely?" tf a su den they were looking. not at the sunset, but into each other's eyV s; anud all about them was that wonderful. transfiiurii g glow, and it e*,med as if there iwere nothing in the whol. world that he had not said. "Is it to the right. Herr Captain?" ashi d the driver, turning on his seat to divide a hb*nign and semi-intoxicat ,d stuile ht tween them. Then it was hardly a moment until the yellow stucco of the pension jumped at their eyes, around a cor ner, and there were the clergyman s widow and the teacher at the door. They fell upon the carriage in a clam or of explanation and sympathy; they were at her side wh:n he bowed over her hand and kissed it, saying, "Auf Swtide rschien." That was all. There was never any more. He did not come again. Or if i.e came. site was not there, since the next day they were, on their way to rtremen, summoned by cable to her sister's deathbed. S1t- neer heard from him or of him again. Yet she had left her American. addres with his aunt for any lottvrs that might need to be forwarde d, and a stiff little note of thanks and far'well ---a per fectly neutral note sauch t alny friend might give or receive. There to!lowed neiss (the sister was a widiow without children, and she shared her estate weeks crowded with sorrow and busi with her other sisters; atd Margaret imputed her deep d, pression to these natural and sufficient causes. She rat ied herself for vanity in reading her own meanings into a courteous young mnan's looks and his intelligent inter est in national differ( ncie of manners. She fostered her shame with the New Englander's zest for self-torture. lint one afternoon, without warning, there fell upon her a deep and hopeless peace. It was as if some invisible power controlled and changed all the currents of her thought. She knew that her friend was not faithless or careless; he was dead. She began to weep gently, thinking pitifully of his old father with the loud voice, and his fragile mother and the sister and brother and the little nephew. "Poor I people," she murmured, wishing, for the first time in her life, to make some sign of her sorrow for them to them, she who always paid her toll of sympathy, but dreaded it and knew that she was clumsy. She r4mem bered the day at the castle, and went over again each word, each look. A sensation that she could not under stand, full of awe and sweetness, pos sessed her. It was indescribable, un thinkable, but it was also irresistible. U'nder its impulse she went to a trunk in another room, from which she had not yet removed all the contents, and took out her Heidelberg photographs. She said to herself that she would look at the scenes of that day. In her search she came upon a package of her bwn pictures which had come the morning of the day that she had gone. She could not remember any details of receiving them, except that she had been at the photographer's the day before and paid for them. When they came she was in too great agitation (they were just packing) to more than fling them into a tray. She could not tell why she took the cartes out of the Ienvelope and ran them listlessly through her fingers; but at the last of the package she uttered a cry. The last carte 'was a picture of Max, with the inscription in his own hand, "Thine for ever." It is not exact to say that with the finding of the pic ture her doubt of his affection for her vanished; for in truth, she had no doubts, the possession was too abso lute. But the sight came upon her as the presence of a mortal being, alive and visible, comes on one when he enters a room. And there is no ques tion that it was a comfort; if she had really loved Max, at this time, the knowledge of his death would have been her cruelest shock; for then she could have no hope to meet him again in the world-no hope of some expla nation and the happiness of Ilife to gether. But she was not in love with the young German, she was touched by his admiration, she admired him tenderly, she felt the moving of a sub tie attraction which she called friend ship and which might pass into a keener feeling; but she did not love him. Not then. Therefore, she felt a sweetness in her pain; she could re spect herself once more; she had a new and mystical joy; for was she not beloved above women? Had not her lover come to her, through what strange paths who may know, to com fort her? This is the story of the picture. She could not tell it. Nor did she; but she hung Max's portrait on the walls of her little parlor; and she hung opposite a picture of the cuastle; and from that day, never a day passed that it did not influence her. She used to think her thoughts be fore It. She came to it with her grief for the loss of kindred and friends, with her loneliness, with her anxle ties, with her asplrationsa, her plans, her cares for others, her slowly dawn ing interests and affections. She was a reticent woman, who might never have allowed her heart to expand to her husband himself, beyond a certain limit; but she hid nothing from Max. In time, she fell into the habit of talk ing to the picture. She called him Max. The first time she spoke hil name she blushed. She made her toi lets for him more than for the world; but whether Max could admire them or not, it is certain that the lrls knew every change in her pretty gowns. Her sense of having been loved had its effect on her manner, and a deeper effect on her heart. At thirty she wuas a New England nun; at forty she was the woman who understands. The love which the shrinking and critical girl repelled at its first step toward her, without knowing, the woman who pitied and who understood, attracted, quite as unconsciously. Now she began to pace the room, trylrg to think clearly. Was it her dut t tell Plorenoe the stoy and let her tell the girls? The red-hot ageo ed the Mn seemed to her e cited Mesms eepa Intimation tiat it was he duty bm wlek she strluan because she was a selfish, hysterical, dishonorable coward. Horrible as such abasement would be, if it were her duty, she could do it; what she could not, what she would not do, was to tear the veil from the purel anlt mystical passion which had been the flower of her heart. "Not if it cost meo my soul." she said. with 'l,' fro zen quiet of despair; "it is a:wful, hut I can't do it!" One thling did retmain; she could remove the picture. That false witness of what bad net"Ir been should go. No eyes should tce r fall on it again. It should nluver d( etitve imore. She iialked to"i,:d it fi: ly. ShI, lifted her hand-- an it f 11. "'I I cah't'" she moaned. "I1'l do Nt to nmorrow." She could not r,., niw.lIr, in es'ars, so weak a comproclise ,fftred her conscience. But she felt a sense' of rcsl'e, al most relief, once having dci.i'd,d. , nd she rec overed her coiInmposurei' enouch to go to her chambtr ani hat!,. !,eir veyes. While she w::s lthi , nelaged she hoard a knock. 'It Is l;.," she said quietly; "well. theI sotoner the bet ter." It was he; he had conie aerlit'r than he expected, he explained: he was most grateful for Miss \Wing's kind message. lie looked like his uncle, as the nnmembers of a fat ily will look alike. lie was nlit so ta,l: he wais not so handsome. f'erhaps mlto,t people would call him more gr;n .ftul. And his English was fatultl ss: he must have spoken it from his childhood. In the midst of his first sentences, be fore thely hd permitted him to take a chair, his eyes tra;elh I ;ast Miss I Wing's lace. Shpepirceiled that he saw the picture; she knew that she grew pale; but, to her amazement. a calm like the calm which had wrapped her senses on the day of her finding the picture, closed about her again. "I beg pardon?" said he. "Yes. that is Count von Butler's por trait," said she, in a clear voice, with out emotion. He was not so com posed. "Then it was you." he said. Following. her example, he took a chair and looked earnestly at the pic tured face. "When Miss Raimund lspoke of you so warmly, I noticed 'that the name was the same, and I ddetermined to inquire, but It seemed to me unlikely. Yet it is. Miss Wing. I have a message to you, from my un cle " "I was with him when he died." That was a strange thjpg to hear when the message of his uncle's death had come to him in another country; she hoped that her brain was not go ing to play her false. "It was fifteen years ago last July, you know. I never knew how many details you received, or only the bare fact in the papers." Fifteen years! fifteen years! What was that date he was giving? That was the day on which she sailed for America, the day after-what was that story he was telling of a visit and a tire and a child rescued and an ac cident? But still she listened with the same Iron composure. The next words she heard distinctly. "It was like him to lose his life that way; and he did not grudge it. Yet It was hard that I should be the only one of his blood with him. He could speak with difficulty when he told me to take a lock of hair and his signet ring to you. He dictated the address, himself, to me. 'You must be sure and take it,' be said. 'It is to the lady that I hoped would be my be trothed; you must tell grandmamma about it, too. She has my picture and she knows-but tell her'-and then, I think his mind must have wandered a little, for he smiled brightly at me, say ing, 'I'll tell her myself,' and then the doctors came. He said nothing more, only once, they told me, he murmured something about his betrothed. But I had the ring; he took it off his finger and kissed it and gave it to me. Child as I was, I knew that It was sacred. I wrapped It In the paper, and after ward I put the lock of hair beside It. So soon as I could. I went to Heldel berg, to the pension. You had gone and there was no address, no trace-" "I left my address with the coun tess-" "My aunt is dead," said the young German gravely. "I would not critl else her, but she had her own choice of a wife for my uncle; I do not think one could trust her with addresses." "We all gave ours to her to give to Frau Muller." "That Is why, then, I could not find you. My grandmother also tried. But you were gone. I thought of the banks, long after, but I found noth lng. Often it has seemed dreadful that you should learn of this only through the papers. But I could not tell whether-anything. When I came to America, I confess it was always in my mind. I always carried my un cle's little packet with me. I will have It sent to you." "Excuse me," said Miss Wing gent ly. "Will you please bring me the glass of water-I-am afraid--I can't walk to it" But she would not let him pour the water on his handkerchief to bathe her bead. She sipped the water, and very pale, but quite herself, brought him back to his own matters. She found that it was a cousin, miscalled an uncle, in the German manner, who had died. It did not seem to bet that Max's nephew could be unwortlfty of any girl; yet she conscientiously que tloned him regarding his worldly af fairs, for Florence was an only daugh ter whose father had great possee sonas and a distrust of adventurers, and at last she sent him forth to walk in the grove with his sweetheart. "And speak to her," she said, with a look that sank Into his heart; "It is the American way; don't wait to write, the American way is best." So, at last, she was alone. Alone with her lover who had always been true; whose love many waters could not quench, and tt was stronger than death. She never touched the picture, save reverently to dust it, to take it down I when she went away. to replace it in its station when she returned. But now, trembling, yet not blushing, she took the plcture into her hands. She looked long into Its eyes; she kissed It with a light and timid kis, and swiftly. hid the smiling faoe agatnst bher heart, pressing the frame in both hands, and Itouching ittwith her cheek beat over it, while she whispered: "You did til me. Tea eba eksand told me I love yee. Ma, my haight-u, he-y n eadi" Stiff Joints Sprains,B are relieved iat onc' !y an appliHa. tion of SI 'i, LinmInent. DOllt rub, just lay ,in 1:ghtly. 1,br stff...1- va.t, , Stn, . arnd. aI theb6 , . 4 t . t".............. ^ r. It a:t lr.t tirtl I a.... t:tetoha·ri I c utl t.tltr a t, r Igot a foelts Good for Broken Sinews -- , i ... . " e I L, .. ,t' , ii , Ii .r it . .. t tl M i l rl.. tI r ,rrl: ,"n tc, -SatIn g 0Ie . l t tlht e Ai. tLL." SLOAN'S LINIMENT Fine for Sprain MR. 1Tl vit. A V" il. . VIM.14 S0 1111 St.. P'isinltshtl . \. .I.. writ,. :-r` frien' t sA rait, , i hi h t- .:, i)l !rtth t H i tl rt ' 'k. li . Itbh eI'd I it. we th,;t I ,, .'1 lave biso .i an.. .k. I ns ;'l""l A. '4 Liatai andt 1,. .,Jr ".Ia. I," iss'wsrki r1 luUIIL." Price 25c.. SOc.. and $1.00 Slosan' lI, .k oD borses. cattle, sheep and poultry sent free. Adtdruss Dr. Earl S. Sloan otee. Mess... U. &A. W\hen some m11n g,'t interestg' politics they forget all about Red CrssA It.,ll line lves doubti for .our allont'e. go.s twier as far other. Ask y.our .~. 1er. Audv. One touch of weather makes whole world sit up and talk I-oR WEAKNE*n .sND ,LOSS OF TITE. The Old Standard gener.Il at IIORVnlU TASThILEMS chill 'N'SIC drivi !arland builds up thuIy. tem. A Cr6 sure Appetlser. !For adults and cblldrs. Like an Old Fool. Sillicus-What is the age of tion? Cynicus-There isn't any. I a man over seventy who m fourth wife the other day. Matter Easily Explained. Two lawyers met on the street been wondering about you." "What were you wondering me?" "Well, I've heard you a Jury and I thought that you most eloquent man in ClevelasL I've heard you make an speech at a banquet and yoe pardon me-pretty rotten. is that?" "I'11 tell you. talking to a jury my dinner on my speech. When I'm tal bunch of diners I've already dinner." HOW IT WAS. I' 5How did yo' all get 0o' ad?" '"I done slipped down an' on my back." "But, name o' goodnees, nose isn't located on yo' "No, sah; an' needer was Jones." AJoly Good A Good Br Try a dsh of Post Toasti tomorrow These sweetth n baits from Indian Corn are toasted and sealed i packages withou the of human hand. They reach you frek crisp-ready to eat fi-s pacge by adding mlk and aprnkling of if desired. Toasties are a jolly Nourishing Satisf~ai - _ 4