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6 CHAPTER XXXV. A 8tory of the Past. -v queer picture, that, framed ia by the vast, wide, pillared ball—Cynthia Lennox, & Juno warmed to life, tall, majestic, Just now beseeching Mr. Gtack. small, composed, resolute and, looking from one to the other, in in- *««redulouB, dismayed bewilderment, the "creri *!ov« ovely, childish face of Laurie Lisle. "What does he mean?" she ques tioned, and lifted her innocent gaze to Cynthia. "He means—don't be frightened, dear—that there has been some mis understanding, and that for the pres •at he must detain you. He thinks you may know—have known—some thing about this—affair!" "Why, I nsver even heard o£ it. What could I know? This was the Tery first I knew of it—this!" She turned her head away and point ed with one little, trembling h^nd to the spot where a gleam of sunshine flashed weirdly. "In deference to Miss Lennox," Mr. Btack went on, in his smooth, even Toice, "no stronger measures will be taken in this case for some time—at least' not until inore deflnlte evidence Is determined. In the meantime Miss Xisle may remain at Blackcastle, though necessarily under Surveil lance/' "Under surveillance!" she repeated, fl under surveillance?" ./J "Yes," he said, with Just a touch of Irritation, "Do you siot yet understand? You are arrested for thecrime of mur der." "OhJ" Cynthia Lennox exclaimed, With a sudden burst of indignant an '»-Ber, "this is brutal—it is infamous! .Why, she was miles from here at the time! Besides, think for one moment jo£ this child injuring a great, strong rtnan like him! Why, the very sugges tion is preposterous!" And Just then the undertaker and x&Is men ascended tha stairs. '"fi am arrested for—murder Laurie *"Lisle cried, wildly, and put her hand •to her head in a, dazed, confused fash ton~I?" A dull faintness stole over her. Cyn ittia noticed how heavily she leaned «#ainst her, so, tightening her hold, •he drew her across the hall and into her own room, which lay beyond. The day was done—the short Decem ber day—and over the ruins of the •astern tower, where for weary hours strong arms had labored and labored In vain to find the ghastly fragments of that which had once been a man— over solemn and stately Blackcastle— over the restless, crushed and aching hearts which throbbed within—night fell. Night, which brought darkness, but not oblivion—reit, not slumber— silence, that, was net the calm of peace. iJV Eleven !—and the house was very •till. In all the corridors the lights burned dimly. In the library below, ^something lay vaguely outlined be neath a sheet—something which held In its very immobility an awe and a chilling dread. Cynthia shivered as she went swiftly flown the hall to my lady's room. She knocked, and -ia answer to a voice, went in. The room was bright with waxllght and firelight. Involuntarily she glanced at the panel which she and Cyril had thrust aside with such tre IXinendous eagerness some houjps before. It had been "pushed again to its place and now appeared only a portion of the carvtin walnseoting. My lady was lying back in a low. chair before the fire. She had dropped, as a tired masker drops his domino, tbe cold armor of reserve which the world seldom penetrated. Here with no unkindly eyes to pry or criticise, she looked what she was, and that only—an old, worn, haggard woman. Sho Hfted. her he&d as the girl en sfltered. V5 ,4: "How is she?" she asked. "She Is asleep at last!" Miss Lennox answered briefly and sank down on a crimson fautieul, with the familiar air of one too thoroughly at home to wait for an invitation. "Why did she come ba'itf? I wanted to ask you earlier, but I had no op portunity of doing so before those oth er people." "She came back because she thought Clive was here." "CUve?" MYesf Curse a Carrington She says he passed her yes terday on board a train coming toward Blackcastle. She hoped to find him here before her. Instead of that—you know the rest." She had spoken in a tone that was -almost one of lndiiferer.ee. The fierce excitement she had so recently under gone had tucbausted her. "Cynthia," my lady -cried, half hope fully. halt-despairingly, "it—it is not— cannot be-^™et sS||he nMAl E O O E is—she must be 'ft 'ft "Of course." was the weary reply. "Wo know he Is dead." Sho sank back la her chair with ft km mean. "Aye!" she said, slowly, "to our moat titter sorrow, «ld, slowly, 4T *fcv' But for a second, however, a wild, jweet dream had kindled to life in. her brain. Now it ,was smothered in the "whitening embers." Cynthia had leaned her elbow on her knee, her head on her hand, and was looking into the glowing fire with groat, burning, feverish eyes. She started when her companion spoke to her. "You must surely have come to some iecSsion by this time, dear. Do you chlok she Is realty Laurence Lisle?" "Ves." she answered deliberately, "I do!" s.^:- ft,:ftftr:' "It is lcismet!" my lady murmured. "It is God's will!" Cynthia respond ed, reverently. "Do you mean that?" she cried, with more emotion than the speech in the Question appeared to warrant. "Do you really believe that the fact of her coming to Blackcastle Is to be con sidered as an act of providence? Re member, I speak, supposing she Is whom she says she is—Laurenca Lisle." "I don't see what very great differ ence that makes. It seems no strang er to me that she should be at Black castle than I. We, neither of us, have really claim here." "You have!" Lady Carrington inter posed, quickly. "You are the child of my oldest, dearest friend!" The girl gave a swift, upward glance. "And she," in a tone of grave, sig nificant reproach, "was to bave been you son's wife!" 'For a few moments utter silence reigned. "What I meant," Cynthia resumed, "was to deny that it was an Idle fate, apd that alone, which grasps the threads of many lives, and weaves them in the selfsame strand." "And when I said it was destiny, meant— Ah, you will not understand, Cynthifc!" she 6ried suddenly. "I will tell you—I will tell you now, that which I promised to repeat one week from Christmas Eve. It is a long story—a strange story—a sad story! I will make it brief, and clear, and light as may be." Cynthia slipped from her low seat to the soic rug, an4 half-kneeling .half sitting, leaned against her companion. She clasped her slight olive hands in idle fashion, and resting her arms on my lady's lap, lowered her head upon them. "Well, dear, to go way back over years and years and years, to the time when I was a girl! I am an Italian, and I come of a race known and hon ored throughout Italy—a race fierce, wealthy, powerful, proud of Its ancient glory, proud of its stainless escutcheon, proud of Its dauntless men, Its noble women. And "at the age of sixteen I was left orphaned, the last of the grand old name. I, a mere child, left maintain that old pride of lineage, to maintain that boasted, storied honor. "We were in Venice just then, and there we remained, with me the wom an who had nursed me when a child, new my duenna. One year—two, slip ped by, and 1 began to think the world wat not such a bad place to live in, aftei all. I began to cast aside my somber garments, to dress gaily, to go out a good deal. "I waa young, you must remember, of Irreproachable ancestry, with the hoarded wealth of centuries under my foolish hands. So they made much of me—the great people of Venice. "I had been brought up In a seclu sion so complete as to be almost im prisonment, and this strange sense of freedom, this new revelation of life, held for me a charm irresistibly beau tiful. "It was then, while I was still rev ising my sweet Independence, and gushed with all the glowing jo7 of ycuth—it was Just then I met the man who changed the current of my life forever—Clive Carrington! "I remember so well (am I wearying ycu, dear?—old memories are so strong to-night) the first time we met. It was a summer evening, and I was out with a merry party on the Grand canal and our gondola, bright with dainty dresses, and rich-leaved flowers and colored lights, represented, in its gay freight, the young nobility and grace of Venice. "A white mooil quivered slowly up the blue Venetian sky and we drifted on, with song and laughter, under the grin and royal homes of the Foscari and the CavalH, past the stately cam panile of St Mark's, past the palace of the Doges. "Suddenly a gondola flashed out from beneath the Rialto bridge and sped by us. One of our number rec ognized a friend in the boat which had just passed ours, and he hailed him. The gondoliers drew their crafts to gether. The occupants of the gon dola .hailed proved to be a party of ycung English tourists. Mutual intro ductions followed. "An old Italian lady—my chaperone for the time being—turned to me. '"Let me present to you,' she said, 'Sir Clive Carrington!' "He stood up and bowed low. Ho was about thirty then—a tall, broad Bhouldered, handsome young English man. "I noticed the quick flash of admira tion which lit his blue, eyes as he saw me. I was fair to look at I can say so without fear of vanity now. I had all the rare beauty of my race—a beau ty which, later, descended to my sea! 'And that night (he said afterward, I looked like a picture perhaps I did —it doesn't matter much now!)—that night I wore all scarlet and white, from the flowers In my hair to the gems on my hands. "That was how we met! Below, & broad, smooth, shining river on either side, historic homes, and pillared porches and princely palaces and above a blue, Italian, sky, star studded and star-zoned ana over all the moon light falling a rain of silver. "Thus it-began! ^Oh, Qod, how It ended!" "l CHAPTER XXXVI. A Secret. The glowing coals In the grate crashed together a lurid flame up leaped they darkened down. Cynthia crouched a little closer against my lady, with a faint shudder. "How horribly I am digressing!"the latter went on. "Well, I will not pro long an account of the immediate weeks which followed. It was the old, clcl story—to youth forever new! "He came to see me he fell in love with me. I did not lack suitors! There was not a young nobleman in Venice I could not have married had I so chos en but I gave my heart, in impulsive, passionate trust ,to him. "It was a very sudden, reckless act for me—I was so intensely proud. 1 had heard strangers speak of me as 'the proud lady of Venice.' Now I only valued my position, wealth, honor, for Id? sake. We were to be married in November. "As the time drew near, Clive used to fall into long lapses of thought, from which he would arouse himself pale and moody browed. "Well, we were married, and we went to Rome to spend the winter. I took with me my faithful duenna. One night, about a fortnight after our mar riage, we were to go to a certain grand ball. I dressed, and came down Stair3 quite early. I wore my bridal robe of snowy velvet all caught with clusters of white roses, and lit with diamonds an empress might have envied. "I heard the front door open and slam again. I remember smiling at the sound, for I thought of the tender admiration which would dawn in his eyes when he would first behold me. "He came hurriedly in and up to where I was standing by a huge, black marble mantel. His bright blonde face was perplexed and anxious. He caught my hands so fiercely in his own that the stones I wore cut my fingers. "'I have been fighting a battle!'he seia, an he looked indeed as though he had—'a horrible battle, and I have come out defeated! Do you love me well enough to believe me when I say I was, am, more weak than* wicked? Do you love me well enough to trust n\e—in Bilence?' "Of course I answered him, as would any young fool as blindly In love as I, and more romantically pleased than dismayed at the suggestion of mys tery. "Two years passed and we, weary of wandering, came home to England. Here, one year later, my son was born —another Clive Carrington. You heard the incident of which old Guialetta to day reminded me. Just then I was, I firmly believe, the happiest woman In England. I was handsome .admired, esteemed, I had a magnificent home, ar. adoring husband, a beautiful child. One evening we were sitting alone In the library, my husband and I. The windows were open to the floor. The moonlight flooded the room. We had just sent Baby Clive to bed and were recalling, with blithe laughter and bits of nonsense our first meeting below the Rialto when a servant brought in a clvster of waxlights and the evening mail. My husband opened the bag and I looked over his shoulder as he drew out the contents. There was one let ter addressed to, him in a queer, cramped hand, and bearing the post mark 'Paris.' There was nothing for c.e, so I sat down and watched him open his mail. "As he took up the particular mis sive I had noticed, he started sudden ly He tore it open and was on hi3 feet in a moment, with a half-repressed cry. The sheet In his hand fluttered, to the floor. 'What is It?' I cried. 'From whom is it?' "Nothing—no one on business," he faltered. "I stooped and snatched up the let ter. 'I have a right to know!' I said. I will know!' "And before he could prevent me I had held It In the full candle light, and had swept the page from the first word to the last. But of all I read, one sen-1 tence, one only, was branded on-my brain: 'She-with whom you left your soi- is dead. Shall we send him to you?' "I did not scream or cry out. I was too stunned for that. I have told you I came of a race proud and fierce. I could feel my face growing cold as the warib blood receded, but I could also feel every nerve in my body turning to steel. I think he was afraid of me just then when I turned and faced him. 'Now,' I said, 'tell me!' "I never for one moment doubted tha truth of the words I had read, not once. And he told me. "Five years before he met me, he had seen on. the boards of a second rate Parisian theater a girl with whom he became foolishly, recklessly, infat uated. She was very pretty, and very graceful, and very ignorant. He made nar acquaintance, and in a moment of bliad, boyish admiration, asked her to marry him. She was only too glad of the opportunity to exchange her toil some life for that of the wife of an English baitmet So in all bono* he married her, and within a month after waa heartily sick of his bargain. He could not understand her at times— she acted, dressed, talked so strange ly "Abo«t a year after their marriage a son was born to them. -His pride in the child seemed to "draw them closer together ,and after that things ran more smoothly. "One day, when the boy was abaut five months old, he came home to find his wife running, shrieking .about the room, and brandishing a long, slim knife above her head. "Swift as lightning all that which had bewildered and perplexed was r/iade clear to him. His enigma was solved. He had married a madwoman. "He called for aid. The servants hastened up. She resisted, frantically, awhile. Like a flash, before any one cculd interpose to prevent her, she had swung aloft the knife she held and had plunged it to the hilt in her- own heart! "Ah, it was all such a wretched story! He left the child—whom his wife had insisted should be given his name—in the charge of an old woman who, for a certain sum, paid promptly, agreed to care for him. He went away, he cared little whither. "Later he met me—met me and IcAed me with a passion infinitely deeper and stronger than any fancy he had ever felt for her. He knew how proud I was—that I would never mar ry him if I knew. "So he played a cowardly part and hiO all from me. He had tried to tell ma that night in Rome—had tried and failed. In time he no longer attempt ed to do so. He ceased to torment himself. He simply had let himself drift on the current of fate. "He told me all this as we stood and faced each other, both as white as as.hes. 'Now,' he cried, when he had fin ished, 'concealment Is over. The se ciet ha3 been a heavy burden for me to hear. The skeleton has stalked out of its closet at last and is rattling its rusty bones.' 'You should have told me!' I cried, passionately. 'You acted a cowardly lie—you deceived me!' 'YeS,' he said, "I deceived you. Had I told you that the heir of Blackcastle, who lawfully bore the same name that I offered you, and who would one day he master in your home, was the son of a ballet dancer—would you have married me?' 'No,' I declared—a thousand times, no! I would have died first!' 'So I thought,' he said, 'and I could not give you up. Fou your sake I would have periled my soul's salvation, I loved you so!' 'Love!' I cried in scorn. 'You never loved me. A man does not bring misery on the woman he loves!' 'Call it what you will,' he said, 'It Is done!' "At the very thought of all the wrong he had done me—of the dark possibili ties the future held for my boy—I flared up in on,e of my terrible rages. 'Aye,' I answered him, 'it is done, but reparation, as far as lies in your power, you must make to me and my child. You cannot for one instant im agine that I will allow this offspring of a Parisian ballet dancer to take prece dence of my son.! You must disown him, deny him, ignore him!' "'It is infamous!' he cried. 'He is my legal heir. I will not!' "'You will!' I said. 'Ah, little you know the woman you have to deal with!'. "V CHAPTER XXXVII. A Suspicion. "For awhile the storm raged fiercely. It was a bitter battle we fought there in the moonlight, he eager in defense of right, I strong with a mother's mighty love. I conquered!" She paused as though exhausted. The glri at her feet moved with a rest less gesture. "Such victory!" she said, In a voice low, but hot with disdain—"such vic tory! It sinned against every law of honor and humanity!" My lady caught her breath 1 Bharply, but she ventured no protest. She re sumed the story. "The next day he started for Paris. He found the child and secured a guardian for him. He said he had adopted the boy when quite a baby, and wanted him well cared for. He tried to persuade the lad to give some other name than that which he had always borne—Clive Carrington—but in vain. So. he told the man in whose care he left him that he had given the little fellow his own name. "He was to be borught up in the be lief that he was an orphan, and when old eaough was to be found suitable employment. "This done, my husband came home. Life flowed on, but never again the old life we had known. Letters from Paris came at long intervals from the guardian, of course—never from him. •He was kept densely ignorant. My husband used to hand them to me in silence. In silence I would peruse them and pass them back. My boy grew up, handsome and noble, and proud as a prince. The last letter came about the time we sent him to Eton. "It stated that the lad whom mon sieur had so generously befriended, almost a man. now, had entered a large Parisian establishment, and would be, for the future, independent of mon sieur's kind bounty. "One night, perhaps six months lat er, a visitor arrived at Blackcastle. He would not send up his name by the servant, but we ordered him admitted. He came into the library, a tall young stripling, with a pair of mild, nervous eyes. "I staggere dto my feet, stunned and heartsick. A great faintness crept over me. I clutched my chair for sup port. "Whether it was the resemblance to my husband I perceived, or merely a sense of sudden, foreboding conviction which overcame me, I do not know. "He spoke, and doubt was doubt no longer. He walked up to the man to whom he bore such a horrible likeness, and held out his hand. 'You are my father, I. suppose. JMr Shake nands! I'm not ashamed of you, though I must say you've acted confoundedly shabby. Here I've been all my life blessing my disinterested benefactor. By the merest chance I've discovered that you've been defraud ing me. "Oh, you know me well enough. Don't play virtuous indignation. I ran across a brother of my mother's a few days ago, and he swept the cobwebs out of my eyes. It was a devilish neat piece of work, but now—now the fat's in the fire.' "One would never suppose fee was a native of France. He spoke, looked, dressed like an ordinary young Eng lishman. 'Tm not going to dwell on that scene. The bare remembrance of it makes me to this hour cold and weak. "It was no use attempting to deny him or to refute his charges. He was keen and sharp and dangerous as a Spanish stiletto. 'I left that place where I was work ing.' he said, with the airy impudence which seemed a part of him, 'because I stole a large sum of money. I con trived to shove the theft oft on another fellow, a roommate of mine, but sev eral years older than me. He was ar rested in my stead, and sent to Toulon. He is serving a sentence in the galleys at present!' "And he laughed out as though it were a good joke and the most natural thing in the world. 'What is his name?' we asked him. "And he answered, 'Laurence Lisle!'" "Laurence Lisle!" Cynthia Lennox interrupted, and fell back, staring at my lady. "It is awful. And she Is his daughter—and he suffered in place of him—Laurence Lisle?" "Wait," Lady Carrington said, weari ly, "I must conclude as briefly as I It is a fearful test—this recital!" "But you made clear the case at once?" the girl insisted anxiously. "You had him released and—" But my lady put out her slender, snowy hand, with a fatigued, protest ing motion. tfi'fif, (To Be Continued.)' She Was Engaged. A young woman answered an adver tisement for a servant, and the lady of the house seemed pleased •ith her, but before engaging her there were some questions to ask. "Suppose," said the lady—"new, only suppose, understand—that you were carrying a piece of steak from the kitchen, and by accident should let it slip from the dish to the floor, what should you do in such a case?" The girl looked the lady square In the eye for a moment before asking— "Is it a private family or are there boarders?" "Boarders," answered the lady. "Pick it up and put it back in the dish," firmly repliedHhe girl. She was engaged.—Cassell's London Journal. Seeing Double. Edward Harrigan, the Irish come dian, is occasionally guilty of an Irish bull, as this incident proves. He was seated at a table in a cafe with a fel low actor. The friend had ordered whisky, and the liquor was served in a decanter holding enough for several drinks. They sat for some time talk ing, and when the time came for pay ing the bill the friend informed the waiter that he had but one drink. "What?" said Harrigan, "only one? It seems to me you have had two." "No, Ned, only one," persisted the friend. "Well, perhaps you are right," said Harrigan. "I'll admit I didn't see you take the first drink, although I did see you take the second."—Philadelphia Public Ledger. It Didn't Come Off. The man at the rear end of the smok ing car was holding his hand to his jaw and evidently suffering, from toothache. He stood it about an hour and then rose up and demanded of the other twenty passengers in the car: "Is there anybody here who says that Christopher Columbus discovered America?" No one answered and he sat dowfl again. Ten minutes later one of the crowd made bold to ask him why he put such an inquiry, and he answered: "I've had the toothache for two full days, and I wanted a chance to call some one a liar and get up a fight."— Cleveland Plain Dealer. v* Sometimes. Sunday School Teacher—Bobby, where do good people go when they die? Bobby (glibly)—To heaven. •if 1 W'i Sunday School Teacher—Yes, that is right. And if a person who is wicked all the way through dies, where does he go? Bobby—To the police station.— Woman's Home Companion. Not So Bad. The great man rushed out and grap pled with the wild-eyed intruder. "What have you there?" .demanded the great man. "A gun," hissed the stranger. "Oh, then, It's not so bad. I thought you had a camera."—Chicago News. His Line. Master of House (to applying butler) —Can you open, a beer bottle neatly? Applicant—Um, not so very, sir. You see, I've lived mostly in cham pagne families.—Chicago News. The Flute. "Did Slickun'8 house catch fire from a defective flue?" "No, an effective one. He had It sured for twice its real value."—Cin cinnati Times-Star. Ui Well Worn. "His face has such a wore, look." "No wonder. He's been traveling It for aearly forty years."—Puek. CONSTANT ACHING. Back aehea all the time. Spoils year appetite wearies tke body, worries the raimd. Kidneys cause It all, and Doa&'s Kidney Pills re lieve and cure it. H. B. McCarver, of 201 Cherry st., Portland, Oregon Inspector of freight for the Trans- Continen tal Co., says: "I used Doan's Kid- backache and other symptoms of kidney trouble which had annoyed me for months. I think a cold was responsible for the whole trouble. It seemed to settle in my kidneys. Doan's Kidney Pills rooted it out. It Is several months since I used them, and up to date there has been no recurrence of tha trouble." Doan's Kidney Pills for sale by all dealers. Price, 50 cents per box. Foa ter-Milburn Co., Buffalo, N. Y. In Kansas. We found the native taking great strides toward the cyclone cellar. "Why are you going in there?" we asked. "My wife Is coming-" he gasped. "She isn't a cyclone." "Isn't she, now? You don't know my wife."—Chicago News. Catarrh Cannot Be Cured •wltl* LOCAL APPLICATIONS, as they cannot rcMb the Boat of the disease. Catarrh Is a blood or Consti tutional dlMase, and In order to cure It yon mast take Internal remedies. Hall's Catarrh Cure Is taken In ternally, and acta directly on the bluod and nuwoa Burfaces. Hall'i Catarrh Cure Is not a qnaok da*. It waa prescribed by one of the beat phystcfeaa In this country for years and Is a regular presentation It Is composed of the best tonics known, combined with the best bleed purl Hers, acting dtrectlr on the mucous surfaces. Tbe perfect eomblnatioa of tha tw» laeredleaw Is what produces soch Tronderfsl ra •ulta In curing catarrh. Send for testimonials, fraa. F.J CHENEY ft CO., Props,, To]fld0 O. Bold by Dracglsta, price 75c. Take Hall's Family Pills for conaUpttlm. I believe more in the goodness ol bad people than I do in the badness of good people. The WMderfnl Cre^m Separaton Dees Its work in thirty minutes and leaves less than 1 per cent butter Cat The price is ridiculously low, accord ing to size, $2.75 to $6.00 each, and when you have one you would not part therewith for fifty times its cost JTJST SEND THIS KOTICS with 5c stamps for postage to the John A. 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Why cough, when for 25o and thia notice you get 25' doses of an abso lutely guaranteed cough cure in tablet WIS. DRUG CO., form, postpaid LA CROSSE, WIS. (W. N. U.) How It Was. Dauber—Has your family been dona in oil? Putandcall—No steel.—Now York Times. Neighbors. The neighbors called forthwith "You and your husband have defer ences?" they suggested, tentatively. "None worth talking about" replied the woman. The neighbors knit their brows. "That is for ijs to decide," said they, severely.—Puck. Advice. "De man dat kin profit by good ad vice," says Uncle Eben, "has to be about fo' times as smart as de man dai gives it"—Washington Star. wMtllSSl!! itiiiiii Big' Risks Lo«« of Time, Lose el Lom of Placa, Loss ©f Ccrnfortb 31 alt follow In tha trala of Mt using St. Jacobs 0|| For Rheumatiam, Neuralgia, Ltttaba^o, Soiatioa, Spralna baa cared thmaanda. WIS coram. Pita*25o.andCOe.