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Bt CHARLES GAR VICE Continued. •‘Very well," says Jeanne, Inclining her head, and she goes out. an hoar afterward the dinner bell clangs out over the castle, and Bell, who is never late on any occa sion, comes out of his room, and knocks at Hal's door; that young gen tleman, being many miles away, does not hear him, and, at last, after play ing a mild tune on the defenseless oak, Hell opens the door gently A Hal, my dear boy, tfrere’s thedin ner-bell. Are you dressed yet? Make haste. they are all going In. Can 1 help you—car 1 —” By this time he found that he had been addressing space. Hal Is not there. Bell goes into the room and looks around. It is ex tremely tidy, not a thing thrown about—a clear proof to Bell’s mind that Hal has not been in the room since the servant aranged it. in the early morning. "Now where has he gone?” asked poor Bell; ‘it’s unlike him to miss his dinner, and he is fond of his pipe, too. Dear me!” And, vaihiy speculating, Bell goes down. "Perhaps he hasn't bad time to dress, and—but he wouldn’t have the courage to dine with them in a shoot ing Jacket.’’ If Hal hasn't the count has, for Bell finds his excellency seated at a table in his frock coat, and Maud, in a delighted whisper, tells Bell how It happen? "Jeanne asked him at the last mo ment, ami begged him not. to take the trouble of going home to dress; and he stayed. Wasn't it kind of him?” “Yes?" says Bell, "very kind. But where Is Hal?” "Hal?” says Jeanne, looking around. "Yes, where is he?” There is a dead silence The ser vants wait for Ihe signal to uncover. Vane, lost in thought, looks up. "Is h<* not here?” "No,” says Bell "He hasn't been in his room since the morning. I—” He stops short, for the count has suddenly arisen to his feet with a strange look of suspicion. "Js it Hal you are inquiring for?” says Lady Lucelle, who, engrossed in conversation with Clarence, does not appear to have heard the previous inquiries. “Oh, I know where be is! He was kind enough to go off this morning to shoot a hawk formy'hat, and 1 suppose he doesn't, like to come back without It!” , And she smiles. The count sinks to his seat again, looking, for the first time in 'nls lire, rather confused. “I was afraid some accident had happened to my dear young friend.” he says, with a charming smile “How kind and thoughtful of you!” murmurs Maud. ‘Tf he doesn't come back until he shoots a hawk In Forbach, we’ve seen the last of him for some years,” re marked Nugent, bluntly. “Which would be rather hawk ward. remarks Mr. L&rabton, quite unconscious of his pun. There is a general laugh. Hal Is forgotten by all but Jeanne, Bell and Lady Lucelle. Jeanne Is bo far from forgetting him that she Is pale witn anxiety, and so absorbed that she matches that other pale and absorbed face next hers—Clarence’s. AH through dinner, which he scarcely touches, he sits vainly trying to talk and laugh, but every now and then glancing at Jeanne with a look on h!s face which nearly maddens Vane. “She hs fold him already that she is goi.g,‘‘ he thinks. “Both pale and abstracted, they sit and Riiffer. Yes, a will take the empty shell with me tomorrow—her heart will remain with him!” Such thoughts are not likely to tend toward producing a good appe tite, and v ane sends dish after dish away, as has been usual with him of late; but when the ladles have gone he drinks glass after glass of Port, which Is not usual with him, and sits with his fingers on the stem of his glass, moody and silent. It is a lovely night, and all the front or terrace part of the castle is flooded by the moonlight. The servants are bringing the tea; Maud is at the piano, the others are scat tered about; the room seems hot and close to Jeanne, and she feels rest less, her mind equally troubled about Vane's sudden return to England and Hal's absence. To Jeanne mental trouble always brings a longing for fresh air and scope to think in: Maud’s thin voice grows almost tor turing. and at lust she opens the French window, and steps out on the terrace. As she does so she hears the thud-thud of horses' hoofs, and one part of her trouble files away in stantly. It Is Hal, of course! To run down the steps to meet him. scold him, pet him and learn where he has been is the impulse of a moment. Throwing her lace shawl over her head, and gathering up her rich skirts, she hurries around to the front, but the sound has ceased- -no, cot eeased. but drifted toward Hie back. Thinking that Hal wishes to ride in without attracting attention. Jeanne goes back, and, listening as she goes, tracks the rider to the front of the terrace Itself; tracks him, and comes full upon him. hidden In the shadow of the shrubbery. To her surprise, there stands George, dusty and travel-stained, be side one of the bays panting and sweating, with the foam-flecks cover mg his v -oad chest. With a s tart, George swings around, tod utters an exclamation. “My lady! Is that you? Yourself?’’ "Yes. it Is I!” says Jeanne, too an xious to smile at the strange ques tion. "What are you doing here? Where have you come from, and why are you riding the bay at this time of night?” George takes off his cap; his hah dings to his face with perspiration. “I've come from Master Hal, my lady, with this letter.” “Give it to me,” says Jeanne, tak ing it from him eagerly. "Where is Master Hal —why have you brought it? I cannot see to read it!” George whips out his matchbox and -trikes a light. "Begging your par don. my lady, but there's no time to be lost " Jeanne reads the letter, and looks up. pale and agitated. “What does thiß mean?” she asks. "Why should he write this? Why doesn't he come himself?” CHAPTER XL. Three quarters of an hour later In one corner of the room sat the count, the two Misses and Nu gent, pjlaylng the rubber, Mamina and papa are comfortably asleep in two corners by thes ides of the fireplace. Leaning back in an casy-chair re clines Lady Lucelle, her fan flutter Ing slowly, her eyes upturned attent ively to Bell, who, fidgeting about, thinking of Hal, yet feeling himself chained to the side of the fascinat ing woman, who, by a word now and then, keeps him close to her as eas ily as if she had him bound hand and foot. Strangely empty the great drawingroom looks, with these only to make an attempt at filling It. Jeanne Is absent. Vane Is In his stu dio. anil Clarence— where is he? "Three by honors,” says the count. "We 'nave all the luck. Miss Maud, all the lurk. Shall we have another rubber?” "Ob. yes, please, yes!" says Maud, clasping her hands. "It is not at all late is it, Lady Lucelle?" "Not at all! And you have won? Oh. yes, play another, and let me watch you.” But they have played their last for that nigibt, for as the count, with dexterous hand, shuffles the cards, a servant enters and hands him a let ter. He takes tt with his usual smile, but suddenly springs to his feet, white and agitated. “Oh. whnt Is the matter?” murmurs Maud, affrlghtedly. “The—the—matter? Oh, nothing!" says the count, with a ghastly smile. "But L am afraid I must take my leave. Er er— Important fondness communication, my dear ladles, no thing of very great consequence, de raands, Jiowi v< r, my Instant atten t.l on. Hr —er — good night!" "flood night: so sorry!” murmurs I-ady Lucelle, holding his hand that fidgets to be free, “Must you really I go. count?" “1 must.” he says. Then, as he goes, polite to the last, he says: “Make my ndfetix. madame. if you Please Ami—-and—” he adds, turn ing and looking over his shoulder, with a smile (hat makesi hlsface look like a piece of ivory that has cracked for a thousand years—“has my dear young friend roturned yet?" ‘ Hal? Oh. yes,” says T/idy Lit cell:>, with a smile "So kind of you to think of him! He is up in his room, quite tired out. Won’t you stop and see him ?” But. with a startled, bewildered stare, that Is real for once, the wily count hurries out. Lady Lucelle looks nrotind the room with a smile that is almost hyster ical. Truly, the situation grows com leal but for the tragedy which lies hidden, like (he asp in the fruit— lies hidden to al but her. Nugent smothers a yawn behind his handkerchief. "Let’s have a hand at nap,” he says. “Where is Vane?” I am going upstairs to inquire aftei Lady Ferndale.” say* Lady Lucelle. "and will send him down to you. Where are you going Mr. Bell?” "Didn’t you say Roll was In?” says Bell, anxiously. "I must go and see where the bay has been," Iziny Lucelle puts her hand on hts arm. with a winning smile. "Do wait a minute, to please me! Mrs. I/>mbton will think it so rude, all of tts leaving her!” 11 hat can Bell do? He bows, goes back to his chair, and sits and stares at the somnolent pair in a restless fidget to get to Hal. Outside the door, in the hall, I/idy Lucelle pauses a moment and draws a long breath. Lady Lucelle is not only beautiful and cunning; she is brave; but Her check pales a little, amt her Heart throbs swiftly and unevenly as she approaches the studio door, and pre pares tor her last card. There is a Venetian glas in an oak panel set ting in the corridor; she goes up to if. and steadily consults the reflec tion of her face. Without egotism or weak vanity, jshe feels, she knows, that it is beau jtiful: and It is beautiful just j witta anew and dangerous loveliness j lor there is the light of passion in j'he eyes, and the breath of passion lon the half parted lips Once, siren hike she smiles at the face— a smile which nine out ten men could not resist; then she knocks at the door. “Come in,' says Vane's voice, and with a quick pressure of the white hand to her heart, Lucelle enters. A scene of wild confusion meets her astonished gaze; the easel is bare, huge trunks and boxes gape open with hastily packed properties; swords, pistols, armor, are scattered here, there, and everywhere, and in the midst of the confusion stands Vane, while Willis, with his coat off, is stuffing Venetian costumes into a trunk. Vane lifts his head, and the light he nolde in his hands—an Etruscan lamp, priceless and unique—and, in his surprise, utters the once familiar name • "Lucelle!" The Mood files to her face; it is a goo a omen. “Vane,” she says, "what are you doing—packing?” "Yes,” he says. “I—we are going tomorrow. You do not know yet? It Is sudden.” "Going—tomorrow!” she echoes faintly. "You, also?” “Jeanne and I.” he s r <vs. She turns away to hide the swift, triumphal smile which will wreathe her lips. ‘So soon and so suddenly! Oh, Vane!” “What is the matter?” he says. “Willis—” but Willis is too well trained a servant to wait for dismis sal ; he has gone, for she stands witJo drooping head and loosely-clasped hands. “Nothing," she murmurs. "It 1 be cause I am taken by surprise, I sup pose. And you are going? And when shall I see you again—when? Alas! never, perhaps. Vane?” "Never,” he says, absently. Then he crosses to her, and puts toe lamp on a pedestal. “Why, Lucelle,” he says, gently—sorrow makes men gen tle —“what Is this? Are you unhappy?" “Unhappy! Can you ask me? Are you happy?” “I—no, Heaven knows!” he says, bitterly. “And yet you ask me, Vane! Do you think that I have no heart?” “1 hope you have not,” he says, "or be sure you will suffer some day—“ “Am I not suffering now, do you think? Oh. Vane —Vane! if you knew —if you could read my heart, and see how it has beaten for you and with yours all these long weeks, would you learn to think of me a lit tie as you used? T/iok sit me. Vane! Am I flesh and blood, or stone? Do you think 1 have forgotten, or that I can stand by and smile while your heart is breaking?” Vane does look at her; her eyes are limpid, her lips half-apart, her face pale with passion. He looks at her. and turns away. Noiselessly she is at his side, with her warm hand on his arm. “Vane, don't turn from me. I could have hidden it from you. and let you think I had forgotten, if you had been happy. I could—l did, but not now! Why should I? While you were happy you belonged to another; but now, to whom do you belong but to the woman whose heart beats in uni son with yours—whose whole life is here at vour feet?” And she sinks slowly beside him, her white hands wound around his arm. Trembling in every limb, Vane looks down at her. “For Heaven’s sake, arise. Lucelle!" he bjjeathes, hoarsely. “Don't, don’t! Think—remember. My poor girl, what Is thlo? Remember!” I do, too well!" she breathes. “Tt Is for you now to remember; then will it be my task to teach you to forget all. saving the past which we will hold together. For—Vane, be strong—l—who cannot see you un happy without suffering with you—f have to wound and torture you—" He starts and stares at her. “What is it? Lucelle, speak! Is—is it—Jeanre?” “Hu'h!” e'nc says. “Do not breathe hcix name! it is not tit to pass vour lip? again!” With a low. Inarticulate cry, he withdraws his arm from her grasp. “Jeanne—where is she?" Silent, she looks at him. Maddened by that silence, he springs past her. hut she catches Rim. “I/lose me.” he says, between his teeth. “Where is Jeanne? Arise! get out of my sight, you—you serpent! Teh me where she is, or—” And he grasps her arm with a hgnd of steel. White and writhing—serpent-like— she stands erect. “Where Is she?” she pants, with her lover—fool! Would you follow' them?" White and stunned, his. hand drops from her arm. "Are you made?" he exclaims, pain fully. “No! i was a moment ago! For 1 loved you-: now—l pity You wish to know- where they are?** I will tell you. They are at a low roadside Inn, at Durbach. Now follow them, to find that you are too late” With a hoarse cry he staggers back against the wall, eyeing her as Ifsne were indeed some loathsome repthe Then in an instant he recovers him self. T'prlght as a dart, heope-isthe door and points to it sternly. “Vane!" she cries, extending her hands. “Have pity! I—l love you!' A shudder convulses him for a mo ment: then he raises his hard, and points to the door again. "Go!" he says, hoarsely; "and Heaven grant 1 may never see you again!” That he may not do so he turns aside; when he looks again she has gone. With a low cry he covers his face with his hands, and stands motion less for a minute; then ho takes his traveling cloak from the chair where I Willis has put it. and turns to leave the room. As he does so his eye rests on the light leathern case con taining the rapiers, and. with a sud den baleful light flashing for a mo ment in his eyes, he takes the case and puts it under his cloak. CHAPTER XU. Verona ts seated at the table with out a cloud of suspicion or knxiety on her face, and H.:’s heart throbs with renewed tenderness as she looks up with a trustful smile. If she could only know the result of his in terview with the good father! Cer tainly that Interview was enough to spoil the appetite of any runav-sv lover, hut Hal Is young, rno 6© is, moreover. Hal; be has ridden tar, ♦ motion Is exhausting, and the table, with it* white cloth, is spread so temptingly that he draws a long breath as if to throw off his doubts and fears, and makes the best of ihe situation. “Now. look here,” he says, with much solemnity, "you must make a good dinner.” “But if I don't feel hungry.” says Verona, with a little laugh. “But you must. After such a ride, not to feel hungry would be wievsed 1 am ravenous, and what a capital dinner it iff' And. chattering cheer fully. he irsists upon her taking a portion of this, and a little of that. aDd just a morsel of the other. And It was good to see this high-born young lady—this prince**—enjoying her dinner in a wayside Inn. good to see ifie confiding love and admira tion which shoot from under her eye lids at the stalwart Hal, wno at tacks the well-cooked dishes In his usual resolute style. And. presently, very soon, indeed, she lays down 'her knife and fork and gives herself up to watching him, making, as she leans her perfectly shaped head upon her white hand, a piciur? which would fill Millais, or any other of our great artists, with delight. Then, with his strong, protecting rrmaround her, the go bo the window. The evening star has already ap peared, and others are following in batches; the scent of the autumn flowers is wafted toward them, and all Is still. A profound peace falls upon Verona, and, as she looks up at the handsome face and dark eyes bent passionately upon her, her own fill with tears of happiness. “Why do you not smoke?” she says. "Do!" “No!” says Hal, stoutly. “But, yes,” she insists; “I wish you Jam and Laura “Oh Laura!” “Oh Jean!” The two sLters threw their arms about each other and half-laughing, half-crying, swung around and around in the little sitting-room till the cat fled from itscushioned chair and the canary by the window outdid itself in song. "Let me read it with my own eyes," demanded Jean, reaching for the letter fluttering in iaiura's hands. "Some thing over 40 000! Think of it Good old uncle we never sgw! to not will It to some favciite clerk or housekeeper, to let it fall as private instead of pub lic charity!” “Now if father and mother were but here! Dear old Dad! He should nev er have eaten another meal out of a dinner pail, but should have time to read and travel,” and Laura’s gentle brown eyes overflowed. The sisters had been motherless since long braid and pinafore days hut the patient, grimy-handed iron ivorkef, their father, had died but the year before. “Have you decided what you want most to do?" asked Jean, across the breakfast, table next morning. "You tell first,” and Laura smiled fondly at the bright lace opposite. " Then 1 shall tell for you first. You shall leave that old office forever. Next winter you can go to Boston and study something on the culture you've always sighed for. And 1? Oh never another hour’s school teaching when th s term is finished because l am not the limber of which good schoolmarms are made. I shall go out into the green country and buy myself a farm with red barns and a brook and duck pond, and 1 shall have pigs and chicken.; and geese and turkeys and wool.y lambs and two horses of my own to drive." “Oil Jean, you’ll lose all your money. You don'tknow the first thing about running a farm, and men will sell you spavined cows and unruly horses. And you don't know a Toulouse duck or a Berkshire ram from plain mongrels. Remember how father lost ail his sav ings in a farming venture. Your hired men will strike just as the timothy is Jose scales on your Southdowns and your butter won't come because your cows have eaten garget. Come to Boston with me and study landscape gardening.” But Jean shook her pretty head and said. I have a plan." Producing an advertising page she read: Bellayre Farm. -Limited number of boarders taken. Shade and fruit trees, fresh vegetables, cream and butler. Elevation, pure air, attractive view. Aildress Wm. Ayre. Yapham, Vt. "But, child, that paper is a year old!" "The very reason I selected it," and •lean nodded sagely. "Where they take boarders there Is work. 1 shall write that I am young and willing and will work for $3 a week.” “As kilohen help! Why. child, you "But I want to learn kitchen ways will have to eat in the kitchen and the hired man will make love to you! I’ll never let you go.” .nd about the duties of hired men. ! shall pretend to be rather stupid and Mr. and Mrs. Ayre will teach me and maybe let me feed the poetry. I’eo pie always love to enlighten ignor ance.” La, ra protested ‘n vain, and as Mrs. Ayre promptly accepted Jean's offer, she at length yielded to Jean's merry anticipations and joined with her .n regarding the summer’s experiment as a vacation frolic. But don't on any account let your love of fun reach your treatment ot the rued man." was Laura's parting admonition, and Jean, sober faced at the separation, promised faithfully. Yet her first letter began;— As you feared It was John Ofallwork met me at the station and he seemed to approve of my clean gingham and sailor hat But ease your mind, for Mrs Ayre was there, too. and I like her And the farm! It has every thing and all so trim and sleek and well cared for. Big barns, red cows, white ducks and a pet lamb at the to! Do yon know that 1 love—yes, love—to see you smoking that little pipe? It reminds me of you as you came down the valley, staring at the stream, little thinking that I was so near your feet It was the scent of the tobacco that made me look up; yes. you shall smoke.” Hal gets his pipe a nd lights it, and it is well that he does so, for he needs that great composer to keep him calm under her next words. “Hal.” she murmurs, and drr.ws a j little closer to him, “when—when shall we leave this place?” Hal's face pales. “When? Tomorrow, darling,” he says. , "To-morrow!” she says, softly ("And where shall we go? Tell me— 1 1 do not know anything; I have not | asked—but tell m<* when —when we shall ne married?” Simply, '. jocently, with childish faith, she puts her question, neither blushing nor hiding her face, but looking up at him with devout faith and trust shining In her beautiful ] eyes. Hal trembles, and the hand that holds his pipe quivers. He looks at the stars, growing brighter In the In creasing darkness, and longs—longs with a burning desire for the sound of a hoi ®e’s hoofs. “We leave tomorrow, darling,” he says, gently. “Verona, suppose 1 w ire to say that we must go to Eng la id before we are married?” She looks up at him wonderingly. “To England?” “Yes; I didn’t say that It must be so. dearest; but I say suppose—you would come?” Her head drops. "Yes,” she murmurs, “I should come.” He presses her closer to him. He cannot keep the truth from her any longer; such love as this cannot en dure deception. back door. Before the house is a long line of maples and beyond them a great meadow commanding miles of luautiful river valley and far blue bills. When I told Mrs. Ayre that my name wag just Jean she asked me if 1 were Scotch Of course there could not be the least harm in mv looking blank apd saying I didn’t know, and it was too funny to see that she immedi ately set me down as below the cattle on the place which are all pedigreed, or blue ribboned, or something highly respectable. Don’t worry about John Ofallwork. He has not looked at me since he took my trunk check at the station. Her next letter was less cheerfully enthusiastic:— Up at 5:30 and by night 1 would not own a farm for a mitions dollars, they make one work so. But next morning when I see the dew diamonds on the grass blades, the bees in the morning glories and the mLt rolling off up the valley th<-n there's nothing so beauti ful as a farm anl I must own one. Mrs. Ayre is kind, but such a worker. Dea Ayre, a strict, silent man, but they try and teach me things, pitying my stupidity. My little joke really makes it easier to keep nty spirits up, but 1 may as well confess ihat I've been mournfully homesick. How John Ofalwork knew that I was so tired and dreary is a mystery. But h* did, for one morning I found a bunch of lovely wild ijoses on my bread board and 1 knew that they grew by the pasture bars. He also began being on hand to pump the water and to lift the milk cans out of the tank and I have not been so tired since. But I am very discreet and anyhow he is so shy that a straight glance at a girl might cause him to swoon. No letters after tills told of tired muscles and hard work, but all was a lively record of her growing knowl edge of stock raising, poultry fe* ding and dairy management. She was growing so stout and strong, Mrs. Ayre trusted her with all the butter making. John Overfall found innum erable ways of helping, which no one notici and. Then came a letter which Laura read with solicitous misgivings: Mrs Ayre has a guest named Elsa Ross, a vivacious little flirt, all style and piguancy. She has all sorts ctf da nty things to wear, and sits next John at. table, who has been made to understand that he is to look after her needs. Probably you have already gues. ed that John Overfall is the Ayres’ son and darling. Yea, truly the very joy of their hearts, though they expect him to work early and late with never a taste of recreation. The dea con. who has a rheumatic leg, drives to post-office, mill, market, town meetings and auctions. John mows, reaps, feeds, harnesses, paints, rakes and prunes. When I noticed he laughed and said he was good for it and it was good for him. Being a son always ready to do what is expected of him. he picks up Elsa's handkerchiefs, takes her down for the evening mail, helps her over the brook, moves her hammock about, and even tries to learn lawn tennis to please her. Do yon want to know how Mrs. Ayre happens to ask her brother's ward to visit her at. this busy season? John brought a little wounded bird one day and laid it in my hand, and while I stood patting the -oor thing he remained near, silent, as Is his wont. We were under the grape vine at the back door, and suddenly I hap pened to look up and—well, Laura, you have had your experience, so you know how a girl feels when she sees a man.s whole soul shinning in his eyes as he looks down at her. 1 don’t knw- how long we stood there, I trembling a little with surprise of finding such possibili ties in ordinary human beings. But suddenly' Mrs. Ayrc’s voice called sharply from the back door. “John, 1 want a pail of water immediately," .She was plainly very angry, but John did not move. “Yes, mother,” he said quietly, and then waited to tell me that he would get a covered basket for the wounded bird. He eren loi tered to smooth its feathers with one of bis big finger y as it lay In bands. Mrs Ay re wrote her invitation to Elsa Ross that evening. She la a woman who would know exactly what to do if she found the house on fire, and I suppose that Bellayre homestead in flames would not wring her heart much more cruelly than w-hat she saw that afternoon under her peaceful grape arbor. The main part of Jean’s next letter was all about a barn dance, which Elsa had made a shining success, and Laura took what she could out ot some replies to questions she had asked; — No I do not repent me of my masquerade. To confess It would be to rob the good Mrs Ayre of her sum mer’s satisfaction over having made a fine poultry and dairy maid out of a poor girl taken out of a foundry slag heap. Yes, she doubtless would feel more reconciled to John’s infatuation if she knew I had twenty thousand in my own right, but am I the girl to buy anyone’s favor with money? Elsa has a little property, enough to build for herself and John a pleasant house in the b’g meadow across the street. Oh, as to looks, John is six foot, sun burned and homely, but he has the kindest brown eyes, and gentle ways with catcle and dumb creatures, that belong to strong and quiet people. Yes. tlie boarders seem to think that Elsa’s heart is in the flirtation this time, but of course nobody knows. After that Laura went about with a prayer in her heart that her “little Jean might not miss any good life was offering her.” Letters told little, but one day important news went flying from the litle foundry village to BeH avre farm, and Jean was the one to read with tears and anxiety. A neighbor wrote: "Laura says we are not on any account to let you know, but I know' how I should feei in your place. It is only a broken bone, and she will be as good as new in a month or two. She had a sur geon out from the city, and now that young doctor that came here last spring seems to think he can’t look after her to closely. She has also the best nurse money can hire, and says you are to be left where you are, for she doesn't need you. There w>as a collision and she was thrown against a oridge railing.” An Hour after reading this Jean was on an express train speeding south, and at sundown she was pressing her tearful face into the pillows beside Laura’s and scolding, peting and pro testing all in one breath. Tt will pro bably spoil everything, everything,” lamented Laura when they were alone together. "You had to leave that Elsa in possession of t de field and pro pinquity is so much to a man.” T wanted to come away. I wanted to see if propinquity, as you call it, was the stuff my midsummer dream was made of,” and she laugh gavly, protesting that it was time she came away as nearly all the boarders were gone. "But Mrs Ayre offered to w rite me now and then and said she might send for me to help her out if there was a wedding in the family before long.” Jean’s merriment over this sounded geniune, but Laura still sighed that bones would break, and break at the wrong moment, too. Jean trundled her sewing-machine in beside Laura's bed next day, ex plaining that she was used now being always busy. "And if we go to Bos ton for the w inter we shall need some pretty clothes, so I may as well set about making them,” she added. You may groan as loud as v ou can w-hen your pain grips hard,” she pre sently remarked jocosely, ‘ but if you do not stop trying to read my soul through my face 1 shall move over So the window there and turn my back,” and after that Laura hid her anxieties and tried no tto see how eajerly Jean set forth each day for the mail or with what brave affecta tions of cheerfulness she came smiling back with nothing of especial interest among the. papers and magazines and Utters in her hands. Slowly the bone knit together amt as slowly ami surely the elastic Joy ousness In Jean's nature turmd to silent wistfulness when she was alone, while fitful gales of nonsense and drollery in Laura’s room told of the brave stand she was making. “Soon I shall be able to get pen and paper for myself and even to walk to the post-office and mail a letter any where I please,” Laura began telling herself, and then she would knit her brows and ask herself what she could wiite to a man who might already be promised in marriage to Elisa Ross. The day they let her bear her weight upon the mended limb she sent Jean off the long walks the girl had come to love. "Go as far as the upper falls if you want to, and 1 will mend the fires and buy the crullers and write some neglected letters,” she had urged and now Jean had been gone nearly an hour and probably that was "the cruller man” at the door. She anticipated the old man's sur prise. but the astonishment was all her own. 'Six foot, sunburned, homely and diffident, but with "he kindest brown eyes,” she was repeating to herself as she showed the stranger in and noted his quick and appreciative glance about their little sitting-room, with U books and ferns and choice photo graphs, its polished old mahogany ta bl? and evidences of refined living. “It is Mr Ayre. I am sure,” she ven tured. “When did you leave Bellayre farm to reach here by so early a train? But perhaps you are on >uuj way home frem New York or some where.” John Ayre shook his head. "I came from home yesterday. I wanted to look about among your foundries a little this morning. And yon think Miss Jean may be in within a half hour or so?” r- Laura found the occupation of the nest half very much to her liking. She knew enough of life at Bcllfyre farm to give her topics for conver sation. and as they talked her liking for John kept obtruding itself upon her consciousness. He tn turn attracted by subtle re semblances of speech or gesture seemed gradually to accept her as a second and inferior sort of Jean, and came to speak more and more freely till, as she suddenly brought the talk ba-k to what he had thought of the foundries in their village. he gave the startling reply that he had liked them sufficiently to spend the morning ask ing at one after another to be taken on as a foundry hand. “I begin to-morrow at the Old West Branch, . think they call it. Your father worked there a good many years, did he not? But I start in trudiing a wheelbarrow,” and John s face wore a half-smile as he added: “It is as near the bottom as one can get, I suppose, but it will answer for a start.” “You have left Bellayre farm!” gasped Laura. John noddc>d. ”1 did not notice that I was teiHng that too.” He turned his eyes to gaze out of the window but went on quietly; "There are things it is not easy to get out of a mans mind. lam not as good at forgetting as 1 ought to be, perhaps. Under his steady tone Laura fancied that she caught the ring of the day before’s pain. “But your parents!” che faltered. “They won’t allow—” “They said I might come away.” There surly was an echo of pain m his voice, but he explained with lini ent impartiallity: “There is apt to come a time when a man can’t think just as his parents do. And when it comes his best course is to strike out for himself and prove his position. Don’t you think so?” What Laura thought was that she longed to rush over and seize John's hand, to welcome him as a brother, to make him see her mental picture or the pleasant new house in the big front meadow- and all the long years of happiness she saw shining before him. But by an effort of w'ill and common sense she murmured a re stra’ned assent and hid her emotion by going to look for the return of Jean. Yes, there she came slowly down, the road garlanded and like a sweet impersonation of gorgeous October, wjth her burden of flaming oak and ru.set beech boughs and swaying ropes of feathpry clematis. "She must have him all to herself,” was the sister’s thought as she ex cused herself, pretending that she heard the cruller man at the back door.. ‘‘Probably she will be weeks about letting hir- know all I wanted to tell him ; n five minutes,” laughed Laura to herself, stooping to the gray cat who had followed her to the back porch. “Come up here, puss. I've some thing to tell you. Listen,” and she hugged the soft furyarmful close whispering, “There’s likely to be a wedding in the family at Bellayre farm before long, and our Jeanie will probably go up to help Mrs Ayre through with it. You know she asked her to.’’ A CARD OF THANKS. Ft. .Madison, lowa. Gem.—l wish to tbauk all who so kindly donated to my benefit on the different lists that were in the hands of different solicit ors trying to help purchase a suit ot clothes for me. At this writing I wish to say that all the papers that were out for soliciting purpose have been called in. There was a prize offered for the lady or gentleman who so licited the largest amount of money on their paper. The competitors in the field were as follows: Mr. William Redd. $1.25; Mr. Carry Andeison, paper not in; Mrs. Laura Foster $3-30; Mrs. Mollie Henderson, $1.40: Mr. W. R. Hail, $15.80 Mr. W. R. Hall, the winner of the gent's prize, will be preseated with a beautiful hand-paintedi shaving mug. The win- Ki, of the ladles’ prize being Mrs. Mollie Henderson, she will receive a beautiful hand-painted china tea cup with beautiful gold-gilted letters name Sister. I shall ever remeber with kindest regards all those who so kindly contributed to my aid in this particularly and my prayers shall at aiJ times be offered in retention for you. I am your grateful Rev. John Evans, Pastor of Second Baptist Church. Newspapers and Morals. Philadelphia Inquirer.—lt was sug gested in Pittsburg some time ago that church people stop reading news papers during Lent. Immediately there arose a hue and cry whose echo was carried all over the country. The suggestion fell flat because even the most prominent clergymen ridi culed the idea and laughed at it as bizarre and fantastic. There was something decidedly il logical about it, too. The men who proposed the denial evidently over looked the fact that if a newspaper is not fit to read during Lent it is not fit to read any other time. That w-ith the big majority of pa pers such is not the ease was ar gued by Ret. Dr. Randall of New York in an address before the Bap tist Ministers' Association in this city. The doctor went even further and upheld the daily newspapers as an aid to morality in the great cities. There is an organization known as the Order of the Runnymede. It is composed of the descendants of the Barons of Kngland who were Instru mental in compelling King John to sign the Magna Cha: v .a, or Great Char ter. at Runnymede, five miles from Windsor Castle, in June 1215. A good wav to fool the people, usd get them to follow your banner, is to promise them a lot of things they are not entitled to. Our faults are sit* our own— and it Isn’t necessary to copyright them.