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y r 'h'^ifej-iffjiV-^jS "It'? v ;(j -■■ - ; hm; . wp., ■ -eVt<- n, '" "~^~—'" :■ - *""' *" »*«“ |r*'J *»».3'*•?*,»*»•. • ■• -rtnt‘tt.,r-* -tv-*:-. ~r I’RICE-*1.E0 I’ER YEAR IN ADVANCE THE CONSTITUTION—THE BASIS OP ODE LAWS AND LIBERTIES. SINGLE COPT FIVE CENTS VOLUME XVI ' WOODBURY, N. J., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER S, 1893. • =~= NUMBERTs Fine Cabinet Photographs $2 PER ZDOZHEJST By presenting this advertisement. REOFLAR PRICK-93.M. DON’T FORrtFT _ That You can find at Starr's the best assortment of MEN’S and BOY’S wear. GLOVES of all prices. SHIRTS and DRAWERS of all prices. SHIRTS, White and Colored of all kinds, COLLARS and CUFFS of the best quality. STOCKINGS at verv low prices. BED BLANKETS of all colors. HORSE BLANKETS of all weights. And to Cap All at the Very LOWEST PRICES. G. "W_ STARR Greens Block. 198 Broad street,.Woodbury, N. J. THEY SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES. -H. KAYSER—— ONE PRICE HATTER, 10 SOUTH SECOND ST. (twoMarkctBct'ow) PHTLA. J\J0 HORE COLD FINGERS O’Connor’s Patent Harness Fastener EASILY ADJUSTED, WON’T BREAK, CHEAPER than Leather at i cent a pair. Agents—Good live hustlers, wanted in Salem, Cumberland and Cape May Counties. Address WOODBURY MANFG. CO. - WOODBURY, N. J. C. SELDEN JOHNSON Justice of the Peace, Real Estate, Insurance and Collection Agency, No. 6 Cooper St., Woodbury, N. J. Telephone No. 36. Notary Public Books and Accounts Settled. Money to Loan on First Mortgages Legal Papers carefully prepared in type-written form. Sales made or clerked On Reasonable Terms. Real estate for sale or to Rent in Various Localities. RENTS AND CLAIMS COLLECTED, And prompt returns of same duly made. Insurance Effected in First-Class Companies. H.G.GREEN.Berkley.N.J. Begs to call the attention of the public that in connection with the COAL AND LUMBER BUSINESS -lie has opened up a Saw, Planing and Feed Mill. All kinds of Feed ground on Tuesday’s and Friday’s. A large stock of rough and manufactured Lumber constantly on band for building and repairing purposes PORE LEHIGH GOAL. Call and Examine my Stock P. O Address Clarksboro. One Hundred Presents WILL BE GIVEN TO II H THE FIRST ONE HUNDRED # II PERSONS WHO GUESS IN OUR NEW CONTEST JUST OPENED. Send for blank and instructions. GLOBE ASSOCIATION, - SEWELL, H. J. 3D. IRa ZHZ-ADSTTIEiOIR/IET -DOES THE Best Cemetery Work ! Yards on Cooper Street, "W'oodbnry, 1ST J. ^©“Examine His Work and Get His Prices. LAUB'S BOOT AND SHOE HOUSE The Spring opening at LAUB'S BOOT AND SHOE HOUSE is the largest ever before held When you enter Laub’s Shoe House you think you step in a large city store. Everything in that line is kep' there. An immense stock to select from—over $12,000 worth of the latest styles. A new stock every Spring. The prices are lower and lower every year. Men’s fine Dress Shoes from $1.25 up to $5.00. Any price that suits your pocket book. I have Boy’s Shoes from $1 up. 19 styles of Men s. Boy's and Youth’s. Remember we keep no shoddy goods. All solid leather and warranted. Our Ladies’, Misses’ and Children’s line is always com plete, 18 different styles, plain or tip, square or opera toe, at any price from $1.25 uo to fine ladies hand sewed $4.00 Shoe. All widths from B. to EE All our fine shoes are manufactured expressly for us. WE KEEP NO AUCTION GOODS. If you can’t get fitted in a regular shoe, you can, in our Custom Department, for only 50c extra, have your foot fitted and shoe made to order. We make from 12 to 15 pairs per week to order. Our working Shoeefor Men and Boys are the best and cheapest in the country. Our Men’s heavy oi grained Bluchers at $1.25 reduced from $1.50. Our two-buckle Plow Shoe is the best in the mar ket, reduced from $1.50 to $1.25. Our Boys’ Working Shoe at $1.00 beats all. Our Men’s light working boot at $2 00, soft and durable. Guaranteed to give satis faction. A look at our windows will show the latest styles in foot wear and the low prices to which our goods are marked. CUSTOM WORK AND REPAIRING a SPECIALTY. We sell 15 per cent below city prices. 188 SOUTH BROAD STREET, - WOODBURY, N. J. Caterer and Restauranter A. W. CLAPHAM, 255 S. Broad Street, Woodbury, N. J. WEDDINGS AND SOCIAL GATHER INGS Catered for and supplied with delicacies of all kinds. My long experience enables me to guarantee efficient service In this line. -MEALS AT ALL HOURS At my restaurant. A trial respectfully solicited Jan. 19, 1893.-1 . W. A. CLAPHAM WOODBURY PRIVATE SCHOOL, RE-OPENS SEPTEMBER 5tL For Circulars address CURTIS J. LEWIS, WOODBURY, N. J. June 29, ’93—4m. IFOIR, S-A^LIE! A house and lot on Dare street, Woodbury, N. j J., in fust class order, newly painted and paper ed. Also house and lot on Lincoln Sl, nearly new. These are both very desirable properties, and will be sold at a bargain. A number of other desirable properties for sale -(o)-(o) RENTS, INTEREST, Etc., Collected. Real Estate Sold, Rented or Exchanged. Fire insurance effected in the most advantageous Companies by William M. Carter, SURVEYOR AND CONVEYANCER, 127 S. Broad fix., WOODBURY. N. J American... ...Watches! R. Gr. PORTER, 132 Broad St., Opp. Court House. Woodbury, N. J. DR. A. GROFF’S CELEBRATED XXX Pennsylvania - dutch HORSE, CATTLE and Poultry Powder. Thousands who have used it indorse it as the best in the market. For HEAVES it has no equal. By the use of this Powder nog Cholera has been kept away. An excellent blood puri fier. Sold by grocers and druggists. WM. S. CATTELL CO. Sole owners and Manufacturers WOODBURY, - NEW JERSEY. Etchings, Pastels, Steel Engravings, Water Colors, Paintnigs, Etc., Etc. I Easels, Picture Frames, Parlor Mirrors IN ALL THE Modern and Antique Styles. GEO. C. NEWMAN. ADOLPH NEWMAN. D. W. Conway Undertaker & Embalmer No. 297 S. Broad Street, WOODBURY, N. J. PROMPT ATTENDANCE AT ALL HOURS As I am going to establish here in Woodbury, I want to say that I am prepared to furnish all kinds of Caskets and Coffins at short notice. Also to do all kinds of repairing and cabinet work in all its branches. Trusting that 1 may prove a true and faithful servant to the public, I am respectfully, 1). W. CONWAY. B. P. SWEETEN. F. B. SWEETEN. B. F. SWEETEN &. SON, BRIDGE BUILDERS And General Contractors. Steam Pile Driving, Culverting Grading and Paving. Is. 6 and 8 North Second Street CAMDEN, N J. Engines and Pumps to Eire. ^ J. RICE, Practical Steam & Gas Fitter, WOODBURY, N. J. (Next door to Newton’s Hotel. FIRST-CLASS PLUMBING A SPECIALTY House-Draining, -and Ventilation. ALL WORK GUARANTEED. June 17 ’87 pSTABLINHED IN 1857. Newell & Ridgway, (.Successors to Newell & Bro.) importeis of WINES AND LIQUORS AND DEALERS IN FINE OLD WHISKIE8, Stores No. II and 13 N. Front St., PHILADELPHIA. A choice selection for family and medicinal use. PURITY GUARANTEED. jpOR REST. For information in regard to renting the Store Property at 196 South Broad Street, inquire of W. A. WILSON & CO., July 6, ’93-tf. Woodbury. N. J. ^OTICJE OF NETTLEMEKT. Notice is hereby given that the account of Maurice Hayes, surviving Executor of the estate of Morty Hayes, deceased, will be audited by the Surrogate and reported for settlement to the Orphans’ Court of the County of Gloucester, on Friday, November 24th, 1893. MAURICE HAYES, ^ A Surviving Executor. Dated Surrogate’s Office, 8ept. 26th, 1893. mmwiuwMMj. a-nns&v jmesaaotauKr/u Mr. David M. Jordan of Edmeston, N. Y. Colorless, Emaciated, Helpless A Complete Cure by HOOD’S SARSAPARILLA. This is from Mr. D. M. Jordan, a re tired farmer, and one of the most re spected citizens of Otsego Co., N. Y. “ Fourteen years ago I liad an attack of tha gravel, and have since been troubled with my Liver and Kidneys gra^ially growing worse. Three years ago I got down so low that I could scarcely walk. I looked more like a corpse than a living being. I had no appetite aud for five weeks 1 ate nothing but gruel. I was badly emaciated and had no more color than a marble statue. Hood’s Sarsaparilla was recommended and I thought I would try it. Before I had finished the first bottle I noticed that I felt better, suf fered less, the iuflammatioa of the blad der had subsided, the color began to return to my fate, and 1 began to feel hungry. After I had taken three bottles I could eat anything without hurting me. Why, I got so hungry that 1 had to eat 5 times a day. I have now fully recovered, thanks to Hood’s Sarsaparilla I feel well and am well. All who know me marvel to see me so well.” D. M. Jordan. HOOD’S PlLLS are the best after-dinner Pills, assist digestion, cure headaelie aud biliousness. Professional and Business Cards c. ( ATT*: 1.1. Surveyor, Conveyancer REAL ESTATE and Insurance Agent P. O. Box 6 WENONAH, Oct 12.1893.ly N. J. JJR. STEINBOCK, DENTIST. 1630 N. 12th Street, Philadelphia, Pa. Painless extracting teeth with nitrous oxide gas, 50 cents. Artificial teeth and gold fillings a specialty. All work guaranteed. Red cable car, foot of Market St., takes you to the door. June 29,1893—lyr. JQR. THOMAS LEE, Physician and Surgeon, Corner Delaware and Harrison Sts., Woodbury ( 8 to 10 A. if. OFFICE HOURS-J 2 to 4 p.m. (and evenings. Special treatment of Stomach and Nervous diseases. Feb. 9,1893—tf. ^ H. RICHARDS. Attorney-at-Law, OFFICE-106 Market Street, Camden, - - New Jersey. Residence, Bridgeport, N. J, 6-92-y ^yiLMER B. HAINES. Contractor and Builder. (vlassborO' IV- J Plans and Estimates furnished on application, nov. 19, ’91-ly JUSTIN H. SWACKHAMFR, Counsellor-at-Law, And Blaster In Cbaneery. Green’s New Building, No. 6 Cooper Street, Woodbury, New Jersey. June 2, ’87 J^R. €. T. BENNETT, Dentist, Woodbury, N. J. OFFICE on Broad St. opposite the Court House, second floor. Office hours from 8 to 12 A. M. anil 1 to 5 P. M. every week day except Tuesdays. Residence on Newton Ave. first door on the right from Broad St. jg FRANK 8ICKLEK, Auctioneer, TURNERVILLE. NEW JERSEY. JP F. REYNOLDS, Carpenter and Builder, WOODBURY, N. J. Estimates and plans furnished. g VTttINGER, Auctioneer and Contractor. Bridges and Wharves built and repaired, by contract or day work. P. O. address, BRIDGEPORT, N. J. Jan. 23, ’90. 1\ O. Box 67. gUBD’8 NEW Livery and Peed Stables, Ncwton'N Hotel, Woodbury, N. J.— New Carriages and elegant driving horses always ready for use. A trial respectfully soli cited. July 21,’89. JOSEPH F. SITLEY'S Real Estate Agency, WBSTVH.LE AND NEWBOLD. Properties cared for, Rents Collected, Insurance Placed, prompt returns made. Feb. 23, ’93-ly PHILADELPHIA IMMIGRANT Employment Bureau. Notice to Farnien. All kinds of help, male or female always on hand, direct from the steamers, English, Irish, Scandanavians. Germans, Poles and Hungarians. Apply at the office of KNOLL & 8EIVERTT, 943 SOUTH 2nd St. Philadelphia. 4-27 93-ly. -ESTABLISHED 18.55_ Charles Fichtel & Son, W JEWELERS Nr. 516 S. Second St., Philadelphia. Dealers in Watches, Clocks, Jewelry, Silver and Plated ware. Special attention paid to repairing, and ALL WORM GUARANTEED. QHA». E. TON STECIE, Carpenter and Builder, WOODBURY, N. J. Plans and specifications furnished. Mover of buildings. Jack screws to hire. Buildings hois ted and raised. May 18, fflMm JOHN H. CARPENTER, Plain and Decorative Paper Hanger. Calls attention of all who need work In his line that he will promptly attend to all orders by mail or otherwise, and guarantee satisfaction. WINDOW SHADES of all kinds on hand and all kinds of Wall Decoration attended to prompt ly. Trial order respectfully solicited. POPULAR PRICES. Estimates given. P. O. Box 74. Residence, 23 Oak Street, North Woodbury. JOHN H. LUPTON, -FLORIST GROVER OF PLANTS & CUT FLOWERS Woodbury Greenhouse, WOODBURY. (4-17,’90-y) NEW JERSEY Look at This SHEPP’S WORLD’S FAIR Photographed. THE FINEST VIEWS of the “ W bite City’ ’ ever published. Bound in a hand some and serviceable volume. ALFRED S. MARSHALL, BOARD STREET PHARMACY GREEN’S BLOCK. CHAPTER X. A year went by unmarked for Virginia by a single incident out of tho common, gray as the wastes of a sea uuruffled by a storm, unmarked by the approach of a saiL Another year came, and when the opu lent sunlight of early summer was del uging with its gold the dusty Btreets a coupe stopped one day at the door of the house in Chelsea square, and a man, a stranger, asked for Virginia Kent. Crossing the threshold of her home, he had entered her life. Looking into her eyes, full of nnforgotten days, something of his lost youth had awakened in his heart that could only die with death. This man was Richard Monklow. Vir ginia had often heard her father speak of him, especially of his meeting with him in the auction room the day he had pur chased “The Masker.” The first glance at him gave an im pression that forever remained. He had followed the sea and followed it as a commander. His straight, powerful shoulders had a fearless poise. His glance was level, soft; his face, its first youth faded, brown as sere grass, under the shorn, glittering frost of his hair. His hu manity was deep, strong, farreaching, as one could see who looked into his eyes, and his smile had a warm, bright sympathy. There were times when he looked startlingly youthful with his white hair. There were unguarded mo ments of sadness when the chronicle of his years flared eloquently—a confession in every deepened lino. Then one knew he had lived the full life of a man in a crowded 40 years, in the sowing and har vest time, had garnered barren hopes and pain, yet without bitterness had tied tho sheaves. Ho had come to bring V lrginia to her father’s bedside. The tremors against which the old man had struggled so long had culminated after an excessive de bauch in a paralytic stroke resembling death. He had drifted to Monklow’s rooms and lay where he had fallen. As she drove away with him that day Virginia did not dream that the summer would be past ere she returned to live again at Chelsea square, but so it was. In Richard Monklow’s home, where the softness and fragrance of modern luxury were more caressing than the breath of the perfect summer mornings, she nursed her father to a semblance of health. Her lonely heart won back a little of its freshness in these surroundings. Her lips again voiced joyous laughter. Friendship that rang like gold had been generously poured into her life. Her gratitude went out with equal strength to Richard Monklow, and to his sister, a soft voiced, sympathetic woman, who made her dimly realize what her moth er’s love might have meant to her. Then she came home again, and the days settled back to their wonted placidi ty, but with this difference—that a bent and shrunken figure lay limply in a great chair, and the energy and pride in her father's still stubborn heart could only be read now in tho hollow, morose eyes flashing beneath the puckered brows. She stood beside the window one Sep tember morning, a letter crushed be tween her hot hands. A mild rain was drifting like tangled skeins through the gray air. Beyond lay the college grounds, a vista of damp greenness. She opened the crumpled sheet, smooth ing cut its creases almost tenderly. Her lips quivered like a child’s. “You know what I am going to say,” she read again. “During the summer that has been lijce no other to me, many times the words' I longed lo t-peak have trembled upon my lips, but something in your eyes always silenced me. Virginia. I can be silent no longer. I love you sol The years are dark before you, dear, but I would keep you safe. No harm, no pain, should touch you. Too old and sad, perhaps, you think me. The years have left their ashes on my hair. I am asking too much when I ask for your youth. Yes, yes, I know. But, oh! child, your eyes lured me to dream again. You woke my poor, chilled soul, and it is yours. It but responded to your uncon scious call. Turn from me, if you must, and I will put away my dream, but my soul is forever yours. You possess it, and I would not have it back. But, oh, if you would come to me, Virginia!” Howtho words awoke all the old pain! She drew her breath in hard, the lips fell over her heavy eyes, and reading Rich ard Monklow’s letter she thought of Tom. These words of searching strength, quivering with the rejuvenating breath of love, had been the lever that rolled the stone from the old grave, and she stood looking at memories she had be lieved were crucified. “My soul is forever yours. I would not have it back.” The words were in her mind. She seemed speaking them in the darkness to that other who had not listened. Was it so always? Must one speak and one not hear? One live, the other wait? ‘Won have a very interesting letter there, Virginia. You haven’t made a sound for half an hour.” And at her father’s voice, reduced now to a petulant piping that anger made shrill, she start ed guiltily and thrust it iu her pocket. • W: -. “So you’ll be a fool, will youf’ “It’s from Monklow. He's asked you to marry him. There, there, I know. When a man is robbed of almost every faculty but sight and speech he nses them to advantage. Of course you’re going to marry him. Of course you are. He is genuine. He is stanch. He has a few more years than n novelist would allow an impatient lover—what of it? He is younger than half the emasculated, juvenile dudes floating around this town. He is the most picturesquely handsome man I have ever seen and in the meri dian of his frrfngth. He is a gentleman by birth. The blood of ladies and gen tlemen for generations flows in his veins. Ah, ha! lots of girls in his own set would stay at home and chase no more the pov erty stricken dnke if they thought there was a chance of catching Richard Monk low. I have no objection to him. He is everything I admire and commend. I give my consent, Virginia.” Since his illness Virginia had grown accustomed to treating her father like a pettish child. Sho went to him, laid both her warm palms on his bald crown, and smiling looked tenderly at him. “No, daddy. 1 don't want to marry, ril stay with you yet awhile.” The sudden fury of his gaze was like the leaping of an. unlooked for flame from a dead fire. “So you’ll be a fool, will yon? You’ll say no? You’ll fling away wealth that could give me, in my last accursed days, a few of the luxuries I was accustomed to? And why? Oh, you fool I” and his blue, quivering lips seemed to spit out the words, “and why? Because you are still thinking of that fellow, that scamp, that Murray, who gave yon the go by. Don’t I know? You sentimental idiot, he had no romantic memories to hold him back! He has looked to it that his bread will be plentifully buttered. Read today’s paper. After a splurge in Eu rope, a courtship on the steamer coming home, he’s going to marry General Bau dome’s widow—a woman worth mil lions. Do you hear? Refuse to marry Monklow, and I’ll never forgive you." He was a terrible sight in this sudden spasm of rage—repression, his lifelong habit, fallen from him like a garment loosed by his palsied fingers. Virginia straightened her young figure, her arms hanging loosely at her sides and as white as “The Masker” laughing beside her. The patience and silence of the past fled away like shades, and resistance, fully armed, took their place. “Then you’ll never forgive me, for X do refuse,” she said steadily, but scarce ly louder than a breath. “What sort of life have I lived here at your very side? Will you hear, now, at last? You flung away your money while you could. Yon thought wholly of your pleasures. Yon gave mo nothing. You didn’t think. You didn’t care. And I havo worked with my hands, my brain, at anything I could find to do—yes, often while you slept. Now you have said all you could to wound me,” and there was an angry, sobbing break in the accusing voice. “I could bear even that. But you shall not take all, father—not my body, my soul. They are my own.” Everything was dark as sho went blindly from the room. Sho had a faint intention of going out in the rain—a sense of supremo and awful loneliness. The door closed upon her, and sho would have stumbled bad not strong anus caught her. She looked up and saw Richard Monklow. One glance at his face, drained of the line of life under neath the brown, the lips contracted, the kind eyes sad, and she saw he had heard all. “1 asked for tuo much. Forget my words, Virginia,” he said when he could speak. “Forget all save these—that I can only live if yon will let me serve you, see yon sometimes, be near you. I am yours. Use me as yon will.” CHAPTER Xi. Delatole was dressing to dine out. As hestruggled with a collar button ho turned his head to listen to the lazy lilt of a song coming from a room across the hall. His face wore an ill humored frown. It was very evident that the song and the singer impressed him with equal unpleasantness. “Do stop that humming, for God's sake!” he cried out at last. “It’s enough to drive one mad.” There was no reply, and a few mo ments later Tom lounged across the hall. He was very different from the waver ing, tempted roan who rushed from Vir ginia’s presence that snowy night almost two years before. His face had lost the flashing earnestness that rose from an ecstatic heart. It had taken on resolute lines and an expression of worldly sub tlety. The cheeks were slightly hol lowed, the eyes placidly heavy, cold, showing the haggard lines of dissipation. “Was I singing? I swear I didn’t know it,” he said languidly. Delatole surveyed him with a cold, un changing glance. “Still in yonr blonso and slippers. Won’t you look in upon the theater par ty at all?” “I don’t care a hang about it.” “Aren’t you afraid Mrs. Baudoino will send out a search warrant for you?” “Let her send.” “Cool for a prospective bridegroom.” “Prospective idiotl” And Tom set tled himself very comfortably on his back on a low divan. “I’ll never marry Mrs. Bandoine. As the girl in the song says, ‘Something tells me so.’ Couldn't yon, with your managerial tactics, help me out of that scrape? You know she did all the running—not L” Delatole drew on his gloves in silence. He grew white, and when he caino to the foot of the divan and let liis eyes travel slowly over Tom's supine length a rage only half controlled made his lips tremble. “In my opinion,” he said slowly, with emphasis, “you’ll bo in a fair way to need the material help of Mrs. Ban-, doine’s money very soon.” “Really? Oh, then there are times when marriago seems good unto you?” And a burning glance was flashed at him from beneath Tom’s lowered lids. “My opinion about marriage has not altered in the least. But if a man can only fail, if he can’t even support him self, the most practical thing is to find some woman silly enough to shoulder the responsibility.” “Go on. Your English grows more vigorous day by day. It’s really a lib eral education to bo allowed to hear you. Surely you haven’t finished yet. You said more than this yesterday.” “No, I haven’t finished. I want to re mind you once more that you owe me money. More than that, I want it. Tm sick of your spiritless languor. I never knew a man let himself drop as you have done. Because you go at a rapid pace is no reason why you should die mentally. I haven’t. But you can’t drink at all without drinking too much and keeping it up too long. In fact, you axe an extremist in everything There’s a genius in moderation.” “Don’t stop for breath. I am a-thirst for the rest. More—more,” said Tom without moving an eyelash. “You shall have it all. The time has come for plain talking,” and there was a savage snarl in the words. “I want my money. It seemed there was some hope of getting it from this Baudoine marriage, as I don’t believe you’d write another word.” “Don’t yon':” "No. It may be you’ve tried and can’t—it may be you don’t care. In either case I’ve been bitterly disappoint* ,ed in you. You’re the last embryo genius 111 put on a pedestal. Genius? By heav en! that’s rich. Why, you’ve fallen in to psychical ruin. You exhausted your self in ‘The World’s Way.’ ” An unwilling, dusky red started up in Tom’s hollowed cheek. It ebbed slow ly away as, opening his eyes wide, he smiled at Delatole with an expression of positive hatred. “That is one of those charmingly soothing speeches we must learn to ex uect from thoso we live with. But you are wrong. me ironoie ues uere. l unfortunately must still lie sincere and must put something of myself into ev erything I write. When one believes in and cares for so little, it is very hard. I have not yet matched your stride, you see—you who with one arm around your neighbor’s wife could write an essay on the beauty of morality.” Tho door banged, and Delatole’s foot Bteps grew fainter in the echoing pas sage. In the silence that followed Tom still lay motionless, his wide open eyes fixed upon the coiling, the small unob trusivo sounds of a quiet room flutter ing the loneliness that settled around him. ' “How I hate him!’1 and though the1 words were but a whisper their reality was intense. He thought of the past. That year in Paris—every detail of it returned to him as he toy there—that crowded, riotous, unholy year. His first taste of pleasure, his exuberant appre-1 ciation of life carrying him along with the rush of a laughing stream going down hill; the new, fevered atmosphere; tho days spinning by in a sort of moral vertigo; the crowd that called him to follow where it was brightest, that brightness lining the sheer descents of vice. And now? Now he was back in famil iar New York, bound by honor by a wo man who wearied him, inclined to rid himself of tho obligations ho had as sumed in the beginning through sheer disinclination to the trouble of resisting, following pleasure with a foreknowledge of weariness, in debt to Delatole while straining at the woruout cord tliat bound them, struggling against the maddening inactivity that palsied his faculties in the art still dear to him. A sharp, quivering breath came from his lips. Delatole had spoken truly. Some thing had withered within him, or in the degradation of his life ho had lost it forever. He had striven to write and always in vain. His ideas were no long er vivid, stirring, flowing lu ;i logical sequence, but dim, abortive—a haze of tangled threads. Heaps of closely writ ten paper, upon which tho best efforts of his brain had been expended with the feverish intensity a man feels in running a race, had been cast aside as worthless. The day was surely coming when his world would know the truth and likon him to a plant that puts forth radiant blossoms once and withers in a night. How miserably he had failed! Was there no escape from social annihila tion except by trading on the infatua tion of a woman 10 years older than hinielf? And once—once—when he had thought like one inspired, and honor was a shining reality in his life, he liad be trayed love for a chimera. But he must not remember that, and least of all to night, in the silence, when liis thoughts were like knives in his heart. He stood up, shivering, and from habit turned to tho sideboard. He half filled a goblet with brandy and laughed aloud as the decanter clinked against the glass in his hand, a laugh that subsided to a chuckle and rose again, beating upon the stillness like the wings of a caged bird. “It wouldn’t be out of order to drink a toast to my own defeat.” When ho re-entered his studio a few months later, liis eyes were flaming, though the smile—a hideous contortion —lingered on his lips. An open letter on his disordered desk faced him as he sat down. The closing lines caught his eye: I will finally withdraw “The World’s Way” from tho road in a fortnight. Now that four act society drama is what I’m waiting for. In two years I’ve iiad only two curtain raisers fromyou—rags of things that only drew at ull because your name was to them. If I can’t rely on you, I must look elsewhere. If yiftii'e not going to write nny more, for God’s sake say bo. Geohoe PiksKirr. Ho read it ami toro it to bits. f There j was a sob in his throat as liis eager hands went searching through the mass of pa pers for half sketched plots and notes of ideas not worth tho leaves they were scrawled upon. He would not even leave a scrap. All should bo destroyed. And theso crowded, dusty drawers, they, too, must be emptied, lest some day when ho had suifk into’comfortable apathy, with only a profound respect for tho well being of the body, he might open them and hear each fluttering leaf whisper how he had once dreamed a dream. He worked with an eager intensity, as if following his heart’s desire, even went on his knees and scattered the scrawled sheets right and left, then paused, ab ruptly and looked with puzzled eyes at what ho had dragged ont—a long roll of manuscript, dusty and tied with gray tape. He did not remember it, had nev er seen it before. Yet, wait. Now that it lay unfolded before him, a fully writ ten play, he did recall tho title, “Doctor Fleming.” Just before his departure for Europe, a distinguished looking man in the tra ditional shabbiness of unrecognized gen ius had called on him with this play, asking in a shy, embarrassed way that he, the splendidly prosperous yonng au thor, would read it and tell him what its merits were. His papers were never touched by his servant. It had lain for gotten in his desk for more than a year. And the man who had bronght it—where was he? Still kneeling among the mass of dusty papers, ho turned the leaves. A letter fluttered to the ground: Dear Sir—1 inclose this note, as it may not be possible to have an interview with you. The play “Dr. Fleming,” which I beg you to read a? a favor to me, lias for Its basis Incidents In my own life. Tl»e seono in Russia particu larly accurate, and I think presents a dramatic situation distinctly new. Your respectfully, Felix Dawson, No. — lied ford street. P. S.—If you can find time to look it over, you will be doing me an Inestimable favor. 1 beg that you will be c-arfe^ul of it, as I have no copy, and even though commercially worth less it is very dear to mo. “Very dear to you,” Tom said slowly. “I know just how yon felt, Mr. Felix Dawson, when yon wrote those words, ‘Very dear to yon.’ You shall have your treasure back.” -■‘If il were mine!” He turned the first page wun a puy ifig, half languid interest, but only the first. After that ho knelt amid the de struction of his own work, paying trib ute with enraptured senses to the genius of another man. The manuscript flut tered to the floor when the last climax was reached—a climax that made every nerve vibrate and awoke his senses like a trumpet call—and with strained, hot hands he crasced the chair.. He looked arouuu tue auent room amt down at the bundle •£ half furled papers. Oh, that imagined life pictured there through laughter and sighing, like gems through dust and tears! It was more precious than a magician’s wand. “If it were mine—if it were mine!” he said aloud, and a woman’s laugh drifted np from the street, as if she had heard that cry and inockedhim. He sprang Up and turned tne Key m the door. Then he stood listening. The action was guilty, almost before the thought: “No one will know if I make it mine." It was foolish to tremble bo, of course. The cold drops on his forehead were foolish, too, and his fast beating heart. “No one will know,” he said again, and there was a note of defiant joy in the breathless cry as he picked up the play. A sound attracted his attention. It was the faraway throbbing of ■». street band; the air, a German battle march. It was long since he had heard its heavy, rolling sweetness, with tliat flowing nn derbeat of sadness creeping in like a lccell for many of the multitude who marched onward to its swing. A flicker of pain crossed, his uneasy eyes. He knew that march. Virginia had often played it, and it pulsed through the warm night with a wake of memories. Her face in its diurnal beauty rose be fore him; then a slim, white robed body floated to join the face, an arm, a hand, with finger pointing at the play, crushed in Ms grasp. Yes, her very voice was in his ears. “You will not—you will not steal it, Tom! You could not fall as low as that!” He dropped into a chair, hiding his face upon his clinched hands. A sud den nostalgia weighed sickeningly upon him. “You will not steal it, Tom,” rang the voico in Ms souk Ent ho looked up again after awhile. Tho face was, gone. Tho German march had dwindled to an echo. “Yes, I will,” ho said steadily, as if defying an invisible mentor. “I’ll take it. I’ll not be a fool. It’s a chance to redeem myself, and I cannot let it go. I can’t. The man who wrote it must Ire dead—he is dead—and—there’s no copy of it. I can choke down Delatole’s sneers—I can pay my debts—I can start afresh. It will be life, hope, bread to my soul. I'm not going to let a fancy befool me. If it had fallen from heaven, it could not have come more opportune ly. Conscience? Bahl” But for all Ms bravado the violence of the temptation made Mm stand petrified peering into the shadowy corners. Every creak in tho silent liouso appalled Mm as he mentally weighed the chances for and against detection. He passed bis hand j across Ms trembling lips, his narrowed I eyes upon the locked door. “I’ll do it,” he whispered. All night ho bent over tho pages, copy- j ing the play, here and there touching it with wit that came to Mm then with , diabolical readiness. His heart warmed over it. It seemed to become Ms own by the mere changing of the names of places and people. He left no chance fragment of the original play to betray Mm nor of the i letter and oven tried to forget the man’s name. By morning all was done and done well. As he stood np, a wan and haggard ghost, a crimson haze swept in, envelop-! ing him like a blur of blood, and the i lamps of a new day were lit in the east. [TO BE CONTINUED. ] CONFUSED WITH HYDROPHOBIA. How the “Acute Mania” Hoseiuliles Oue of tlie Most Dreaded of All Diseases. ' “There has been an nnusual number of deaths recently from alleged hydro phobia," said an insanity expert to a Star reporter yesterday. “However, we ! ‘mad doctors’ do not share the popular belief respecting tliat complaint. “I was called in the other day to at tend the case of a yonng woman who was dying with all the symptoms of so called hydrophobia. She was in convul sions. When offered water m a tin re ceptacle, she bit right through the sheet metal. She barked now and then like a dog and frothed at the month. “The average general practitioner would have diagnosed the’case as hydro phobia off hand. But there was oue ob jection to that theory—the pat.Unit lmil never been bitten by a dog or by any other animal unless it were an insect. Not only was t here no question of mail dog,- but there was no dog at ail in the ‘history’ of the disesise. The latter Was nothing more nor less than what the insanity specialist terms ‘acute mania.’ “Acute mania is 4 complaint wlffch manifests itself in all of the symptoms which are commonly attribsfed to hy drophobia. The patient is thrown into convulsions at the sight not ouly of water but of food, such manifestations varying in different cases. Barking like a dog, frothing at the month and biting at whatever is within reach are quite usual. Tlio unfortunate must be served with both food and Water in tin recepta cles to avoid danger. In nine cases ont of ten death ensues. - “Is there no danger, then, in being bit ten by a rabid dog?. Certainly there is— very great danger. What is the matter with such a dog? Ho is attacked by a disease—the familiar complaint called ‘septicaemia,’ or* blood poisoning. His bite is likely to communicate blood poi soning to the person bitten. It is a seri ous and often fatal complaint. Some times it happens that the individual bit ten receives so severe a shock from the fright that the nervons system is upset "In sncn a case acute mama may set in. To bring that abont the dog need not be rabid. To speak more accurately, it need not be suffering from blood poi soning. It may bo perfectly healthy, and yet the fright occasioned by its bite may induce tho dangerous nervous trou ble of which I speak. I think that I have made myself clear. Take i(articular no tice of tho fact that acute mania may be brought on by a variety of causes inde pendent of tho canine species. But if tho patient has happened at any time previous to lie bitten by a dog the trouble is at once attributed to that, and the cry of hydrophobia is raised. “Now, I will venture to say that one person Oaf of. every three receives at some titne m his -or her life a wound, slight, or otherwise, from the teeth of a dog. Frequently such injuries are in flicted by playful puppies or otherwise accidentally. When you consider that this animal is the intimate friend and constant companion of man, it is hardly surprising tnat such should lie the fact. You say. that you yourself have been slightly bitten on two occasions: Sup pose, as is quite possible, that yon were taken with acute mania, barking like a dog, foaming at the mouth and exhibit ing a disposition to bite. Would not. your afflicted relations refer the symp toms to one of those dog bites! Of course they would. If you died, you- would be advertised in the newspapers as a victim of hydrophobia. “What I 1 ell yon i i nut merely a theory of my own. It in mints the belief of experts in nervous diseases generally.’’— Washington Star. THE'PHILOSOPHY OF N61SE. Aversion to Disturbance Is a Symptom ot Neurotic Degeneration. A woman suffering from neuralgia sta tions her son to keep boys from making a iioiso in front of the house. A boy comes by whistfing—a petformatace in which we must recognize a natural, wholesome and boylike act,, whereupon there ensues a short, sharp fight between the pair, in which one is accidentally cut. The upshot is not important; the origin of it is. It has long been usual to acoord spe cial privileges to invalids in relieving them against noise. Formerly straw would be strewn in the street, and thou sands of persons who werfe not sick would bo inconvienced to ease the pains of one who was. In part, this custom was one of ostentation. It coulfi be practiced only by the influential who were exalted by making themselves a nuisance. When death ensued, a hatch ment was set up in the same Bpirit of vainglory. All the windows in the house were closed for a term, the dota tion of which was fixed by custom, but which bore a relatien to the estate of the deceased and the consequent degree of exaltation descending upon his heirs. All healthy animals delight in noiae. The description includes barbarous folk and children. Dogs bark (cars only sneak off), birds scream, boys shont, girls clap hands to their ears in sweet confusion, horses paw, all animate na ture responds to the exhilaration of noise. The sick do not. In every form of sick ness the nervous function is deranged. As we have seen above mankind has shown its appreciation of this fact by its customs. Excessive sensibility to noise is thus one symptom of neurotic degen eration. It is the mark of one broad dis tinction between the state of civilization and its opposite. It testifies to one part of the price which that state exacts from man on his physical side. Within civilization itself indifference to noise is one of the distinctions of a system rudely healthful, both in body and mind. The converse of this propo sition is equally true. Whenever a per son displays peculiar sensitiveness to noise we may know that the case is one of an unwholesome mind in an unwhole some body. From the fact that the dis turbance is essentially a neurotic one it follows that it is controllable to a great extent by the will. Much of the dis turbance that is experienced from noise can be put completely aside by exercise of tho will. A barking dog may keep one person awake while his healthier or wiser neighbor sleeps the sleep of the just. Under the pinging of the cable car bells a valetudinarian subsides into frenzy while his younger clerk is lapped in dreams of tho equally unconscious typewriter on the next floor. The con trast here need not be ono of relative strength of mind merely; one of the two minds is sick. in such a case the will power is im paired. It would probably be found that the complaining person is also irritahle, passionate, perhaps consumed by self contemplation. In many cases of this order relief could no doubt be gained through treatment by suggestion. But in vastly the greater number the patient is competent to minister to himself. He is still capable of exerting the will, and in this exercise lies complete and per manent cure. Furthermore, the cure does not apply alone to the particular noise that may have called for it. It will be found to have influenced the mind permanently. .The injurious effects at tributed to noise do not proceed from without, but from within. They do ifot inhere in the aerial vibrations, but in the mental response made to them. Finally it ought to be observed that the disease is one that increases by be ing yielded to. The noise that is first noticed os an annoyance in some mo ment of irritation*anxiety or other nerv ous disturbance can be nursed into an object of horror. Time.was when folks thought sensitiveness to noise- to be evi dence of high strung character. They were rather proud of it and trotted it forth in public. The world knows bet ter now. It erects hospitals for the Mrs. Wittitterlys, whom it rather admired in Nicholas Nickleby’s time. It no longer holds poor Tom of Bedlam for in spired, and since it has learned how much sickness is either a fruit or a phase of ignorance it is getting a little sick of those sick folks, at least of whom it has a right to look for something better.— New York Evening Sun. A milking experiment is thus reported in a London paper: “Five cows were milked two weeks each by two competent milkers. One knew the milk was being weighed and did his best to geftvery drop. The oth er milked us usual. The one aware of the experiment got 267 pounds the more milk."’ A “competent" milker leaving nearly a half a pound of milk in every cow he milkecf! How lunch would he have to leave to lie called incompetent? In milking a heifer the first year I want her milked rapidly to the end and stop. I do not want her stripped much. A lieifer loves to lie stripped if she is satisfied with her milker, and she soon learns to hold back the milk so aa to make a long job of it. When she'finds there is to be no puttering, she lets the milk come down to the end. Rapid milking satisfactory to the cow is wliat'gets the milk. A cow that has been quickly milked often refuses to give half her milk to a slow milker. Many dairymen forbid any talking during milking. It is a pretty hard rule to enforce. Any talking or noise that cows are perfectly familiar with does no hann, providing the milker does not slack his milking. Hold! I mean any noise that means no harm to the cow. I believe with a herd of 40 good cows it would pay to expend $2 a day for some good music, both vocal and instrumental, at milking time, and let the milkers join in. The tunes of course should be lively, It has been proved to me that cows have an ear for good music. I can sing: "IH1 chase the D—7- round a stump. And give liim a kick at every jump," and my cows will just poor out the milk, so I sing it lively, and my hands keep good time. A cow will never do her best for a slow milker even if he claws out the milk. A rapid milker may also be a poor milker, if be milks with a jerking mo tion or brings liis lingers upon her teats in a manner disagreeablo to her. Not one in a score who claim to be good milkers really is. I have been milking half a century about as regularly as I have eaten my supper and breakfast and claim to be an ■ expert. An excellent milker who treats the cows kindly is what I always am ready to employ at big wages. The difference in the milking of 12 cows one season by a fair milker or an excellent one will almost pay his wages. Milk with dry bands. I would not have my herd of cows milked one season with their teats wet with milk for flO a cow. In one case only do I ever wet a cow’s teats with milk. When a cow leaks her milk badly, wetting with milk thoroughly after milking her will some times stop it.—A. X. Hyatt In Breeder’s Gazette.