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GIRL WITH A MILLION ® By D. C. Murray CHAPTER I. A little dell in t K e heart of a wood was deliriously dappled with leafj shadows. A loosely clad man, bearded and specta cled, and a little on the right side of forty, sat on a camp stool before a small field easel, and libeled the landscape at his ease, pausing at his work i\ow and then and drawing back his head to survey It with an air of charmed appreciation. Near him, on the gnarled trunk of a tree and in the shadow of a moss-grown rock, sat a lady some ten or a doz?n years younger, leisurely torturing thread into lace with a hooked needle. A little way down the dell a boy was clambering among the rocks, shrieking •very now and then with ecstatic news of a beetle or a butterfly. He was a sturdy, blue-eyed, golden-haired little fellow of five, the picture of health, and he was risking his limbs and chattering to all ani mate and inanimate nature —a delightful boy, and all alive from his golden head to his restless feet and tips of his brown little fingers. The mother snatched him to her arms and covered him with kisses. Suddenly she looked up, flushed, half pite ous, with a flash of tears in her eyes. "Austin, I feel afraid. Have 1 a right to be so happy? Has any one a right to be so happy? Will it last?" "Who knows?" he answered. "Human affairs run in averages, but then the av erages are not individual. We have had almost trouble enough in our time to have paid for a little joy. Let us take it grate fully." "Sometimes," she said, "a shadow seems to fall upon it all—the shadow of a fear." "The shadow of the past—experience. The burned child dreads the lire. We are burned children, both of us. Five years' Illness and poverty out of seven years of married life is a large allowance. And, after all, our present happiness isn't phe v nomenal, my dear, though it looks so. We have health, and we value it because we have each missed it in turn. We have a little money, and we think it a great deal because we hava been so deadly poor. And then," he laughed and half blushed, "we have a little fame, and that is all the pleasanter because ws were so long neglected. Sweet is pleasure after pain." "1 am dangerously happy," she answer ed. "Come, let us unpack the luncheon bas ket. Cold chicken. Salad. Bread. Cheese. Milk. There we are. Fall to. Sit down by your mother, Cupid. Take a pull at the milk, old man, and then you'll have an appetite. What a sudden shadow!" A cloud had floated between themselves and the sun, and a strange quiet had fall en with the shadow on the woods. "Austin," the wife whispered, "there is that dreadful man again. It seems as if he had brought the darkness with him." A brown sloping path, covered still with the fir needles shed in the foregoing autumn, broke the wall of green which bounded the dell, and down this footway, between the silver steps of the birches and the reddish steins of the firs, walked a gray-bearded man, with his head drooped forward and his hands clasped behind him. He looked neither to left nor right, but went by as if unconscious of their pres ence, and in a little while was lest be hind the thicker growth of trees. As he went out of sight the sun broke through the cloud, the leafage was inundated with life again and the birds renewed their song. "Look." she whispered; "the shadow follows him." "What an odd mood this Is to-day!" ■aid her husband, smiling at her. "And why is the poor old gentleman se dread ful r "But, Austin, do you know? Ton can't have heard. He is known to have hatch ed plots against the Czar." "Well, yes. It is known also that he has been wifeless and childless this twen ty years. His wife and his two sons died in Siberia. They went there without trial, and people who know him say that the loss of them in that horrible way turned his brain. Suppose anybody stole you and little Austin? Suppose he drove you on foot through hundreds of milts of Ice and snow? Suppose that he made you herd with the human off-scourings of the world, and that you died after three or four long-drawn, hideous years? It might be wicked, but surely it would not be quite without provocation if I blew that man sky-high. I don't say that regicide Is a thing to be commended. I don't de fend the poor old gentleman's political opinions. But I do say that human na ture is human nature." Luncheon over, he returned to his painting, to find the lights all changed. He worked away, however, with great contentment for an hour or two, while the wife and the boy wandered beyond the limits of the dell. When they came back they found that he had packed up his traps and was lying at length on the moRH, with his face turned to the sky. "I do this better than I paint," he said, cocking an idle eye at his wife from be neath the soft white felt which rested on bis nose. "Shall we get back now?" ' "I want to carry something, papa," j said the boy, possessing himself of the 1 camp stool. They sauntered on together tranquilly through the twinkling lights which dazzled from between the leaves, and their steps were noiseless on the dense carpet of fir needles. The boy laid down his burden to chsse s sulphur-col ored butterfly. They had gone a hundred yards before they missed him, and when they turned to look for him he was seen at the far end of a wooded vista, seated on the camp stool. "Look at the little figure, Lucy," said the father. "Isn't there something lonely i nd. almost pathetic in It? He looks as If he were waiting for somebody who would never come—a figure of deserted childish patience." He hailed the child and turned away again. "He knows the road?" he asked. "There is no danger of his losing hlmselfT* "He knows the way," she answered. "We have been here twice a day tor a month past." So they marched on, well pleased, talk lag oI indifferent matters, and the little | fellow sat on the camp stofcl behind them land held animated talk with Nature. The gray-bearded man wandered through the wood with his chin sunk upon his breast and his eyes fixed upon the ground. He was tall and gaunt and swar thy, and looked as if he had a considera ble strain of the Jew in him. His nose was like an eagle's beak and ascetically fine. His temples were hollowed like those of a death's-head, and his eyes, which were large and brown and mourn ful to the verge of pathos, were the eyes of a born dreamer and a fanatic by na ture. It was already dusk when the old Ni hilist turned his footsteps into the wood, and having just remembered that he had not broken his fast for seven or eight hours, he had somewhat quickened his usual thoughtful pace, when the sound of a sob reached his ear and he stopped suddenly to lcok about him. Within a yard or two sat the lost child on the camp stool, with his back against a broad tree trunk. The old man knelt on. the grass and looked at the sleeping boy. His straw hat had fallen off and lay beside him, his golden hair was tumbled and disordered, his long dark lashes were still wet, and his rosy cheeks were blurred and soiled with the traces of his tears. "Eh! La, la, la?" said the old fellow, in a pitying acclnt. "Lost! Did we sleep in despair, dear little heart? in tears? in terror? And God sendeth a hand, ere yet it night time. To the child, rescue, and to the old man teach ing." Then he took the child softly in his arms, and gathering up the hat and the camp stool, entered the wood. As he did so, a faint and distant cry reached his ears, and he stopped to listen. It was re peated once or twice, faintly and more faintly, and then died away. He started anew almost at a run, but he was old, and the lad was unusually solid and well grown for his years, so that the burden soon told on him, and brought him to a walk again. It was a full mile, from the spot to which the child had wandered to the Cheval Blanc, *nd when the little hostel was reached the bearer's back snd arms were aching rarely. The landlady met him in the passage with a cry. "Oh, the little Anglais! You h«*e found him, monsieur? • Jeanne, run to the woods and tell them that the child is found." "Ton know him?" asked Dobroeki. "Who is he? Where does he live?" "He Is the child of the English at the hotel des Postss," answered the wom an, standing on tiptoe to kiss the boy. "He has been lost this five boors." Do broski turned into the street, and the woman followed him talking all the way. "He is the only child of his parents, and their cherished. Imagine, then, the de spair of the mother, the inquetude of his father! They are rich. See how the child is dressed. There is nothing you might not ask for." The old man smiled at this, but said nothing. He surrendered his charge at the hotel, where the boy was received with such noisy demonstrations of pleas ure that he awoke. Being awake, and recognising his surroundings, he adapted himself to them with an immediate phil osophy, and demanded something to est A second messenger wss dispatched to the wood to bring back the party who had gone in seareh of him. His mother kissed him frantically and cried over him, but his father set out for the Cheval Blane to thank his res cuer. He found Dobroski seated in a lit tle room with a sanded fleor, and began to stammer his gratitude in broken and mutilated French. "It was a piece of good fortune to find him," said Dobroski, spsaklng English, to the other's great relief. "I am de lighted that the pleasure was mine." "I don't know how to thank yon," said the Englishman, a little awkward ly, lugging a purse from J»is trousers pocket. For a moment Dobroski fancied the stranger meant to offer him money, but he merely produced a card, "That's ray name," said the Englishman, blun deringly. "Austin Farley. Upon my word, I really don't know how to thank you." "My good, good sir," returned Dobro ski, "whst would you hsve had? What was I to do? He was sure to be found, and It was my good fortune to have found him." "You must let his mother come and thank you, sir," said the Englishman. "Upon my word I really dou't know what to say to teli you how grateful and oblig ed 1 am. His mother has been in the greatest anxiety. You must let her come and thank you." "Well, well, Mr. Farlpy," the elder man answered, himself a little hhy at the oth er's concealed emotion. "If you will think 1 so mere an accident worth thanks to any body But pray let as say no more." CHAPTER 11. There was a great crowd of people at the railway station at Namur, and the Luxembourg train had ao sooner steamed into the station than it was besieged by the mob, and sll the carriages were taken by storm. One tourist, who had furnish ed himself with a first class ticket, and hsd shouldered himself through the crowd to the buffet, was exceedingly wroth on his return to find that the carriage he had occupied was filled by third-class excursionists. He spoke French with a fluency, and an inaccuracy in combination with it, which fairly took off his msntal feet the official to whom he appealed, and in a very passion and torrent of his ora tory rippled audibly the accent of Dub lin. He talked all over, arms aad hands, finger tips, head, shoulders, and body. He talked with fill his features and with all his muscles and with all his might, and at last the official seized his meaning, and proceeded with inexorable politeness to turn out all the third-claas passengers. The triumphant tourist stood by, sudden ly smiling and unruffled. He had a round, smooth face, with a tonch of apple color on his cheeks, a noss Inclining some what apward, and an sxprsssisn of self satisfaction ss complete that II asottsi the ireny tf one ot the ejected. "He is well Introduced to hhnself, that fellow," aaid be, but the tourist did DM hear, or did not car* If he heard. Be stood tranquilly by, holding the haadle of the door, until the carriage was cleared, and was just about to ascend whea a slow, quiet voice spoke behind. "Got that through, old man, ekt" The tourist turned suddenly, and stretched out a hand to the speaker. "-What? Maskelyne, me boy. Deloyt ed. Where are you going?" "I am going to Janenne by rail," said the other, accepting the proffered band with a hearty shake, once up and once down. "From there I go on to a little place called Houfoy, to see aome old friends of mine." "I'm going to Janenne meaelf," said the Irishman. "Can't we ride together?" "I suppose we can," returned his friend. "Baggage is registered." He was just as calm as the Celt had a min ute or two before been eager, and his roice was distinctly American. He was very precisely and neatly attired, his figure was tall and elegant; his face was handsome but melancholy, and curiously pale. The eyes were the beet feature— black. soft and lustrous, but tbey looked as if he had never smiled In his life. "I say, Krnser," lie said, in his slow, mild voice, when they were both seated, "where did you pick up .vour French? I never heard anything like it." "I've knocked about Paris a good deal." said Fraser. "1 speak Jorraan with the same facility, though it's probably me Scotch extraction that gives me that." Mldwa ybetween Namur and Luxem bourg the two travelera changed trains for Janenne. The engine steamed lastly through a most lovely country, and the young American, looking continually out of window, seemed absorbed in contem plation of the landscape. But It could scarcely have been landscape which half a dozen times called a dreamy smile to bis soft eyes, and once a blush to the sallow pallor of his cheek. Whea the train drew up in front of the little red brick station, a building planned like a child's toy house and not much bigger, the blush came to his cheek again, and his band trembled slightly aa it caressed his black mustache. "Well, It's good-by for a time, old fel low," he said, shaking hands with Fra ser. "But I will see you again to-mer row or next day, most likely, if you can End time to turn from affair* of state." "Are those your friends?" asked Fraser, looking through the window as the train crawled slowly along the platform. "An uncommonly pretty gyurl! The ould boy looks like an army man. He's waving hia hand at ye." "Tea," said Maakelyne, with his soft drawl a little exaggerated. "That la my man. Good-day. Fraser. Tell O'Roorke I'm down here and that I'll run over and have V look at him." A minute later he was shaking hands with the young lady who had excited Mr. Eraser's admlratloa. "Welcome to the Ardennes, Mr. Maske lyne," said Angela, with frank good hu mor. "How are all our friends la New Tork?" "Thank you, Miss Butler," he aaswte ed, looking Into her gray eyes with a smile which was all the brighter and the sweeter because of the usual melancholy of his countenance; "I cannot undertake to tell you how all youi' friends In New York may be, but the few scores of whoa I have heard In one way or another siace I came to Europe are very well indeed. Major Butler, I am charmed to see you looking so robust. I had not koped to see you looking so well." "Dyspepsia," said the major. "Whea I wrote you I was really 111. I am all right now. But I've been a good leal worried, and when' I'm worried I get dyspepsia, and dyspepsia means despair. That your baggage? Get the ticket for it?" At this point Fraser came up with perfect sang frold, raised his hat to the girl and accosted Maskelyne. "I say, ould man, tell ae what's the beet place to pot up at here?" "Hotel des Postsa," said the major. Mr. Fraser raised his hat to the major. "Let me Introduce you," said Maske lyne. "Major Butler, this Is Mr. Fraser, a member ot your British House of Com mons." "Delighted to meet yen!" said the ma jor, but he did not look as It this state ment ooold be accepted. (To be continued.) Orlflß •( the Unloa Jaok. The British union Jack, the king's colors, combine* three crosses—the cross of St George, the cross of St. Andrew and the cross of St Patrick —all on a blue fleld. The union of these three crosses occurred In an In teresting fashion. Primarily England's flag displayed a red cross on a white ground. The white cross of St. An drew made Its appetirance side by side with that of St George during the reign of James 1., the Scottish king who ascended the throne of England. It was not until later, however, In 1707, that the two crosses were combined on the one banner and the white em blem of St Andrew ran from corner to corner of the blue fleld and crossed the red emblem of St George. Nearly a century later the red diag onal cress of St Patrick found a place on the same flag. It was after the Irish parliament was united to the British that thla change took place. In England It 1* stipulated that all colore, an flags are termed, shall I* hand made. At first they were the work of women member* of regimen tal families, hut later the privilege was given to contractors, who number leas than half a dozen. It Is said. If, how ever, the wives and daughters of on cers want to make colors for their regiments tliey are permitted to do so, but as a rule these regimental colors are submitted to the garter king at arms fer hi* approval before they are presented to the regiment* for which they have been made. JoaUat Her. Mr. A.—Going downtown to select your spring hat eh? Well, yon bettor wait until night Mr*. A. (in surprise)— Night George? Why? Mr. A.—Didn't yen *ay It was (Ding to be a dreamt "WILL THE TRAFALGAR OF THE FUTURE BE FOUGHT IN THE AIR?" Three of the world's greatest fighting powers—England, Germany and France—now have successful dirigible bal loena for use In war times. England's military balloon has Just been successfully tested and put Into commis sion. It made a semi-circle of two miles around Faro borough and Cove common without difficulty, with the LIFE'S MUSIC. rhere never has been such music since ever the world began, No melody like it has echoed in the listen ing ear of man. Aa soft as the bells of the fairies, as blithe as the song of the bird— rha laughter, the Infinite laughter, on lip* of the chlldehart heard ! Oh, If we could echo that laughter. If we could catch it again, Fhe old sweet note of the golden throat, the lilt of ita glad refrain! Life would be music forever if one oould laugh like a child. la the golden day of the fairy way, care lessly free and wild! —Baltimore Sun. Return of the Prodigal Gilbert Summers was prosperous as far as worldly goods goes; be owned • drug store with all modern Improve ments; a snug little balance In tbe bank, with more added to it eacb week and tbe people of the village called blm well-to-do. His most valued possession was bis little "Sunbeam," his 7-year-old daugh ter, who was the only child, and al though tbe world called biui cynical and morose, the child was able to call forth tbe best there was in blm. The world also called him queer. When.his wife ran away Summers made no effort to follow her, but con tinued the even tenor of his way, and at far as the world knew, be quickly erased her from bis memory. When Summers, the business man, left his drug store with a courteous good-night to bis clerk, he became (Gil bert Summers, domesticated, tbe father and the mother of bis little "Suubeam." Those long and happy evenings Sum mers spent aluue with his child wer» sacred. The little village wbere Summers did business did not wonder nor lament when n »'tn over his drug store an nounced be wiiV going to move to tbe city and enlarge bis business. Tbey snapped up tbe bargains he offered and exchanged remarks about the weather, wished him good luck In bis new ven ture, and went back borne. These remarks measured the extent of biu friendship In the village, lie bad but one friend and that friend stole away his wife. Therefore, Gil bert Summers called no man friend. A month later saw Summers estab lished in bis new store in the heart of a great city. It represented his entire capital snd be dedicated it to bis little "Sunbeam." He was cold and calculating and knew he would succeed. His was a strange philosophy; he pitied bis child on account of tbe stlgms cast on her name by her mother, but somehow felt aa if it was all bis fault and he wanted to make it up to her in some way. Summers was at his desk one night after tbe clerk had gone home, and the druggist and bis little daughter were alone, when the tap of a coin on the showcase announced a customer. He moved briskly to tbe front of the store and saw the figure of a woman at tbe counter. She was poorly and thin ly clad and the cold blast that clung to her frayed shawl chilled Summers to tbe bone. He noticed ber ragged dress, coated with snow that was rap idly melting. She did not look up at htm when she spoke. "1 want a dime's worth of carbolic acid," the said. In a low tone, pulling the sbawl about her face. Summers gazed at the poor creature with a pitying glance. He was not sen timental, but the dejected droop of ber abooldara appealed to his sympathies. THREE WORLD POWERS HAVE SET lAVXE& "What do you want with It?" as asked. Something in his voice made the woman look up at his quickly. As she raised her head the shawl fell from her face and they looked at each other squarely. The recognition was mutu al. "Gilbert!" she exclaimed. Her tone bespoke the anguish in lier heart, but the pleading note In her voice failed to touch him. All the old bitterness wns aroused anew and at the sight of her face Summers steeled his heart r<4»oliitely. No one would have suspected that a torrent of emotions had been awakened In his breast. His face hardened, and to all appearances he became cold and cynical. At that moment little "Sunbeam" ventured out from behind the prescrip tion case, and as she caught sight of the pltlfji! figure standing there with the tired, hunted look In her eyes, the child rnn forward with a shout of joy and threw herself in her mother'sarms The woman sank to her knees and with heart-broken sobs rained kisses on the child's up-turned face. "Mamma's hack home, papa," cried "UiUlii'S BACK HOME." the child, gleefully. The woman looked up appeal! ugly. The man's eyes soft eued and be put his baud tenderly on h'S wife's head. "Yes," be said slowly: "Mamma's back home."—Chicago Journal. The Sequel to the Joke. Many years ago a visitor to Edin burgh wag being shown over the high court of justiciary. He made some re mark concerning the dock and its du ties, and In reply the official Jokingly said the visitor might one day be sen tenced to be banged in that very room. The sightseer was the notorious Dr. Pritchard, Two years had barely pass ed when in the dock he bad so closely Inspected be was doomed to death for poisoning his wife and mother-in-law. The Wrong Word. "Did you Anally sum up enough courage to ask her to marry you?" "Yes, and she gave her word " "Ah, I congratulate you!" "Ton needn't; the word she gave was •He.'"—Philadelphia Prea* wind at fifteen miles an hour, and was as easily steered as a skiff In water. The success of these three great Euro pean powers la this direction, coupled with experiments by the United States government wltb the aeroplane, fires rise to the startling question, "WIU the Trafalgar •f the future be fou*ht la the air?" SILVEB WEDDINGS. They Had Their Orlirln In the Helen Huirue* Capet. The fashion of silver weddings dates back to the reign of Hughes Capet, king of France In !IS7. Once as Hughes was arranging bis uncle's affairs lie found on one of the estates a servant who had grown gray In the service of his relative. He had lieen such a friend of his master that he was almost looked upon as one of the family. On.the farm with this old man was also a serving woman who wa9 ns old as he and also unmarried and who had been the most devoted and hardwork ing of the women servants of the king's uncle. When the king heard these praises of the two, he ordered them to l>e brought before him and said to the woman: "Your service Is great, greater than this man's, whose services were great enough, for the woman always finds work and obedience harder than a man, and therefore I will give yon a rewnrd. At your age I know of none better than a dowry and a husband. The dowry Is here—this farm from Ibis time forth beiongs to you. If this man who hns worked with you five and twenty years Is willing to marry you, then the husband is ready." "Your majesty," stuttered the old peasant confusedly, "bow Is It possible I hat we should marry, having already silver hairs?" "Then It shall be a silver wedding,™ answered the king, "and here I give you a wedding ring," drawing a costly ring from his finger and placing the bands of the thankful old people to gether. This soon became known all over Prance and raised such enthusiasm that it became a fashion after a twen ty-five years' marrluge to celebrate t silver wedding. IRELAND'S FAXR. exhibition m Dablln Mark* m New Epoch In the Green lale'i Hlatorr* In Herbert Park, not far from the heart of Dublin city and partly on the site of Donnyhrook fair of unsavory memory, stand the white buildings of the Irish International exhibition, says Everybody's. The difference between these noble palaces and the rickety booths of Donnybrook is symbolic of the difference between the old Ireland and the new; of the deeply significant renascence aiul awaking of the nation. Ireland's fair might well be called her birthday celebration. Donnybrook fair used to be the trading place for all the peasnnts and small fanners and petty shopkeepers of the country who could ride or walk to the spot, for this was their grent social center. In the retro spect Donnybrook, may seem pictur esque. as showing the Irish Joy In liv ing, the bravery and song. But actual ly Donnybrook showed the bitter effect of a cruel land system forced on Ire land by a people who could never un derstand her. But the old Ireland Ii dead and there is a new Ireland, becoming more and more unified and coherent through a variety of causes, chief of which are the new land system and the recent in dustrial development Now the peas ant may himself be a small landholder. He lives, or may live. In a decent house. His younger sons, through the new tech nical education offered by the govern ment, may be fitted for skilled labor. His wife and daughters may supple ment bis earnings by their work lo home industries. And all that Ireland is and all that she will become ar* vividly suggested by the exhibition. An Insinuation. "He always insists on Uasint nw good-night when be goes." "Be never goes until aftsr dark, does hej"—Houston Post.