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lis Heart's Desire By SIR WALTER BESANT CHAPTER XVlll.—(Continued.) "Nobody ever believed that you were robbed, Mr. I.eighan," I went on. "Hut the finding of the money seems to show that you really were robbed while you were insensible, Perhaps we shall tind Hie papers, too. some day." "I'erhaps we shall," he said. "If they are in the hands of rogues and villains. I shall be much the better tor il. iMiough said about my robbery. If is strange, too; both on the same day 1 kneu not then what he meant. "Ilotli on the game day—and after six years. What can this mean? Will." lie said, eagerly, "tell me 1 never did any harm to you; you've never had any land to mortgage —tell tne, do you know nothing of the papers? When you found this bag did you hear nothing about the papers?" "1 know nothing. How should I.' "Well, it matters little; 1 am not con cerned with the robber, but with the man who has them now. 1 must deal wiili him; an I, there, you cannot help file, unless —no -no —1 cannot ask it; you would not help me." "Anyhow, Mr. I.eighati, you've got twenty pounds back again. That is something. Confess that you are pleas ed." "Young man, If you torture a man all over with rheumatic pains, do you think he is pleased to find that they have left his little finger, while they aro ■till red-hot irons all over the rest of his body? That is my case." " i titn sorr.v to hear It. At the same time, twenty pounds, as I said before, (s something." "It's been lying Idle for six years. Twenty pounds at compound Interest—l don't spend my interest, I promise you -—would now be six-aml-twenty pounds. I've lost six pounds." I laughed. A man who knows not the ralue of Interest laughs easily. I ex pect, therefore, to go on laughing all the days of my life. "As for the papers, there's a dead loss of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Think of that! All these years I've wait ed and hoped—yes, I've prayed—actual ly prayed—that I might get my papers back again. Three thousand pounds tliero are, among these papers, besides the cer tificates and things that I could replace. Nearly all Mary's fortune lost." "No," I said. "Don't Hatter yourself that you lost any of Mary's money. It was your own money. You are trustee for Mary's fortune, remember, and you will have to pay it over in full." lie winced and groaned. "Three thousand pounds! With the Interest it would now be worth nearly four thousand pounds at five per cent. Ami now all as good as lost!" "Well, Mr. I.eighiti, I am sorry for you, very sorry, particularly as you will have to find that fortune of Mary's very ■oon." "Shall I, Master Will Nethercote? 1 (shall give Mary her fortune when 1 please; not at all, unless I please. Mary has got to be obedient and submissive to me. else she won't get anything. When I give my consent to her mar riage, and not till then —not till then — I shall have to deliver up her fortune. Good night to you, Will Nethercote." CHAPTER XIX During these days David led the life of a solitary. He sometimes went to the inn; he went to the village shop on the green to buy what lie wanted, and he kept wholly to himself. Except for that daily visit to Gratnor, he talked to no one. From time to tline I met him leaning over the field Kites, loitering along the lnnes, or sitting idly under the shade of one of our high hedges. I suppose that liis loafing nnd wandering life had made work of any kind distasteful to him. His face was not a pleasant one to gar.e upon, and for a stranger would have been ter rifying. At this time we knew from Mary that lie went nearly every day to Gratnor, but we had no suspicion of what was said or done there. My own thoughts. Indeed, were wholly occupied with the fortunes of George Sidcote, and 1 gave small heed to this sulky hermit. "David," 1 asked him, meeting him one day face to face so that he could not slip out of my way, "why do you never come over to Sidcote? Have we offended you In any way?" "No," he replied, slowly, as if he was thinking what he ought to reply—"no; I don't know exactly that you have of fended mo." "<'oniß over this evening nnd tell us what you think about doing." "No. I don't think I can go over this evening." "Choose your own time, but come be fore I go back to London." "George will be turned out of his place before the end of the year. The old man told me so. Then he'll go, too. Mary Hnys she will go with George. Then I hIiuII be left alone with Uncle Dan." He laughed quietly. "I think I shall go and live at Gratnor, ami take care of him. We shall have happy times together, when you are all gone and I am left alone with him." "Why, David, you wouldn't harm the poor old man now, would you?" "Not harm him? Not harm him? Did you ask him six years ago if ho was going to harm me? Will he harm George Hidcute now?" You cannot force a man to be sociable, nor can you force him to entertain til.Mights of charity, forgiveness and long suffering. 1 made no more attempts to load the man back to better ways and old habits. And all the time, every day David was carrying on, slowly and ruthlessly, the most systematic revenge, with the most exquisite tortures. Every day he went to Gratnor and dangled before his vic tim some of his property, and made him buy it back bit by bit, haggling over the bargain; letting his uncle have it one day cheap, so as to raise his spirits, and the next at nearly Its full value, so as to crush him again; and even at times, af ter uu hour's bargniu over a single cou- poll, he would lint It 111 the fire and de stroy it. When David went away, the poor old man would fall to weeping; this hard, dr.v old num. whom nothing ever moved before, would shed tears of Impotent and bitter rage. Hut he refused to tell Mary what was troubling him. "1 can't tell you what It is," he said. "You don't know what the consequences j might be if I told you. Oh, Mnry, I [am a miserable old man! I wish I was ! lead and burl.'d and that it was all over 1 wish It was all over!" "It is something," said Mary, "to do with David. 1 will go and speak to him about it." "No, Mary, no;" he cried, eagerly. "Mind your own business, child. Don't attempt to Interfere. Oh! you don't know what might happen if you inter fered." "It is David, then. Very well, uncle, I shall not ask him what it is." "I can't tell anybody, Mary; I must bear it in patience. If I resist I shall only lose the more. Mary, we've got to be very careful lu the housekeeping now —very careful." "I am always careful, uncle." "There was a pudding again to-day. I can't afford any more pudding for a long while —not till Christmas. And I'm sure there's waste and riot In the kitch en." "Nonsense, uncle! You not afford a pudding? Now, remember, you are not to be starved, and there's no waste or riot." CHAPTER XX. I terminated my holiday with a med dling and a muddling. Of course, I Vas actuated by the beat Intentions. Every meddler and muddler Is, otherwise he might be forgiven. I made my attempt with no success — on my Inst evening at Challaeombe, when the old man had taken his tea, and might reasonably be expected to be milder than during the press of business In the morn ing. I had not seen him for three weeks. I was struck with the change that had como over him during this short period. It was that subtle change which we mean when we Ray that a man has "aged." In Mr. Leighan's case, his hands trembled, lie looked feebler, and there was a loss of vitality In his eyes. "What do you want?" he asked, Im patiently. "You nre come for Mary? Well, she Isn't here. You ought to know that aho always goes out after tea. You will find her somewhere about—on the Uldgo or down the lane, somewhere." He turned his head and took up his pen again. I observed that he was poring over a paper of figures. "No, Mr. Leighan, I came to Bee you. I have come to see you about George and Mary." "Go on, then. Say what you want to say. When a man is tied to his chair he is at the mercy of every one who conies to waste his time." I spoke to him as eloquently as I could. I told him he ought to consider how Mary had been his housekeeper and his nurse for six long years, during which he had been helplessly confined to bis chair. If he refused his consent to her marriage she would go away, not only from his house, but from the parish; he would be left In the hands of strangers, who would waste and spoil his sub stance. "Young man," he said, "I never asked for or expected any other service than what is paid for. Mary's services have been paid for. If she goes I shall find another person, who will be paid for her services. Mary has had her board and her bed, and she's done her work to earn her board and her bed; 1 don't see any call for gratitude there; as for good feel ing, that's my business. Now, young man, George Sidcote's land Is mortgaged. As he says he can no longer pay the In terest, I have sent up the case to Ix>n don and have got the usual order; he has six months in which to pay princi pay and interest. At the end of that time, because he can't and won't pay, his laud will be mine. As for what Is done afterward, I promise nothing." "You wffl lose Mary for one thing." "I have told you that I, in that case, shall hire another person." "Very well. You will have to pay Mary's fortune to her cousin David, be cause she will marry without your con sent." "Have the goodness, Mr. Will Nether cute. to leave me to my own affairs." "This affair is mine as well as yours. I)o you prefer David to Mary? You must choose between them, you know. I have read the will. You think," I said, "that David does not know of his aunt's will. Yof hope that he will go away presently without finding out." He start ed and changed color, and In his eyes I read the truth. He thought that David would never find out. "So, Mr. Leighan." I went on, "that Is in your mind. He lives alone, and speaks to no one; his aunt died after he went away; It Is very possible that he does not know anything about It. Good heavens! Mr. Leighan, were you actually thinking to hide the thing from him, and so to rob him? Yes; to rob Mary first and David afterward of all this money?" "What business Is It of yonrs?" he askedl. "Very good; I shall tel David." "Oh! If I were thirty instead of seven ty, I would " he began, his eyes flash ing again with all their ancient fire. "I shall go to David, Mr. Leighan. If, as I believe, he knows nothing about It, you will see how he will receive the newe. Yes; you shall be between the two; you shall choose between David and Mary." Yes; I had stumbled on the exact truth as accidentally as I had stumbled on the canvas bag. David did not know, nor had his uncle chosen to Inform him —though he was certain from his talk that he did not know—of his aunt'a will, deeply as It affected him. And lam now quite certain that the old man thought that David would not find out the truth ABERDEEN HERALD, MONDAY, OCTOBER 1G 1905 before he went array again, and «o be would keep the money to himself. "Don't tell him, Will," said the old man, changing his tone. "Don't inter fere between David and me; it is danger ous. You don't know what mischief you may he doing. As for (Jeorge nnd Mary, 1 will arrange something. They shall go on at Sidcote as tenants ijn easy terms —on very easy terms. But dou't tell David. He fs a very dangerous man. Dou't tell him." "I will not tell him anything, If you will give Mary your consent." "David will not stay here long. When he has gone—oh, dear! —when he has got some more money he will go away. Don't tell him." "You have to give that money either to Mary or to David. Choose!" I repeat ed. "Who are you, 1 should like to know," he asked, with n feeble show of anger, "that you should come nnd interfere in family What business is it of yours? tio awny to London. Manage your own affairs—if you've got any. You nre not my n*phew." "Choose between Mary and David." "I must have Sidcote," he said, with a kind of moan, lie clutched at the arms of his chair, his face twitched convulsive ly, and he spoke feebly. "I have lost so much lately—l have suffered ro horribly —you don't know how, young man, or you would pity me. I have been pun ished, perhaps, because I was too pros perous—you don't know how, nnd yon can't guess. If I lose Sidcote, too, I shall die. You don't know, young gentleman —yon don't know what It is to suffer as I have suffered." "Then I shell go at once to Dnvld and tell him." "I must have Sidcote. Do your worst-!" he cried, with some appearance of his old fire nnd energy. "Do your worst. Tell David what you please, and leave ma to deal with David. I will " He shook his head and pointed to the door. I told David that very evening. He was sitting at his table, n large open book before him, over which he was por ing Intently. He looked up when ha heard my step outside, and shut the book hurriedly. "What do you want here?" he asked, roughly. "Why do you come prying af ter me?" "Upon my word, DaTld," I said, "one would think we were old enemies instead of old friends." "Speak up, then," he replied, his eyes suspicious and watchful, ns If I was try ing to get Into his cottage and steal ■omethlng. "Speak up; let a man know your business. If you had no business you would not come here, I take it." "It Is business that may concern you very deeply," I said. And then I told him. "Well," he said, slowly, "I suppose you mean honest, else why should you tell me? Perhaps you've got a score against the old man, too. This wants thinking of, this does. So the old woman had six thousand, had she? And Mary Is to have It If she marries with her uncle's consent —and if she doesn't, I'm to have it." "Mary will marry George with or with out her uncle's consent; I can tell you that beforehnnd. She will inarry him within a very few weeks." "Nay," he snid, "rather than give me the money he'd let her marry the black smith." At this point I came away, for fear he might try even to get beyond that possi bility; and the mess I had almost made of the whole business proves, as I said before, that there is no excuse whatever for the best Intentions. (To hs continued.') SHE CAN INTEREBT CHILDREN So This Woman with a Single Gift la Able to Kara Her living. One woman who looks forward to a long and Idle summer without ap prehension has gone to Europe to travel. She has a letter of credit am ple for her purposes, and will be able to remain abroad until November. All this good fortune Is the result of making a specialty for herself when she started out to earn a living several years ago. She had a very small capi tal. She could Imitate children won derfully, and her quaint little face was not unlike a child's. She had, more over, the faculty of Interesting chil dren greatly. "I remember," she says, when her unusual work Is referred to. "the story of the fox and the cat who met In the forest when the King was hunt ing." " 'Well, I only know how to do one thing," said the cat, modestly. 'It's my only trick.' " 'You don't say sol' replied the fox, patronizingly. 'Why, I can do no end of tricks.' "The cat s'nred at the fox envious ly and was s .denl.v aroused by hear ing the lior ; of the King's hunters and the bar ug of the dogs. The cat ran up th<- tree, and, sitting on a branch, watched the approach of the cavalcade with serenity. " 'I thought you could do only one thing,' cried out the distracted fox as he ran away. "'I can,' the cat answered. 'Rut this happens to be my trick.' "Then the eat had the satisfaction to see the dogs, after barking about the foot of the tree, run after the fox. " 'Now, like the cat," the woman says In conclusion, "I could do one thing. It was amuse children." She devoted herself to acquiring In teresting stories for children. She even sang and danced for them, and dressed herself up like a child. The result was such delight on their part that their mothers were always anxious to engage her for parties. She had all she could do, and has doubled her fee for next year. As there are always more children growing up, and the mothers all have a high opinion of her, her employment 1* not likely to be exhausted soon.— Washington Post Personal. Catharine —Poor Percy! He seemed worried while he was reading the pa per. Myrtllla—Poor fellow! He found out that the lobitcr trust Is a reality. NEW YORK STOCK EXCHANGE. The magnificent Now York Stock Exchange has entrances on three streets —Broad, New and Wall. The present building Is worth, with the ground on which it stands, more than $7,000,0 CX). It is of white marble and is said to be the linest building devoted to a similar purpose In the entire world. FROM CLERK TO MAGNATE. Remarkable Rise to Wealth and Power of James J. Hill. Forty-one years ago James J. Hill, the great railroad magnate, who re cently celebrated his <>7th birthday an niversary, was a mud clerk on a small steamboat plying up and down the Mississippi. A mud clerk In Mississip pi ltlver parlance is applied to under clerks, who go ashore at landings and check baggage and freight. That is what Hill was. Not many years later he controlled the line of steamboats on which he had hern employed as mud clerk. He Is a Canadian by birth, having been horn at Guelph, Ont, In JB3B. Ills father was Irish, his moth er Scotch, and while the son had the characteristics of both races, he was essentially American, first and last. He attended the Itockwood Academy, a Quaker school, for eight years, and then the death of his father threw him upon his own resources, which were ample. At the age of 18 he looked about him, and finally select ing St. 1 ul as the most likely place In the West for an ambitious young man, lie went fliere, taking a position as mud clerk on the Dubuque and St. I'aul Packet Company's line of steam bouts. In the next few years he served with various shipping firms, and in IStUi took the agency of the North western Packet Company. He served in this capacity for two years, and then he started in business for him self, engaging in the fuel and transpor tation trade. As he once put it, "I found it better to expend my energies In my own behalf than In behalf of others." Among other things he de- JAMTS J. HILL. elded in looking about that the rail road business offered even greater lields than that offered by river traffic, and firm in this belief lie laid plans to secure the agency for the St. Paul & Pacific Railroad, and his plans did not miscarry. They seldom have. In 18*10 the Hill, Griggs & Co. transpor tation firm came Into existence. This firm was very successful, but not suffi ciently successful to suit young Hill. About that time lie made many trips u]) Into North Dakota, or the Red River valley, and there lie saw natural agricultural facilities second to none In the country. It was a howling wil derness almost, but never mind that; the opportunities waited to be takefi advantage of, and young Hill forth with did tnke advantage of them. In 1870 he started the Red River Trans portation Company, opening up the northwestern wilds to the farmer, and a year later he had bored ills way Into the interests of the Hudson Bay Company and consolidated with it. But In the meantime he had his eye on the gradually Increasing railroad Interests of the country, and In 1872 his great opportunity presented Itself. The St l'aul & Pacific Railroad de faulted, and llill, having foreseen it and laid his plans accordingly, prompt ly set about Interesting English capi talists In this road. Lord Mount Stephen and Sir Donald Smith lis tened, and the end was that In 1878 Hill gained control of the bonds' of that company. In INB3 he was maSe president. He reorganized the road and named It the St. Paul, Minneapo lis & Manitoba Kailroad. Slowly but surely the Great Northern system came Into existence. In 18tt0 he be came president of the Great Northern, a system extending from Puget sound, on the Pacific coast, to St. Paul; from Duluth on the north to Yankton, 8. I)., on the south. He started the Northern Steamship Company, controlling th« great lake traffic, and not content with his line of trnns-Pacllic steamships he is now perfecting plans for additional Oriental trade through the Nlppon- Yushon Kalsha Steamship Company. Tk© Newspaper advertising is generally recognized in this day and generation as a valuable adjunct in the business world. It is not only regarded by a large majority of retail dealers as a necessity and one that pays compound Interest, but the buyers likewise Insist upon consulting the advertising col umns of their favorite Journal. In the city the popular newspaper is the daily. In the country the week ly press has an equally strong hold on the reader. The best argument tli.it advertising pays Is found In the prog ress advertising lias made in the past few years both in the city daily and the country weekly. There Is as much reason why the country dealer should advertise In his local newspaper as that the city adver tiser should persistently cry Ills goods In the city dally. It Is probable tli'it the country merchant gets fully as large returns from his advertising, ac cording to the amount expended, as does the city dealer. The country dealer's newspaper an nouncements bring returns In In creased trade. The more care he takes In preparing his advertisements the better the results. The advantages of an advertisement are not all realized in a week or even a month. The re sults are cumulative. The newspaper advertisements keep their readers constantly Informed as to' what the merchants have for sale. When an article Is needed the dealer who has been telling the public through the press that he has that par ticular line of goods secures a cus tomer. The new resident of a town early subscribes for the local news paper that he and his family may be come familiar with the town's doings, names, etc. The advertisements are a point of especial Interest to them. The direct returns are not all the advantages of the merchants' adver tising. although the Investment In it self Is undoubtedly a reasonably prof itable one. The local newspaper is constantly pointing out to its readers the mistaken policy of buying from mall order houses and big depart ment stores. The local advertisement will still further assist In discourag ing the practice and help to keep money circulating In local channels that would 1»' lost forever if sent to catalogue houses Northfield (Vt.) News. Profitable Fellowship. Among tlie pleasures and profits of intelligent travel are the companion ships one forms. The well-poised trav eler Is never afraid to make new friends. He soon learns to read human nature sufficiently to know whom to trust, and he cannot travel, even to a very limited extent, without meeting many people well worth knowing. The little home circle is delightful and often helpful, but the view points and opportunities of our fellow citizens are so nearly Identical that our next-door neighbors are not apt to furnish us profltaule friendships as persons we meet whose environments are different and who have, perhaps, had a wider range of opportunities and seen more of the things worth while, which are the heritage of the traveler. When the man who Is familiar with the East meets the man who has learned the great story of the West, the conversation Is pretty apt to be worth listening to.—Four-Track News. There was once a woman who could actually starch a man's shirt In the right place—but she has been dead several hundred years. I ©LD | cpaVoriteS Over the Hill to the Poor House. Over the hill to the poorhouse, I'm trudglu' my weary way— I, a womau of seventy, and only a trifle gray— I, who aw smart and chipper, for all tin years I've told. As many another womnn that's only halt as old. Over the hill to the poorhouse—l can't quite make It clear; Over the hill to the poorhouse It sterns so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-tolllu' to and fro, But this Is a sort of Journey 1 never thought to go. What Is the use of heaplu' on me a pau per's shame? Am I lazy or craiy? Am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; Hut charity ain't no favor, If one can live h lthout. I am wlllln' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent llvln' an' pay my honest way; Fo- I can earn my victuals, an' more, too, I'll l>c bound, If anyb dy Is wlllln' to have me round. Onee I wa9 young an' handsome—l was, upon my soul - Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And 1 can't remember, In them days, of hcarln' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was In their way. 'Taln't 110 use of boastln', or talkln' over free. But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a han'some offer I had from likely men. And nobody ever hinted that I was a bur den then. And when to John I wri married, sure he was good anil smart, Rut hu ana All the neighbors would own I done iny part; For life was all before me, an' I was young nn' strong, And I worked the best that I could In tryln* to get along. And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer ua on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clem an' neat, An' went to school, like others, au' had enough to eat. So we worked for the chlldr'n, and raised 'em every one; Worked fof 'em summer an* winter, Just as we ought to've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, Hut every couple's child'rns a heap the best to them. Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!— I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God He made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed It sometimes somehow falls to work the other way. Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptln' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an* nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts lie come one day, an* took him away from me. Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall — Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley wai pretty good to tne, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtln', and brought a wife from town. She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile— She was quite eonceity, and carried a heap of style; But If ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an* I couldn't make It go. She had an edlcatlon, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 't was carryln' things too fur; An' 1 told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick). That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rlthmetlc. So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done— They was a family of themselves, and I an other one; And a very little cottage one family will do. But I never have s«*en a house that was big enough for two. An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' It made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I wan terribly staggered, an* felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'ln me, an' told ma 1 could go. I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a hlntln' how suug It was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. An* then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's bulldlngs'd cover the half of an aero lot; But all the chlld'rn was on me—l couldn't stand their sauce — And Thomas Hald I needn't think I was couiln' there to boss. And then I wrote to Itebecca, my girl who live* out West, And to Isaac, not far from her—aome twen ty miles at best; And one of 'etn anld 'twna too warm thera for anyone ao old, And t'other hnd on opinion the climate waa too cold. So thry have shirked and alighted me, an' ahlfted me about— So they have well nigh aoured me, an' wore my old heart out; But atlll I've borne up pretty well, an' waan't much put down, Till Charley went to the poormaater, an' put me on the town. Over the hill to the poorhouae—my clill dr'n dear, good-by; Many a night I've watched you when only <;od waa nigh; And God'll Judge between ua, but I will al'aya pray That >ou shall never Buffer the half I do to day. —Will M. Carleton. She Jumped at It. Mr. I>aybor—We traveling men an thinking of organizing. Miss Nlederman (vaguely)— Yes? Mr. Laybor—Yes. I wonder whal the public would think of our union T I Miss Nlederman—Oh, Mr. Layboq thl» Is so sudden!—Phllndelphli j Ledger. They talk about the ability o! "young blood." Our experience has been that it requires a good deal ot training.