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rxsnaenn Adapted and Translated from tho French of Jules Mary. BY OLIVE HARPES. CHAPTER IX. After tho scones related in tbe preceding chapter Suzanne wan taken ill of brain fever, and for a long time they despaired of ber life, but at last sue regained consciousness and Utile by little her strength. As soon as it was possible the was removed to ber great uncle's home in tbe Val Dieu, near the Ardeu tios mountain. Here the old man bad a foundry and a large, roomy bouse surrounded by trees and a carries., while not far away flowed the liver Meuxe. The sweet, quiet and pure air soon restored the child to health, but she seemed to have forgotten all about the tragic scenes through which she bad passed. Tbe old couple told ber that her parents had gone away on a voyage, and she looked at tbem quietly without speaking as they told her, so that when they were alone they said thankfully: .. "She has forgotten all that went before this sickness. Lot us thank Go, that it is so." . Winter, always severe in the' Ardennes, caine, and ice and snow took tbe place of the grass and fruits of autumn, and winter and cummer went, and winter and summer came again. Roger had been ono year and a half in the galleys. The snow bad fallen several days and tbe frost had made it hard and brittle, and travel was almost suspended in the Val Dieu, and the foundries seemed silent as tbe heavy snow deadened the noises, and the wooden sabots of tho workmen were as silent as If made of wadded wool as they walked over tbe thick snow. Night came, calm, cold and still, and the moonlight gave an unearthly brilliance to the scene. As the cold was intense all the houses along tbe street of Val Dieu wore closed, and cheerful lights showed from tho open win dows. Tbe rigorous cold seemed to throw tbe whole viliago into a state of torpor. The street was deserted, though it was but 10 o'clock, er.cepl. at tho great foundry, where they worked night and day. At 10:30 a man appeared near tho tunnel of the railroad, on the jetty by the river side, no had come in on tbe lato train, ne was tall, though he walked bent as if be Lore a heavy weight on his shoulders, and he walked direct toward tbe foundry belonging to Mi Bernardit, and when there his feet refused to carry him aud be leaned against an up turned cart, as If not knowing what else to do. A few moment he stood thus and then felt a heavy hand clasp bis shoulder and a voice say somewhat rudely: 'Who are you and what are you doing herer "You are M. Adrion Bernardit, are you not?' "I am, and who are youf The unknown looked about him timidly, and then sail in a low voice that seemed broken by emotion: Alas, I am Roger Laroque !" "You, in France and free I" "Yes, I am here," said Roger, lifting his hat so that M. Bernardit could see him clearer, and then ho continued: "And Suzanne, my child) You do not tell me if she lives." "She lives and is well, and is with us." Roger sighed as if a great weight was lifted from his heart. There was a short si lence between them, then Bernardit said: "Come, come home with me. Wo can talk there at our ease, for you want no one to ste you, 1 8upposeF' They walked in silence to the house, where the old lady was still sitting before tho fire. When she saw her husband come in with that pale, ragged man, with his long Lair and beard in disorder, she rose with a look of fright. Bernardit closed and locked the door and then coming close to his wife said: It is Laroque, the child's father." "You hero and free?" said tho old lady, trembling, and using almost tho same words as her husband had. Roger bowed without f peaking, and sank into a chair. Finally he mastered his emo tion enough to ask to see Suzanne. The old couplo looked pitifully at each other, nad bo come to tako their child! "Sho is asleep," said the old lady. "I will not disturb her. Only let mo look at her. I never hoped to see her again. Oh, Ht mo seo her now!" They opened a door and signed him to fol low. Thero was a dainty little room, a little bod with snowy curtains, and on tho white bed slept Suzanne, tbe light falling softly upon her rosy face and her shining hair. He knult beside tbe bod and kissed the dimpled hand that lay outside the cover, but so softly thatlho sleeper know nothing. With his heart relieved Roger retired from the room and returned with the old couple to tbe fireside, and then be wept in silence for a few moments. His heart was rent with sor-v row. and by the sight of that little form ho loved r. well and from whom ho had been so cruelly separated a year and a half ago. Suddenly ho gasped for breath and seemed attacked by vertigo, and was falling from his chair when Bernardit caught him, and Roger murmured as if ashamed: "Give me a little bread, for pity's sake; I have not eaten for throe days." After having eaten, Roger told his story of how he had escaped with three political pris oners, and they had made their way, step by step, from one place to another, working their passage as sailors until they reached America. At New York Roger bad found a position in a machine shop, and as soon as he had earned enough money he had returned to Europe, but he had not enough, and at Antwerp ho found himself without money to Auy food, and lie dared not attempt to make ibe voyage in France on foot for fear of being recognized. So ho paid railroad fare and bad reached here almost starved. He knew from Lucientbat tbe Bernardits would take Su zanne, and here he came, scarce daring to j ope she was alive. AndklMud th dimpled hand. 1 And what do you Intend to dor -uo not tear that I intend to trouble you long. I would not wish to do you any harm," answered Roger, a little bitterly. "I bad no such thought," said the good old man. "I only Trishod to know your plans. I know that you would be lost if you remain ia Franco.r "I shall leave France to-night, and pnly ask of you that you lend me a few clothes and a little money. Tho money is not for myself, but for Suzanne, who could not en dure deprivation. Be sure that I will repay it" . "But Suzanne?" "I have come to take her." "You are going to take her from mV "Why are you surprised! Is it not my right? I cannot live without her." . "Listen, Roger," said the old man slowly. "Here Suzanne will live in peace and com fort Here she will ' have an honored name, which unfortunately you cannot give her now. Think twice before you drag her into a life such as yours must be henceforth, in exile and far from her mother's grave. Roger, leave her with us. We love her well; as well as you, and it seems to ine that it is your duty." - "Uncle, hear met lam, a4 you say, a dis graced and hunted man, condemned inno cently to exile from my country. I have nothing but this child. She is everything to me. I need ber, otherwise my heart will break, Listen to me and hear tbe true story of this crime for which I am mnjustly pun ished. I have never told it before, and would not now, only that you may feel that I am not entirely unworthy the consolation of my child." . ' And then he told them all, reserving noth ing except the name of Julia; and they beard and believed him truly, and said no more against his right to take Sucanne, though their poor o!d hearts bled. . "But the guilty one. Have you ever thought it was that woman?" ' "Yes, but I cannot believe she did it. Had shea lover who gave her the money? Was it for vengeance? I am lost in conjecture. But I shall never give up my intention to clear up this crime." Long they talked of the past, of poor Henri ette, whose body they found in the river, though unrecognizable, and whom they buried piously in the little churchyard at Ville d'Avray, of the machine works which the good old Bernardit still managed for Su zanne's sake. Then he gave Roger what money he had, which was some 80,000 francs, which was the profits of the past year and a half, and a luit of bis own .clothes. When all this was done it was nearly 1 o'clock. Roger said: "I roust go from here at 2 on the train, and it will lie necessary to rouse Suzanne and get her dressed." With heavy hearts the old couple roused and dressed the child and wrapped her in a warm fur cloak and a hood and pulled thick woolen stockings over her shoes that she might not be cold. A small bundlo of neces saries for Suzanne was made up, and then tho time had come for them to go. The old aunt wept those hard wrung tears of the aged as she wrapped tbe little child she loved so tenderly, and tben they opened the door. The weather had changed and the snow was falling in great flakes, obscuring the road and rendering it almost impossible to see a yard in advance. "Roger," said the old man, "I forgot to say that Suzanne, after the fever she bad, has never seemed to remember that dreadful experience. She thinks that you and her mother are traveling. I would not try to awaken her memory. She will be happier so. I think God had pity upon her youth and tenderness and so veiled her memory." "God grant it," said Laroque. "I wish I also might forget." Suzanne had not aroused enough to know anything that was taking place, or that she was being dressed for a voyage. But at last she opened her eyes. "Is it morning?" said ebo drowsily. "No, pi-ecious one," sold tbe old lady. 'It is in the middle of the night, but we had to take you up to tell aome good news." "Is it Christmas?" "No, darling, but your dear papa, who bos been away so long, has come homo," A nervous tremor passed through the deli cate frame of the child, and she took on sud denly that same look she had worn during those terriblo days, but 6he said nothing, and tho three anxious persons arountl her did not notice. By and by she said slowly: "Father has come? Where is he, then?" Then Roger stepped forward and took her in his arms and covered her with kisses, and ho did not notice that she did not kiss him. Then ho asked: "Aro you glad to see mo, my child?" "Yes, father." "Wo will not be parted again. Wo are go ing away together." 'Going away ? Going to leave Val Dieu and .good undo and aunt? Father, why cannot you stay here?" "For reasons which you cannot understand, my darling." "I am very sorry to leave here, father, but we will go." ."Sho has entirely forgotten," said ho, thank fully, to himself. At last Suzanne, muffled up to tbe eyes, was ready, and the old aunt, with tears streaming down her withered cheeks, said: "Go, my child, my darling. I am too old to hope to ever see you again. Take, then, my last kiss, and may God guard you and guide youl" Tben the uncle kissed the pale little face, and his heart swelled with grief, but be tried to bear up. "My precious baby,'' said be, "your father needs you, and you must go. He will do all he can to make you happy. Do the same for him. If you ever come baf k to France, come homo here, where you are our own child. God bless you. Roger, write to us, and let us know how she is, and send ber photograph if you can, and as often as you want money send for it." "Good aunt and uncle, I will never forget you, and I will love you forever," said the child. Then Roger took her in his arms and went out into the tempest of snow and icy wind, and in twenty minutes more they were speed ing away toward the frontier, while the two desolate' old people wept in their deserted home. CHAPTER X. There was a grave in the churchyard at Ville d'Avray, and on the headstone was the name of Henriette Laroque, with tbe date of ber death engraved upon it; but she who slept beneath was not the unhappy young wife of that still more unfortunate man. Henriette, after that lost day at tbe court, had fallen into such a state of mental apathy as would have caused her friends the liveliest apprehension had tbe poor creature hod any one capable of appreciating her dangerous condition; but those who surrounded ber thought this only the natural reaction after such acute suffering as she had undergone. And so at last the poor overwrought brain gave way and Ebe lost ber reason completely. Her instinct, which now governed her move ments, made her feci that this was an un pleasant place; that it was connected some how with something that gave her pain, and she wandered oil into the woods, bareheaded, in her simple black dress, which she had now adopted entirely, and with thin house slippers on her tiny feet The silence and calm of the cool green for est soothed ber and she wandered down to tbe water' j edge. While there a little boat came floating along, terytntlesa, and a little eddy brought it within her reach. With a child ish, unmeaning laugh she seized it and drew it gently to her and then sprang in, and tbe movement gave impetus to the boat, which floated out and iuto tbe swift current. Tbe gentle movement of tbe boat calmed tbe overwrought nerves and Henriette fell asleep and never awoke until daylight on tbe fol lowing morning.' ' j Sho was far away from her home then and ' in the heart of a mountainous region, where herds and flocks were browsing aud farming i in the valleys was tho principal industry. At a bend in the river some floating brushwood turned the little boat to the bank and Henri- ' ette stepped ashore, with one bare foot and ono foot shod with a satin slipper. Her blind instinct led her toward a habita tion and she limped along until she reached a farm, and sho went on silently, like a black ' shadow, and up a flagged walk to an open doorway, through tho door and into a large, neat farm kitchen, where she stood smiling with childish innocence upon the astonished inmates. The owners of this farm were an old couple named Dubois, and they were childless, and had been very unfortunate in their crops for three or four years. They were simple, ignorant and superstitious, but possessed of good hearts. They had not heard Henriette come in, nor had they seen her until some how they turned and there she was. She smiled and appeared so gentle, and yet so strange that they regarded her with awe, and she sat down with them at tbe table ead ate like a famished creature, but tbey saw that ber soft, white bands bad never done any work. Tbey asked her questions as to whence she came, who she was, but the only answer she would give was: "I know nothing about it" At night tho good old couple placed her in their own clean bed and they slept upon a pallet They said to each other:. "We must keep ber. She may be a Mas cotte and bring us good luck again." And so poor demented Henriette found shelter and a home with this simple, worthy couple, and she staid there contentedly, help ing the old woman in many ways. Always smiling, always gentle and amiable, and whether it was that she was a Mascotte or no, the next eight seasons harvests were so full and abundant and everything pros pered so well with these two old people, that ono might say that their kindness to a help less stranger hod brought God's blessing with it. But these poor creatures lived se far away from Paris, and knew so little of what passed in the world outside of their narrow valley, that they could never have imagined the truth, and as Henriette bad dropped into their world without warning or knowledge they accepted her advent and never dreamed of making inquiries. They called her Marie, not knowing any other name, and she was treated far better than they used themselves. What work sho did was done voluntarily. She fed tho chickens and lambs and gathered fruit, and did much sewing, her beautiful work seeming like fairy stitches to the old people. But her out door life and tbe pure air, and excellent food rendered her physical health much more robust than it bad ever been, aud ber chest, which had showu ten dency of weakness, filled out with renewed vigor, and her beauty took a richer type, even though clouded by the Impenetrable mists of insanity. Her insanity took a mild type and she seemed to have gone back mentally to the state of a child of 0 or 7, so Innocent and so ignorant did she appear. She spoke very rarely, and then only in mono syllables, and to every question that was asked of her on any subject she replied: "I do not know," and tben she might after ward say what was desired of her, but it was indelibly fixed in that poor wrecked in telligence that she must always disclaim any knowledge. Thero is no doubt that this was ono of the happiest periods of Henrietta's existence, for, knowing nothing, she suffering nothing. Peace and kindness were her portion and bodily health a full and precious boon. In no asylum the world affords could this poor, stricken wife and mother have had better conditions for her ultimate cure than here. There was nothing to arouse her dormant faculties, to make her remember that sho was or over bad been a mother. In this peaceful if humble place Henriette Laroque lived eight long years. Barely 24 years old when this crushing blow fell upon her, sho was now. Si, but time wan gentlo with her, and the absence of wearing thought, coupled with her healthy life, left liea far fresher and younger in appearance than kio had been beforo siio bocamo demented. It was in 1873 that tho tr-io events wo havo narrated took place, and wo tako up tha thread again in 1880, and follow Roger La roque and his littlo girl, who eight years Ik fore in a stormy night left Franco for America. One day, quite unexpectedly, a tall man, with wide shoulders, with hair and head white as snow, though he was not old enough to have hod such rt mark of age, alighted from the train at a 6tation in the charming littlo valley town of Chevreuse. With him was a beautiful young girl, whoso ago would be judged to bo somewhere near 20, but who was in reality not yet 17. They were both strangers, and as such attracted consid erable attention from tho loungers about the station, who woro equally 6truck by the beauty and distinction of tho young girl and the peculiar appearanco of tho man. Not only were his hair and beard white, but bis face was horribly disfigured by what see mod scars from a burn. Tbey walked toward a villa wbich was for salo, and examined it with a view to its pur chase, and in a few days they were installed there as tbe owners. As is usual in small villages, the people of this charming valley soon found out all about their new neighbor, who had bought tho White House, as the villa was called, and they toll each other that he was a rich Canadian who had come to France with his daughter. His name was William Forney, and that of tbe daughter Miss Suzanno Forney. He? mother was dead. When they were settled in their new home M. Forney asked his daughter if she thought she should feel bappy in her now home. She replied: , "Wherever you are I am bappy, and I feel sure that wo will both be happy here." The father bowed bis head and looked tenderly at bis daughter, stifling a sign. As the reader will have divined, this fatber and , child were tbe same who bad fled from France on that dreary night, Roger Laroque and Suzanne. ' When Roger had left France for tbe second time, and as a fugitive from justice, carrying hU precious burden be took passage for New York, where bo stayed but a short time and then went to Canada, where be went to work in a machine shop with a sort of avidity, hoping to regain fortune and return to France with the one pur pose of discovering tbe mystery of tbe drama of the Ville d'Avray. Such energetic and intelligent labor was bound to acbievo its result, and one after an other Roger mado three important inventions in tbe making and management of steel. He returned to New York, and he succeeded with his inventions beyond his most sanguine hopes, and be found himself ia tbe posMcsion of a reasonable fortune, with every reason to believe that it would grow and multiply into more than ho should ever need. While here Roger met with an accident, which disfigured him so greatly that be felt almost as if it were a special providence He bad rushed to assist in saving somo jcoplt whose escape from a burning building was cut off, oud, after having brought them down to tho street in safety, a burning timber fell, striking liitu on the left side of tbe face, nnd burning it so that tho scar wuicu remained almost 'destroyed tbe entire symmetry and color of that side of his face. lis moved away from that place and again returned to New York, only now ho bore the namo of William Forney, aud Suzanne in a few years seemed to forget that she had ever bad another name. But did she really for get? Roger felt sure she had, for during these whole ten years she had never made the slightest mention, nor given ono look that might give rise- to a suspicion that she re membered. So Roger's miud easy oa that score. Ona day Roger eaid to ber quite unoxpect edly: - , . . . "Suzanne, we are going to leave New York and go to Paris, a place you know mailing of. Wbatdoyousayi" "I shall like to go whenever you do, father; no matter where it is." She said that calmly, and nothing in her face showed a bidden thought, yet, after Roger had gone out, her face saddened, and a retrospective look came into tho depth of her lovely violet eyes. Tbey reached Paris, and Roger went boldly about, knowing himself, unrecognizable, and on a solid footing as far as his identity was concerned. He was received as a rich Ameri can Canadian who bad made bis fortune by inventions relating to steel. Roger went everywhere, and no one knew him. ne passed tbe very judges who had questioned him, ho went to thj concierge of . his old apartment where Julia had left the fatal money, and where he bad lived so long, but tbo concierge answered his trifling ques tions as if to a stranger. He went to bis old fac tory. ' No one knew him. His uncle, Ber nardit, bad sold the factory just before his death, which took place somo two years bo fore, and Roger's heart drew him toward tho old place. It was the hour for dinner, and the workmen died past him, but though tbey looked curiously at the man standing there, none of them knew him, though be could havo callad them nearly all by namo. This and tho regret caused by the death of old M. Bernardit and bis wifo saddened Roger greatly. This noble and kind old couplo had invented a story abouc having put. Suzanne in a convent school, and the neighbors never questioned its truth. So everything conspired to aid Roger in his new life. Ono day Roger told Suzanno to not feel uneasy if he was not home as early us usual, that be wished to look at some coun try houses and might be detained. This was while they wero still at the Hotel Scribe. Tbe truth was that he wished to wait until night fell and go to Villo d'Avray and kneel by poor Henrietta's grave, which he had never seen, but which was holy ground to him. All the late afternoon he wandered about the littlo village into the' woods behind and beyond tbo house whoro he had lived. The houso was closed and the beautiful garden had run to weeds. Desolation and neglect wero marked upon the place, and Roger could not bear the sight of his once charm ing home thus gono to decay. He wandered to the edge of the town to the little grave yard, but until night fell he dared not go to tbe tomb be searched. The moon rose and by its light he discovered a grave surrounded by an iron grating, and 6a the marble cross, hidden by weeds that grew rank over the poor martyr beneath, he found tho name of his wife. He sank down and laying his face on the cold damp grass wept for his young wifo, whose death now seemed moro real to him than it ever had before. He gathered a handful of the rank, coarso weeds and kissed tbem and placed them in his pocket and rose to go, with a heavy heart, for 6ho had died believing him guilty. Ho had turned to go, when be thought he saw a woman's figure moving among tho 'graves. His heart stood Etill, and he looked with wild eyes toward the phantom, if such it was. ne watched and be walked from ono grave to another, searching everywhere and looking at all the inscriptions on tho stonc3 a3 sho went His heart stopped beating, n3 something in her walk or movement told him that it was hi3 daughter, though a long cloak nnd hood drawn closely over her faco completely hid her from view. If it was Suzanno, then sho bad forgotten nothing I Sho knew all, and for ten long years had so dissimulated that ho was en tirely deceived, in spite of all the efforts ho had mado to discover her mind. His emotion was so strong that ho was obliged to seat himself upon a tombstone and wipe away tho thick drops of cold sweat from his forehead "I will know if it is 6ho," said be; "I must know. If it i3 Really Suzanno she will go to per mother's tomb." As he was about to go back, there, near him, stool tho winio dark shadow going toward the gate. "Madame, mademoiselle, for pity's sake, one word." The shadow heard, but that voice fright ened ber, for 6he began to run swiftly and disappeared from viow. "I wiil know. I will bo at the station and await if necessary all night He ran all ths way nnd reached the station, seeing no one but men on tbe way; but there was no one there. The train did not leave for a quarter of an hour, and he waited and watched an J he waited and watched again until another one had gone. Then he decided to go home, and there bo would surely find out if Su canne was or had been out When he reached tbe hotel it was nearly 11 o'clock, and Su zanne was not In their common parlor. Then the father went to Suzanne's bed room and softly tried the knob. The door opened, but tbe room was dark. 'She has not returned," thought he, a prey to violent agitation. Just then the voice of Suzanne broke tbe stillness: . . . "Is that you. father!" A Joy beyond words beamed in hi eyes as be heard that voice, Sbe was there asleep quietly in ber bed and be had aroused ber. So he was mistaken. He thanked God in his beart "Yes, dear, ft is I. I thought I beard yoa cry out" ! "No, fatber, I was asleep." "Sleep again, my darling; sleep. And so, glad and reassured, tbe fatber kissed tbe daughter and retired. Suzanne gave sigh of relief when be was gone, and said: "He did not know me, hap pily." Roger bad not been deceived, for it was Suzanne n ho had been in the cemetery and kissed the cold iron that surrounded the grave tbat beld a mother's precious clay. (TO BE CONTINUED. The great quantity of waste matter to be hourly and dally removed from the system render It of the utmost Importance that the stomach and liver be kept In perfect order. Laxador accomplishes this. All druggists sell It at 25 cents a package. ' OR. S, B. HARTMAN'S LECTURE. 0a Scrofula -All About That Burner in Tour Elocd Xhat Erca a Out Every Sprint?, Spring ElocdL Disorders, Dependent - on Scrofula. Scrofula Is a name given to a certain bod ily tfBiperanicnt or tendency (dyocrasla) which Is quite common In childhood, being less frequent In people of middle or old age. It affects principally the lymphatic glands of the body, but It may attack the mucous membranes, especially of the eyes, throat and lungs. It Is a constitutional disease, and is generally Inherited. The causes of scrofula are Inheritance (herlditary.) unfavorable conditions of life, low, damp dwellings, want of light, Insuf ficient food, mental depression and acute diseases, especially measles. In , fact any thing that lowers the vitality of a young child is liable to take the form of sciofula. Crowding young children too rapidly with their studies frequently, results In develop ing latent scrofula. , v-, Enlarged glands at either side of the neck and throat and also In the groins, a creamy white skin, with a tendency to fleshiness, too surely reveal the presence of chronic scrofula. Lumps in the breast, many of which are mistaken for cancer, are ao doubt the great majority of them scrofulitlc en largement of the mammary glands. , Chro nic sores on the Hps, ulcerated mouth and throat, are most always due to scrofula. Ulcers on various parts of the body, partic ularly about the head or shins are rarely due to other than scrofulitlc taints. ' I have known cases where the body waa nearly covered with ulcors, which had been treated for years as syphilis or cancers, to yield at once to remedies for scrofula. The treatment for scrofula consists of external applications, and Internal medica tions. In regard to the external treatment of enlarged glands or scrofulitlc tumors and ulcers, nothing but poultices of some kind should be applied. A flax seed meal poul tice to the inflamed glands or other swell ings is the proper external treatment of them, as it hastens the discharge of the pus. An open ulcer or running sore Is best treat ed with the clay poultice as described on page 22 of my pamphlet "Ills of Life." On no account should any treatment be allowed which has the effect of hindering the free discharge of the pus. The diet should be liberal, consisting as much as possible of animal food, such as meat, eggs, fish, milk, etc. Cod liver oil may be taken after meals, in cases where It Is well borne by the stomach. I do not re gard cod liver oil as 4 medicine, but simply as a concentrated food, and I recommend it in all cases of wasting disease, where It is agreeable to the stomach. . But no food, however concentrated or nutrlous it may be, will erradicate the poison from the system. La-cu-pla must be used to accomplish this result. With ordinary care as to diet and exposure, if La-cu-pi-a Is taken regularly, n cure Is certain. , In young children, as soon as the first en larged gland of the neck or groin makes Its appearance, the above diet 6hould be begun and La-cu-pi-a given according to directions and such external treatment as the case seems to demand. When the gathering is In the head and the discharge is from the ears very little external treatment can be used except to syringe the car out with warm water. In such cases La-cu-pi-a must be relied on entirely, for any medicine put in the ear will onlx do harm. In older people, scrofula Is more liable to appear in the form of boils, ulcers, carbuncles, or eruptions; also chronic Inflammation of tho eyelids, producing red watery eyes. The only medicine that Is necessary to use in addition to La-cu-pi-a In the treat ment of any case of scrofula is a good laxa tive in cases where the bowels are consti pated. The laxative which experience has taught me to be the best Is Man-a-lln, and as it works admirably with La-cu-pi.a. I advise any who find it necessary to take any laxative while using La-cu-pl-a to get Man-a-lin. After many years experience I have have never known a thorough course of the above described treatment to fail to cure even the worse cases of scrofula. ARE THE STRONGEST. NCNC GENU INC WITH OUT THE BM LABEL Slnnuf (I by Wm. Atkks ft Kern. Phllada., who make the famous Horse Brand Kaker blankets. BUY THE BEST ONLY If you buy your , . PIANOS d ORGANS -KROJI- J". Ji.. PRISE .THE LITE MUSIC MAN You can save Twenty per cent. 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A',ii Jtm-- Chicheatcr Cheaaieal C., Madlaea Is, 1'hllada, l'a -. PARKER'S 1 m m a m m m. mm nAlli UALUAUI Cleanses and beautifies the hair. Promotes a luxuriant growth. ; Never Fa Is ia Restore Grey nairta its Youthful uoior. PrerenU lUn'tntir an4 hair falling 6Qo. anil at 00 at PrngirtHT. UGW THYSELF. AScicutiflaand Standard i'opular Medical Treatise oa the Errors of Youth, Premature Decline, Nervous ' , and rnyaicai wbiuiy, impurities ox me uiooa, Resulting trom Folly, Vice, Ignorance. Kiceasca or.., , Overtaxation, Enervating and unfitting tbe victim for Work, Business, the Married or Social Relation. Avoid unskilful pretenders, tasseia this great work. It contains 300 pages, roval 8vo. Beautiful binding, embossed, full gllU Price, only (1.00 by mail, post-paid, concealed la plain wrapper.. 111ns trative Prospectus Free If von apply nova- Tbe distinguished author. Wni. II. Parker, IS. Dv, re eel ved the GOLD AND JEWELLED MEDAL from the National Medical Association ' for the PRIZE E88AV on NERVOUS and , PHYSICAL DEBILITY. Dr. Parker and a corps, f Assistant Physicians may be consulted, conn- V : dentially, by Hall or In person, at the office of - THE l'EABODY MEUICAC INSTITUTE. No. 4 Uulflnch St., Hoaton. Mass., to whom all t . orders for books or letters 'or advice should to directed as above. "cured mtrm Mitdiell's Rhenmatie ; Plasters. IHTAHTHEUEFrOR AIX EMITniATIO VAOX3. Fnts cvrtn forRhcnmatlBm.HenralglaandRclatlca. Hoiii by drnf;ists cvory where, or by mail, 25centa. Kovelty I'laater Works JLowell, Alaas. AGENTS WASTED liirgo profit s, quick galea Samnle frca. A rnre opportunity. Geo. A. Scott, H-W Broadway, N. Y. . - , NE88 A HUB NOISES CURED by iifi:nue Whlirm Tina.rH. flnm. eulTt BfSway, Hw t-rk. Writ for Saas. mt araaft ftta. M AUK WITH llOILINO WATKlt, 9 GRATEFUL COMFORTING. MADK WITH IIOIMNO M1T.K. HINDERCOR.tS. The only sure Cure for Corns. 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Every druprtflst: f Am Pill Co l'rcni , hjieflcer Iowa. The pubjio and trade supplied bjrML Ilagg & Co, Owosso, Mich. Dr. Qucn'G Electric Dolt.. yJ.is L FO" "A" AnO WJMAIt ZCtZ RWaautim. Hrwhfn Dt. K,wjr rlMMMwesaMMtCvaalataa, 'viN 8ual E'hausti a, 4- A. 1 1.V vvv a Wllli. au. Vb ttaaea, Iirmotnoy, Par. Bemlnai wao. J'r.t . Improved Auk 1. lxxtf AwardedthahiKhewtmMlaiat Cincinnati fcxponUon, ink OIim mild or ttronir ourrtns of aieotiicHy wlik'h Omr'ate and nltaatare to rasters weak art-ens to hal a and Vtrar. ELECTRIC INSOLES ft OC. Hviul r for anJrd illui4raire!alfltrue with tut) hut of rtiivaar and valuable information and swor stntenvmi In Knult. h German Swedish ana Norwegian. ' DR. OWE BUT CO. . 191 1& State St. Chlcano, Ik Mr. Allen Golden Hair Wash- Parisian Fa- fUeach. Mamma Dura, for developing the tinrt. Fupma, for removing superfluous hatr. Hang dressing. ADcwxls wholmale and retail. Hend t et. mamp for Illustrated circular. Full line ef fine hair goods. MRS. It. W. AI.I.KN, (19 Wood WAa-Av..DsTBoiT. For salt by druggists -It DHQLK3BTI