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ft. Wm 'amZ H§ -CHAPTER XVII. (Continued.) Such a proud, grand face, for all its t'tiOjriBb brightness! A faco full of jec tttude and ?rtle, and honor, of firm, though gen- resolve. mouth, "i' an'«, wit ha I For a A face with a well-cut mirthful and sweet as a worn" pair of leas eyes, a riJ 1 big, black, daunt- flashing and spirited. long time she looked at it In Ullettce—looked at (He—with a aion, at it as women look that which is dearest to calm, rigid and enforced. "There!" She turned suddenly away as she spoke, with a gesture that might al most be called a wrench, so different was it from her usual stately move ments. She began walking rapidly up and j.' down the room. "What: news will he bring me? There! I am quite strong nov—quite! tVhat is that cynical thought which has been intruding itself of late?—that we are all* foois, we women! Well, we can keep, our own secrets—thank God for that!" Once she paused, and thrusting her %, hand In her bosom drew forth a gleam fng objecfcr-a heavy, antique locket of dull gold. It was a gift that Cllye had brought to his mother on the evening of his last home coming. Cynthia had found It the Itiorhing after bis departure— fPund It on the floor of the library, where if had been flung the previous evening in bitter anger. She opened it no^v and held It in the full, floft candle light. She bent a lit tle forward, and leaning her elbow on the table, her,bead on her hand, looked long aid earnestly at the face it con talned. An older, stronger, graver face than that which hung on tho wall. A sweep- liig mustache shaded, but did not. hide, the fine lips. The clearly-defined feat -ttrca were decidedly handsome, the dark, eager .eyes hawk-like and sjpir ffed. i% What was that—a tear? Miss I. ennox started as that burning drop fell upon her hand1—started as though it had stung her. i*f She clasped the locket hurriedly, -I/" and thrusting it in her bosom, recom j^'teenced her restless walk. Hark! The great iron knocker was Hounding a summons on the hall door. rr~ A moment more, and she could hear sv Mr. Bowers' spjooth tones in the corri dor beyond "Present my compliments te Lafly Oarrington, and Inform her of my ar rival. What! Miss Lennox desires to see me? The last room? Very well!" Cynthia was standing by the center table ^hen he entered—an erect, ex pectant, quiet figure. She looked un commonly stall As she stood just now, J/t olnd in a high'throAtod, long-waisted gown of a peculiar, soft, rich Violet, Which fell to the floor in flowing and* unbroken lines. "Good evening, Miss Lennox!" snifl the man of law, deferentially, though his emile had lott much of Its former a'ftrufflsd serenity. "An unpleasant evening, is It not?\,^Our charming •weather could no£ last,—a very un pleasant evening!" fi The^glrl made a faint, impatient mo tion with her hand. •'•That will do. Do not think me dis ||§f GCWt&ouB., but we cannot discuss the Hit ^-weather now. Ptc?*s shut the door." And when be bad done so she- wheel ed suddenly round and" faced him, in Mf-atrong but restrained excitement. "Now!" she cried—"quick—tell me! have -heard—you have news! 1 J§Tfead it In your face Where id ho?— ~|s bow is he? Quick!" 'ti'hG words, the tone, the manner of ®%iev«rish eagerness, were so wholly foroign to calm, haughty Cynthia Lcii boa- that the person she addressed re ,ji, !gftrded' her a second In amazement. "Well?" she prompted. f?' He lifted his head with an air of sud ifden. logged resolution, and looked her tali In the fBca. And this time he did ftot try to smile. '"Weil, 1 suppose'it is no use trying to break things to yon,"he said, slow f#. Ypu are right—( have news! What |rJli 3tnorer—I have bad nowal" He paused 'moment. f'Qo on!" fsBe glanced ap at which, I cidate 1 By K. TEMPLE MOO them in reverence rife with pas- her!" her half-tlmidly. lofty, Imperial presence seemed dwarf the Little lawyer mentally as irtijll an, physically. 1 worked conscientiously «m incessantly. amfeabsolutely with out success. I ,ta&tvaee, i" cou^. iscover no clue, no guide tti j31r Cllve Garrlug- S^riftVjsher eaboi ts. I bad decided to Odjme down and itell ytu I must throw oase* when, providentially and ^rfthotrt any effort whatsoever on my that, had been striving WisE tdl ,f/t once ^«idp)^Q^ia •—L. SP made Vr4 iBried» ejcpjoalon 'ofii'ae meager utock ot i», xov&V -fp-r'-.-Atrrr—• 'A-.W.SAFTC'I^U^ a very wealthy client of mine, Cuth bert Bracken by name—called at my office a few days ago, and in the course of conversation he alluded to his late and most marvelous-escape from ship wreck. Having leisure, I asked him to describe the scenes, tp me minutely. He did so. ,' '"How many perished on the burn ing vessel?' I asked. 'r cannot be positive,' he replied, 'but at all events there were two per sons. There may have possibly been more, but these I can remember dis tinctly. They only rushed on deck as our beat—the last boat—was pulling off quite too late for us to render them any aid. One was my stepfather's grandchild, Laurence Lisle!" "Laurence Lisle!". Miss Lennox liad staggered back, with a lion rue catching of her breath. Laureiu-o Lisle! Was not that the name of the girl wlioni Lady Carring t.011 liatl mentioned an—Ah, what was coining? She was afraid-—afraid to think. She stretched out her hand for him to proceed, with a wordless, imploring gesture. "Her companion Mr. Bracken did not luiov.', beyond.the fact that she ad dressed him as—Clive." "Clive!" Was it a word or a sob? "Yes," he went on rapidly, "and following the clue presented by the word, I, the following day, searched and examined the. records at the vari ous shipping offices. At one I came acrosa the name of a sailor engaged to work Jiis way across on board the Dolphin. Tne name, was signed 'Clive Stuart'—a family name of the Carring tons, you will remember—Stuart." Bui Cynthia Lennox did not hear a ey'.ishlo. She was standing before the. picture which hung above the mantle, her brown, blazing- eyes literally de vouring it. Her face was white as ashes her hands were twisting and wrenching each other in cruel anguish. "So! He married her and they sailed away together!" she whispered to herself. "Ah, how I envy her—how I envy her!" .: -i-y, "Karlc!" %\i, Again the knocker, wielded by no gentle hand, sent its brisk summons echoing through the house. The new heir! She dug her nails into her soft palms to keep her from crying out in her sharp,' awful pain. "Gol she said, huskily, and. nodded toward the door. Mr. Bowers bowed and went out In silence. She walked after him and turned the key in the lock. Then she came slbwly .back across the room, and leaning both arms on the mantel's broad slab, looked up till her eyes rest ed on tho smiling, boyish face above her. She was shaking violently from head to icet', as though chilled to the heart with- hitter, cold. "Hov,' I envy her!" she said, in a soft, panting whisper—"how "CHAPTER XVIII. "Past All, Save Peace." The dressing bell rang, and still that closed door at the end of the great corridor did not open. Throughout the vast old hpuse the curtains were drawn in cosy and de termined exclusion of the dreary night without The fires-were stirred to ruddier radiance,,.the lamps were burning clearly. Ths dinner bell was clanging out its .summon5, \vh6n Miss Lennox came Into the hall, shuttiDg .and lqcking the door behind her. Her foot was on the first step of the stairs, when- she felt a hand laid on bor arm, and turned to face Mr. Bow- e,5Wi: 'Miss Lennox," lie said, in anxious Vtr "what are we to do? Lady Carrfngtou should know of this. It is but right and necessary that she phoulu be informed, and yet,..how. shall w^ t,olt he)^—who shall tell her? You," in nervous Insinuation/"are like her own daughter. Perhaps—you—" "Yes," 'in a low, rapid voice I will teli bar. You need say no word to her—oqne. I will tell jher—later.", She went swiftly up- the wide stair way, her purplish draperies trailing be. hind her. At the head of the stairs she met the doctor on hlB way from tliei sick chamber. Her looked at her keenly. "How is sh». doctor?" "Better to-night, I V.-«VJM!MUM. and I envy am happy to say— much lyettTl The fever, though very 'fieice, -wacj brief., She will waken and ha conscious about midnight but she must not be allowed to'talk, or be any way subjected t* excitement, But you," -with a penetratti}g l^iolj, "you are ill yourself. Miss Lei^ax/ My dear young lady, you must be careful—ex tremely earful!" .t One band balustrade, »now white i*h«d blackness. in was resting on the carved- against its poli She tightened her with a, nervous pressure ,«ht W&&+ Vcf.| ata not 111 indeed-^I am her bronze glob* ot J|Ch^ its clear, warm flush fell full her face as she stood there. She did look ill, Indeed. All tho rich, exqfiisite color which lent her beauty of features Its glowing South ern loveliness, had quite vanished, leaving her pale with a pallor. "I will call again in the morning," Dr. Adams said. "You had bettor re tire early and take a good rest, Mtes Lennox. I am afraid you young peo ple exert yourselves too much in the pursuit of pleasure. Too much fun is as injurious as too much work. Well, well, Blackcastle is very gay just now —very gay! I wish you good even ing!" She bowed wearily as he went by her and then rousing herself with an apparent effort went on to her own room. Very gay! The house seemed like a vault—she could hardly breathe. Very gay—good heavens! She sent word down stairs that she had a bad headache and was unable to appear at dinner, but that she would come down to the drawing room later. A servant brought her up a dainty meal. She drank some strong tea, fe verishly, and sent the rest away un tasted. In the intervals, when the door of the dining room below was left ajar, there floated up to her a cheerful, con fused medley of sounds—the pleasant jingle of silver, the hum of conversa tion, the popping of champagne corks and now and then a ripple of light laughter. She crouched in a low chair before the fire, and looked around and around her luxurious room with dazed, bewil dered eyes, that saw nothing of its studied elegance. An apar'ment worthy of a princess of the b'" royal, he.s—all draped in ruby an. $old and repeated Indefinite ly to the view by its mirrored walls. Hark! A rustle of silk, a louder mur mur of languid voices—the ladies were leaving the dining room. She arose suddenly and walked across the room to a pier glass. She lifted both hands and pushed the heavy hair off her temples as if its weight oppressed her. She spoke to the reflection in the mirror in a whis per, as she might have spoken to a stranger. "He is dead, Cynthia! That is the end! It is all over now—all over—and he is past ungentle reproach—past loss of birthright and loss of love—past all save peace!" She went to the wardrobe and se lected a dress. Then she rang the bell for her maid, and began her toilet with nervous fingers. And all the time she kept whispering to herself, in rapid, breathless fashiftn: "I read of a woman once who drank a deadly poison—a poison which did not, however, produce fatal results tor several hours after drinking it. She had taken it deliberately and wilfully, with a complete comprehension of its nature and effect. And when she had taken It she dressed and went to a ball and danced all night, and was the gay est aud most beautiful and most ad mired lady there. And ail the time the insidious poison was working in her veins. And toward morning, just when she was at the summit of her triumph—when her step was lightest and her laugh was sweetest, her cheek paled and her step faltered, and the blood at her heart turned tp ice, and she grew stark and—Oh!" with a sud den sharp shudder, "am I like her? Yes, yes. I, too, shall go down and mingle with the rest, and laugh and talk, and all the time this awful poison will be seething In my soul." Her maid came into the room, and with deft, familiar fingers, wove her hair into massive braids, and bound it in a blue-black coronet. But she cried out in horror as she saw the dress her mistress had chosen to wear. "Ah, not that, mademoiselle—it is not mademoiselle's color—not that!" Heedless of the girl's dismay, Cyn thia slipped it on and turned teward the door. It was a black gown of soft merino, fitting lier superb figure as a glove .should fit one's hand. It was made witli sevens uud most admirable sim plicity and trailed behind on the rich carpet in extremely long an'd rich folds. The corsage, cut square and softened with masses of fine lace, showed the round and strongly modeled throat in 'exquisite relief. "Wear something else, mam'selle," the makl cried, a piteous supplicant In the cause of artistic adornment—"a few flowefrs, a jewel or so, to break the monotony—" on' Miss Lennox turned suddenly, and going tP her jewel case tepk therefrom a set of flashing, brilliant rubles, whifch. had been, -dive's gift to her the day she graduated, and which of late, in delicate consideratiPn of my lady's feelings, she had not worn. .Hastily she thrust the gleaming pendants ih her ears, fastened the glowing gems about her throat, clasp ed the heaxy bracelets upon her arms. "That is perfect!" Blise cried. In an ecstasy of admiration. And then Cyn thia Lennox had swept out of her own apartments into the hall and down the. grand stairway. Something In the light, the glare, the brilliance, seemed to blind her for a moment-as she came Into the great drawing room—a sombre, magnificent, womanly flgure.1^' Black was nol" her color, as Elise had said but Just new it seemed that np pther coler became her half so well. Her eyes were sparkling and glittering as even they had never sparkled and glittered before. Into her cheeks had come their old, beautiful bloom—the coloring that Titian loved—brilliant, a There !wa» something impressive about Miss Lennox. .The foaming cas cad« ot elastic laughter sweet," fell with a softer and more subdued sound as she entered. And then tbey all l)rok« oat la trickling murmur of low-voiced condolence and well-bred commiseration. Standing in the center of the room, she saw, as through a mist, Lady Car rington approaching her, a gentleman by her sld£. ,And then she became conscious .of the words which the proud old voice was saying: "Cynthia, let me present you to my nephew, Cyril Carrington. Cyril, my ward and dear daughter, Cynthia Len nox.", CHAPTER XIX. The New Heir. She bowed with grave courtesy,.but did not offer him her hand. He was a very tall, largely built man of about twenty-nine, with features pronounced and regular. His once fair skin had been tanned to a rich bronze. His mouth was shadowed by a sweeping mustache and beard. His thick brown hair was cut close to his head. His eyes were cool, shrewd, calculating. They stood a few minutes under the blaze of the chandalier, talking ani matedly, and the others, watching them as they stood there, both so graceful, so finely proportioned, so proud of stature, turned to nod and smile significantly to each other. "Let me find you a seat, Miss Len nox." He drew a big crimson chair up against the soft background of a por tiere, and made her sit down. He took his place on a low divan beside her, and bcran to talk as such men as Cyril Carrington do talk when their auditor is a beautiful woman, with a lavish flow of words, a smooth model ing of sentences, an eager and slightly conscious deference of manner. Cynthia herself was a brilliant con versationalist, and to-night, whatever strange spirit possessed the girl, she was at her best. She cliatted on al most feverishly in her rapid, easy, fas cinating way, touching subjects famil iar to them both with spur of elo quence or the whip of satire. The vivid spot of color on either clear olive cheek deepened and burned. The intense brightness of her eyes in creased with her speech. They looked at her in amazement. "How wonderfully well Miss .Lennox lights up!" hazarded Freddie Lynn, in a ferment of feverish admiration. "Yes," grudgingly assented Vera Cassard "those large, brown-skinned women always do!" Miss Cassard, by the way, did not. "How lovely Cynthia ".•* look!" Baby Earle whispered compan ion, in a gush of bear miration. "And black Is the last in the •world to become most dark-hcJred peo ple but I believe she would IOOK well in anything!" Oh, could they have but kn r"n the subtle poison which was fevering her veins, flushing her cheek, bringing that glittering sparkle to her eyes! The night wore on. Without, the rain still fell in torrents, the wind went by with a screech and a howl, the trees in the park lashed and rat tled their leafless branches. Within was languor and warmth and comfort, the murmur of men's deep, voices, the soft rustle of feminine draperies, the sound of song and laugh ter. Once Cynthia turned to her compan ion with a sudden question: "Have you seen Lady Carrington pri vately since your arrival?" He looked at her with suppressed sur prise. "No, I have not." "Then do not. Avoid an Interview till to-morrow." His surprise deepened, but he only bowed a grave assent. Some one came up to Cynthia with a request that she would sing. She had a powerful contralto voice and sang well, but she declined with a quick refusal that was almost one of dismay. "Play us something, then, Miss Len nox!" called out Will Warren, from his distant corner "something brisk and brilliant in defiance to the rising storm without—a rattling galop, for instance." Something brisk .and brilliant when her heart was throbbing to the dull ineasure of a funeral march! "No," 'she said, "you must pardon me. My head is still aching—slightly." She rose with, a sigh of relief as the nocturnal exodus began. "Will you come up to the smoking room for awhile before you turn in, Mr. Carrington?" asked Sir Jasper. "In a moment—yes," he answered. He made his way to an adjoining ^ftiom, where Cynthia Lennox was standing for the'moment alone. She saw the large, somewhat heavy figure .coming toward her, and felt a momen tary sensation of .surprise at the per plexed expression he wore. "Miss Lennox, I would like to ask ypu to answer me a question which has been disturbing me all the evening. If it i3, as I fear, one of unwarrantable interference, I ask your forgiveness for the ignerance which prompted it." She bp wed slightly and smiled. "It is this. When I was being driven to-night up the avenue we passed a massive tower, which seemed, as well as I could discern through the rainy dusk, a part of Blackcap tie. And just as we 'wheeled by I heard, apparently issuring fiora the building, Buch a strange laugh!" "You—you heard it, too?" She had fallen back a step and was staring at him with terrified eyes. "Yes and 1 thought. I would ask you—" "Don't ask me!" she cried, in a low, passionate voice. "I. don't" know,! There Is a story connected with tth place—a story which I have, all toy life, 'considered a foolish superstition. All my life—till a short time ago Then I beard that which jrou heard to night!" He looked at her blankly. How sen- PS She turned abruptly away from him and left the room, leaving her com panion gazing after her with an expres sion of bewildered discomfiture. "By Jove!" said Mr. Cyril Carring ton, by way of confused and emphatic protest—"by Jove!" (To Be Continued.) WHEN BRAIN TRICKS HAND. An Instance of the Queer Things Peo ple will do in Spite of Themselves. "There, I've made that same mis take again. Queer, what tricks a fel low's brain will play him. I meant to dirrct a letter to a frien din New York who lives at No. 115 East 111th street, but what do you suppose I did?" And the tired man glanced at the other, who was cutting the pages of a ma-azinc. "You did just what I've often done— transposed the figures, 1 suppose. You directed it to No. Ill East HDth street." "I see you've been there." "ivrore times than I can count. It would tale a fellow half of his time if he would stop to.bother about his mistakes—" "He'd nover carry that message to Garcia, would he?" said the first speak er. tossing the envelope in the waste basket. "Garcia would fail to get that mes sage. that's all. Got it right this time?" "All right this time. No. 115 East 111th street. Look for yourself." "Envelope is directed all right— sealed and stamped, too. Your friend will think you are trying to play an April fool joke on him, though—" "Eh? What do you mean?" "Humph! I've made the same mis take myself. There is nothing in this envelope, old man." "What?" "I ook in the waste basket." "Well, I'll be hanged! I left the letter in the misdirected envelope."— DIRECTIONS NOT EXPLICIT. One Old Gentlsman's System for a Ficht Would Not Apply. "Well, my boy," said the old gentle man, "I understand you've been fight ing." "I was in something of a scrap," re •plied the youth. "Well, I suppose boys will fight, and there's no use trying to stop it. You don't look much the worse for it." "Got off pretty light, sure," said the boy. "Lick the other fellow?" "Well, hardly." "Um, that's bad. Did you follow your old father's advice?" "Yes, sir." "You struck the first blow?" "Yes„ sir." "And hit him hard?" "As hard as I could." "Knocked him down?" "Knocked him flat." "And that didn't end the fight?" "Well, I shou'd st-.v not." Tlie old gentleman looked puzzled. "That's funny," he said. "I never knew it to fail when I was a boy." "Maybe when you were a boy tho other fellow dicin't fal! on a brick pile and get up w'th a half brick in his hand and chaso you a mile. That'll knock most any kind of a system sil ly."—Brooklyn Eagle. THE DRAMATIC MOTIVE. How the Riots of Plays are Figured Out. "How do you figure out the plots of your plays?" inquired the linxioua novice. "Motive is the only key that opens the portals of dramatic action," said the popular dramatist. "And motive is'best tested by the query, 'Why?' See how I have applied the principle in my latest work. Why are the chil dren on the stage? Because the scene is a nursery. Why does the villain come to the nursery? 'Because he is pursuing the mother. Why is the mother: in the nursery? Because sha is attending the .children." "But why do. your have, a nursery on the stage at all?" queried ths novice. "Why not something else?" "Because," said the popular drama tist, proudly, "because I have a com mission to write a play with a nura ery-in it."—New York Times. Bad for Bliffers. "How much credit do you give BHffer's assertions?" "About as much as we would If he wege running the massacre bureau In the Balkans."—Cleveland Plain Deal* er. .. Willie Sapphedd—No,. A. THE PASSION FLOWER-V kJ spoken in almost a whisper, but a whisper pltepus and broken. Her hands were nervously clasping and un clasping each other as she. stood bv fore him. "They say it is an omen—an epien of evil to Blackcastle," she went on, still in that hushed, pleading voice. "Ah, no greater evil can come to Blackcas tle than that which has fallen—there, there what am I saying? Don't ask me anything!" desperately. "1 don't know!" A to I bwothers pr sistahs. have child of my pawents. Miss Oidestile-^Dear me! And there are people who will persist In assert ing that.marriage isnt' a failure.—New Yprk Times. The Sincerity of Advice." Gabber—Are ypu going to house keeping?" Benedict—(Answer drowned passing car.) Gabber-rThat's right nothing like it. Have your own— Benedict—I said I wasn't. Gabber—Oh, well that's where you're wise. Yog3l.m}ss, etc.—Balti more American. no I'm the only by v, 1 LOVER'S PROMISE AND "And Over All, Like the Kiss of Ctalii—A Terrible, Unknov.Pow er—Hung the Subtle Scent of tlie Scarlet Blooms of thj Prairie Pas sion-Flower." "Would you claim me, then, as your very own," sue said with a siruii'a smiles, To the man who stood In h!s youth and strength In the witchery of her wiles. "Bring lo me the prairie passion-flower in the ilush of iis crimson piicie. Do this for me and their blooms shall twine the brow of your willing bride." "I will bring you the blooms that you wish," ne said, "though tliey bear In their, fragrant breath The deadly vapors which sap the blood on the veige of the valley of death. I go, but return ere the next sun's rays seek the waters of the foid Flood, tire or faie, I shall bring the blooms and claim of you luy re ward." As the echoed beat of his mustang's feet rang sharp in tho gathering gloom, She lightly laughed and murmured low: "lie goes to the gaies of Doom. Where the passion-flowers wave their scarlet blooms, strength fails and the sight grows dim. Man ne'er returned from that spot alive and 1 am well rid of him." Bright was the room with the Inrap light's gleam, tile rustle of silk and lace, When a man In a tattered and dirty garb reeled into the brilliant place. Through the awe-struck dancers who stood aside with, a halting- step ho passed. A tundie of blood-red crimson blooms in his sunburned fingers grasped. He paused with a dark and lowering brow, at a velvet cushiencu The Letter "H." 'Twas whispered in heaven, 'twas mur mured in hell, And echo .caught softly the sound as It fell. In the confines of earth 'twas peimitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean lis pres ence confessed. It was seen in the lightning, and heard In the thunder 'Twill be found in the spheres when all riven asunder. It was given to man with his eariest breath It assists at his birth, and uiter.ds him in death Presides o'er his happiness, .Jior.o'r and health Is the prop .of his house, and the end of his wealth. It begins every hope, every wish It must bound. And, though unassuming, with monarcha is crowned. In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, But is sure to bo lost In tUo uiadigal hefjr. Without it the soldier and sailor may roam, But woe to the wretch that expels It from home. in the whispers of conscience its voice will bte found. Nor e'en in the whirlwind of pas?!oi be '. drowned. It softens the heart, and, though deaf to the ear. It will make It acutely tnu ir.Uantly hear. But In shades let It rest, like an elegant flower Oh, breathe on It softly—It dies in an hour. One night, in a studio in NOT? York, he was talking of old age. -f "I can imagine myself," he said.', in his strange, quiet voice, "an old man, a very old man, eighty, ninety years old. I can imagine myself at" that great age, taken down with ill ness. My friends gather abo»it the bed. »It is thought that I will die. "But I grow better, I see mvsoif re covering. The friends are surprised and pleased. They urge me to get up.'' I "I can Imagine, though how the weight of how, so .. r..- my years oppresses me, and though I am well, death seems near that I say: "'Oh, it Is hardly worth while to fet up and dress myself again.'^ #V»'$ msm? ITS FULFILLMENT. ,%f UI. And flung the (lowers, with a muttered curse, at the paling beauty's feet. The music stopped and the laughter ceased as his vuicc the echoes stirred, As he cr.ed: "I bring, yiu the passion flowers to show I have kept my' word." "I have won you fair, and I claim my prize—" as she shrank fiom his m&d caress. He reeled and fell, with his outstretched hands In the lace of her silken dress, With a nameless horror she bent her gaze on the rigid, upturned face And tore from the undetaining graap the meshes of dainty lace. But the wonderful prairie passion flower hail sought and had claimed their ovn. She suuve to rise, and sank to her kne*» with a faint, despairing moan. She reeled'and tell and her unbound hair swept over his haggard iai.tt While her arms seemed clasping tho senseless form in a last conUiia embrace. And over all, like the kiss of death,—a terrible, unknown power, Hung the subtle scent of the scarlet blooms of the prairie passion flower. —William James Clemence. THE FIRST AMERICAN BIBLE. Was Published at Cambridge, Mass., in the Year 16C3. In 16G3 the first Bible printed in America was published in Cambridge. It was unlawful to print an English version of the Scriptures, that right being a monopoly enjoyed by privilego in Massachusetts was Eliot's famous "Indian Bible," and, although 1,500 copies were struck off, they are quite rare and "sealed books," as the tongue in which they were written is literally a "dead language," the tribe and all who- had a knowledge of the dialect being long extinct. Eliot's work is unique, being at once a monument to his piety, persever ance and learning. Its literary, suc cessor was Newman's "Concordance of the fecriptures." Thi3 was compiled by the light of pine knots in a log cabin in one of the frontier settle ments of Massachusetts. It was tho first of Its kind and for more than a century was admitted to be the most perfect, holding its place In public es teem until superseded by Cruden's, which it suggested. I 1 -r S W IX. H. The Thought of Old Age. The late Stephen Crane, whose poa thumous novel of Irish life is snrn to appear, had an imagination at once vivid and delicate. IffeS