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IOVEIIIND NOT LOVED. â€"_â€" CHAPTER I. “‘ l.\’ mamas alumni-my." “ What, in this miserable, dreary world, shall I do 3" It was one of the few ripe. completed days of summerâ€"-â€"the 10th of August ina Berkshire landscape. And the scene was a garden which certainly looked neither mis- erable nor dreary. It was such a very fair gardenâ€"a riaut ezil of lawn, belted with flowers and firs ; not a large garden by any means, just a beautiful stage which made London ople exclaim as they got a glimpse of it in riviug to Ascot from greater houses in the neighborhood. “ Oh ! look how love- 1 , against that background of dark wood ! hat the sort of thing the theatres can never give us ; they always give us moated castles or suburban villas, suggestions of ten thou- sand acres or half an acreâ€"never anything between l" The impressions this garden gave were of removedness, of light and shadow, of grass and roses. It was blocked away from the roads by rhododendron clumps within the walls;only where thestrip- ed boughs had robbed them a little could you get any real glimpse of the garden". But nobody except the people on the Ascot- bound coaches cared to see; the villagers knew that Mr. James took a pride in his garden : the agents round would have said that the Lodge had about two acres, nicely timbered. And as Mr. James hated the villagers, and, never letting his house, had no need of the agents, he did not care what they said, one or tl‘e other. Mr. James was a valetudiuarian. and he gardened for his health, assisted by a stay- at-homc \Velsh gardener and a boy who, with his work of clipping, rolling. weeding, . - led a life about as varied as a donkey’s at a well. Sometimes his‘daughter helped him when the gardener and the boy were away among the vegetables ; she had spurts of activity after occasional lapses into idleness, although she knew no chronic discontent, but as a rule she only broke ofi' three or four of his standard roses and fastened them into her dressâ€"not that she cared for roses, but they became her Well. His daughter's name was May-she was always on the lawnâ€"- Phrebe to its forest of Arden (and Phoebe was not more inapprcciative of Arden than she). To describe the garden without her would be to deSCribe a cage without abird ; she was there so much, and, alas ! she had been there so long. If one wanted a synonym for wear-mess, it would have been May James upon her lawn. Mr. James had married late in life a young woman, who had nursed him in ill- ness for hire. and whom he had meant to be the unpaid nurse of his declining years; instead, being no doubt tired of nursing paid and unpaid, she was not even the nurse of the one girl-child she bore him ; she died just after its birth, and as she had never cared the very least about anything in life, she did not appear to have any grave dis- relish for death. It was as though she had bequeathed to her daughter all the vitality she ought to have expended herself. Per- haps it had just rested in herâ€"at- all events it was wide awake in May, as if after not one generation but many of refreshing sleep. Of Mrs. James’s descent, nobodyâ€"not even her disconsolate widowerâ€"could have told much. She became a professional sick- nurse, some said, because she had an aptitude for the care of the sick ; others because she had had a dis- appointment in caring for the strong ; others owned it Was because she had no money and nothing in the world to do. Whichever it was. she had been dead for eight-aud-twonty years, and nobody talked about her any more, or even remembered that she had been accustomed to exist. She had no relatives who survived her, and Mr. James had survived all his. He was past seventy, enjoyed bad healthâ€"was in reality very well and likely to live longâ€"was in abject terror of death, and hugged two con- solationsâ€"the chief being that such of his forefathers as had taken anything like care of themselves had lived to be ninety, the lesser that if he did live to be ninety his daughter would be only forty-sevenâ€"a com petent age which he would have wished her to have reached before she came into the world. He would look at her sometimes, about half as often as he looked at his own tongue in the glass, and the unexpressed wish of his heart would be that she might sober down and get over her forgetfulness of his tonic and her distaste to drugs. The face she never failed to make when she gave I him his medicine robbed the draught of its charm.‘ He hardly ever let her leave him, though she had been to school as a child. “'hen she first came back from school, v the few neighbors they had at \Voodshot, see- ing how handsome she was, took some notice of her ; but country neighbors. when once they have satisfied their curiosity, soon be- come used to any way oflife. They thought Mr. James clever and oddâ€"he was not really clever, but oddness does duty for cleverness in the countryâ€"and knew that he liked to keep his daughter at home. She only had a any carriage : she could never dine out on one they sent for her. They got used to her beauty, and latterly had even begun to disparage that, because she had not accomplished the impossible, and mar- ried. where there was absolutely nobody to marry. “There must be something odd about May James 3" “ She must be cold or repel- lent !" “ Men don't admire her !" they be- gun to say, forgetting that there was no marriageable man who had come within the range of her vision. She had happy, un- roving eyes. had pulled .a good deal rshe was tired, and went intoa pastry-cook’s to get some tea. Sitting there-she took it at a little marble table which she hated ever afterwardsâ€"she I heard her name. A \l'oodshot neighbor was being interviewed about her by a Windsor magnate. i " Still May James 3” she heard the \Vind- sor magnate say. She must look sharp ‘about it now; that's the sort that soon gets , blowsy.” - ‘ l All of a sudden her tea seemed to choke 2 her, and the bun upon her plate to be a mountain ; she sat staring at it. Eat that bun? Neverâ€"“ blowsy,"â€"â€"â€"looking like that bun. perhapsâ€"sheâ€" In fine, she got all ‘ the emotion out of that chance word which l others receive about their looks in years of ’ gradual disillusion. It was a desperate ghome-thrust ; she tied a veil over her face _ before she drove to Windsor, like one who i has done with the world. It never occurred to her that the same remark would have held good about her beauty for yearsâ€"that Ethe blowsiness was not even hinted at as texisterlt, only surmised as possible in the l future. \Vith all the energy of a perfectly 1 healthy mind, she jumped at once to the i conclusion that something must be dcne. l . . . [It was the most tantahzmg concluston to ‘ which she could have jumped, for there was I nothing she could plot or plan. ' Driving along, she formulated briefly ; what was expected of herâ€"she must get 'married. N at the faintest ghost appeared to ;her imaginings as suitable to be the other party to this compact. To chmge her name Vâ€"to be Mrs. Something, if she looked like Mrs. Somethingâ€"to leave off being May i Jamesâ€"that was what she demanded. It iwa's not a. wish, it was a resolution. She was in the habit of making her resolutions quickly and of acting upon them at once ; as a rule they did not matter. Nothing dreadful was done by her sudden decisions to order mutton or have the lawn mown. At that moment she was quite capable of requesting the curate to espouse her, simply to go into Windsor again with a clear con- science in case any one asked her name and state. Had she a. lover, which she had not, she was certainly in the frame of mind to “ name the day. ” To be an old and “ blowsy” girl was a “ fearful thing.” Of course the fit passed ; but something remained from it, permanent in her inten- tion. She determined that she was “not built to be an old maid,’l and her quick, practical, half-educated mind wrenched it- self from the consideration of other things and turned to look at Love. Perhaps it'was an interesting thing to care for some one. How? The concept of this attitude was gradual; but slowly it changed her being. She was like a person with a pet invention ; she got, after a short time, to think nothing else but the one thing the existence of which she had before hardly allowed. And as the inventor, convinced of his plan, frets and chafes till he has tested itâ€"must have his tryâ€"she fretted and chafed, at last, in her uneventful days. The apples ripened round her in the long shadows and the dew where an orchard belted one side of the grass 3 now and then one of them fell with a little soft thud on the turfâ€"over-ripe. She smiled bitterly, her eyes were heavy with anger, as she re- viewed her position slowly. She was sitting on her lawn in a’garden chair, ripening, in her pink and white dress ; she could not stay the hurrying hours, they flew by her empty-handed ; she could neither stop them nor fly with them to the other side of the world. The world? She knew nothing about it ; it was anythingâ€"opal or black? Her own fancy or her own gloom colored it. And so at last she threw herself back and looked up at the blue sky and the green leaves, and down again at the intense flowers, orange and scarlet and blue and the fallen apples ; and all the prospect brought her was the .cry, ‘9 \Vhat, in this miserable, dreary world, shall I do? ‘ May Jaines,’ indeed ! it ought to be Pomona 1” She was eager for any hazard; but she did not want to ripen much longer. She had been roughly wrested from her summer dream, she began to feel that it was autumn. CHAPTER II. “ ram. BALL. ” Enter, to her, Miss Paulina Dudin Ball, thegossip of the village, whose intimates called her Cricket-Ball, because she was so lively, and whose contemptuous superiors called her Foot-Ball, because she had no carriage. The rest of the parish, indiscri- minute but rude, called her merely Paul Ball, and she had got used to that name. She was a thin little woman, with a tongue like an innocent asp. and she led as perfect- ly happy a life at Woodshot as i she could have led anywhere with her own inseparable aciditv to . keep her company. She was equally ready. to say an unkind thing and to do a kind I one. There was always just enough going on to occupy Paul Ball. When she had got an item of news, she embellished it and then took it round to herncighbors. By the ti me they had done With it she managed to have heard or invented another to succeed it. She never did any particular harm, partly because she was not at heart malicious, and partly because nobody believed what she said. She was the daughter of a minor canon, the Reverend Dudin Ball. and she had a small competency. What was at once most ridiculous and most laudable about her was her devotion to her dogâ€"a little brown 1 dachshund named Egy t (because as Miss Meantime babe, child, or woman, she had l Ball artlessly explains , “ the Sphinx was been perfectly well, and careless what they said of her or what they thought. She was almost perfectly handsome. was so tall and so-radiant-loaking, and had suchsbcautiful 31th and such glorious hair, also May James saw Paul Indeed, she across the lawn. with Egypt bringm perfectly her godmamma.") “hen, on this August afternoon, Miss all approaching her up the rear, she did not feel that the work had suddenly become less dreary. She made such lashes, such teeth, such a figure, that. no movement of im tience. because she the pen would hesitate to describe her per~ l was so used to Miss iall’s visits; but she fectinrs. lf shehad but had a squint or a sighed softly to herself and murmured, “ 11 mark the beautiful rest would have seemed no manquait que cela 1" One of the good to have more value, but as she' was, her fortunes of her nature was that she could ph 'sicsl perfection were no more remark- sometimes forget the trivial round. able than those of a La Franc! rose : and‘ It was characteristic of Paul Ball that she they contented her all her life. Without always spoke to her dog before she spoke to being particularly vain or anxious about it, i her hostess. ” Come along, then-brown she existed in the sense of her own Toeses." she was saying, “and turn them in beauty. until she felt that it had and turn them out and be mamma’s own reached its zenith. This conviction came beautiful l’oggins"â€"an exhortation which to her by the mere-st accident, and in this; the little dog obeyed with great dignity wise. She drove int). Windsor one after- 1 while glancing at Miss Hall as if to depre- noou ; it was a long drive, and the pony care such advice in publieâ€"â€"a way dogs have never be politely said. "She thounht she's just come and see Auntie May,’?explained Miss Ball ; “ she said, ‘ Mamma. put on your hat and toddlc me round to “'oodshot Lodge, and let us hear all the news.’ " Egypt’s thoughts must have recurred will; great regularity, as she appeared with lei looking, which says politely what could hcr fond mistress every Sunday. “It’s you who tell me the news.” said May, dexteronsly evading Miss Ball's kiss by stooping to pat the dog. It was a man- (euvre she practiced about four times a week ; it always deceived and always pleased. Miss Ball, and between them they had got to do it with a certain grace. May James did not like kisses. “ No chair for me ‘3” said Miss Ball. “ “Why do you sit out ‘3 Let’s go indoors and have a nice long chat ; Egypt can lie on the sofa. 'She shall a-Poggins Mog, she shall lie on the sophy, she shall l” “I'don’t want a chair,” said May. and sat down on the grass. Once indoors, she knew Paul Ball would stay all the afternoon, but from the garden almost any passing cloud might drive her home. “Give Egypt 9. bit of your skirt,” said Miss llall, settling herself comfortably in May’s chair, “ and me a hit too for my feet, and she shall put her manicure toes on poor mamma’s,” confidential love. Egypt, curled round on May’s skirt, turned her back to Paul Ball, and went off to sleep with a heavy sigh. May stroked the dog’s silky ears and kept silent; she never troubled to make conversation with any one. Miss Ball looked at her, and after pre- mising that she hoped May would “ stroke the dog’s ears towards the tips to prevent congesting the blood in her brain,” she lunged at once into the news with which she had been primed. “ \Vell, dear,” she said, “_ you know Miss Beaton’s no better; they call it rheu- matism in the hand, I call it gout ; I always knew she .drank. So long as it kept in her feetâ€"the gout, I mean, not the drinkâ€"she could brazen it out, though what she did with the pedals, I don’t knowâ€"but now she must give up playing till no one can quite say when.” “What a bore 'it is l" said May, who was without much sympathy by nature, and did not thimr it worth while to affect it before Miss Ballâ€"‘ ‘shall I have to play on Sunday? I can’t tell you how I hate it. There are times when I loath musicâ€"near. ly always !” “ No, you won’t,” said Miss Ball, “you won’t ever have to play the organ in VVood- sh'ot church again.” ‘ “ \Vhy not? Has the whole parish risen and declared against me with one voice? or are you going to play ‘5" (in a tone as if this were the less probable alternative). “ There’s a man coming,” said Miss Ball, in what would have been a shout if it had not been so gutturally suppressedâ€"“ a. young man coming over from Churnborough. Isn’t it a. mercy we’ve just got the organ done up ‘2” “ I don’t know. Yes,” said May. “ About how old is the man 2” “What a horrid question “ I can’t say, but 1 His name is Mat- “! ' . said Miss lBull, rather rudely. can. tell you his name. thew de N ismes ; he has come to read with Mr. Passmore.” “ To read? he must be quite a boy.” “ What does that matter? I’m not going to marry him,” said Miss Ball, annoyed at being interrupted, “ besides, he may be quite a manâ€"some men are dunces all their lives. He played at Churnborough the day before yesterday, and when he heard of the new organ here and how ill Miss Benton was (and how badly you played), he offered to come over every Sunday till Miss Beaten was better. The lady who told me had been in the church : she had seen the back of his head with her own eyes, and said he was quite good looking.” The accuracy of this testimony did not affect May James deeply. “ Is he a gentle- man 2” she said, after a pause. “ He is half French and half English,” said Miss Ball dubiously, as if she did not know in what sort of rank the combination might result. “ Nobody here knows much about him ; he has only lately come. l wonder where he will lunch? It's hungry work playing through the morning service ; I know Miss Beaten found it so ; I asked her in once afterwards, and she polished off three parts of my rabbit.” ' “ At the Vicarage, I suppose.” “ But they go to Switzorland on Thursday He can’t possibly lunc I at Mr. Ford’s lodg- ingsâ€"an egg and a piece of tinned tongue ; and Churnborough is too far for him to get back to Passmore’s. I quite wish I wasn’t a lone female. I should ask him myself. But I suppose I should be drummed out of the parish for that ‘2” “ Egypt would chaperon you,” said May; “ I dare say the Hall people will want him.” “ Too far the other side, and you know how seldom they come. Now I thought that you, as you~ have your father always at home, might have given the poor man a mor- sel. You sit so near the chancel, and I would have looked in to join you myself. Your Sunday joint is always more than enough for four." “ You know how papa hates strangers.” said May quickly, influence more by Miss Ball’s implied invitation of herself than by anything else. (“Miss Ball’s chatter ab- solutely stultifies digestion." her father said to her once. " If you must feed her at my table, give me a bone on the mat. and let her dog have my seat "â€"a request, the hu- mility of which was not to be taken as liter- al but hyperbolical.) Paul Ball knew well enough where she was wanted. and the ad- vent of tea turned her thoughts in other channels; she fell to work upon her favor- ite meal. “Nicely you have these buns done," she said presently: "toasted and split; Ithink I coula eat another, and Egypt (wake her up gently) shall have the smaller half.” Egypt was wide awake already, and made short work of Paul Ball's bun for her, so that her ‘ mistress did not see how May's thoughts had flown back to that choking morsel she had been engaged upon at Windsor when she had heard the prophecy of her “blowsy” future. . In that moment her mind was made up that she would invite Matthew de Nismes to Woodshot Lodge if an opportunity should occur. It need not be difficult; she had cu- tertained two or three of Mr. l’sssmore's boys ere now. Indeed, she dimly remem- bered one of themâ€"a mature army student -â€"-making a sort of attempt to embark in a flirtation with her years ago. But she had not much recollection of such things; they seemed to her rather absurd and ugly. Now 1 she added to the little dog, in P she would perhaps regard them with altcr~ ed eyes; she cast about considering how she could get her father to church on Sunday morning (the invitation must somehow come from him), and considered it to a mild ae- companimcnt from Miss Paul Ball, of “Was ’em then an own Poggius, and did it take its bit of bun-bun like a lady, and did it want its milk in mamma’s saucer. and did it say it was getting a chill on the grass, and did it think it must go home to beddy- by-bye and warm its nosey-pose?” Herein Paul signified that she had sat out long enough, and had enough tea, andâ€"in- cidentallyâ€"that another old maid was com- ing to see her at Nile Cottage, as she had lately taken to calling her small domain; and between the two of them young Mat~ thew de Nismes would be nicely canvassed and his future cut and dried. “Are you going away at all this autumn?” said May, as Miss Ball rose“ to go. "Visits," said Paul Ball, with a little sharp nod, “not for my own sake; you know I never want to goâ€"almost as great a fossil as you, dear Mayâ€"but just for Egypt’s health, she requires change, and there are half-a-dozen houses I can take her to. Your old friend Lady Helford's in the list too, new that poor dear Dandy is mercifully re- moved. Think if I’d had pug grandchil- dren! But now I shall spend the greater art of September with her." May smiled as she looked at the little dog. and wondered if Egypt would regret Dandy’s demise at Helfordsleigh (one of the few houses at which she herself had been allowed to visit), or whether she too meant to abide in single blessedness. “Good-bye.” she said, stooping again from Paul Ball’s kiss, in the familiar man- oeuvre. “Good-bye,” said Paul Ball, kissing the empty air, and taking up her burden of 11 “And did ’em wag ’em’s precious tail, and did ’em come with Ina?” The girl’s eyes fol- lowed the old lady and her dog across the lawn; but she was not thinking of either. - (TO BE CONTINUED.) WWWâ€"â€" The Oldest British Vessel Afloat- The Victory, framed in English history as Nelson’s flag-ship in his last battle at Tra- falgar, and upon whose deck he received in the course of such battle his fatal wound in 1805. is the oldest vessel afloat belonging to the British navy. This Victory, the last of six vessels of that name which have suc- cessively figured in the annals of British naval history, new stationed at Pcrfsm 'Juth, was launched at Chatham on the 7th (1 May, 1765, or more than a century and a qa Lrter ago. She was the flagship of Admiral Kepv pel in 1778 ; of Lord Howe in 1782; and of Lord Hood in 1793. The following vessels rank next in order in point of age, the dates after their names being those of their launch or addition to the navy :â€"â€"-Foudroyant, 1798 ; Eagle. Hibernia, 1804; Implacnblc (ex Duguay Trouin), 1805; Leonidas, 1807 ; Conquestador, Excellent (ex Queen Char- lotte), 1810; Forte (ex Pembroke), 1812; Cornwall (ox \Velleslev), 1813 ; Cornwallis, I Briton, 1814 ; St. Vincent, 1815 ; Triu- comalee, Myrtle (ex Malabar), 1819; Pitt (ex Camperdown), 1820 ; and Ganges, 1821. The only wooden vessel now in the navy effective list is the Dart, a. surveying vessel of 470 tons. , ' Raising a. Wreck after Fifty Years- Intelligencc has reached Queenstown of the two-masted schooner James A. Fisher, _ which was sunk off the coast, off Cape May inlet, 49 years ago, and settled into the quicksand, rising again to the surface of the water. This is the result of two fierce storms which recently burst over the Jersey coast. \Vhen the vessel sank she settled, so that not even the main deck was visible above the sand. * The high tide and heavy surf ate away the sand, and where the beach was formerly covered only at' the highest tides, the water is now about 14 fathoms deep. This leaves the vessel entirely clear of the sand, and she is now being lightened of her cargo, which consists of corn. Whef the vessel sank she carried with her Capt. Andrews. She is in a remarkable state on preservation, not even a bulwark being crushed in. parel of the crew are still on board. The corn, although burned black, preserved the shape of the kernel, but it is now decom- posing under the action of the water and light. The remarkable state of preserva- tion is accounted for by the fact that during the entire 49 years not a breath of air reached her. One of the watches which has been found on board of her was stopped at 2.27, and was in a fair state. â€"â€"â€".â€".â€"â€"â€"â€"â€" Guessed it. The car was not half full, but the youth in the new spring suit plumped himself down by the side of the handsome girl in 8”)“ . “ Possiblyâ€"awâ€"you are holding this seat,” he said with a smile, “ for some gentleman ?” l “ I was,” she said with a sigh of disap- pointment, “ but he doscn’t seem to have come.“ ' And the youth in the new spring suit presently got up and wondered on into the car ahead. There's Magic in it. What must be the satisfaction and grati- fication, at so smalls. cost, of one who writes like this ‘3 Mr. W. Mason, editor of the Retford and Gainsborough News, Retford, lama, says : ” I had suffered from a sprain- ed knee for twelve months, without bein able to obtain relief from the pain, when rubbed the knee thoroughly for twenty min- | nice with St. Jacobs Oil. That night I ‘ traveled 200 miles by railway, the next day I walked ‘25 miles, and‘the pain had entire- ly disappeared. I have never had the slightest return of it since." The watches and wearing ap- , Is'the most ancient and most general of all diseases. Searcer a family is entirely free (mm it, while thousands everywhere are its sum-rung slaves. Hood‘s Sammimrllla has remarkable success in curlng every form of scroiula. The most severe and painful run- ung sores. swelllugs in the neck. or genre. humor in the eyes, causing partial or total blindness, and every other form of blood disease have yleldcd to the powerful cliecm Sarsaparilla Sold by all drugglsts. 81; six for 8.5. Prepared only by 0.1. HOOD Jr 00.. Apothecaries. Lowell. Mass. [00 Doses One Dollar â€"â€"â€"â€". War in 1902 Commandant of Fortressâ€"“ Is the hori- zon clear. ” Sentinel (at the telesco e)â€"-“ Yes, but ounfriends on the planet It are have signal- ed us that a fleet of balloons has just started in this direction from a point about ninety- eight miles to the northeast." “How long has it taken the message to reach us ‘3” ‘ ‘f At_ Mars' present distance from the earth err. it requires about seven minutes for the light to travel from there to our lanet. “ Thu those balloons have been on the way fourteen minutes already ! They ought to be in sight ! (Shouting through the electro-multisonous speaking tube.) What ho! Within, there ! All hands ! Turn the 40,000,000 candle-power electric burning glass toward the northeast l Bring out the aluminium aerial rams and have the flying torpedoes in readiness on the elevated plat- form ! Lively, now! Is it all done?" A thousand Voices (through the electro- multisonous tube)â€"“ It is, sir l” “ Then turn the balloon-proof hood up over the fortifications. Is that done ‘3" “ It is l” “ Then everything is ready. Let the enemy come on.” (Yawns). ‘iAugust ’ Flower”. How does he feel ?â€"He feels 3 blue, 9. deep, dark, unfading. dyed- ;m-the-wool, eternal blue, and he 1 makes everybody feel the same way -â€"Augus;t Flower the Remedy. How does he feel?â€"He feels a headache, generally dull and con- stant, but sometimes excruciatingâ€"- v August Flowam the Remedy. How does he feel?â€"He feels a violent hiccoughing or jumping of the stomach after a meal, raisxng . bitter-tasting matter or what he has I leaten or drunkâ€"August Flower F the Remedy. How does he feel ?â€"â€"-He feels , the gradual decay of vital power; 3 he feels miserable, melancholy, ' hopeless, and longs for death and peaceâ€"August Flower the Rom-- j How does he feel ?â€"He feels so full after eating a meal that he can hardly walkâ€"August Flower tho . Remedy. - a G. G. GREEN, Sole Manufacturer, , ’ Woodbury. New Jersey, U. S. M He was not too Late. A short time ago an elderly gentleman was walking along the road betwoen Briton Ferry and the Town of Neath. when a ragged little urchin stopped him and on- quired of the gentleman if he could tell him the right time. “Yes, my boy,” replied the gentleman, pulling out his watch; “it is just two o’clock.” ' “ Oh,” said the boy, “ then 0 and ban yourself at half-past two,” wit) which od remark he took to his heels and bolted up the street. The old gentleman, annoyed at the insult- . ing reply, followed as r uickly as he could with the intention of ca lim the boy to ac- count for his rudeness. After running for about half-a-mile the boy suddenly turned a corner, and his pursuer lost sight of him. When he reached the corner, puffing and blowing, the old entlcman saw a navvy standng there, on he questioned him as to whether he had seen a boy pass, The navvy replied that he had seen noth- ing of the boy and added. " But what are you blowing about, mun 1'” “ Why, the little urchin,’ responded the rentlcman, "asked me the time, and when Itold him it was just two o'clock he said. “(10 and hang 'oursclf at half-past two 1" “Well,” sai the navvy, lookin ' up at the church clock, “ Wlia’s yure urry '! you have twenty minutes yet 1 ' Johnston, N. 8., March n. 1889. "I was troubled for thirty years with pains in my side, which increased and became very bad. I used canons 01:1. and it completely cured. I give it all praise.” MRS. WM. 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