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LOVED AN_19_1\_I_DT LOVED. CHAPTER IV. “ WEEK-Dav wooxsc." He came again the next Sunday, and the next; and by that time the Sunday luncheons, having become an institution, did not count Matthew and May began to make other plans for meeting, indepen- dent of them. “'oodshotVillage accustom. ed itself as usual ; the vicar was abroad, the curate was in a lodgin :the "young French entleman " came to pIay the organ on Sun- ays, and Mr. James gave him his luncheon. Miss Paul Ball was away with little Egypt, on a round of visits, and there were no tongues to silence or idle fancies to concili- ate. It was, to say the truth, not Matthew, but May, who made the plans for other meetings. But they were plans, “ my dear” â€"-she would say to herself, before the glass, turning down the corners of her lovely mouth in imitation of Paul Ballâ€"“ which a_ny lady might have made !" Music gave her many an excuse; there were several churches between VVoodshot and Churnboroagh where the organs were well worth a trial. It was nota country neighborhood, but that summer solitude, a fashionable winter place, deserted in August more completely than the country would have been at a greater distance from Lon- don. The parishes were rich, and no con- lgregation liked to feel that it was outdone y the next in the appointments of its church. It became a familiar sensation to Miss James to drive her pony-carriage through the hay, and tether it at some little stile close to a field of wheat or barley near the churchyard gate ; to cross the sunny space and enter the cool porch, where the sound of Matthew’s music never failed to greet her. She would walk up the empty aisle and into the organ loft, with her welcome assured, she feltâ€"or chose to feelâ€"â€" although her friend did not stop playing when she came. If he felt anything about her coming, it was just that she brought in the freshness of the afternoon, the savor of the banks all made of broom, bracken, rhododendron, and laurel, car- Iflisted with heatherâ€"gold stars of wild owers darting out on long stalks about it all like butterflies. Slim, calm, and young, Matthew de Nismes would sit and un- ravel the mazes of Bach, and she, not understanding and yet charmed, would listen, standing by his side, sweet of the heather or the wild flowers, and never thinking of Bach at all. , And one day, when, indeed, he had been more than ordinarily irresponsive, and she had to return to tea without hav- ing interchanged With him more than the simplest wordsâ€"as she loosened the pony and prepared to drive back to VVood- shotâ€"from the keen chagrin she felt that he had not risen to escort her to the church door as she waved him a sign that she was going, she got to be afraidâ€"no ! to be g1ad~nol neither, just to be sure that she cared greatly for him. She felt her cheek flush in the afternoon air ; she longed that he should be going to follow her to “ oodshot, instead of to walk back to Churn- borough. \Vhat was the garden without him? And the roses at their best ! “ \Vith all the other pupils away, what can he find at Passmore’s? Why does he stay in these parts? Is it possible that he can stayâ€"for me? ” But she flicked the pony with her whip and banished the thought, knowing that-â€" possible or not possibleâ€"it was not yet true. She did not wish it to be true. She did not wonder what his feelings were; she got to be contented “with her own. She got to followiiim with her thoughts, but she never wished' to alter his; he became her occupa- tion, her ursuit. And, strange to say, she never ha the slightest wish to go away with him and share his life, only to bring him into hers. For she had lived so long at \Vcodshot she could hardly imagine herself placed elsewhere. She often pondered whether he could be contented with the life she ledâ€"it was orderly, unvaried ; he seem- ed to like monotony; it had never held much of which she was ashamed. She con- stantly reviewed her life as a man reviews his life when thinking of it in relation to the woman he loves ; was it sufficient? was it honorable? She hollowed out her heart to hold a great love,â€"â€"-and thenâ€"out of the fouut of her owu feelingâ€"she set to work and filled it to the brim. And it was “ Matthew" stood for symbol of it all. He was the excuse for her own selfishness to herself. She was not conceited ; she never said, “ I have a lover ;" she only said, “ At last I love." She felt that she had gained an added sense, and said it thankfully. No doubt it was a sane, dull passionâ€"it had none of the sweet madness and sur- prise of life; but then her life was sane and dull; and this sufliced her. Matthew was so quiet, so stupid, so absorbed in his music and in some business that had brought him to England, that he never contradicted her fancies even in her own heart. He was always ‘gentle, reserved, kindâ€"a man of taste in whom she might keep confidence. The pleasure of caring â€"â€"for love rather than for himâ€"in this untroubled, satisfactory un~jealous way, made her very happy, and very beautiful in her great hap iucss. Nothing vexed her, nothing spoile( her sleep; she walked on air. Her hair seemed to have fresh gloss and gold in its brown curls, her eyes to be urer in their candid glance, her cheeks to )e fairer, and her lips more sweet and soft; she really seemed to glide without effort on her way through the world, to be untiring, to breathe always evenlv, as if her life were just a wave in June. or voice got a new tone. And one day Matthew noticed this; they were walking down a churchyard together to the pony carriage. The air smelt of limes and hay. lie was tired with playing, and his hands were full of music books. As they came toa gate he began to shift the books laboriously from one arm to another, to t his fingers free for the latch, when, “ h !let me undo the gate 2" she said, leaning forward, almost brushing his shoul. dsr with her muslin dress, like a white bird. Her accents lingered in his brain and dis. possessed the music ;they were so intenrely sweet and new. And from that moment he mind her afresh. ‘he fact was that, although he had not said a single word upon the subject to any human creature. Matthew de Nismes had been sen’ to England expressly to find him- self a wife. His mother, an Englishwoman, had made an unhappy marriage; she was separated from her husband, and lived in a French country house with her son. She lived abroad, because her house was abroad, afid she was a sensitive woman who disliked English curiosity. But she hated certain French qualitiesâ€"or habits ratherâ€"worse even than she hated that ; and she had therefore Anglicized her son as much as pos- sible, always speaking English with him, and keeping even to the English spelling of his nameâ€"a name of her own family. She had been wretched with a French husband, Matthew must be happy with an English wife. Mrs. Passmore and Madame de Nismes had been old schoolfellows, and to Mrs. Passmore’s care Matthew was consign- ed till he should feel at home in England. Many young men would have set towork at once to go into society and look about them ; but Matthew’s characteristic was leisureli- ness ; he had something of his mother’s shrinking and his father's laissez-faire. He did not particularly want to get married and was rather pleased to find the sea between himself and his anxious mother, and the fre- quent discussions of the topic thereby stay- ed for a time. He had never been in love. But in his heart he knew that he was more than entitledâ€"almost boundâ€"to select a wife. As one is apt to do with s. duty, he tried to ignore as completely as possible this real reason of his being in England ; and the incidental fact, that he was there, was plea- sant to him. He pretended duties, concerts, healthâ€"not to others, for he spoke very little to any oneâ€"but to himself ‘ he kept on saying, “ ext season.” ‘ Mrs. Passmore was a busy, motherly woman, used to having young men about her, and well aware that they will go their own way the more if you try to take them your way. In her capacity of wife to an army tutor, she had experienced various surprises, and being sensible and shrewd, she had arrived at certain generalizations. She liked Matthew, though she thought him rather tame, and she liked a. great many young ladies in her neighborhood.= It was a good neighborhood, and she just let Matthew loose in it without any flour- ish of trumpets, as if he were a mere “ for- eign pupil." She did not talk about “ the young vicomte ; ” he was not rich, and the wrong people would be sure to make a set at him, she knew, if she said much about him. When he' told her he had been to Woodshot, her quick fancy just glanced at May James. But she knew that Mr. James did not wish May to marry, and she thought May even older than she was, be- cause she had “always been at VVoodshot,” as it seemed to Mrs. Passmore, had been a grown-up woman before they came to Churnborough, and that was ten yearsâ€"ten crowded years.â€"ago;wholc generations of pupils had passed by since then, had thought Miss James very handsome, and ridden off to other loves. Miss James, had never wasted on them a single sigh of re- gret. Of the Woodshot Sundays Mrs. Pass- more know quite well; of the other meet- ings it is true she did not know, but it is also true that if- she had known of them she would only have said, “May 3’ James? and why not May James?” Paul Ball would have told her if there was any- thing to tell. 'But then Paul Ball was away. Once, indeed, she had‘usked Mat- thew if he did not think May James good- looking, and he had said, “Yes, certainly,” which meant rather less than nothing; it was his habitual formula of assent. This was a few days before that moment’s epi- sode at the church gate. The new sweetness of May’s voice, that was what haunted Matthew; he had surv prised an unexpected nymph in a. familiar shrine. For many days it had sat there and adored him, evading notice. What would be the issue of his recognition? Had it been real recognition, the issue would probably have been different; real recognition of her love for him would have made Matthew continue much as he " had been. He would have perceived that he had charmed her, that his loneliness, his youth, his absorption in music, his careless accep- tation of her beauty and her company had, all of them, while not without a certain sharpness and sting, combined to make her his. He would have just gone on accepting till some quiet evening when he would have asked her with a moment’s condescensiouâ€" being stone no moreâ€"to accept him instead ; and then he would have resumed his old at. titude,and taken her love for granted. \\ ith this discretion he might have held her fancy all his life. As it was, he recognized that she was beautiful, and dignified, and gentleâ€"and a little older than himself. It was presump- tuous of him to aspire, selfish to disturb her peaceful days. He must set himself to work to win her! He was sure that she would please his mother, and to love her for him- self would be an easy task, if he roused him- qelf a bit and gave his mind to that and nothing else. Slowly and deeply this resolve fell from his brain into his heart. That she had ex- hausted a whole history of romance and af- fection about him in silence, never occurred to his mind. Her constant presence he put down to her caring for his music, for she knew just enough about music not to seem quite dense to him who knew so much ; he filled up her shortcomings to himself. That was somethiu to begin upon ; he would de- tach himself rom his own pursuit of music to encourage hers. In fine, he would apply himself to woo her, according to his lights. He did so, and with what result? The first time he seemed to attend to some re- mark of hers which he would ordinarily have let slip, she felt an instant‘s pleasure â€"-a relief. It was not an intense pleasure, though his ordinrry negligence would have been an intense pain, but still it- was a plea- surable sensation. The second time he did it, she felt it more like an offence. “'as it a trick ? Was be trying to discover her secret? .She resented this attendance; it was as if he,was appraising her. Then she gradually became conscious, as he did it. of ten,of relieved tension of mindâ€"of getting back to herself, of ceasing to strain after lhim. And then her daily duties began to wear their old aspect. The following afternoon, contrary to his wont, be called and asked her to show him more of the garden, her favorite spots, that int of view whence the old down was to b: seen towards Aldershot. As they walk; ed along the terrace, she picked a few ’ flowers. as her hal ii. was of oldâ€"a habit sho l . . . jhad lately miller relinquished, “ml-ing “nth clenched hands. Her heart had felt so heavy that it tightened her grasp. Now she began to loose it as if the love that had been such a pressure at her heart was run- ning out at her finger-tips, and she gather- ed here a rose and here some white verbena. Matthew admired her very much ; he began with his soberly fervent nature to be great- ly in love. “ I ventured to bring you a little book,” he said, “it is in the hall ; a language of flowers." He spoke to her with difiiuence. A week a o a ift from him would have been one of er reams, but now she could smile easily and answer: “ Oh ! thank you. But I have always rather disliked the lan- guage of flowers. A flower says something or nothing; it has no printed meaning. I wonder what your book would say, though, of these? They are absolutely accidental.” “ I will go and fetch it," said Matthew. “ Wait for me here on this spot, with the, rp‘ses and white verbena in your handâ€"like t at.” The request was so out of his usual man- nor that May almost hated him for making it. He, the fairy prince,the adored,the un- approachable, was he to jump down from his pedestal and skip about like this ? A cool: ness, a disgustâ€"yes, absolutely a disgustâ€"‘ came over her as he ran quickly back across the lawn with the horrid little common- book. They looked out the flowers together, side by side. “ Roses,” she said; “ oh ! there are a hun~ dred meanings. Beauty, beauty, beauty that is all they say. \Vhat is white ver- beua ?” . “ ‘ White Verbenaâ€"sensibility, ' ” he read ; “ these flowers are like me and you I) “Oh i” said May, her feeling of disap- pointment and anger finding vent in rude- ness, “what nonsense ! Let me see some other flowers -here is a “ floral letter.” Did ever any one read such an affair 2â€"“ I have Marvel of Peru and Marjoram ; I have no Mustard seed, but a rest deal of Mug- wort’ (I am sure Iam gla to hear it); ‘I am almost Syrian Mallow. Excuse my Moscha- tel‘ I have Mushroom lest you should not Mallow.’ Heavens 1 what a boquet! It’s like a declaration from Bedlam l" “ It all means something,” said Matthew, deeply ch agrip‘ed and angry with the ridic- ulous book, though he haan sense of humor. “ See ! It means ‘ I have Timidity and Blushes ; I have no Want of Affection, but a great deal of Happiness ; I am almost Con- sumed by Love. Excuse my Weakness. I have a Suspicion lest you should not Live for me !’ and it goes on, ‘Mezereon; Milk Vetch ’â€"-look ! all beginning with M l” “ Oh, stop ! ” said May. “ You spoil my Mugwort with your Chickweed Mouse~ear.” “ Your ‘ Happiness ’ with my ‘Ingenious Simplicity,’ ” Matthew translated slowly. He really thought the little book was inter- esting. Perhaps it Was an old English cus- tom to discourse with one’s.beloved like this. I To May it was more blasphemous than a. crime. l (“ To think that I have only been seeking} Mugwort l ” she said in her heart.) “How quick you were?" he went on, not detaching his hands from the book which she still held. “How quick you always are, I thought so the first Sunday, although I was so dull in myself that I had hardly i looked at youâ€"I did not see how exquisite on were. How, long your eyelashes are! they wou’tlet me see your eyesâ€"your beau- tiful eyes that have never been turned away from me!” “Don't,” said May, in a low voice. It wasasif cheap realization were spoiling some rare ideal. “Let me look at some more ‘ floral letters’â€"â€"they amuse me im- mensely.” He was not presumptuous enough; he did not push the subject. Even yet she had not got far enough away from her late feel- ing for him to have been quite her own mistress, had he pursued her. But he was too sympathetic and gentle. He gave way at once to her apparent wish to be let alone, but he gave way with the air of one who knows he is not unwelcome. Nor could anything have charmed him more than her manner. He set it down to shyness, to ca- price, to all sorts of things that he thought most attractive. His pulse quickoncd. When he went away that afternoon he was many fathoms deep in love; but it seemed to May as if he took with him, like a plucked-up acorn, the love that she had borne himâ€"a love which, not uprooted by ‘such handling, might have grown into a sheltering tree. Oh, the sorrows and the joys of our wak- ing dreams, which are so independent of the truth! Oh, the touch of the realm- lhe unlike touchâ€"at which they crumble ! the poor senseless ashes of them dead l CHAPTER V. “mxcv FREE. \Vhat had she done? of uncertainty and compromise had she landed herself? When Matthew was gone, i In what quagmire still wearing that impertincnt air of self- assurance which sat so newly on him, she went indoors in his track as before, but not to dream over his card. She sat down at her writing-table, which stood near thcwin- dow, and tried to realize what had occurred. Her prevailing conviction was that‘sliE‘had been dishonest to herself. She had never had much cause to consider any one but herself, and all her life long she had been her own law ;_ the consideration that her father exacted he also controlledâ€"there was no need to think about that. But now herselfâ€"her suddenly most dear and pre- cious self, what had she done With it, and what should she do? The fact was this: twenty-eight years of girlhood had bred in her something more than a mere terrorof change; she was almost wholly free from sentimental longings; she did not care for love. But, momentarily bored by the monotony of her life, momentarily piqued b ' a chance word that hurt her vanity, she had violently set her face towards the pur- pose of marriage. She had flung herself into a love-dream, and at that moment she had chanced to encounter. Matthew. He had given her sufficient scopeâ€"“no encourage- ment” she murmured to e elfâ€"“never any encouragement at all”â€"â€"and she had done more than she meant- 10 do, said more than she thought. Dclibcrately she remembered, with a hot blush, how time and again, she had opened his eyes to the fact of her car- ingâ€"and trying to convince herself at the same times! Now be had faced about like a child who wants to understand something you have dangled beforehim, or aperson who wants to solve a se:rct which pleaded guilty that you know although you never mean to tell, and which really you don’t know at all. “And I do not care for to save her pride. ever sayâ€"that he should even know in his heartâ€"that she had been a fool by choice, was enough to make her attempt to keep up the show of her folly after and call it Wisdom. venge of our purposes as Well as of our ac- tions. She was in the dreadful position of a person who loathes to do the very thing that every one else would congratulate him on having brought about. She could hear what you have, him onle litltle bit,” she said to herself des- perste y: t on, to her own surpris‘ e, she at up and flung the “Language of Flowegs" out of the window. Abominable li‘tle token! it was such a soon could not bear it in the room. A mile a moment ! That was the rate at which she felt her heart was travelling away from Matthew. Nothing is so swift as reaction ; no throw of her own will could have carried it so fast and far as its rebound from the iron wall of reality hateful wall of another’s will. to her she which it struck, the The whole thing looked so satisfactor '; she suddenly saw it all quite plainly; s e was simple and loyal by nature ; if he - posed to her she would have to marry him The idea that he should her own all her life “’e sufi‘er the re- eople would sayâ€"that she had “caught im,” that she was “in luck.” He would be pitied for having married some one years older than himself; he would seem to have yielded to her wish, expressed or uuexpressed; no doubt he seemed to him- self to be so yielding. And she could not withdraw. liking for him in her veins, and she know She had no jot or tittle of ten new that if she married him she would abhor him without respite or regret. She would hate his music, for which he really cared all and she cared nothing ; but she would hate worst of all his love of her, for which he would indeed never himself care much, while she might have cared all, had thin sbeen different. Had be but loved her rst lâ€"no ; it would always have been the sameâ€"always distasteful. Her instinct was to go ; but whither? She had so few friends, no confidante. 'With alittle quick smile that was half anger, she thought of Paul Ball. “ Isup- pose she is Tilburina’s confidante, ‘ mad in white muslin,’ in this case,” she thought. She could not help wishing that Miss Paul Ball was not away. But she was now at Helfordsleigh With little Egypt. Helfords‘ leigh ! could she not get there herself? Lady Helford had always been kind to her and indeed it was from her own introduc- tion that Miss Ball had been first invited there. “ I wonder if she would ask me for a few days.” ~ She opened her writing-case as she lifted up her fair head from her hands. She-would write to Lady Helford. No! she would get Paul Ball to sound her first. Paul Ball liked to have a mission, and here was a little mission for her where she could do no harm. She would send a line first to Miss Ball. “Woodshot Lodge,” she wrote in her firm, clear hand, and then the date. “ Dearest Paul 1” There! that was extra affectionate; she would even put a dash under “ Dearest ;” her affection mounted in preportion to her wish for escape. Yes. “Dearest Paul,â€"-I miss you quite dread- fully; Sunday afternoon was a blank; why shouldn’t I come to you as you are away from me? Papa has to be away some daysâ€" he is going shooting (a son age !)â€"-” When was it her father was going shooting? She had forgotten, but his midday rest would be just; over now ; he had been sleep- ing peacefully as a babe while she had been torturing her heart and her conscience all this while ; she would go up-stairs and ask him. She pushed the writing-case aside, leaving the boldly written note to dry ; it would look bad to blot it. so that Paul could see she had hesitated at her date! Tea '3 Oh! for once she could not care for tea ; she thought she heard the mad bestirring herself about it; she ran up-stairs to her father by a back staircase without crossing the hall Had she crossed the hall she would have encountered, not the maid, but Matthew. After half-nu-hour’s deliberation and nail- gnawing among the rhododendrons, he had come with the resolve to put his future to the test, to see Mr. James when he should have recovered from his sleep. He would wish to speak to him before he spoke to 'May. The hall door was open ; he Went into the house without ringing. He cou- gratulated himself greatly on this. May was always in the garden ; he would wait in the drawing-room till Mr. James came down, and meet him, as if he hadjust taken leave of May. He did not wish to speak to her, and he could sit in the draw- ing-room, at that table near the window, till Mr. James came down, and watch her lounging in the garden with her bookâ€"no doubt she would be reading the little “ Language of Flowers.” He crept into the room lest she should turn her head towards the house and see him ; he sat down at the table near the window. He did not see May ; she was upstairs with her father. \Vhat he did see was not reassuring. He saw the “Language of Flowers” on the gravel path, where it had been flung out of the window, lying open and bruised by the force of its flinging. A certain sharpness of his artistic perception told him that, it had met with a scurvy welcome. Bewil. dcred, he glanced down on the writing- tablc before him, for he had placed himself in May’s own chair ; he could not help do- ciphering her clear handwriting; it forced itself upon his eyes; he read it: "Dear- It Makes Pu re Blood .9 .ld by so doing Hood‘s Sarsazzcrllls cures ccrofula, salt rheum. and all other blood dis- eases, aids proper dlgcsllou, cures dyspepsia, gives strength to every organ of the body. and prevents attacks of that tired feeling or more serious affection. The fact that It has cured theiuzands of others is sufficient reason (or belief that it will cure you. N. B. Be sure to get Hood’s Sarsaparilla Sold by all drugglsts. 31; six for”. Prepared only by (3.1. HOOD a 00.,Apotheearies, Lowell. Mass. I00 Doses One Dollar ... _ ...â€".--... .___. .... house. May James came down, disap. pointed; her father had made no certain plans : she could not finish her note to Miss Ball for the present, She took it mechanically in her hand and tore it up. She never knew whose eyes, whose eyes alone, that note had met, or how dearly well it had servedits turn. About an hour later, to her very great surprise, to her never-ending relief she re- ceived a letter from Matthew de Nis-ues; for some reason or other unknown to herself she never destroyed it; it was the only letter she ever received from him. It ran as fol- lows:â€" “DEAR Miss Jannaâ€"I hear“ that the Woodshot organist is quite well again and will be able to resume her duties. I am sure you will believe me when I tell you that my chief pleasure here was coming over to take her place on Sundays. I have now lost that excuse for coming, andâ€"somehow â€"I dare not hope that I have been welcom~ ed for myself? So now I go to London and. thence abroad; but should you wish to dis- pose of me, a note to Churnborough would always find me. “Yours to command, “Murmur on llxsmrs.” May picked up the “Lan uage of Flow- ers" and smoothed its ruffed leaves; sh, stood still an instant, then she rang the bell for her tea, and enjoyed it; she also added something to her dinner. She was herself again. She meddled with fortune no more. And if in after years she regretted Matthew“, it was with an indefinite longing, not pain. fulâ€"tempered u. good deal by the remem- brance that he had loved her as well as he could love.â€"[Tcmplc Bar. [THE mum] {filigqu , Flower”. " I inherit some tendency to Dys- pepsia from my mother. I suffered two years in this way; consulted a number of doctors. They did me no good. I then used Relieved in your August Flower and it was just two days when I felt great relief. I soon . got so that I could slee and eat, and I felt that I was wel . That was three years ago, and I am still first. class. I am never Two Days. withoutabottle, an if I feel constipat the least particle a dose or two of ‘ August Flower does the work. The beauty of the medicine is, that you. can stop the use of it without any bad . , effects on the system. Constipation While I was sick I felt everything it seemed to me a man could feel. I was of all men most miserable. I can say, in conclusion, that I believe August Flower will cure anyone of 0 , indigestion, if taken Life ofMlserywith jud ment. '3 A. M. Wee , 229 Belle- , font-aloe St. Indianapolis. Ind.” O. W A Real Comfort- Mr. Ryleyâ€"“thy are -yez decorating Mrs. Murphy?” Mrs. Murphyâ€"“ Me b’y, Danny, is com- in' home th' day.” Mr. Ryleyâ€"“I t'ought it was for foive years he wus sint up? ” Mrs. Murph -"It was; but he got a year off for goo behavyure.” Mr. I’tylcyâ€"“ An’ sure, it must be a great comfort for ye to have a good b’y loike that' ...-.. .-....” Job's Endurance. A man may bear up patiently for hours under trials of physical endurance, but 63*! PM“ 1" He l°°k°d 5‘ ‘9," lines 0“: he when prolonged to years we cry out. But did not tone“ the notes he did 110” mm the why-should we suffer thus? There is a sure age. like had been shot; his heart seemed to leap up within his body, and the tears stood in his eyes. A sharp, clear thrust - soon over. He caught it his hat and ran out of the window; he knew his way round the ‘.._ f A “ I suffered IT A ' . .1." ..-“ ‘r'J‘i!’ 1;. »I'§; . . 3-". A ... . . c b. mvm mm. Z"? -O 011‘" fig: ' Could not stand; rubbed them u llh ST. JACOB OIL. In the morning I walked without pain." 112233.313 names. 1.38 You e St, Toronto om. " NE.” R ALG I A-”wrltes: "st. Jacobs on is the onlyzrcmody that relieved I ' 7“ no of neuralgia, and it cffecuxaliycurcd Inc." 15 THE BEST. He felt his breath catCh ‘lUiCklyn “8 and prompt cure. Bethany, Mo., U. S A. Aug. 4th, [838. “ I suffered for cars with r euralgia, but was finally cured y the use of St Jacobs Oil." '1‘. B. Sunken. Silk bcngaline is one of the most fashion- able of the spring materials. e intensely with rheumatism in my an cs. not ' ... < . _ .. , . ". ‘w -- -.~..»..1 : «gunâ€"w...” hr»‘~n~-~-~ . ...â€"....” Wm “...... _. mm W , cu -- ..-“.-. a” a...”- ..._ .....- . -..». ......o».... .... .. . . . ll ‘ n.-..-