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. ..~ "rm THE DEAN AND HIS DAUGHTER. CHAPTER III. Soon after my father had fastened up the robt door, screwed down the windows and of hours of what he used In all Illeditation. I stole downstairs to cake counsel With Mrs. I’eel. Now dear old Mrs. Peel was very fond of ms. Ifut that evening she was in an ag- gravatineg practical frame of mind and correspondingly inclined to lecture me Very soundly. She did not see, she told me, what oc- casion there was for me to trouble myself. It wasn't as if I cared for anybody else like she had once cared for I’eel before he took to drink, when he was young and good- looking. and could thrash any man of his own inches at the Michaelmas goose fair. I might stop on poking about in this little hole of a place, and perhaps 'never get married at all. Nobody could tell. My 1 l father could not. live forever, and what was 1 I to do when he died? As for being a governess, governesses, she could tell me, had a far worse time of it than housemaids, and often worse wages into the bargain. Anything would be better for me than maundering away my life at home. If I married this old gentleman I should be well off and comfortable' \Vatson had told her that Sir Henry’s house in London was like a palace, with one man sitting in a big chair in the hall, in gold livery and a powdered head, who had nothing what- ever to do but to open the door. I should have as much money as ever I could want to buy whatever I pleased, and a lady’s maid to look after my things, and no tradesmeu's bills to worry me. If I had no children, 1 could busy my- self my own way. IfI had any I could fuss over them all day long, though she had heard that some fine ladies never even saw their children from daylight to dusk ; “ and," added the good woman emphatic- ally, “if I were you I’d be even with that old father of yours. ‘1 wouldn’t let him inside the house. I wouldn’t give him not so much as a price of a glassqof rum. If he came bothering about, I’d have him ordered all, and if he come trying to screw money out of my husband I’d put a pretty sharp stop to it. He’s putting a goozl thing in your way,” she went on, “just for his own sake. He wants you to pull the chest- nuts out of the fire for him. Pull ’em, I say. and stick to ’em for yourself, and let him have the husks. That’s more than he deserves," concluded Mrs. Peel. “It makes me sick to hear him preaching it out about the Scripture moving us in sundry places. I'd move him in sundry places and myself too, if I had the chance. And he knows it'll And herewith Mrs. Peel tucked up her skirts for work with an air that said, “I have had enough of conversation on a dis- tasteful subject.” I tried to plead with her for my father, more out of long habits of respect than from asense that he had been harshly judged, but Mrs. Peel was inexorable. When I pointed out that he was old, she returned that be was lazy, and old enough to know better. \Vlien 1 urged that he required comforts, she replied with aeerbity that he had better work for them like other people did. It was impossible to mitigate her wrath, and I ultimately had to abandon the task as hopeless, not without a very strong con- viction that upon the broad facts of the case her judgment was perfectly sound, and there was very little indeed to be urged with any plausibility in the Vicar's behalf ; er” in this frame of mind I went to bed. [read for an hour or two until I was tired. Then I left my candle burning and turned Mrs. Peel's advice over in my mind. It did not upon mature reflection seem so distasteful as at first. It was like most home medicine for children, strong, nasty, and 3 ct wholesome. Sir Henry beyond all doubt was a gentle- man. I had before me a life of entire free. dom, with every possible comfort. Certain- ly it would be far pleasanter to be mistress of Craven House than to drag on year after year as domestic help, or as the ad- vertisements now call, “lady help" to my father. , There was the promised Deanery, of course, but that haven of refuge had no definite prospect for me, and besides, it Was too evidently part of the stipulated price to be paid for my acquiescence. Had not better boldly tell the old gentleman that I could not promise to love him, but that I would do my best to try and make him happy and to follow outliis wishes in every possible way, and so throw myself upon his kindness, and make an end of the matter? It really seemed the best course under all the circumstances. And having ultimately resolved to adopt it, I fell asleep just as the sun was breaking and the noisy cry of the April cuckoo began to make itself heard in the orchard, a fav- orite brunt of his, as the hedges were thick- ly (counted by his unhappy victim, the poor little hedgesparrow. with its clumsy nest and its tiny blue eggs, always at the mercy of the village schoolboy. My parent must have risen early that morning, for when I descended to prepare his breakfast he was walking up and down in the lane outside the house with more than his usual air of humility and self-den- isl. “Hood morning, my child," he said, in his most patriarchial manner. “ Good morning, papa." “It is a lovely morning this, almost Ital- ian in its freshness and brightness." I made no reply, and he went on : “ ‘ O fortunnti niinium 1' he was a great est, Virgil. Sir Henry mistook him for Iorace the other day, but I thought it wis- l When he had done justice to this repast, my father cleared his throat, arranged his necktie, and took up his position. and with inmnced himself in the study [or B couple it his parable, upon the hearthrug. “ I suppose, Miriam,” be commenced, . “ that you have some idea of the nature of the important communication which I have to make to you." “ Oh, yes, papa," I replied defiantly, “ and so has the whole village by this time. You and Mr. Thacker were talking it all over in the lane last night at the top of your voices. livery one in the village knows by this time that the_forty pounds you owe Mr. Thacker can wait, along with the three pounds ten, and that he is to be paid when you have married me to Sir Henry Craven and got your Deanery. I dare say they are talking about it now in the taproom at the ‘ Goat and Compasses,’ and saying what a lucky thing it is that everybody will be paid at last without having to go to the County, Court for their money." My father winced smartly, but recovered himself with great promptitude and inarvel< lous solemnity. “ Good news, my dear child,” he said, “travels fast ; and it may well be that in this little place, where I am known and respected, the Visit of Sir Henry may be understood to have a significance of its own. But I am anxious this morning to discuss matters with s; on reasonably and in a pro- per spirit, and to lay my views before you as to your future, and, I may say, my own as well, fully and clearly.” “Then you may save yourself the trouble papa. I have considered the matter for myself, and have fully made up my own mind.” My father turned purple, and evinced other strong symptoms of a. sudden attack of apoplexy. ” Xou cannot possibly mean to tell me â€"-â€"” be burst out. “ Pray do not get black in the face, papa. 1 say I have considered the matter for myself, and I have talked it over with Mrs. Peel, exactly as you have talked it over with Mr. ' Thacker. Mrs. Peel thinksâ€"-â€"” “ Good heavens lâ€"Mrs. Peel ! \Vhat can that ignorant woman know of such a mat- ter !” “Mrs. Peel thinks that upon the whole I had better marry Sir Henry, and I have told her only this morning that I shall do so.” - My father collapsed into his favorite arm chair, and gasped for breath. “ And so,” I added with a laugh, “ you may make your mind happy, papa, about the Deanery. I am going down into the village to make some little purchases. I dare say our credit now is re-established at Smoothy's, and before I go I will tell Mrs. Peel to bring you in the rum and some hot water. You look as if you needed a gentle stimulant.” And I dropped him a eurtesy and ran cut of the room. I need not say that we did not meet again for the remain- der of that day. l Late in the afternoon my father wentl down into the village and, to use his own expressxou, “mixed with his parishioners,” that is to say. he sat in the bar-parlor of the “Goat and Compasses,” and drank hot spirits and water. I for my own part knew that for some hours, at any rate, I should have nothing to trouble me ; so, on my return from Smoothy’s, I got through my household work, had my dinner in the kitchen with Mrs. Peel, and then went out fora long stroll in the lanes. When I returned, Mrs. Peel and I had tea together. “Your father’s gone out to visit Mr. Thacker," said that lady, “and I reckon he won't be back till late. P‘r‘aps Thacker will have to see him home. If I was you, miss, I’d go to bed and have a good night of it.” I took her advice and proceeded upstairs to my room, but I did not exactly have a good night of it,for I lay awake, sometimes read- ing and sometimes dreauiily thinking mat- ters over,until long after the swallows had begun to twitter in their nests above my window; and I was not at all sorry when Mrs. Peel came up in the morning with a cup of really strong tea and some ex- quisitely crisp toast, which she pressed upon me, and in fact insisted upon seeing me take. Then I walked out into the glorious morning air, and as I crossed our threshold resolved that, for the remainder of the day, at any rate, I would enjoy myself in my own way, and allow nothing whatever to disturb my peace of mind. CHAPTER IV. My father, I found, would prefer to have his breakfast in his own room, and had suggested dry toast and a couple of red her- rings. Knowing perfectly well what this meant, I felt that should any encounter occur during the day, I was morally certain of victory. So I actually, out of what schoolboys term “ devilment," prepared the lierrings and toast myself. When they were ready I felt pretty confident that my father would to use Mr. Thacker's elegant expression, “ rinse his throat out” with claret and water, shake up the pillow and bolster, turn round in bed and again resign himself to the sleep of the just. So of course it turned. Mrs. Peel, when, she brought down the tray, informed me, with a broad grin on her features, that the master did not seem at all himself, and had said that he would ring for his hot water when he wanted it. For my part I caught up my hat, and sallied out for an objectless walk. I stop- ped here and there in the village to chat er not to correct him. Virgil ‘lovcd the' Wltll parishioners and. 53 the phrase is, to country as fondly as I do myself, and, like take notice of their children. myself, would hive preferred to spend his To take notice of a child in the country days in it among his flowers and his books. a you must first pat it on the head, and then But the Fates were too strong for him, and ordained ihat he should go to Rome and be shake hands. The child thereupon willl lung its head down and thrust its left the ornament of the most brilliant Court thumb into its mouth. This stalidily is the world has ever known. his so always. Man proposes, and Providence, which knows better llllh‘l’flln. disposes for him. We are but potter-’1 clay." And my father rubbed his band: and thrust out his right leg, contemplating it fondly. and evidently withblaek silkstock~ lugs and buckled shoes in his mind's eye. I remarked that it was a very fine morn- ingindecd. and that breakfast was ready for him, and with that we went indoors to e r in and mast. more apparent than real, and is only due to shyness. Even a butcher. unless history be grossly inaccurate, becomes utterly shamefsced and sheepish if a Duchess takes him by the whiskers, tells him he is the best-looking man she knows, and kisses him than and there, under the very eyes of his wife, at the same time asking forego his strictly Tory principles, and to kindly oblige her by voting for the oppml lite candidate. . . Amongst others I went to see old Mrs Daller. This old lady was the widow of the late village carrier, whose son, resigned unto the heavenly will, as the quaint old epitaph runs, kept on the businessstill, and fairly prospered upon it. Mrs. Daller had the reputation of being a “wise woman," which in the country means a great deal. Superstitions and ignorant people were afraid of offending her, and it was sometimes whispered that she knew more of the forbidden arts than did all the g3 psies who passed through the village in the course of the year. She had heard the newsâ€"as who had not? â€"and she laughed over it, catching up my hand and pretending to read the lines in its palm. “Look."she said, “the line of life is clear. A long life for you, my dear : but there are many crosses in it. See, there are more than my poor old eyes can count. But there is money, and plenty ofit, and people dying of love for you, and heaps of friends. And that little cross just at the end is a thing I don’t understand myself. Some people say it means a second husbandâ€"but there, no-‘ body knows, nobody knows.” And she let my hand drop again. I remained staring at her. The old dame rocked herself backwards and forwards with a distant, dreamy look in her eyes, and began again : “I knew your poor mother, my dear. I’ve talked to her about you many’s the time before you were born, if it wasn’t be- fore you were thought of. And you havn’t got her here now to go to. \Vell, you do what 1 say, Miss Miriam. Marry this old fossil. You’re a child still, and he won’t last, I dare say. Better that than poverty coming at the door and love flying out at the window. Marry him, and make his guineas spin. It will be a good thing for the reverend gentleman. Poor man. he’s had a hard time of it.” your father that Ihave everything to hope. and I need only ask for my own part- that it will be my one object to show my devo. tion to you in every possible manner. You will be, my dear Miss St. Aubyn, entirely your own mistress. You shall liveâ€"that is to say, we will liveâ€"where you please, and how you please. It is a pleasure for me to know lhatIshallalways be able to gratify your wishes. If you like travel you have only to say so, and I will immediately re- sign any engagements that inightolherwise detain me. If you should prefer England you need only choose your own place. and if, when you have tried it, you find it to your mind, my lawyers shall see that it becomes yours absolutely, so that you can deal with it, improve it or alter it according to your taste, without the idle formality of applying for my consen. " “You are very kind Sir Henryâ€"are too kind,” I answered, “I am sure that I shall have everything which a woman needs to make me happy ; but I have no fancy of my own at. present, and would sooner wait to consider these things. I quite under- stand your generosity,und shall not tax it. Sir Henry laughed pleasantly. “ You will never tax any of my few Christian virtues, I am sure, so you need only remember that the choice rests en- tirely .with yourself. Meantime, my old head was so full of ourselves that 1 had forgotten to speak about your dear father, whose immense abilities and energy have been too long ignored. He has been, I am happy to say, appointed to the Deanery of Southwick. The stipend is not largeâ€" a mere fifteen hundred a yearâ€"but there is a most comfortable Deanery with large grounds. In fact, the Dean of Southwick is, if the clergy are to be believed, far more comfortably off than the Bishop himself. l And your father will now have that leisure My last Vile was to MrS- Sabey. the wife which he has so long desired, and which of a fisherman and a naval reserve man. will. enable him to finally complete the She was a Plymouth Woman, and people literary labors to which his life has up to said she had Spanish blood in her. She was tall and swartiiy, with crisp black hair, and did not look her age, which was con- siderably over forty. v Mrs. Sabey, like the rest of the village, knew all about my matrimonial news, and addressed herself to it at once. “We can’t afford,” she said, “to lose you yet, Miss Miriam ; and even if we could, the right man hasn’t come to take you from us. If he had, it might have been another thing. Be true to yourself, my dear, and there are lots among us will be true to you for your own sweet sake, and for that of your dear mother in heaVen, where she’s past all trouble. Why, if she’d been alive, yo ir father would neverhave dared to make a bargain over you in this kind of way, just as is he were buying and selling in market. Put your foot down, my dear, and keep it down. And look here,‘ the tea is waiting for Sabey. Just have a cup along with me. Sabey will be ,glad,,,of the sight of your face.” ‘ “V ' So I had a eup'of very nice tea. with Mrs. Sabey, who talked about everything except my troubles, until Sabey came in fresh from the pump, and bringing with him an invig- orating fragrance of yellow soap. Sabey, who stood in wholesome dread of his wife, said as little as possible. I re- mained a short time longer chatting with the two about every detail of village gossip, except that which most closely con- cerned myself, and so at last departed homewards. One or two things, at any rate were toler- ably clear, and I could see them withoutany egotism. Everybody in the village syn:- pathized with myself however much opinion might be divided as to the most prudent course for me to adopt, and nobody what- ever sympathized in the slightest degree with my father, or believed for a moment that he was guided by anything except his own personal purposes and objects. On the whole then, 1 reached home in a happier and brighter frame of mind than that in whichIhad set out. The public opin- ion ofeven thesmallest circle is,if you are only certain that you can get at it truthfully, by no means the worst of the many possible guides to be selected in this bewildering world. Next day, somewhat late in the after- noon, Sir Henry returned, accnmpanied, of course, by the faithful Watson, who had charge once again of a multiplicity of pack- ages, the bulk of which were at once brought up to my little room. After the lapse of about lialf-un-hour, during which I presume it was supposed that I was inventorying this wonderful consignment,like Marguerite lier'jewels,my father came up and found me seated by the window placidly darning the heel of an old stocking. “Miriam,my dear,” he said reproachfully, “Sir Henry has returned.” “Yes, papa, I am aware of it." My father coughed,andin his own manner shifted his legs. “But, my dear Miriam, you have not even looked at the things be has brought you. Most beautiful things and chosen with consummate taste." “I did not know that you had looked at them, papa :but I do not want them, and I am not going to look at them myself.” My father stamped his foot impatient- l . y“Miriam, I insist that you at once look. at these things, and tlieu come down and thank Sir Henry for them.” “That will do, papa. I will come down and thank him at once. Perhaps while I am doing so, you would like to stop and look at the things yourself.” stepped through the door and went straight downstairs. Old Sir Henry, who was in the parlor, rose at my entrance with a good deal of] grace. . “ You have brought me down a number of presents, Sir Henry, and I am extreme- ly obliged to you. I suppose it would be ungracious to refuse them." “ I hope, my dear Miss St. Aubyn, that you like the pearl necklace. I selected it myself, and [really believe thatI am a judge of pearls, although they are ladies' jewels : not that I wear jewelry, except in the shape of a neckpin.” “ You are very kind, Sir Henry, but I have not as yet looked at any of the things." He laughed pleasantly. “Time waits for her favorites, my dear Miss St. Aubyn. I am not in that happy number. Time, which in my foolish days I used to say was meant for slaves, is now my stern warder, him to as inexorable as Sir Hudson Lowe himself. But evidently my days are to end in sun- shine." , “ I am sure I hope so. Sir Henry." “ I understand,” he went on, “ from now been devoted, with what I may be perhaps allowed to term most inadequate recognition.” I solemnly declare, as I write these words, that I could hardly keep from laughing out loud. Knowing my father aufomll knew exactly what his literary labors had been, and what they were worth, and what they would be likely to come to in the otium rum dig/ninth of a Deanery. But. there was another side to the ques- tion, and a very practical one. Once safe in his Deanery, my father, having no on- noyances of his own, would cease to annoy me. He would be as much upon a com- fortable, well-aired, and well-ventilated shelf, as a mummy in the British Museum. I had no longer any affection for him. But I still retained the sense of duty, and I knew that When I had once seen the little black rosette in the front of his hat, I should have performed the operation known to men of business as making up the balance and putting your pen through the pages. This was a real Weight off my mind. Be- sides, my father wonld make a capital Dean, inasmuch as he would say nothing, do noth- ing, live thoroughly up to his decanal in- come, and look portentously solemn. My father, at any rate, would be no longer a trouble to me... In fact, in the sinecure cores of his new office, he would probably forget all about me. After all, there are certain advantages in marrying well, es- pecially if you marry a man who has both money and influence. Matters thus settled, we went in questof my father, whom we found in the garden looking every inch 3. patriarch, and most patriarclially engaged. There was an immense show about him of distracted himself from his labors, and mopped his forehead with a large handker- chief. “ Adam," he observed sweetly, “ was a , tiller of the ground, and agriculture is the most ancient of honorable pursuits. It is the only form of business in which our canon law allows the clergy to occupy their few leisure moments. I am, as you see, toiling in my vineyard, and rearing the familiar fruits of the earth for my humble table. ‘ Better is a. dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’ ” I felt it incumbent upon myself to open the talk, knowing that, this achievement once effected, I could immediately retire. “ We have very good news to tell you, papa,” I said. “ It is so good, that Sir Henry had better tell it to you himself." Sir Henry at once assumed what has been termed “ the deportment of a plcnipoten- tiary,” and in fact, his very first words were wonderfully diplomatic. “Among relations,” he said, “as I sup- pose we may now consider ourselves, the customary and tedious formalities are a waste of time. You have my dear St. Aubyn, placed at your acceptance, the Deanery of Southwick. It has been filled by illustrious predecessors, and you will addanew lustre to the stall. In these days of Radicalism and haphazard, an appointment like your own, which is preeminently safe, will be received with an universal chorus of welcome. Nolo episco- pari is a very pretty saying, but nolo de- canari will not, I am sure, be in your mind.” “Nor is it for amoment," replied my father. “How can I thank you, ~ my dear Craven ‘3 To some men their reward comes late in life, and to others early. I should possibly never have reaped my reward at all, but for you. I have still," and he ran And I his fingers through his hair, “some few years left in which, to the best of my humble abilities, to serve my Queen, my Church, and my country. What more could a man desire ‘1" and he smiled sweet~ ly. “You have still many years before you, my dear St. Aubyn," Sir Henry laughed hook, “and it is out of our Deans, as no one knows better than yourself, that Ministers pick our Bishops, unless some unusally gross favoritism should be exercised. You have had your foot on the first step of the ladder far too long, but Miriam and I will yet see you at its summit." “ All things,” said myfather, “are order- ed wisely and divinely." And I wonder, with Thackeray, that he, did not also say, “ Propria qum maribus,” or " Mars, Buc- chus, Apollo. virorum,” either of which rc~ marks would have been equally appropriate. Never, probably, was a mere matter of buying and selling more shamelessly and at the same time more decorously conducted. It began to dawn upon me at last, that an ambassador may, under circumstances, be occasionally worth the salary which he draws. (so as cnsrisuw.) l She Does Not Agree Willi Government Detrcllyo Rogerswsrreslml 1|! ‘1‘" buCkets’ and Watering pals’ and .Shea'rsv pocket identified him as a Catholic priest and as he heard Ol‘r steps “ppm‘mhmg‘ he named Father Dominick O'Grady. Insane MISSING. ileué.”m;wm‘s‘js . A FORTUNE TELLER SAYS THAT HE WAS MURDERED. I'ollce. ltnt Subsequently Released For Lack of Evldence. Five or six months ago Angus Mathieson, a young farmer near Ripley, went to Kin- cardine to transact some business and mys- terionsly disappeared. The general impres- sion was that hehad been murdered. Gov- ernment Detective Rogers was sent up to investigate and came to the conclusion that Mathieson had either committed suicide or left the country in consequence of an em tangleinent with a young woman. .»\ l-‘OllTI'SE TRLLlCR APPEARS. So the matter rested until a woman styling herself Madame Iiewlcy of Port- Huron, clairvoyant, made her appearance at Ripley, and rumors began to circulate as to admissions she had made in connection with Mathieaon’s disappearance. It has decided to arrest the woman, and she was arraigned before Mayor Tolmie. Three witnesses were called, but their evidence went to show that they had their heads read by her and that there was no "fortune telling” about the performance. The bench had therfore no recourse but to acquit the lady, and this they did. \Vhoreupon Madame paced smilineg up to the court, and in tliaukfulness of heart held out her dexter hand to the bench, in order of seniority. llut Magistrate linker declined her thanks, and told her in plain, unvurnished terms that, had the evidence borne out the charge, he should have been obliged to commit her to the common jail. The verdict was really one of, “ Not guilty, but don’t do it again.” Mayor Tolmie said that, while the case had not been proven , he was of the opinion that there was something serious behind it all. He then questioned licr regarding her connection with the Mnthieson case. She denied having said that he was murdered, she denied having said she had met the men who did the deed, she denied having bad a contract with the friends of Angus Ma- thicson to find the body, she denied having posted money that she could find it; All she would admit was that she had a. “dream ” that he was murdered. that his body was weighted with railroad iron and sunk in the lake. She likewise had an “impression” that he was in a certain part of the lake and she consequently had a buoy placed there. So far ., as any suspicious against three men were Concerned she has said only what she had dreamed and heard. \Vhen the trial was over John Mathiesou, a brother of the missing *man, stepped up to the bench and told Magistrate Barker that all be asked was that she be given a fair trial. She claimed to be able to locate the body and if she could she should be given a chance to do so. If she failed, then let- them prosecute her. In the mean- time lie was determined to see whether or not there was any virtue in her art. A COLD-BLOODED MURDER. llo Shoots inul “Ills :3 Pretty Girl and Altcmnts Sulclile. A Cincinnati despatch says :â€"Mary (lil- martin, a pretty clerk, was shot and in- stantly killed this morning while on her way to work. The man who committed the murder was arrested and gave his name as George ltecd, aged 30, but letters in his jealousy of the girl and her desire to get rid of his uuv'elcome attentions caused the tragedy. EATER DETAILS. Miss (’lilmartin was born and raised in Sligo county, Ireland, where several of her brothers were educated for; the priesthood. One of her brothers is a professor in the college of Mayuooth,and the other is Father M. S. Gilmartin, of Chicago. She was edu- cated in a convent in Sligo county,aud there ' becameaequainted with the priest whoafter- words murdered her. Miss l lilmartin came to this country in September, and four months later Father O’Grady followed her. At 6. 30 a.m. she left home, accompanied by an old lady, who walked a short distance with her and then returned home. Just as she was about to board a car o‘annv FOLLOWED lli’ilt. She turned around, got off the car and started home. ()‘Grady overtook her on Chestnut street, when he stopped her. The old lady who accompanied Miss Gilmartin to the street car had been in the house but a few minutes when she was startled by a scream from the street. The next moment there was a rapid discharge of a revolver- five shots in all. The people in the neigh- borhood rushed from their houses and saw the girl lying on the sidewalk gasping her last. Over her stood Father O'iirady, who was still trying to discharge his empty revolver. Ile snapped the trigger several times, glanced at the gun, looked at his victim a moment, administered a brutal kick, and then, stumbling over the body, walked rapidly toward John street, but was captured by three citizens just is be reached that thoroughfare. 'I'he dead body of the girl was carried to her home. A tiny stream of blood trickled from a hole in the left temple. When the murderer was taken to the Central station a small vial containing r. red fluid was taken from him. When the vial was laid down he quickly grabbed it, drew the cork out with his teeth and S\\'.\I.L4)‘v\'fllr A MUI'TIIFUI. of the stuff. Before he could repeal; um operation the bottle was snatched from big band by the policeman. When asked what, it was he swallowml, O‘Grady said: “ Oh, it’s only medicine for a cold." He was hurried off to the City hospital in a patrol wagon and jumped out. Ever since O'Grady has been in the city he has haunt. ed the neighborhood of the girl’s home and called several times. Each time she reins. ed to see him and always expressed fear for him, and especially was she afraid that O’Grady worked. would find out where she .________ For years l’eterboro' has had more hotels in proportion to population than any o'fier town in Canada, and after May 1st. next, is hotelnd {e or shop the limit- licenses will be .. -wa.â€"â€" o -~.- ._.. .,.-.*..........r.._. -..-..___._ _ ..,q .M" we. -.... .