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' from you. p.- M'.‘ ,..___. fiatâ€"+7” mmm+n+ CHAPTER XXII. As Sunbeam emerged from the wood She came face to face with Eileen, and stopped with a feeling of alarm. 011!” she exclaimed, confused; “are you better? I thought you w-C-rc in the house, or I sliouldâ€"-â€"" ' “I have been out an hour, and the air has done wonders for me. What would you have done had you known. I had left my roomâ€"kept me company?" asked Eileen, her eyes intent on the girl's face. Sunbeam :csitatcd. ller mind was bL'Sy reviewing the meeting with her father. Could Eileen have overheard them? She looked up anxiously. But Eilecn's face was a mask. “Yesâ€"if you had wished me to do so," she murmured. “I should not have rushed off by myself at. all events, in caseâ€"in case you felt lonely.” She stammcred somewhat, for the words she spoke struck her as being ridiculous from her to Eileen. Confu- sion, however, had tam-ed her tongue, . and made her say what at any other time she would have held back. But Eileen was in a gentle mood, and therefore .I‘efrained from showing her habitual disdain. She smiled, and turn- :ing towards the terrace, exclaimed abri gh tlyâ€" “That was nice of you, Sunbeam. For We are not the best of friends as a rule. .And l do not deserve much consideration. But we will forget all disa- greeablcs and be friends, that is if you are willing.” ' Sunbeam flushed hotly. Her generous heart expanded to the touch of sympa- thy; in that moment she, forgot all Eileen’s‘ past unkindncsses and was ready to forgive at, once. ' “Of couise I am !” she ejaculated. “I .always wanth that from the first, I think, becauseâ€"â€"” She paused, intimidated by Elle-en‘s laughing, questioning eyes. “Because what, Sunbeam ‘f” “Becauseâ€"yen belong to Mr. Sinclair .â€"â€"â€"and he has always been so good to me I owe him more than I can tell.” “Rally!” exclaimed Eileen. her face growing grave, “I don’t think he has done more for you than any one could have doneâ€"more than he would do for .any girl he found in trouble. lie is very ‘tmid-er-hcarted,,and apt to make moun- tains out of mole-hills when dealing with another’s woes. Besides, he does not require any return for what he dues. He would feel quite vexed if he thought you magnified his very ordinary doings into the deeds of a demzi-god.” Sunbeam colored vividly. Eileen’s tone reminded her of their past encoun- ters. Besides, she had certainly not said enough to justify such anoliaborate re. 1y. . D “No one had ever been angry with mo beforeâ€"except once,” she faltercd, “and I could not understand your being so. 'You are so beautiful that I wanted you to like me, more for that than for any other reason, I think.” Eileen laughed. . “Thank you, Sunbeam! You are a graceful flatticrer! But has it not ocâ€" curred to you that your own prettiness ' .might make other girls dislikewyou ‘f” “Oh, Miss Iliviere, not you, at all «events. I cannot believe that!" “And you are right. Nor will we try to solve the mystery of the sudden wave of dislike that surged between us. For we are going to be friends,” repeated Eileen, laying her hand on Sunbeam’s .arm and leading her into the house. "‘Now I am going back to my room to rest,” she continued, "but we shall meet at dinner time. I feel that the worst of my attack is over and shall be able to . rrsum-e my duties as 'liostess to-i'iight, ,thanks to the walk and your cheering company." Still wondering at her cl'mnged man- ner. Sunbmun left her at the top of the stairs and went to her own room. She was glad to be alone. For she wanted to think over the meeting with her father and Eileen's words. Both had behaved so differently to what. she had expected. She was pleased that Eileen had offer- ed to be friends, but she could not under- stand why she had done As for her father, his baliaviour was even more in- explicable. Why had he changed his mind and called her back to tell her so? And did‘ he mean to leave her alone after al‘. ? Or, now he had disrovnired her hid‘ lug-place. would he try to get her to go back to him ‘? lesidrs, now his anger against her had vanished, and he no longer wished her to marry ('lcullrmun Danâ€"wasn‘t it her duty to go to him and Aunt. I-Ictty? She paced the room with a restless step. What. could she do 1’ She did not want to go back. She was much happier in lier.prrsent posit.ion--â€"tlie position her father had trained her for. That was what Mr. Sinclair had said. The tln‘iught, o.’ cottage life filled her with dismay. She could not resume it. Then the rc‘ m-CiubI‘ancc that the aunt who had been so devoted to her, was perhaps in mis- cry and starving, as her father had hinted. brought the tears to her eyes and hot remorse to her heart. I-low wickcdshe was to feel like this after all they had dcne for her! Besides, they were her people. Nothing could alter that. She had no right here, acting the lady and shrinking from illiterate povertcy as from 2 thins: unknown. Â¥W§+§+fi+fi+fi+fi+m+fl +fi+fi+fi+fi+§+fi+fi€+fi+fi+fi+§fi IA MANS REVENGE; _â€"_â€"_ OR, THE CONVICT’S DAUGHTER. §l§€é 33E+31i+33€§£$§ fivflfi‘i‘t S’lNfifiI £E+£E+ifi+£fi+£t +352+33i+n +fi+§+fiifl t t t t t t .. 4. +n+m+n+n+n+nm+n+n+ To-morrow she would tell Lady Cruse that she must soon leave her. How thankful she was that she, had not to tell hci worse! The mere fact of her father saying he would not break into the house showed he still cared for her; perhaps in time he would become quite honest. She shivered asshe thought how terribleit would have been if he had persisted in his determination. ' She would have had to warn Eileen and be tray him. She was indeed thankful that such a dire calamity was averted. The relief she felt effac-ed all forebodings for flu" future now she thought'abOut it, and recalled her horror on hearing his in- tcn lions. She dresscd for the evening in the sim- ple dinner gown Lady Cruse had given her, and looked at herself thoughtfully in the long glass. She was a burglars daughter still, as much now as when the village children taunted her, and yet she look-ed so differentâ€"just like those others about her, those \\'Oll'l~[-‘.Il of high birth and culture. What would they say if they knew that she had just saved their jewels for them all~â€"if theyknew that hurt father was a convict and a thief? And yet Lady Cruse and Lady Larkin both knew that and kept her with them, and Mr. Sinclair had known it from the first and yet befriended her. The color flooded her sweet face as she thought of him, and she caught her hands to her breast, murmuringâ€"â€"- ' .“And _I love him l Heaven, how I love him I" ' Then, shocked at the words, she cover- ed her lips with her fingers, and turned awry from her blushing reflection. Movements on ‘thc landing without made her conclude that the pleasure- makers had returned earlier than they intended, and she opened her door in- tent on seeking Lady Cruse. I-Ier room was not. far from the door Bill had ask-ed her to unlock. As she passed it she glanced at it with a feeling of re- lief, then started. For it stood open. And yet Bill had told her it was ,un- locked, and neither she nor Eileen had used it. Though she checked her fear at once. by reflecting that one of the house-party had gene through it to the garden be- low, shc hurried back to Lady Cruse's room, and knocked loudly at the door. {ccciving no answer, she turned“tho handle and entDrcd. No one was there. She walked across the room timidly and knocked at the dressing-room door, which stood open. 'l hen drew back with a low cry of horror. For her eyes had fallen. on the crouching figure of her father. He had lied to her and entered the house after all t” For a second or so terror kept her silent, then her anger broke the spell, and in a low voice she exclaimedâ€" “li‘athcr, you promised not to, you said you would go away, a1’1dâ€"â€"” I-lc sprang towards her, his face full of manning. “l-lush !" he whispered. “This ain't no time for talkin’. I’m ’ere, and I’d my reasons for tellin’ you I wasn’t coming after all. But now ’old your noise and let me‘ get away quiet. You gave me a fright knockin’ at the door. I thought it was Someone else. I have only one more room to visit I think, an’ then I’ll sneak out and you need be none the wiser." “But you mustn’t! Oh, don‘t you see that I can’t let you go with their things after all they have done for me? \Be- sides, you said you would leave Lady Ci‘usc's alone, and yet thcsa are her rooms. Oh, father. if you love me, give them up, for my sake and Aunt Holly‘s.” “You‘ve shown so much love y-erself to your pore father, ’aven’t you?" he mut- tcrml, shaking off her detaining hand. “As for you ‘ aunt, it’s for her sake I’m here. Now stand aside and let me pass. You aren’t going to betray him what’s done all for you, are you ‘2” , “I don’t know what to-do,” she moan- ed. the tears streaming from her eyes. "1 can't let you go with their things. Oh, dear, if only I knew what is right.” “tiara. Right is towards me, first, at all events,” he exclaimed roughly, pick- ing up a. colored handkerchief, in which he had evidently stored most of his ill- gi‘itcn goods and pushing her aside. “No, no,” she cried, throwing herself upon him, “I cannot let you do that, in- ther. Oh, give them up and goâ€"vthe door is openâ€"you can get to it. at once, and no one need know you have bean here. Whilst if you go with these ” “Let me pass,” he ll‘ltCl‘l‘llDtOd roughly, anger leaping to his eyes. “Or you'll get morc'n you bargained for.” “No, no." she reiterated, laying nel- hund on the bundle and tugging at it. “You must leave this. Oh, do= [athep_ for the sake of whatever is good in youâ€"for my dead mother's sake I”' lle pushed her back, then laughed. “The deadâ€"such dead as her, ain’t no good to me. I ’av-e to live, my gal. An’ wc‘ve wasted enough time. I’ll be copped as sure as i stand’ ere if you don’t leave me alone. I don't wantlo ’ul‘t you, but see, my fist is strong. and liberty is too precious to waiste. Now, I’m goin’; let go 0‘ this, or ” A volley of oaths poured from his lips. For the lnnnlkcnchief had come ‘unticd mm the trinkets rolled out on to the floor. \\‘hat had looked like a working man‘s dinner was. as .such evidence of dishonesty against that I fancied I heard movements in here of other guests. With a low cry she fell on her knees, thus escaping the blow be aimed at her. “Oh, father, father, how could you 1" she sobbed, spreading her hands over the glittering mass as though to ward him off. Then, astonished at his apparent indifference, especially after his violence of a few seconds ago, she raised her head it look at him. Was he really repent- ing? Was that why he did not pick up the things ? The answer met her full in the face. Bill had gone, and Eileen stood in front of her, her eyes full of inquiry, her face pale and severe. “Sunbeam, what are you doing in here? What are these?” she asked, pointing to the ground. Sunbeam gasped, her eyes widened with fear. What could she say? how account for this confusion ? How shield her father? “What are you doing 7" continued Eileen, pushing the door wide open and entering the dressing-room. “Jewels !â€" Lady Anne’s tiara lâ€"Adcle’s diamonds! .Aand Lady Cruse’s! Sunbeam, speak! What does ._this mean? Where did you got these? What are you doing with them 7"- Sunbeam threw a despairing glance behind her at the further dressing-room dcor which led to the landing. Until she had entered the room it has hidden from Eilecn's view, therefore, ,she probably .had not seen Bill escaping through it. His quick fears had heard her enter and cross the bedroom. He had escaped, probably be had reached the wilderness. And yet she could not betray him now the things were no longer in his posses- sion. But what could she say 7 “1â€"1 found them here. They have fallen down. Some one must have left tl‘rcmâ€"orâ€"â€"4" She paused, conscious that she was talking stupidly, and alarmed at the look on Eileen’s face. “Oh, Miss Rivierc,” she broke out pas- sicnatcly, “won’t you trust me and let mm explain later? At present I am tooâ€"” , .. V “Too startled to tell the truth,” inter- rupted Eileen, as she stOOpCd and began picking up the things. “You must con- fess this looks serious to me, Sunbeam. Have you been visiting the different bed- rooms? Come, tell me exactly what this means, and then perhaps I shall know what to do." a . . Sunbeam wrung her hands despairing- l . ' ‘ y“What crn I do? You promised to be friends, Miss l‘tivicrc. Oh, if you will remember that promise and act on it, perhaps 1â€"” _ “I withdraw it,” intermsed Eileen, tossing her head. “I offered friendship to a girl I thought worthy of it. But now it is out of the question. I have found you in a visitor’s room with various orâ€" ‘naménts culled from different jewel boxes. Iâ€"low pan I be your friend with on ‘3" 3 Sunbeam raised a flaming face to hers. “Do you mean that you think that I was stealing these ?” she asked ~Eileen shruggedher shoulders. “What elese can I think ‘2" she replied coldly, rising and carrying the objects she had picked up to the table. “You can explain nothing, therefore you admit your guilt". Sunbeam’s heart sank. In shielding her father she took the blame upon her- self. And yet, surely, no one would be- lieve anything so dreadfulâ€"no one who really wished her welfare! ‘ “No,” she staininered, “I cannot ex- plain cxactly. But there was some one in hereâ€"a manâ€"and, oh, you don’t beâ€" licve that?” she add-ed, pleadingly, as Eileen smiled. “flow can I? If there had been a man I should have seen him. I am quit-e will- ing to believe you have an accomplice. But, with you in the house, it is. not like- ly that he would risk an entrance. I am sorry. But you see things are quite against you. It was unfortunate for you and entered, for no one in the world would have suspected you of flaking the things, and we might have believed that burglars had ransacked the rooms. I told you that had been done once, this afternoon. And I don’t mind telling you now that I heard you speaking to someâ€" one in the wilderness, the accomplice, no doubt. Also, if what you say is true, about a man being here, you Will be proved innocent, for I have given orders for some of the men to watch in the wilderness for trcspassers, and any one coming from the house must. be caught at once.” Sunbeam turned whiter as she listened. ‘ All her fears for her father revived, and yet, if he had been captured, she might. tell the entire truth. Eileen would surely believe: her now? But loyalty to the ras- cal held her back. If by chance he had escaped she would betray him by speak- ing. She must say nothing. And after all it was not so dreadful to bear this suspicion. for the things were safe, and Lady Larkin and Lady Cruse would be- lieve in her. would know she was honest! Courage returned to her as she watch- ed. Eilrcen's white fingers collecting the various articles of jewellery. “As you say,” she murmured quietly, “time will prove my innocence. I am sorry that you will not believe me, but I can. bear injustice better than false friendship." Eileen flashed around upon her, in- dignantly. “flow dare you speak to me like that?” she demo n (1 ed. “1 am sorry," replied Sunbeam quiet- 1y. “But friendship does not die so quickly as yours towards me has died. It trusts. You will. see that those who know me will trust and believe in me. Besides, now these things are safe, I do "wit'care much what you say.” “We may still find something miss- 1ing,” replied Eileen with an ominous . smile. “And lhcn‘you Wlll not be so sure of the friendship of others, Trust can, if abused, be shaken. And besides, your antecedents are against, ymL she suspected.\quoryone will remember them, as well most of Lady Cruse's jewellery with that as the saying ‘\‘.’ha!’s bred in the As for Duncanâ€"ah, be . boneâ€"’ But now I must ask you to go to your room. You will see that, un- til Lady Cruse returns, it is wiser for you to remain there.” She rang the bell as she spoke. “I am sending for the village policeman, soâ€" if he comes to youâ€"you must understand that until this is cleared, my duty to my guests isâ€"â€"â€"" “You are goingto arrest me ?" cried Sunbeam, her eyes dilating with horror. “1 must sift this matter to the bottom,” replied Eileen in so cold a tone that Sun- beam turned away in silence. For she now saw that the enmity between them was as great as before, and knew that it was no good prolonging the conversa- lion. “She hates me,” she mused. “Her offer of-rfricndship was falseâ€"for she has al- ways hated me! She is glad this terrible aflair has happened. And be, Mr. Sin- clairâ€"will he believe me guilty ‘2” . (To be continued). FEEDING TI‘IE \VASTE' POTATOES. Pigs are, of all animals, the best for converting lunsaleable tubers into money, and potatoes are among the valuable of vegetable foods for porcine block. But even pigs cannot be kept entirely on potatoes, while very often the quantity to be consumed is too small tr. make it profitable to buy a pig on purpose to eat them. If the area under potatoes is large there is of necessity a considerable quantity of small ones, or if not quite deserving of this desig- nation many that have to be picked out to make a marketable sample of the remainder when potatoes are worth only low price per bushel, which, from the growers point of view, seems. to be almost every year. In bad seasons there is always a large quantity un- salcable because diseased, as in north- ern Maine the present season; but even these, if not badly affected, may be consumed by pigs if boiled or steamed, though they may not be given to either cattle or horseswvithout caution. It is comet-lines said that there is danger in feeding uncookch potatoes to cattle, but this is quite a mistake, the only danger lying in their too free" use before the digestive organs of the ani- mal have become accustomed to- them. Cattle are sometimes slow in taking to potatoes, and if a moderate quantity be given to a dozen or more beasts, and only two or three take an early liking to. them there will be great danger of digestive disturbance to those. individu- al beasts, for they may geta much greater quantity than was ever intend- ed for them. When potatoes are be- ing fed instead of roots they should be cautiously introduced and every Clare taken that no introduced animal gets more than twelve or wourtecn pounds a day, but this quantity may be gradu- allyincreascd up tosix or eight pounds in fact, the tubers may be used almost as freely as swedes or mangcls when the cattle have become quite accustom- (‘d to them. The extensive grower, of course, provides for the consumption of his unsalcable potatoes, but what of the man who has a plethora of tubers who keeps neither pigs nor cows, and, per- chance has only a horse or two? May they be given to horses with safety or advantage? Certainly. Potatoes are not an ideal food for horses that have to work hard or at a fast pace, but ju- diciously fed they are very useful and should .by no means be wasted. In considering potatoes as an article of food for horses, Prof. Low says. that fifteen pounds of potatoes yield as much i‘iourishmcnt as four and one-half pounds of cats; Von Thaycr asserts that three bushels of potatoes are equal to one hundred and twelve pounds: of hay; Mr. Curwen, who tried potatoes extensively in the feeding of horses, says that an acre goes as far as four acres of hay. Foods cannot, of course, be compared in this way since potatoes cannot replace hay, we take very little stock of what chemists tell us about feeding horses, because if we blindly followed analysis of food stuffs we should believe that bran was a better food than oats and fall into al.l.,§-crts of errors as to what is suitable for working horses; but there is very little doubt. that potatoes are more nutriti- cus than the rootsâ€"carrots, swedcs and mangelsLâ€"commonly given to farm horses. and that with care and judg- ment they may bcxsuitably employed. NOT A SUBSTITUTE FOR GRAIN“ The worst feature about them is that raw potatoes in any quantity relax the bowels too much, the horse coming perilously near to scouring, and that unless special convenience exists or the quantity to be dealt with is large, it does not pay to cook them. Purging 'rarcly follows when the tubers are steamed or boiled, but neither does it with raw ones it gradually introduced and given in such quantities as a lworking horse ought to receive. We may calculate the pro-portion of carbo- hydrates and fat and fix up the albu- rminoid ratio to a fraction. but we can not get. good work on potatoes alone, nor will the horns _bc maintained in hard condition if many potatoes are given in substitution for oats or corn. Therefore, when unsalcablc potatoes are given. to working animals it must not be expected that. they will l"Cj)llL('C anything like a considerable quantity of the regular corn allowance. (‘omâ€" ’ . . .jzare-J wnh cereals they are deficmnt in ‘tilbuminoids and although life may 1,1,3 sustained on them efficient ‘work can- not be obtained any more than on roots or grass. The chemist may show that there is as much feeding matter in three pounds of potatoes (1-: in-onc pound of mixed grain food, but as is the case with hey the horse has to take an enormous bulk of food in order to obtain the necessary nourishing con- stituents. and this is injurious. The tubers must ,not be given whole to ei- 'ther horses or cattle for the smaller they are the greater the risk of cholc log. All animals are much less likely to choke on big roots, at which they must bite than on small ones which may be taken into the mouth and- greed- ily bolted without mastication. A small. round potato lends itself admirably to choking purposes and probably gives rise to more cases when it is present- ed whole than any other root. If there is a pulper or slicer, small potatoes should be put through the machine, but, where there is nothing of the kind avail- 'able 3210 tedious process of slicing with a knife may be obviated by bit: 'ting each tuber a smashing blow with a mallet. A good plan is to sprinkle plenty of chaff on the floor and then bruise each tuber in the quantity at- ‘towed in the manner indicated. Pota- toes, especially for horses, should. be washed or otherwise rendered tolerab'ly free from dirtâ€"indeed, adhering sod which is sometimes plentiful when the tubers are lifted during or after wet weather. should be removed before they are given to any animal. The dirt may have no very remote connection. with the relaxation of the horses are first given potatoes~indeed. it is certainly that or some constituent in the rind, since pared potatoes do not seem to have such a marked relaxing effect on the bowels. Crush-ed potatoes should be fed mix-rd twith the cats and chaff. Youatt recommends as the de- sired proportion, one pound of potatoes ‘to 2 and onc«half pounds of other in- lgredients, but this, seeing that heavy horses need from thirtyâ€"six to forty pounds of food per 'dny is far too much for working horses and is should only be allowed to idle horses or those doing next to nothing at a «walk. ’ ’ COOKED OR RA\V. Wlith reference to the relative advant- age of feeding cooked and raw potatoes it is generally conceded that‘ potatoes are best cooked for pigsâ€"indeed. there" are many who affirm that it is: only potatoes that pay for cooking where pig feeding is concerned. Long med ‘tions a number of experiments conduct- odin Denmark "With a -view of ascer ’taining whether a better return could be obtained by the use of bailed or raw potatoes. Ten young pigs of the same litter were put into two lots at the ago of ten 'wccks, one lot being fed upon boiled and the other upon raw pota- toes. Each lot received in addition 'two and one-half pounds of barley meat 'which in one instance was given in a boiled state while in the other the bar- ley was only bruised. In four weeks ‘lhe ilncrease .in the weight of the pigs “which had been fed upon boiled food was found to be 1’73 pounds whereas in the other case it: was only 115 pounds. It must not be forgotten, however, that against the fifty-eight; ‘pounds of increase must be put the trouble of cooking, cost of fuel. wear land tear of plants, etc. With reference to cooking potatoes for animals other ’than pigsâ€"for which they are no 'doubt, improved and especially in win- ter when warf food ‘iS' advantageous;- ‘Lhore are objections to feeding cooked food to horses. while cattle thrive- just ‘as well on potatoes given pulped. . _..~..__,I. m...â€" CHINA’S FOREIGN DEBT. Startling Increase During the Last Four- teen Years. Before the outbreak of the war with Japan, 1894-95, the foreign debt incurâ€" red by China was insignificant in amount, the only loan of which any portion now“ remains outstanding be. ing a small one of £115,030 at 7 per cent, issued in 1886. Of this amount £61,980 has been redeemed (to Decem- ber 31, 1906), leaving £53,100 still to be redeemed. ‘ The Government had some know- ledge of the financial history of Turkey and of Egypt, writes a correspondent resisted all blandishmonts to “improve its estate" on borrowed money. But the thirty years of peace from 1561 to 18% were followed by some very expensive events. First the war with Japan, with its resulting indem- nity and: the necessity of real-moment. Next came the midsummer nunlncss of 1990, which was punished by the various Powers with the infliction of an indemnity demand footing up about $67,000,000. At the time of the Russo- Japancse war another loan of £l,t)0f),- 000 was floated. In addition there are the railway loans all with a Govcm- mcnt guarantee. The total amount of the foreign debt â€"___.__.._______.â€"__._.._._._. constituting an obligatioi‘i of the. hu- perial Government and securml on its revenues, including Governmsnl loa'ns not yet paid off. indemnity (19d!) and railway loans is as follows: v Total amount of original isaic, £135,- 270.080; charge in 1906 for into-est and sinking film! (including one l‘C‘d-i'lllj‘itffll'l in January. 1907). £7.4’i~33,7.’i9; paid off to January 31; 1907. £9,97t2-i-1; outstand- ing January'fll, l907, $125,295,839. q..__ lit-IR LI.\IITA’1‘IONS. “’l‘hcsc pianos look too cheap,” said the 'young woman with the picture hate “Show! her brows (:ni'itracting slightly. llii; some of the best you’ve got.” 1 bowels when . l/ of the London Times, and it. steadily. i g. 1,1 gt 2’} if; it . w . ti .. ..__._. ; M..u-.mm.arsa-: .44. «- "r:- ./:-7q~:;iigv-¢ag«3tz1‘.sr"_‘ u m... ‘2 .5""“':-‘I!P.'\i‘.6 .."._, . - - . :5....~..-«-.._ \4