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.3‘ v, - ‘\ It; [I ',s to me. M,W+3¢€+33€+W+3§+§3€+33€+33€+fi+fi+fi+mfi+§+fiffi+m+§ 4.. M A Haas: of Mystery . â€"_â€"â€"â€"-_â€"â€"â€"â€"â€" CHART ER I.â€"(Oontinucd). I arose from my bed a fortnight later stone-blind. With this terrible affliction upon. me I returned to London with Dick Doyle, who came out to Florence to fetch me home. For me. charm. The beauties of the world wwwhich had given me so much pleasure and happiness were blottci out. for me for ever. I lived now only in an eternal dankness which by day, when the sun “me upon my eyes, seemed to assume dull dark red. At first it struck me " lecausc my Sight had been destroy- iy personal appearance must have crawl, but Dick assured me that it Eject. No one, he declared, could v by looking at my eyes that they wit-Ere actually slghtless. And so I, Willard I’leaton, lived in those dull old chambers in Essex Street, in rooms that I had never seen. You,. who have sight to___fread these lines, can you imagine what it is to! he suddenly struck blind? Close your‘ eyes for a brief five minutes and see how utterly helpless you become. how entirely dependent you are upon others, how blank would be your life if you were always thus. Dick gave to me the time he could spare from his work, and would come. and sit with me to chat, for conver- me. He described my rooms and] surroundings with the same minute- i with which he wrote, and tried to ' :2st me by relating scraps of the news. Yet when he was absent, or at, work in his rooms above, alone thinking for hours, count- yne by the chiming of the clock .. Clcmon-t Dants. Wheavily did time hang upon my! W: that at last I engaged a teacher “the Blind School over in Lambcth, Ewlth his books of raised letters he 3 to visit me each day and tea-ch to read. I was an apt thlDII, I sup- ‘, yet there was. something strangely -'*g-r5lcsque about a man who had already graduated recommencin‘g to learn his alphabet like a child. Still, it saved me from being driven mad by melan- choly, and it was not long before I ,found that' by the exercise of pains I could read slowly the various embossed books, standard works manufactured :for the recreation of those unfortuâ€" nates like myself, who would otherâ€" wise slt eternally idle with the‘r hands before them. And not only did I learn to read, but also to make-small fancy baskets, work very intricate at first, but When, on account of the highly de- veloped sense of touch that I had ac- quired in reading, soon became quite easy. The long months of winter darkness went by; but to me, who could not see the sun, what mattered whether the days Were brilliant August or black De- cember? Sometimes I went out, but not often. I had not become proficient i'l finding my way back by aid of a stick. I had practised a good deal” in my moms; but for a. blind man to go forth into the busy Strand he must have perfect confidence, andbe able to guide himself among the bustling tthrong. Therefore, on my airings I usually went forth upon Dick's arm, and the extent of our wanderings was -the end of the Embankment at West- minster Bridge, or around those small ornamental gardens which extend from the Charing Cross station of the Under- ground Railway up to Waterloo Bridge. Sometimes, on rare occasmns, he would take me to dine with him at the Sav- age Club, in Adelphi Terrace; and men, easygoing Bohemians, whorn I could not see, would warmly shake my hand. I hea‘rd their voicesâ€"voices of artists and titerateurs whose names were as Museluild wordsâ€"sat charmed by their -d at their droll stories, or listened to pump, ei‘ry gossip of artistic “shop,” laugh- Z‘Eie or other of the members who would recite or sing for the benefit of his broil-er Savages. Those evenings. spent amid the tobaccoâ€"smoke and ; glasajingling of the, only Bohemian still existing in. London, were the hap- pie“. in all that dull, colorless, dismatl life of sound and touch. They were the only recreations left‘ Truly mine was a tristful life. In Aioril, [after I had lived inlhat ~ clingy 0811 six months or more, Dick came into my room one morning and made an announcement. It was that he had been commissioned by the Daily Telegraph to go as its correspon- dent with a British punitive exIeziitfon on th‘. North-West Frontier of India. “You'll g , of course," I said, reflect, vancement and profit. He had long. ago told me that a commission as war correspondent was his greatest ambi~ clon. ’ “No, my dear old follow," his deep voice answeied in a tone more grave than usual. "I can’t leave you alone." “Nonsensel’l ejaculated. “I'm not OR, THE GIRL IN BLUE - life had no further. uchccrlcs's and melanc-hol y. W+£E+3§+§€W+rf w.- ++aos+n~aczaczn++o+n+n+u+n+o going to allow you to fling away such a good offer to remain with me. No, you must go, Dick. You‘ll be back in three months at most, won'tyou?” “Perhaps before," and his voice sounded low and strange. "‘But really. old follow. I can’t go and leave you helpless like this." “You’ll go,” I said decisively. “Mrs. Parker will look after me, and three iii-o'ntlis wxll soon pass." “No,” he said. “It's all very well. but you. can’t sit here month after month, helpless as you are. It's im- possible.” “I shall amuse myself with my books and my basket-making," I answered. Truth to tell. this announcement. of his had utterly crushed m-c. Ills society was the only bright. spot. in my life. if he left. me I should be entirely alOne. Ne ver 1 hel-css when the sight is destroyed the midi] is quickened, and I reflected all that this offer meant to him, and admired his self-denial and readiness to refuse it on my account. Therefore I insisted that he should go. In the end 120 was pcrsuadel. and three days later left Charing Cross for India. 'thn he had gone I became hope- lessly depressed. In vain did I try to interest myself in the embossed looks.‘ but they were mostly works which I a». .gsation with him was all that was left. I had read long ago, and in vain I toiled at basket-making until my [linger-tbs were sore and aching. Sometimes at evening Mrs. Parker, herself a sad sch - tar, would try and read a few of what she considered the choicest nzorsels of the “extra special." She read very st.:.-wly and inaccurately, poor oil soul, and many were the words 511-.) was compelled to spell and leave. me to solve their meaning. Indeed. in those long hours I spent by myself I sank lower and lower in dejection. No longâ€" e.‘ I heard Dick's merry voice sayingâ€" “Conie, cheer up, old chap. Let. me tell you all I heard today over at the club.” ' No longer could I lean upon his arm as we descendod'that steep flight of steps leading from the end of Essex Street to the Embankment; no longer did I hear those playful words of his on such occasionsâ€" I “Take care, darling, or you'll fall." Dear old Dickt Now, when I reflect- ed upon it all, I saw how in my great affliction he treated me as tenderly as he would a woman. Forlorn, hyppc-il. and heart-sick, I lived on from day to day, taking interest in nothing, mop- ing dolofu-l and unmanned. A single letter came from him. posted at some outlandish .place In the Nort- Wcs'. It was read to me by old Mrs. Parker, but as Dick was a sad scrib- blcr, its translation was not a very brilliant success. Nevertheless from "t I gathered how deep were his thoughts of me, and how eager he was to com- plete his work and return. Truly no man had a more devoted friend, and certainly no man was more in need of one. As the days grew warmer, and I sat ever with the ttedium vitae upon me, joylcss and dispirited in that narrow world of darkness, I felt stifled, and longedI for air. Essex Street is terribly close in July, therefore. finding the heat intolerable. I went forth at. even- in-g upon the Embankment. with Mrs. Parker, and, with my stick. practised walking alone upon that long, rather unfroqu-ented stretch of pavement be- tween the railings of the Temple Gar- dens~ and the earner of Savoy Street. Try to walk a dozen paces as one blind. Close your eyes, and tap light- ly with your stick before you as you walk, and see how utterly helpless you feel, and how erratic are your footsteps. Then you will know how extremely difâ€" ficult I found my first essays alone. I walked full of fear as a child walks, stumbling, colliding. halting. and even waiting; for my .pitying old woman- servant to take my arm ‘and guide me in safety. Yet evening after evening I went forth and steadily persevered. I had, in the days before the world became shut out from my gaze, seen men who were blind guiding themselves fearless- ly hither and thither among the Lon- don crowds, and I was determined, in Dick's absence, to master the means of visionless locomotion, so that I might walk alone for heallh's sake, if ‘for no- thing elso. And so I continued striv- ing and striving. When Ml“. Parker had served my dinner, cutting it up for me just as one places meat before a helpless infant, we went forth together, and for an hour each ‘evening I went that such an offer meant both ad- out upon that wide expanse of the Em- bankment pavement which formed my practice-ground. G‘adually, by slow degrees, I became proficient in guiding myself with that constant tapping that marks a blind man's progress through the black void which constitutes his own narrow joy- less world. At last, after several weeks of constant practice, I found to my great delight that I could actually walk alone the whole length of the pavement, guiding myself by intuition when encountering passcrsi-by, and con- tinuing straight on without stumbling or colliding with any object, a fact which’gave me the utmost satisfaction, for it seemed to place me beyond the ncod of a constant guide. With this progress I intended to astound Dick upon his return, and so gradually per- severed towards proficiency. CHAPTER II. August was dusty and blazing in I.ond-on,.and I felt it. sorely in Essex Street. The frontier war dragged on its weary length, as frontier wars al- ways drag, and Dick was still unable to return. Ills brilliant descriptions of the fighting had become a feature in the journal he represented. On one cl my short walks from end to end of that. long even strip of pavement a band was suddenly placed upon my shoulder, and the voice told me that it was Shadrack Fennel], a charming old fellow, who had been a. popular ac- tor of a day long since past, and was now a prominent. “Savage,” well known in that little circle of London lohemia. Ila walked with me a little way, and next evening called and spent an hour over cigars and whiskey. He was the only visitor I had in all those months of Dick's absence. A blind man has, alast very few friends. ' Once or twice, when the heat became insufferable in my close stuffy rooms, I contemplated going to the country or to the sea. Yet, on reflection, I told myself bitterly'that. being unable tr so the beauties of God’s earth, I was just as well there moping in that gloomy sire-ct. and taking my evening airing loud: the Thames. 'l‘licrcfore with all desire for life or enjoyment. crushed from my soul. I reâ€" maircl in London, going out each fine evening, sometimes with Mrs. Parker, and at. others. with a. foarlcssneas ac- quired by practice, I carefully guided u‘iysclf down the steep granite steps leading from Essex Str:ct to the. Em- bankment. and then paced my strip of pavement alone. But how txristful, dis- plititing, and soulâ€"sickening was that ii'mnot'mmis world of darkness in which i -(_‘i<.“.'ili]II_V rxistcd, none can know, July those unfortunate ones who are bl'nd themselves. About half-past eight o'clock one breathless evening in midâ€"August, Mrs. i‘arkcr 'lgrefng unwell. I went forth alone for my usual astro-ll. The atmosphere was close and oppressive, the pavement seemed to reflect the heat. and ever. along the. Embankment- there was not a, breath of air. Alone, plunged in my own thoughtsâ€"for the blind think far more deeply than those whose minds arr- d:islraclcd by the sights around themâ€"I went. on with those short steps that I had acquired, ever tapping with my slit-k to discover the cross- lugs. I wrs afraid of no street traffic; only of cycles, which. by reason of their silence, are veritable orgrcs to the blind. Almost unconsciously I passed be- yond the limit of my regular track, beneath the railwayâ€"bridge which I knew IIC‘d from Charing Cross station and then straight on, with only a single crossing, until I came to'what seemed the junction of SCVC'I'III‘I‘OHCIS, where l hesitated. It was an adventure to go so far. and I wondered where l was. The chiming of Big Ben, however, gave me a clue. I was at the corner of Bridge Street. for I felt the wall of the. St. Stephen‘s Club. The turning to the left would. l knew, take me over \l’eshninster Bridge; to the right I could cross Palace Yardand Broad Sanctuary, and so gain Victoria Street. Befone my affliction I know well that portion of London ,around the Houses of Parlia- ment. I decided, therefore, on keeping to the right. and some one whom I know not kindly «piloted me over the dangerous crossing from the corn-5r of Parliament. Street, for such I judged it to. be from the cries of 'men selling the evening papers. Again, three times in succession, did sympathetic persons, noticing my helplessness as ,I stood upon the kerb, take. my arm and lead me acro'szt, but. in these constant cross- ings- I somehow entirely lost my bear- ings. I was, I knew, in a long straight thoroughfare, and by the iron railings before the houses guessed it to be that road of flat-dom, Victoria Street. Amused at my intrepidity, and con- gratulating myself upon having gone so far alone, I kept on, knowing that even if I lost myself I had only to call a passing transom and be driven back to Essex Street. Thus for perhaps tbrce~quarters of an hour I wandered on. From a lad who helped me over one of the crossings I learnt that I had passed Victoria. Station, and now ap- peared to be traversing several large squares-at least, such was the impres- sion conveyed upon my mind. It was useless to stop passers-by every moment to inquire where I was, therefore, laughâ€" in‘g inwardly at my situation, lmt in London, the great city I' had known so well, I went on and on, down long straight thoroughfares that seemed endless, in enjoyment of the first real walk I had taken since my cnushing affliction had fallen upon me. ’ Suddenly, in what seemed to be a quite deserted street, I left the kerb to cross the road alone, but are I became aware of impending danger a man's voice shouted roughly. and I found my- self thrown by violent concussion up- on the roadway. struggling frantically beneath a horse's boots. I clutched wildly at air to save myself. but next; second received a violent. kick on the, that I must have been taken to a hos- pital afét-r the. accident, and that I had most probably remained there some sparks to appear before my sightless eyes, slurmed me, and rendered me al- most. instantly insensible. How long I remained ignorant of things about me it is impossible to tell. I fancy it must have been a good many hours. On my first. return to consciousness I heard strange confused sounds about me, low whispering the words of which were utterly unintel- ligible- to my unbalanced brain, and the quick rustling of silk. I rein-Land:cr wondering vaguely where I was. The blind quickly develop a habit. of ex- treme caution, and with my senses dulled by the excruciating pain in my skull I lay reflecting without s;.ez‘.k'ng. walk which had ended so disastrously c side of the head, which caused surged through my brain, it-struck me days. Yet in hospitals there is no per- fume of peau cllEsl)iigne, nor do the nurses wear silicon flounces. I tried to catch the words uttered by those about me, but in vain. It may have been that they were spoken in some fore‘gn tongue. or, what isnmch n‘i-oro likely, the terrible blow I had- 1‘"- ccjved from the horse‘s hoof bad utter- ly disarrangcd my sense of hearing. This single thought appalled me. If my hearing had really been injured, then I was rendered absolutely help- less. To the blind the acoustic organs become so sharpened that they can do toot sounds where those in full p‘r'ssos- sionâ€"of sight and hearing can'dfstingu- ish nothing. It is the car that acés for the sightlcss eye. Therefore the fear that even this had failed me held me appalled. I stretched fourth my hand, and to my surprise felt. that I was ‘not in a hosâ€" pital. bed. as I had at first believed. but upon. a silken couch, with my head resting upon a soft pillow. The cov- ering of the couch was. of rich brocade In wide stripes, while the woodwork had a. smoothness which caused me to believe that it was gilt. I raised my hand to my head. and found it band- aged- with a handkerchief and some ap parent] y improv'sod com presses. (To be Continuoc .) ROBBERY BY EIYI’NO’I‘ISM. The Marquis of Townshend fakes an Odd Accusation. A remarkable case of hypn-titism and blighted affection is occupying the at- tention of a London court, in which the Marquis of ’l‘ownshcnd is one of the principals. The other is the Rev. Arthur Robins, one time curate of the fashionable Holy Trinity Church. The Marquis is the plaintiff in the case, and he charges the curate with having hypnotically whecdlcd from him various large sums of mouey and valu- able heirlooms, and also the love of his beautiful wife. which the curate has deprived him of by slander. The Marquis wept so hysterically when he related his woes on the wit- ness stand that he could scarcely be understood. _ The plaintiff’s story is that he studied liypnotism with the defendant, who found the. Marquis so plastic a. subject that he put. him under hypnotic con- trol and in that state secured many of the Townshend paintings. works of art and jewels. and also the Townshend ready moneyâ€"all under the simple scheme of making the Marquis think he didn't need any of that possessiOn-s. The affairs of the Marquis of Towns- hend have had many strange phases. In 1905 he married Gladys Ethel Gwenâ€" dolen Eugenie. the beautiful daughter of Thomas Suthersl. a lawyer. The Marquis is a little. insignificant man, and not particularly bright. while the l'farchioness is a woman of great wit and intelligence. After the honeymoon. which was a farce, there were legal entanglements over money matters. which were brought. to a. topsy-turvey end by Me declaration of wife and fatherâ€"irllaw that the Marquis was mentally incap- able. Some sort of reconciliation was patched up. and since then quiet has blooded over the Townshend manage. _._..._.-.I,._--____. FIFTY YEARS OF CRIME. A Vast Improvement in the Last Half Century. An. interesting comparison given in the Criminal statistics for England and Wales for the year 1906, issued recently, enables a contrast to be made for the first time of the prevalence of crime to- day with fifty years age. Generally speaking, it may be said that a vast ‘imjfnovemcnt has taken placr. The number of persons tried on indictable offencesâ€"that is to say, the more seri- ous crimesâ€"totalled 59,079 in 1006, as compared with 54.667 in 185?. There is thus a slight increase in the number of criminals, but when it is remember- ed that the population has increased from nineteen and a quarter millions in thirty-four and a half millions in the fifty years, it becomes evident that, proportionately to the population, seri- ous crime has decreased by some 40 per cent. The chief comparisons are as follows:â€"â€" . 1006. 1857. Serious offences ..113.330 82,26t Drunkenness .. 75,859 211.493 Education offences .. None 53.399 Police regulations . 38, 33 132.504 >I« It isn’t noccssarv to mention. your lawyer in your will. he’s sure to get his share. elements of growth are carried and do- Tho “mobbing in my head was fright- posited by the blood. Think of the won- ful. When the recollections of my long (Sc-rial action of the heart that conveys M PURE AIR FOR ~CO\VS. Iloard's Dairyman has repeatedly asked its readers this question: Is there any reason why a cow should not have as pure air in winter as in Sun‘imer? Of course, no one has ventured to answer to the contrary. Milk is se- creted primarily from blood. All the finally 50 pounds of milk to the udder so we can get it.- But the blood is kept pure by the air in the lungs and is vital by those things. It goes out on its hidden and mysterious journey to the farthest extremity, carrying with it for deposit what is needed for each bit of tissue for all different purposes. Then it gathers up on its return jour- rzoy a lot of impurities and comes to the lungs- for purification. These impurities are taken out by the oxygen of the air in the lungs. When the blood comes to the lungs it is of a dark liver color. As soon as it feela the effect of oxygen taken from the air the color is changed to bright crimson. Right here do we see necessity of pro- viding the cow in her stable just as na- ture does in the field with a full supâ€" ply of pure oxygen in order that the blood may be vita‘liza‘d. Many a farm- er who is ignorant of these principles shuts his cows up in a foul, close stable. reck'ng with the fumes of manure and urine, and nevrr thinks how he is heat- ing himself in the face all the time. He is doing all he can to prevent his cows from yielding an abundance of good milk for he is robbing them of their supply of oxygen without which the blood cannot help the udder to secrete. This matter of milk secretion is a wonderful thin It has claimed the at- tention and deep study of thousands cf the world’s brightest minds since the day that Aristotle the Greek wrote of the human moth-er. And still it. is a. mystery. But we may know some thing about? it if we will. Among them is the ever-pressing importance of water and pue air. Ignorant men can own cows and can shut them up in foul, disease- brccding stables. but nature punishes them for their refusal to know the laws. Again was asked: Is there any reason why the cow shou‘d not have just as pure air in win- ter as in summer? CO'W STALLS AND TIES. There was never a time in the history of dairyiug whsn so much attention .’3 given to the building of, comfortable ties for the dairy cow. The rigid stanchion is giving away to the swinging stanchion, to the chainâ€" tic- stalls where the cows do not have t‘; I'iC tied, and many other new and more comfortable arrangement for fast- ening cows. While the COWS seem to thrive and do well in the rigid stanchion, yet the new devices for tying dairy cows must he more comfortable. It has always seemed to us that any stall which per- . mils the cow to move her head to her side is preferable to a tie which keeps her head in a nearlystraight position. The modern methods of hitching cat~ lle not only gives the cow more free- dom and therefore more comfort, but they invariably give, the cows a better opportunity to keep clean. This Is a. strong argument in favor of some of the more modern ties, for everywhere there is a pressing demand for cleaner milk, and everyone knows that it is easier to produce clean milk from clean cows than from dirty ones. Give each cow a small stall by. her- self and she is fastened in it by stretch- ing a chain from post to post or from partition to partition at the rear end of the stall. This arrangement gives the cow considerable freedom as she is at liberty to move her head to her side when lying down and to lick herself when standing up. The movable gate is front of her lines her to the gutter and prevents her to a large degree from dirtying her stall. One of the chief objections to this form of stall is the posts which are nec- essary for building it, but many of the users do not consider this objection at all. serious. V It is not possible for us to say what kind of stall another man should build or buy, but. every dairymnn should aim to make his cows comfortable and keep them clean. . _._.n.â€"â€" " THOSE mucus PILES. Regardless of the fact that. in agri- cultural papcrs, farmer's institutes, and from other sources the teaching of cor- rect. methods of handling manure ls taught, we still find great piles from the stables accumulating under the. caves where much of fertilizing proper- ties will be washed out before it reaches the soil. It is not. practicable to haul it every day to the field it should to placed under cover. By mixing the dif- ferent kinds. giving the loose stock a chance to tread it. down there will be little less from fircfang. ______.z._.â€".â€" Mrs. Brownâ€"“I have such a lovely present for myhusb/ad!“ Mrs. Smith --~“What is it?" Mrs. Brownâ€"“A .pair of slippers. Won’t be be pleased?" Mrs. Sn‘iithâ€"â€"“'i'cs. What. do you (r‘x~ peat toget from him?" Mrs. Brovm ---“Oh, nothing mucliâ€"â€"n (liaison-l ring, I suppose. or a sealskin jacket." I 1.] .,.z.«'.:. .. .. .. , 21 t" "'4 y. . my, )‘Tfilvn‘aâ€"nâ€">.~â€"â€" ._.. _... a _ I.