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* «umum....... .-...._...__... 4,3". .:‘â€":.<t “v rvip .H -. 35V . A House of Mystery E a it pi emommmmwmmn +mn+c+n+mn+mm+wm CHAPTER Xll.â€"(Continued). And so we gossipcd on, crossing the "Park and entering Kcnsington Gardens vâ€"those beautiful pleasure grounds that .a-uvaysseem so neglected by the majority happiest woman in all the world." of Londonersâ€"while the sun sank and disappeared in its bloodâ€"red afterglow. ‘.She spoke of her life abroad, declaring that she loved London and was always pleased to return to its wild, turbulent ' life. She had spent some limo in Paris, in Vienna, in Berlin, but neither was ‘half as interesting, she declared, as Lon- don. “But you are not a Londoner, are you?’ I asked. . “No, not exactly,” she responded, “al- though I've lived here such a long time that I’ve become almost a Cockney. are you a Londoner?" “No,” I answered; “I'm a countryman, born and bred.” “I heard the Colonel remark that other night that you had been afflicted by blindness for some time. Is that so?" .I responded in the affirmative. “Terrible!” she ejaculated, glancing at one with those wonderful dark eyes of . hers that seemed to hold me in fascina- tion and look me through and through “We who possess our eyesight cannot imagine the great disadtivantages under which the blind are placed. flow for- tunate that you are cured!" “Yes,” I explained. “The cure is lit- ’tle short. of a miracle. The three great- est oculists in London all agreed that I was incurable, yet there one day came to me a man who said he could give me back my sight. I allowed him to ex- periment, and he was successful. From the day that. I could- see plainly he, curi- ously enough, disappeared.” “How strange! Did he never come and see you afterwards?" “No. He took no reward, but simply discontinued his visits. I do not even know his real name.” “How extraordinary!" she observed, greatly interested. “I really believe that there is often more romance and mystery .in real life than in books. Such a cir- cumstance appears absolutely bewilder- 111g." “If to you, Miss Anson, then how much more to me! I, who had relinâ€" ~quished all hope of again looking upon the world and enjoying life, now find myself actually in possession of my vis- ion and able to mix with my fe110w-men. PlaCe your self for a moment in my po- sition. and try to imagine any constant thankfulncss.” “You must feel that a new life is open- ed to youâ€"that you have begun a fresh existence," she observed with a true touch of sympathy in her sweet voice. 'Then she added, as if by afterthought, “‘How many of us would be glad to com. mence life afresh!” The tone in which she uttered that sen- tence seemed incongruous. A few mo- ments before she had been all brightness and gaiety, but -in those words there vibrated a. distinctly gloomy note. “Surely you, do not desire to coinâ€" mcho your life again?” I said. She sighed slightly. “All of us have our burden of regrets. she answered vaguely, raising her eyes I 1' an instant to mine, and then lower- ing them. We appeared in those moments to grow confidential. The crimson and orange was fast. fading from the sky. It was growing dark beneath the shadow of the great elms, and already the line of strict-lamps out in liensfngton Gore were twinkling through the foliage on our left. No one was in the vicinity. and we were walking very slowly, for, truth to tell, I desired to delay our part- ing until the very last moment. 'Of all the leafy spots in giant London, there 1°. none so rural, so romantic, or so pic- turesque in summer as that portion of Kensinglon Gardens lying between Queen’s Gale and the Broad We l:. Save for the dull roar of distant traffic. (he might. easily fanCy one’s self for in the country. a hundred miles from the sound of Bow Bells. “But you are young. Miss Anson.‘ I "observed philosophically, after a brzef pause. “And if I may be permitted to say so. you have scarcely begun to live your life. Yet you actually wish t) com- menco afresh!" “Yes,” she responded briefly. “I :10. Strange, is it not?“ “is the past, then, so full of bitterness?" I asked, the Colonials strain re warning recurring to me at the some mnvuenf. k “Its bitterness is cumb'nio with re- grets,” she answer-rd husl-‘iiy. in a low voice. “But you. young, bright. happy, and talenlt'd. who need lei. think rf the trials of everyday life, should suiciy have no regrets so deep as to cause yet: this anxiety and despair," I said with a feel- ing of tenderness. “I am ten years old- er than you, therefore I may be permit- ted to speak like, this, even though my words may sound presumptuous." ' “Continue,” she exclaimed. “ll 'assure you that in my present position I appre- ctatc any words of sympathy.” “You have my deepest sympathy. Miss Anson; of that I assure you,’ I declared, detecting in her words a desire to con- flde in me. “If at your age you ah'cady OR, THE GIRL IN BLUE Wfi+§+§+fi+fi+fi+§ifi+fif I M .§ tfi+§+fi+m§§§+fi+fi+fi+m+fifi +31+33+33€+33E+i¢€+£€+33§+33€+fi+3§+ desire to recommcnce life, your past can- not have been a happy one." “It has been far from happy," she an- swered in a strange, mechanical voice. “Sometimes I think that I am the un- “No, no," I hastened to reassure her. “We all, when in trouble, imagine that our burden is greater than that of any of our fellows, and that while others es- cape, upon us alone fall the graver mis- fortunes." "‘I know, I know," she said. “But a pleasant face and an air of carelessness ofltimes conceal the most sorrowful heart. It is so in my case.’ "And your sorrow causes you regret, and makes you wish to end your pre- sent life and commence afresh,” I said gravely. “To myself, ignorant of the cir- cumstances, it would seem as though you repented of some act or other." “What do you mean?" she gasped quickly, looking at me with a strange expression in her drak eyes. “I do not repentâ€"I repent nothing!” I saw that I had made a grave mistake. in'niy fond and shortsighled enthusiasm I had allowed myself to speak a little too confidentially, whereupon her natur- al dignity had instantly rebelled. At once I apologized, and in an instant she became appeased. “I regret extremely that you should have such a weight of anxiety upon your heart," I said. “If I can do anything to assist you, rely upon me." “You are extremely kind,‘ she answerâ€" ed in a gloomy tone; “but there is no- thingâ€"absolutely nothing.” “I really can't understand the reason why, with every happiness-arriund you, you should find yourself thus plunged in this despair," I remarked, puzzled. “Your home life is, I presume, happy enough?’ “Perfectly. I am entirely my own mis- tress, save in those things which might break through the ordinary convention- alities of life. I must admit to you that I am rather unconventional sometimes.” I had wondered whether, like so many other girls, she had some imafinary grievance in her home; but now, finding that this was not so, it naturally occur- red to me that the cause of her strange desire to live over again arose through the action of some faithless lover. How many hundreds. of girls with wealth and beauty, perfectly happy in all else, are daily wearing out their lives because o0 the fickleness of the men to whom they have foolishly given their hearts! The tightly laced corsets of every eight girls in ten conceals a heart filled by the re- grets of a love long past; the men smile airily through the wreaths of their toâ€" bacco-smoke, while the women, in those little fits of melancholy which they love to indulge in, sit and reflect in silence upon the might-havc-bccns. Is there, I wonder, a single one of us, man or wo- man, who does not remember our first love, the deep immensity of that pair of eyes; the kindly sympathy of that face. which in our immature years we thought our ideal, and thereupon bawcd the knee in worship? If such there be, then lh.:y are mere unrefined boars without a spark of romance in their nature, or poetry within their soul. Indeed, the re- grets arising from a long-forgotten love ofttimes mingle pleasure with sadness. ~ and through onc's whole life form cher- ished memories of those flushed days of a buoyant youth. To how many of those who read these lines will be recalled vivid recollections of a. summer idle of long ago; a day when, with the dainty or manly object of their affections, they wandered lTOSldO the blue sea. or on the banks of the tranquil, willow-lined river, or perhaps lun‘id-inâ€"hand strolled beneath the great old forest trees, when the sun- light glintcd- and touched the gnarled trunks with grey and gold! To each will come back the sweet recollection of a sunset hour now long, long ago, wlun they pressed the lips. of the one they loved, and thought the rough world as ‘- mundel. rosy as that sununer afterglow. The regret of those days always remainsâ€"â€" often only a pleasant. memory. but, alas! Sometimes a lamentalion bordering upon despair. until the end of our days. “And may I not know something, how- ever little, of the cause of this oppresâ€" sion upon you?" I asked of her, after we had walked some distance in silence. “You tell me that you desire to wipe out the past. and cmumcnce afresh. The rea- 'son of this interests me,” I added. “I don"t know why you should interest yourself in me," she murmured. “It is really unnecessary.‘ “No. no,” I exclaimed hastily. "Al- though our acquaintance has been of but l‘ricf duration. 1 am bold enough to bcu lieve. that you count me. among your friends. Is it not so?" “Certainly. or I would not have given your permission to walk with me here.“ she answered with a sweetness which showed her unoslentatious delicacy of character. ' “l‘hen, as your friend. I beg of you to repose whatever confidence in me you may think ’fit, and to be assured that I will never abuse it.” “.‘onfidenccs are unnecessary between us." she responded. “I have to hear my grief alone." “Your words sound strange, coming countenanccs, the face and the mask?" should be thus wretched and down-heart- “Are you, then, ignorant of the facul- ty a woman has of concealing her sor- rows behind an outward show of gaiety â€"that a woman always possesses two ‘You are‘scarcely complimentary .to your own sex," I answered With: a smile. “Yet that is surely no reason why you ed.” Ilcr manner puzzled me, for since the commencement of our conversation she had grown strangely melancholyâ€"en- tirely unlike her own bright self. I tried to obtain from her some clue to the cause of her sadness, but in vain. My short acquaintance with her did not warrant me pressing upon her a subject which was p-alpably distasteful; never- theless, it seemed to me more than strange that she should thus acknow- ledge to me her sorrow at a moment when any other woman would have practised coquelry. “I can only suffer in silence," she re- sponded, when I asked her to tell me. something of the cause of her unhappi- ncss. “Excuse my depression this evening. I [know that to you I must seem a hypo- chondriac, but I will promise yen to wear the maskâ€"if ever we meet again." “‘Why do you speak so vaguely?" I in- quired in quick apprehension. “I cer- tainly hope that we shall meet again, many, many times. Your words would make it appear as though such meeting is improbable." “I think it is," she answered Sim-ply. “You are very kind to have borne with me like this," she added, her manner quickly changing; “and if we do meet, I'll try not to have another fit of. met- ancholy." “Yes, Miss Anson," I said‘, halting in the. path, “let us meet again. Remember that we have te-day commenced a friend- shipâ€"~a friendship which I trust will last But she slowly shook her head, as though the heavy sadness of her heart still possessed her. “Friendship :may exist between us, but frequent meetings are, I fear, impos- siblc.” "Why? You told me only a moment ago that you were your own mistress," I observed. “And-so I am in most things,” she an- swered. “But as far as meeting you, we can only leave that to chance." “Why?” “Please do not endeavor to force me to explanations," she answered Willi firmness. “I merely tell you that fre- quent meet'ngs with you are unlikelyâ€"â€" that is all.” , We had walked on, and were nearing the gate leading out into the High Street, Kensinglon. “In other words, then, you are not alto: gclhcr pleased with my companionship?" “No, really," she laughed sweetly. "I didn't say that. You have no reason to jump at such conclusion. I thank you very much indeed for your words of sympathy.” “And you have no desire to see me again?" I interrupted, in a tone of bit- for disappointemenl. “If such were the case, ours would be a. very extraordinary friendship, wouldn't it?” and she lifted her eyes to mine with a kindly look. . “Then .I am to take it that my com- panionship on this walk has not been distasteful to you?” I asked anxiously. .5113 inclined her head with a. dignified alt-,saying, “Certaii‘ily. I feel that this levelling I have at least found a friend â€"a pleasant thought when one is com- paratively friendless.” “And as your friendâ€"your devoted friendâ€"l ask to- be permittd to see you isnn'ietlmes," I said earnestly, for, linger- ing at her side, I was very loth to part from her. “If I can ever be of any as- s:sianc:, command me.” “You are very kind,” she answered. with a slight. tremor in her voice. “I shall remember your words always. then, putting forth her wellâ€"gloved hand, as we. stood upon the kerb of the High Street, she added, “It is getting late. We‘ve taken such a. long time acres: tho [’fllk that I must drive home;" and she made a gesture to a puss-in" liar-soul. a “Before we part,” I said, “I will give you a card, so that should you require any service of me you will know where to wrile;" and, as we stood beneath the street-lump. I drew out a card and, with a )oncil I look from my vest-pocket s:~1‘ll:l)i-i"(l my address. ’ ' In silence she watched, but just as l nad finished she suudcnly gripped mv lumd. uttering a loud cry of amazement. “What's that you have there?" she do- “Lel. me see it!" ‘ Next. instantâ€"before, indeed, I could be aware of her intentionâ€"she had snatcth the pencil from my grasp, and was examining it closely beneath the gnslight. “Ah!” she gasped, glaring at me in alarm. ""It isâ€"ycs, it is his!" The. small gold pencil which I had in- advertently used was the one I had taken from the pocket of the dead unknown on that fata-ful August night. (To be Continued.) ~._-â€"â€"*-_â€"â€" .ON THE MIGHTY DEEP. The great ocean liner roll-ed and pitched. , . , » “Henry,” fallercd the young bride, lfdo you still love me?" , ' ,. fl ,.' , “More than ever, 'darling'fft'w'vas Ilen- ry's fervent answer. . I Q. Then there was a eloquent silence... , “Henry.” she gasped, turning her pale. ghastly face away, “I thought that would make me feel better, but it doesn't!" ____"____.P_ ____._E_‘ Nutuu '-’. .. CHILDREN or Tl-lffi'IllCIl. “Fatheri” “\Vcll?" “Johnny wants. a million dollars in take his sulphur and molasses." WW tlll l'llt lllitt THE COSTLY Tl-IREE-YEAR-OLD STEER. A most important phase of economical beef production is emphasized in a con- tribution to “The Farmer‘s - Advocate" from Thos. B. Scott & Son, Middlcsex Co., Ont., who outline their method of rearing calves, to be turned off as finish- ctl hooves around ten months of age, at weights of 850 to 900 pounds. Only well- bred calves of Shorthorn blood are raised, liberal use being made of skim milk, on which the calves are pushed rapidly for- ward, without losing their calf flesh. This system results in the p ‘oduclion of plump baby bceves, which outclass all other maâ€" terial for building up a butchers’ trade. That there is profit in raising them, no one who has tried it properly will doubt, providing, always, that the calf is out of a cow capable of squaring her own maintenance account at the pail, so that the younster is not handicapped at the start by a heavy bill charged up against him for his mother’s board. It is in the production of these milk-fed becves that the dual-purpose cow makes her best showing in profit. For their production, perfection of beef type is not of so much importance as in the case of animals in- tended for marketing at a niaturer age. In fact butchers will often take well-fed ttolsteins at this age at the same price offered for Shorthorns, although, as a general thing, the latter breed will give best satisfaction for the purpose. Jersey and GuernSéy steers should be avoided. The writer has raised many veal-bceves of variousslnains of breeding, and has found that‘, with a fair start on whole milk, tapered to skim milk at two or three weeks old, the calf being then fed about a gallon or more (warmed), three times a day, until four or five months old, and then a smaller quantity until ready for the block, weights of 800 to 900 pounds could be easily attained by eleven or twelve months with the use of a very little bran and 011400100 meal, combined with good clover hay, ensilag-c, roots and miscellaneous roughage. The calves were invariably kept in a comfortable base- ment stable for the first six months, at least, and usally the Whole twelve-month, being tied or stanchioned only at feed- ing; time. The stable was always kept clean and reasonably dry. This is im- portant. Fall calves are preferable to thcse dropped in spring, and the favorite time for marketing is May or June, when beef almost invariably commands the best price of the year. Sometimes the calves have been sold at considerably less and sometimes considerably over a year, acording as might be necessary to strike the best. market, for they were fit to kill at any age. Of course, many may try this plan and fail throughlack of pains and kindly in- t-cr-cst in their charges. The great-est secret lies not in the feed, but in the feed- ing and general care, although the feed is certainly important, especially the skim-milk part. By allowing a propor- tion of whole milk sucked from the cow, and by using skim milk more liberally than the writer of this article has been accustomed to do, Messrs. Scott have se- cured exceptionally rapid gains. The prevalent practice described by them, of rcaring pot-bellied, bloated, scouring; stunted Spring calves on a grass lot. with separator milk or whey to drink almost from the first, with flics‘to poster, and not always shade to protect, is an ideal way to dissipate all hope of over making them good doors and a source of profit. to the community. Some feed-er, buying them at two and a half or three years for three and a half or four cents a pound, may scrape a small profit out (I his speculation through the increased \nlue per pound given to the original carcasses. but. his profit will not compon- sate for the loss incurred by the farmer who raised the. feeders. If cost were close- ly calculated. it would be found that the ultimate returns of such a beast ordin- arily amount to a. sorry price for the total tom}, pasturagc and care bestowed upon him from birth. The ogly hope of com- ing out even is diplzfihcap pasture, and there is very little such that could not be turned tofar belt/er account. The throe-year-lold Leader or slocker has no place. in a. well-ordered system of agri- culture. Eighteen or twenty months should be the limit of age for mark-cling cattle for the domestic trade. while ample wcights for exporters should be attained at twenty-four to thirty. It is a matter of more intelligent. business perception, more liberal feeding, and better herds- men. ._.__â€"â€" FARM NOTES. Your success for this year depends on lOW you do spring work. See to it that everything is done 'just~ right. Have a box at the barn "to receive all the odd bolls. liingcs,'ban_dles and such things. There surely'will be many times when you will go- and hunt, in that box for something you need. "j ,. During the process jot, producing each crop the progressivefarmer sees points at which he can make tbelabor ,a-jlit- cron a autumnal, ..« ,I ' " 'l‘_be,jma'n,wvilb a sloutdienrt. willing bands. the inletli-g‘encedo{direct amt the patience. to overcome difficulties and tho philosophy to accept-misfortune, cheer- fullv. will succeed no matter where he finds himself. but. in every instance, it is “to man that stays that wins. ' ' liars/tho spring work crowd you? Do not get into a fret. Remember the larg- est house is built simply by laying one twink nw‘m another. Lav out. before- l. ,v. (lanolin nn‘nll"t.()f work for each rimâ€"not more than you can comfortably __capital- punishment in tin lighter next ycap,”tho costiiot produc- ‘ tion a little lessan'd the quality of the from one whom I had thought so merry and light-hearted,” I said. get through withâ€"and then do it. You Will. be surprised in a short time to find how steadily everything is moving, and 10w easily, too. .’°-' BLIGIIT OF PENAL COLONIES. Why It Does Not Pay to Found Them in Regions Worth Developing. It is not likely that a oonwict colony will over again be established in. any region whose resources are sufficient to support. a large number of law abiding people. New Caledonia is an example of the evil effects of giving to a natu:ally rich region the bad repute of a penal colony. Even the children of the convicts there are clamoring 'to-day for the total abo- lili-D-Il. of the convict settlement. Though ' their parentage was ignominious they themselves are free citizens, and they say there will be no prosperity in New Caledonia as long as it is a. prison for convicts. Mr. Lagrand in his: ~l‘ef-Cl’lt desorption of it says the island would easily supâ€" port 1.000,000 inhabitants. But France has fail.:d to induce free colonists to set. tie there. Though the Government reserves only 50,000 acres for the use of the convicts and though for ten. years not a criminal has been sent to the island and a free grant of land. and other assistance are offer-ed to agricultural nnmigran‘ls, the bee Europeans scarcely outnumber the convicts and most of them are in the Government service. Twenty years after Australia was opened to I ‘00 immigration the Iratests cf the colonists against the. system of transportation resulted in its abolition. It. is sixty-seven years since a convict was landed in East Australia, and. long a go the convict element was comple'ely mixed in the rest of the population and all sense of humiliation associated with the early penal settlements dis-appeared. The island of Fernando de Noronho is the best example of the kind of ter- ritory that a penal colony should ctr cupy. As the island is only five miles long and two and a half miles wide it can be used as a penal colony without sacrificing rich legions that immigrants will not enter as long as criminals are their neighbors. The island is out. in the Atlantic, 300 miles from Pernamtbuco, and the worst convicts of the State of that name are kept there. There is no Brazil; and. the island is the prison of 355 hom'cfdm in 'a total of Iii-'3 cznvicts. The conditions are ideal for such a settlement. The land is wonderfully fertile and its- cot- ton Commands a special price. The convicts are out in the fields at 0 am. and work for the State until 2 if 111., after which they may work for themselves till 6 on little plots which the State allots to each.- of them. Only thirty police are required to control the convicts and there is no chance for them to (scrape. No trees suitable. for rafts are permit- ted to .grow on the island and only a few trusties are allowed to fish around the coasts. Their boats are tiny catamar- ans, too small for sea use. The convicts live in comfort at a cost that is said to make their island home the ch;a;.es.t prison in the. world. About (3,000 of the toughts't criminals of France and her c0l..n'cs, includ'ng Algerian Arabs and negrors, are scatter- cd in settlements along the Meroni and Mann. rivers in the eastern part of Fl-Gllcil Guiana, .South America. The Government. selected as the homes of these criminal exiles distrits that were regarded as very unhealthful. “The dry guillotine” was ihc..j:0§;ular name among the convicts for the mala- rious rrg'on in which they were jlaced. But m st of the wzét bed victims lived, and the- curse of the country would real- ly be the convict settlements if this re- gion were adapted for and able to attract unionists in any numbers; .__-_ , .___... WARS BORN OF BOYCO'I‘TS. _â€"â€"â€"â€" Nations Do Not Relish Being “Touched in Their Pockets} Although the recent unp-lecis'n'nrss between China and Japan, due to the seizure by the former of the Tatsn Mara, has been ofllcially declared to have been settled by the release of the. tin-pound- tltl steamship, it seems not unlikely that war may yet break out owii'tg to the per- sistent boycott which .China is now de- claring aga'nst all Japanese goods. For history tecn'is with wars due to this very cause. And that although the word only dates back to 1880, when a. certain Captain Boycott, of Lough Mask Farm, in Ireland, v. .is- so scrvei by his indignant neighbors. But the practice was known long previously. To it was due the war which lost. the British Empire the fee. simple in all tho-so rich and magnificent terri- tories that now comprise the United States of America. The colonists would. have none of Britain's goods. nor goods borne in British ships. They threw overboard in Boston Harbor the tea Bri- tain sent them, and made bonfires oti other more inflammable commodities. Then Britain landed troops to compel them to do otherwise, andl hostilities broke out. v To Napoleon’s Berlin decree, again, ,u'iis~(lue,:’m01to than to anything else, wars that led to his downfall. It. do. ciared a. boycottâ€"the_,biggcst on record fâ€"a'gainst British commerce the world Over; forefathers, shrewd, hard-headed, old'g $550.003,f.00 for his ~ overthrow. , And “as did Britain‘then, so very like l_v may Japan do to-day. No more than individuals, (to nations relish being “touched'in their pockets." Even a cheap young man may cost. his parents a lot of money. the share Britain took in the series (I, , If it had succeeded, there woman'- ‘.'.’to-day- have been no‘British Empire. Our . chaps. for-saw this, andforlhwith voted ‘; .{-~ {M v 42:». = a 5,. Wm. \r‘ m, 'J‘vf~v" »' ~f‘v“/ .v . “a, t < ,fi-ju ,~J-5J-.. answer,” ,““-_./'-4" .rs/ -,,. “I ...}:V.,- . .'