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WWMW+§ «kWWmWWfi There was OR, THE GIRL 1N “BLUE “+31% +£E+IC€43§+£€W+ CHAPTER XVIII. Brittc-n was, I imm one of those men wh of fussy sympathy, w ‘ and whose quic ’ e to a nice ediately detected, ose w-ell-fe‘gned air hose unruffled good k perception on: ty his pati~ d thus to ingrattate unger people he was, or on acCount while humor, ubled him to gau ent’s character, himself. By the yo no doubt, pronounced clev of his age and old ladiesâ€"those w pend-ed upon regularly toMcelared him kind man." manner alone depend ity and the size of his arlatan who ever known experience, hose very life do- seeing the doc- “such- a dear, the family doctor‘s s the -ext;nt of his practice. to be Upon popular The most ignorant ch held a diploma can acquire a- wide prac- tice if he is only shrewd enough to hu- to take pains to feign rest in every case, and Show of superior In medicine, he the man if he has no tact with is lpatients his surgery bell will remain for ever silent. Dr. Britten was a shrewd old fellow; a bit of a bungler, who made up for all defects by that constant good humor which people like in a “Don’t worry, my dear sir: “don‘t wor- y ” he urged, when he had finished. “Rest well, and you’ll be right again very soon." “But the events of last night?" I said. “A man made a dastardly my life, and I intend to secure his ar- rest.” “Yes. yes, I know,’ he answered, pat- on the shoulder with a famili- reflected that I had nor his patients, the deepest inte assume an outward kno wled gc. ever so clever, medical man. attempt upon ting me arity Curious when I never set eyes upon him till half an hour before... “But take my advice, and dcn’t reflect upon it." “‘If you know, then perhaps you’ll kindly give me some explanation?" I said, resenting his manner. treating me as he would a child. “I only know what you‘ve told me," he responded. “It’s a strange story, cor- But don’t you think that it is, greater part of it, imagination- “Imaginationt” I cried, starting up an- grily. “I tell you, Doctor Britten -â€" or whatever your name lsâ€"‘that it is no The wound (in my head sufficient proof of that.” “The wound was inflicted by yourself," he answered calmly. ran against the statute." “I don’t believe it,” I said bluntly. “It’s all a confounded conspiracy, and, more- over. you are staking your professional reputation by assisting in it.”, He shrugged his shoulders and raised his grcy eyebrows with an expression of regret. ' “I have been called to you, my dear sir, because you have met with an acci- “I have merely given you the best of my adviceâ€"namely, to remain quiet, and not anything that has passed. Your 'brain requires rest after the severe shock it has lOC-B‘IVOLI." “Dart Il‘ Britten,” I said determinrdly, “I quite understand the meaning of your You believe that I’m not He was tainly. imagination. “You accidentally dont,” be said. trouble about vague words. quite right in my mind." “No. no,” he assured me quickly. Pray do not misun- I merely advise rest and Indeed, you would be far tbglttgzr in bed for a few days-Jar bet- “I know my own feelings best, thanks,” I replied, for his manner, al- though it might impress ladies. aroused within me a strong re- sen tin-on t . “Ex-arty. But surely you should, for attend to the sugges did not say that. derstand me. perfect quiet. nervous old your own sake, lions of your medical adviser?" “You have formcd wrong conclusions --entirely wrong conclus’ons,” I laugh- “Is it liker that I shall take notice of anything you say when you believe that I’m not responsible for my actions?” I had watched his face carefully. and I knew that, like the dark-faced young man and Gill, the servant, he believed my brain unbalanced. “I assure you, my dear sir, you en- tirely misundersalnd me,” he protested. “I merer sayâ€"â€"â€"’ “Oh, enough!" «I. I I cried angrily, turn- ing upon my heel and leaving the IO-_lIII I was sick of the chattering c-ld idiot, who evidently believed that I was not rosro'nsibte for my actions. Down the wide oak stairs I passed, and .in the great hall, wh'ch. seem-ed to run the whole length of the house, and was filled with stands of armor, tattered banners, and trophics of the chase, I en- countered the pale young man who sent for old Britten. I was passing him by. intent up abruptly. , had on ex- ploring this strange house in which I found myself. when, approachingeme In; saidâ€"~ 1 “Would you please come into the lib- rary for one moment?" “The library?” I asked, looking at him, “Where is it?" He opened a door close by, and I fol- comfortablc study, lined with books from floor to ceiling. In the Centre was a large writing-table littered with papers. while close beside was another smaller table, very Several and business-like. ‘ puzz led . low-ed him into a W 31+): .+ +fi+~fi+§+fi+fi+fi+fl+fi+fl+fi+ޤ “What do you “Well?” I inquired. want?” “This telegram has just arrived,” he answered excitedly, unlocking a drawer in the smaller writing-table, and taking out a telegram, which he handed. to me. Puzzled, 1 hack the flimsy paper and read the words written thereon, as fol- lo wszâ€" “We are today in receipt of following am from our Vancouver branchâ€" that Charles Mawson, Dawson City, has struck it Bank of British telcgr ‘Inform Wilford Heaton seven dollars to pan.’ North America, London." Such a. message was utterly unintel» ligible to me. ‘ “Well?” I inquired, raising my eyes and looking at him, surprised. “I don't sec why this Charles Mawson, whoever he is, need hasten to tell me that. What does it matter to me?” “Matter? My dear sir! cried, staring the matter with you.” “Well, perhaps you’ll kindly explain what it means?” I said. “I have, I as- sure you, no idea.“1 “Why, it means,"'he said, his face intense excitementâ€"“it means that Woodford’s report is cor- betra yin g his rect, that there is, after all, rich gold on the concession; concessions, you are a millionaire!" “That‘s all very interesting.” I remark- ed with a smile, while he stood staring at me in abject wonder. “I fear," he said, “that quite yourself to-d-ay. The injury to your head has possibly affected you.” “No, it hasn't,” I snapped quickly. I“I'm quite as clear-headed as you are." “Then I should have thought that to any man in his sane senses such a tcle gram as that would have been extremely gratifying,” he observed. “Now, tell me,” I said; “do you know who I am?" “I think I do. ‘ Heaton." “And you tell me that I’m a million- aire?” ‘ “I do, most. certainly.” “Then, much as I regret to be com- pelled to say it, young man," I answer- ed, “I am of opinion that you’re a con- founded liar.” “‘But Mawson has struck the gold sov- cn dollars to the pan,” he pointed out it: protest. “Well, what in the name of Fortune. has it to do with me if he’s struck it a thousand dollars to the handful?” I c; ied. “I should be inclined to say it had a great deal to do with- you as holder of the concession,” he answered quite cco-l- y. “Oh, bo'her the concessi-On," I said hastily. “I don’t understand anything whatever about it, and, what’s more, I don't want to be worried over any min- ing swindles.” Then I added, sinking in to the padded chair before the writing- table, “You seem to know all about me. Tell me, nowâ€"what’s your name?" “My name?” he echoed, staring at me blankly, as. though utterly puzzled. “Well, I thought you knew it long an‘o. I'm chgcâ€"Reginald Gedge.” ° “And what are you, pray?” "‘I’m your secreiary." “My secretary!" I echoed, gasping in amazement. Then I added, “Look here, you’re trying to mislead me, all of you. I have no secretaryâ€"«I’ve never had one. All this chatter about mines and con- cesszons and such things pure and Simple rubbish.” ' _“Very well,’ be answered with a slight sxgh. “If you would have it so it must he. Britten has already said that you are somewhat confused after your ac- cident.” “Britten be hanged!" I roaredu. “I’m no more confused than you are. All I want is a straightforward explanation of how I came here, in this house." lie smiled, pityingly I thought. That o‘d medical idiot had apparently hinted to both the servant and this young prig who declared himself my secretary, that I was: not responsible .for my actions- therefore, what could I expect? ' The explanation is one which I regret I cannot give you,” he answered. “All I want is your instructions what to wire to Mawson.’ “'Oh, bother Mawsonl” I crie “ “Wire him whatever you (llilfengorlrII’y don’t mention his name again to me. I don't know him, and don’t do Sire to. make any acquaintance either wrth him or his confounded pans." t {‘lllflhall send him congratulations, and e 1m 0 remain in Dawso ' - - inngurther instructions.” n (my pond “ e can remain there until of Judgment, for all I care,’ ItEZiga: remark which brought a smile to his pale features. . i A brief silence fell between us. All this was absolutely bewildering. I had been struck down on the previous night III a street in Chelsea to find myself next day in a country house, and to. he coolly informed by a man who called himself my secretary that I was owner of a great gold concession and a' mil- lionazre. Thewhole thing seemed too utterly incredible. I felt my head, and found it bandaged. Matter?" he at me, as thought in won- der. “There mu-St, I think, be something in short, that, being owner of one of the most valuable [placer you're not You are Mr. Wilford no mistake about the reality of it all. It was no curious chimera of the imagination. Before me upon the blotting-pad were some sheets of blank note-paper. I turned them over in idle curiosity. and found embossed upon them the address in bold, black characters: “Denibury Court, near Budletgh, Salterton.“ . “Is this place Denbury Court ” I mâ€" quired. “Yes.” “And whose guest am I, pray?" “‘You are no one’s guest. This is your own house,’ was his amazing response. ‘I’ turned towards him determinedly, and in a hard voice saidâ€"â€" “I think, Mr. chge, that you've taken leave of your senses. I’ve never heard of this place before, and am certainly not its owner. Are you certain you are not confounding me â€"â€"somo one resembling me in pescnal appearance?” “Absolutely certain," he replied. “Your name is Wilford I-Ieaton. and-I repeat that I am your confidential private secâ€" retary." I I shook my head. “Well,” he said quickly, “here is some further proof;" and bend'ng be51de me he. opened one of the drawers of the big writing-table, and took therefrom a number of blank forms. which he placed before me. In eagerness I read their printed heading. It was: “From Wilford Heston, 103A, Winchester House, Old Broad Street, London, EC.” “Well, «what are those used for?" I asked in wonder. ,' V “They are used at the City Office." he answered, tossi g them back into the drawer. "And you tell me I am wealthy?” I said, with a cynical laugh. “Your banker’s pass-book should be sufficient proof of that," he answered; and taking the book from an from sale let into the opposite wall, he opened it and placed it before me. I glanced at the cover. Yes, there was no mistake. It was my own passâ€" book. My eyes fell upon the balance stand- ing to my credit, and the largencs-s of the figures held me open-eyed in aston- ishment. It was wealth beyond all my wildest dreams , “And that is mineâ€"absolutely mine " I inquired, when at last I found tongue "Ceitainly," he replied, a moment lab- or adding, “It is really very strange that I have to instruct you in your own pri= vate affairs.” “Why have I an ofiice in the City?" I asked, for that point was puzzling. “In order to carry on your business.“ “What business?" “That of financial agent." I smiled at the absurdity of the idea. I had never been a thrifty man; in fact I had never had occasion to trouble my head about finance, and, truth to tell, had always been, from a lad, a most airant dunce at figures. “I fear I’m a sorry financier," I rc- markcd for want of something better to sav. “You are acknowledged to be one of the shrowdest and the soundcst in the City of London," Godge answered. “Well,” I remark-Cd, closing the pass- book, securing the flap, and handing it back to him, “all I have to say is that this last hour that has passed has been absolutely replete with mystery. I can make nothing of all these things you tell hieâ€"absolutely nothing. I shall be- gin to doubt whether I’m actually myself very-soon." “It would be better to rest a little, if I might advise," he said, in a more do- f-i-rential tone than before. “Britten sug- gested repose. That blow has upset you a little.‘ Tomorrow you’ll be quite right again, I fcel sure.” “I don"t intend to rest until I’ve clear- cd up this mystery," I said determined- ly, rising from the table. At that moment, however, the door opened, and turning quickly, I was con‘ fronted by an angular, bonyâ€"faced, lanâ€" tern-jawed woman, whose mug-ed and powdered face and juvenility of dress struck me as utterly ludicrous. She was fifty, if a day, and although her face was wrinkled and brown where the artificial complexion had worn off, she was nevcrcthclcss allrcd in a. manner becoming a girl of twenty. “Oh, my dear Wilford! Whatever has happened?” she cried in alarm, in a thin, unmusical voice, when she behold the bandav-cs around my head. I 1001th at her in mingled surprise and amusement; she was so doll-like and ridiculous in her painted juvcnility. "Mr. Heaton accidentally struck his hcad against the statue in the draw‘ng- room, madam,” explained chge. “Doc- tc~ Britten has assured me that the in- jury is not at all serious. A little rest is all. that is necessary.” “My dear Wilford! Oh, my dear Wil- ford! Why didn’t you call me at once?” “Well, madam,” I answered, “that was scarcely possible, considering that I had- not the honor of your vauaint- ance." “What!” she waited. “Youâ€"you can't ncally stand there and coolly tell me that you don’t know me?" “I certainly assert, madam, that I have absolutely no knowledge whatever of whom you may be," I said with some dgnity. “Is your brain so affected, then, that you actually fail to recognize meâ€"Mary your wife!" “You!” Igasped, glaring at her, dumb- founded. “You my wife! Impossible!” (To be Continued.) ..__.,.,.,_ ' Wis M ISTAKEN IDENTITY. ‘ O‘il-Iaganâ€"“Oi have found the man that hit me \vid a brick as Oi was pas- sin'_'the alloy, Mr. Murphy.” ‘Mr. Murphyâ€"“And what did you do with him?" O‘IIaganâ€"“Nothin’. ’Twns all a. mis- tak-cwthc man was only doing his duty. He thought Oi was a policeman in plain cloths." . with some one else IIlG-HV PRICED BUTT-ER IN ENGLAND. Prof. G. L. McKay, writing in iii-card's Dairyman about the English butter marL ket so 5: "‘Theyhighcst selling butter that I found in the English market was the famous B. F. blue print, what is com- monly called the French roll. It is an unsalted butter made from raw cream. This butt:-r is soid for four cents- h'ghcr per pound than any butter in the Lon- don market. Following this in price I found. what is called tre Danish select-ed and then the rish. I believe it. is the uniform quality of the Danish butter that has enabled the Dance to get. the hold on the English market that they have at the present time. “The English people are not, now I Streak in regard to the dealers, unani- mous in favor of pastturizing. l have tcard some dealers say the ,pasteurizing would cost the Danes the Englsh mar- ket. However, among the large deal- crs, they seem to favor the Danish but- ter. I examined a lot of butter in the dairy markets of England. I examined some butter to find out if possible how much butterfat or how much water, but- ter should contain to be suited to that market. The dries-t buttn‘ found in that market was made in INCW York, 92 per cent. fat, while the high selling Dani-sh and French buiter showed 85. I spoke I.-.- a leading Danish authority on this subject. I asked him concerning the amount of water in their butler. He said butter was made to be spread on bread and this couldn’t be done very well without water in the butter. The Danes have increased the per cent. of water in their butter during the past five years. I am not an advocate of selling water. The Irish butter contained more water than any butter sold in the Eng- lish market. It is like some of our American butter, it. contains a lot of water and shows it. The Danish butter contained a lot of water and did not show it.” SUMMER CARE OF CALV ES. If we should have cows that will pro- duce large yields of milk and return the profits: which are so much desired we must invariany raise that cow from childluiod. The practice in handling calves during the summer months usu- ally is to turn them to grass as: soon as possible and let them take their chances from that time forward. Where this practice prevails, is it any wonder that we hear so much of cows being kept at a loss, and cows that. return but a meagie profit? How could! it be other- wise? If we would have the cow, we 'must take care of the calf. ' Our most successful dairymen are all agrecd that the. best results cannot be obtained from calves that are turned to grass during the first summcr. Calves that are turned out to grass and aliowed to- shift for themselves are continually plagued by flies and other insects, be- sides suffering from the heat, and in some instances enough pasture for 'a bare sustenance is hard to obtain. .To rear the best calves, one must stable them during the first summer. A clean, airy I‘OX s'all should be provid- ed for them and they should be fed and watered regularly. If they are still re- ceiving milk, great care should be ex- ercised to keep the vessels in which they are fed, absolutely clean, for in hot wea- ther, they will soon become filthy if not carefully attended to in this respect. Fresth cut. grass or a good quality of clover hay should be supplied them in quantities that they will eat up clean. A little grain, such- as oats and bran, fed the youngsters. along with their other food at this time will not be wasted. Any care and feed which this method of handling the calves throughout the summer may entail will be more than paid in the future when the calf bcccxmes a mature cow and yield-Sher product at the pail. ..___â€"â€" LIVE STOCK NOTES. The lambs should be dipped to rid them of ticks. Ticks make the lambs p-ii‘OI', and the sheep also. ' It is easier to keep cows from get- ting out by fixing the fences good before- hand, than it is to break them of the bad habit after they once got it. It is not usually the best economy on a small farm to keep more than. one tree-d. It requires more care to keep the breeds pure; and it is not usually considered good economy to cross one thoroughber upon another. The trouble with many beginners is, they become disgusth and quit if they cannot get the same results in a few months that others are getting who have been breeding, selecting and cutting for years. The squab industry, like any other enterprise that is worth undertak- ing, is not meant for lazy quilter‘s. It requires time, patience and intelligent perseverance. The proper time to put the honey sec- tions on is just at the beginning of the honey harvest, and not beforeâ€"when the bees bcg‘n to- build little burr-combs in parts of the hive. If puton before, it Imakm a. loafing place for the bees, when they should be at work down in the brood chamber. Besides. they are apt to tear the foundation down. and scil the sections. But don't neglect put- ting them on till the season is very far advanced. FARM NOTES. Dragg‘ng corn, either when it just comes up or at. three or four Inches, will save lots of trouble latcr.-- Use a. spike-tyoth barrow. Begin to cut hay carly. When grass is just coming into bloom it contains 9. tion of sugar and gum. most easily digested; but these, plants mature, are rapidly changed into starch and woody fibre. A successful large rpropo r as the farmer must give the same close attention to his business in all its details that the successful raili- roadâ€"man or manufacturer gives to his That as railroad managers and manufacturers so endeavor to con- ouct their business as to save in small matters, so should the farmer conduct Its business, feeling assured that if he saves in Small matters and looks after small details, the aggregates will take care of themsclvos. The day has gone by when a man can Simply buy a. farm, raise corn, feed it out, and make money. That has been possible in the past, but that is not farm- Men have been selling their farms by the l;-ushcl, the pound and the quart. Now they must. begin to buy them back ‘ regaining of fertility must necessarily be a period of small pro-fits, under the most skillful treat- n‘.-:nt by the best farmers, well versed in what their land needs, and how best to supply it, and with a thorough knowâ€" ledge of how to feed stock profitably. This is a science, and its best results can not be brought about by chance, by hand labor without brain work, by act oftCongress or by combination of inter- , es . A CASE or \lIVâ€"ISEGTION .._.__ business. :ng. again, and the MOST REMARKABLE OPERATION ON A DOG. _.._.. Proves That Diseased Parts of the Li‘v- ttng May be Successfully Removed. Prof. Ernst Sauerbruch, an eminent Specialist of many, last week Institute, at the Rockefeller Insti- tute for Medical Research in New York, performed a: remark-a vivisection. Standing within an immense air-tight glass cabin- ci. the surgeon cut open a fox terror which had been put under the influence of ether, and with the animal’s lungs exposed, removed a portion of the esop- hagus. The purpose of the to show that the danger of operating within the chest cavity, necessarily in- volved the exposure of the lungs to the atmospheric pleasure, has been obviated. Had the dog’s lungs her-n sub- jected to the ordinary air pressure they would immediately have collapsed, the air breathed» in not being sufficient to keep the lungs inflated. with the heavy air pressure a vacuum was- created. within the cabinet. REDUCED AIR PRESSURE. The ord'nary atmospheric pressure, about fifteen pounds to the square inch, or 700 millimetres, was reduced, inside the cage, by from eight to metres, not a very great difference, sufilcient to allow the bared- lungs to work freely. When all was ready Prof. Sauerbruck and his assistant, Dr. Croton, of Mar- h'urg Institute, stepped inside the glass compartment, taking a frisky fox terrier with them. As the compressed air pump began Sauerbruck's assistant seized the dog, quickly bound it to the table, and. forced through the opening in the glass wall. The head rested on a padded shelf. To prevent any air escaping in a rub- ber cushion was fastened tightly about the dog’s neck and secured to the rim of the orifice. CUT DOGS LUNG. The lnter'or of the cabinet was light, oven the top being of glass, and those gathered outside could plainly observe the delicate operation. The gentle heav- ing of the exposed lungs as the fox ter- rier drew in air from the outside was clearly seen. Prof. Sauerbruck slowly cut away a portion of the esophagus and inserted Then he cut away a small part of one lung, catching the end with fine nippers. The surgeon paused to watch the ef- Thc dog's breathing kept on as The operation was Marhurg Ger- ble operation- of with an assistant, demonstration was heavy To do away partial ten milli- but to work Prof. wriggling head the sliver tube. feet. evenly as before. entirely satisfactory. great Value of the achievement is, according to Professor Sauerbruck, that persons whose lungs have become in- fected may undergo an operation and have the affected parts cut away. The CLOCK AN‘D WATCH FREAKS. 1y when “A watch isn’t necessarily dir hlmak- it requires clea “It may 'hasn’t even been cause of this is that the c 'has dried up and the watch to go slow, In. this case. it not only dition of fresh is ob- says a watc nccd cleaning when it A cennnon It in the works become sticky. caus~ or oven to wants ning (’1‘. \VO I'I'I . in-g stop. Clean-sing, but also the ad 'oil. The lrest oil for this purpose . ram the jawbone of the porpmse, Many watchmakors elm various kinds. apparent r-caâ€" form, for in- ‘tained f and kindred fish. mix their own oil fr Clocks also stop for no During a thunder. 'sta'ncc, a clock may stop, only resum- -in,c, work w'hen' minutes weeks. have 8-.” Ill. , days. or even 'l‘fmndcrstoin'is, ain. have been responsible for the re- of old clocks wh'ch had appar- ently retier altogether from active ser- vice." . ~ passed. start in-g a..._;_1.a_.._.__. MIGHT AS WELL NOT TELL. Maymeé‘fs Clara a good g'rl to tell a secret to?" Maudeâ€"“Oh, my 110? Why she'll never tell a soul!"