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Eamm . LOOKING ‘ JAGKWARD 39 W. M. ROBSON 9. Mr. Chas. Johnson, Boa River, N. 8., prites: ‘ ‘ I van troubled with homeneu ind sore throat, which the doctor pounced Bronchitis md rooommongle mo tan! in its results. A positive cure for 1.11 Throst, Inn; 3nd Bronchial diseases. . Take a Laxa-leer P111 before retir- pg. ’wall wowhfle you sloop with- out a gripe 01 pan cunng biliousneu, ooustipation, sick headache and dyspep- cansnpanon, 51c]: nomacne anddy spa poi; Ii 3 and make you feel bettor in morning. Pricb 25¢. NORWAY PINE SYRUP. > try Dr. Wood’s Norwny Pine Syrup. dld so, and attai- using throo bottles I ’as entirely cured.’ ’ Hoaling 3nd nothing in its nation. lflqasqnt to tgko, prompt md exec- Telephone 82 PERF 501 To those “”1? have never us PARKER ed 3. Fountain Pen the “Par. PEN ker’; is a de- light To those who have tried others, it is perfection. zf‘FOR SALE AT ...... G. A. LITTLE’S,“ OPP. POST OFFICE G. A. LITTLE WEST END STORES“ RIGHT DR. WOOD'S Pause a moment and take a. retrospect of 1300. Think of the amount of money you have spent, in groceries and other ne- cesearies. You will have to spend just as much in 1901â€" arhaps mofre. It you out to :aoouomize, your grocer is the man to help you. It you can save a few cents on every order the amount. saved at. the end of the year will be considerable. Does your grocer help you to econo- mize? He would it y.o_u bought your grocefies we find our business His increased and we take this opportunity of thankigg our many friends for their liberal patmnage during .“.Q.;...3.4 the past year. We value your friendship and will try and make ‘it lasting and well merited by guar- anteeing you absolute eat- isfaction at all times. Price $2 00 w .m.m.uTHul.mhwm mkwuuhdufiuflufllhdk unhncfitdc OLU Ill-Illli‘llllll‘ 2.2. 6.3 .N6.N.?N.?N.?N.o.N.o.N.?N.o.N.o..N.?N6.N.?N6.N.?N.?N.o.N.?N.o.N.o.N.?N.o.N N... NW...” 0.; I d u a wig by n H oflfln. aunt of sun save 7 ouhu l at the willbe m V w her ne- 11 have much in re. momize, man to J econo- ‘ceries went, in 6 Wk an " '.\'ow, you see,’ wrote Mark Sefton in couclusbn, ‘why you must guard her, dour madam, more carefully, while she is under your roof, than most girls! There the Iletter ended. I threw it in the tire, and as I watched the glowing Coals I cried out to myself, ‘Why should her hapless head that will blast her life. mock her love, until death ends it all. Listen while I tell you what it is. But first you must swear never to reveal it even to the child herselfâ€"it 'is so full or awful horror.’ Ere she could breathe the horrible secret she fell back dead, with the bitter secret untold." I’care for those written words? \Vhy should I let them rob me or love and happiness? I could not-n0, I would not! I would brave tam itself and marry Rutledge Chester. "I was on my guard now, and I re- solved Rutledge‘s mother should never know I loved her son, lest she should warn him against me. In his mother's absence one day, Rutleige and I were married. 0h, fatal day! Oh, bitter hour! In that “hour I brought my own doom upon my head. And ah! God help me, the penalty was worse than demth. But I must not deviate. “'hen Rut- ledge's mother returned and discm'ered that we had been suddenly married she threw up her hands with a wild cry, fill upon her face and never spoke again. The horrible secret those lips might have told died with her. I knew what the blow was that killed herâ€"oh! I knew bUIt too Well. "I have often since cried out wildly and bitterly to Heaven: ‘\V.hy could I not have died then, in my youth and my happiness? But I must not digress. I must be brief while you have the pati- ence to listen to the bitter sorrow that followed," murmured Uldene, while tears fell like rain from the beautiful dark eyes and down the marble-white cheeks. The silence of death reigned through- out the dense._: packed room; no sound broke the breathless silence save the quivering sob that broke from Uldene’s white lips as she Wem on with her piteous' story â€"a.h, yes, surely the strang- est, as she had said, that ever tell from mortal lips. CHAPTER XXXVI II. THE CURSE. Rutledge Chester sprang to Uldene's side, almost overcome by intense emo- tion, but she “waved him. OK. "Do not touch my hand until you have heard all,” she said, piteously. “You must not! I. pray you let me continue, While I have the strength. Across the‘ sunshlne‘ot my mm a dark cloud drifted, bringing with itâ€"my doom. All unaware; - the cyclone burst above my head; the Volcano broke. beneath 'xny fee-t. ‘ “1 mi; in a picture gallery one day, with the young girl who sits beside the prisonerâ€"Miss Temple will remember the occurrence wellâ€"when suddenly 'I' nus aware-painfully awareâ€"of the fix- ed, burning Sale of a pair of eyes bent upon me, and looking up, I behold a stranger scrutinizing no closely with a look ,that burned down to. my very soul; I could not tell why. .I hurried Neddy‘ away from the gallery, but all the way home the dark- bearded, evil face of the stranger haunted me. One evening, We days later, while walking through the garden at the rear of the villa, I came suddenly face to face with the same stranger, within the grounds. “I wouldhave cried out and turned and fled, but he held up his hand with a gesture of warning. calling cautiously, in a hoarse, awful voice: “ ‘On your life raise nso outcryâ€"no alarm; I am no thief, no intruder. Sum- mon help and your doom will be sealed.’ " “Who are you? What do you want: hear? And how dare you, a stranger, address me thus '2’ I cried, fairly raging at the man's insolence, and trembling with dismay. “ ‘One who has been searching the 1 whole world over to find you, I answer. ito your first qmfion,’ he said; ‘to the socond, I say, I am here to avertâ€"a tragedy? and as to the third question, {as to why I, a. stranger, dare address jyou, I answer, by the right of an uncle, who has been appointed your guardian, and who would have sm'iven to p: ‘ l I. you, the last daughter of an ace used race, from. marmng :had it been in human power; but it seems I have come Am late. .Xmi are manned. but I can save you from the doom that follows.’ “I stood motionless, rooted to the spot,” moaned Uldene, “too terrifiml to cry out or utter any word. Like a flash the fatal words of the lotxterr occurred to moâ€"Lhe words my young mother had uttered on he: death-bed, that love was not for me. uvu --- “ ‘What is your purpose here? I mu? mined, desperately. “ "1‘0 persuade you that you must leave K utledge Chester flit once and for- ever. or I shall publicly announce that which will cause you to be sent from him by his own commandâ€"that which will cause him to turn from you in hor- mr and fear too great for words. I will tell you first the doom which hangs over you, and which has fallen upon every daughter of your race for generations back; then: you must choose whether you will go quietly back to France (from where you were stolen in your Infancy) “‘I will give you proof, first of all, that I am indeed what I claim he be. your uncle and guardian; then I will tel you your story.’ “I examined flhe portrait of my mother, which he had brought with him, which was so like my own face it might easily have been taken for me. Beneath it was my mother’s nameâ€"Uldene. I knew he spoke the truth. I could feel it in my heart. Every pulse thrifled as I gazed at the pictured face in the white, bright moonlight. One by one I examined the papers the had brought with him; and no doubt was left in my mind but what he was indeed my uncle. ” ‘That if he married the tairdhaired ' maiden to whom his heart had turned, that every daughter or their race should , be accursed; and it they married young eâ€"as she, the hapless gypsy gal, had ‘ doneâ€"that their marriage should end in t a broken heart, as hers had. She sank down on her knees amid the blue-belie! ot the open glade, and prayed the great spirit of her people, wdw had witnessed her dethronement, to make the eigh- ' teenth birthday or uhe daughters of his , racchshould he marry againâ€"as memor- able in sorrow as hers was on that day. She prayed that they might on that day, ‘ lose hope and reason. Aye, that they might go raving mad, as she was go- qr enter awnnvenrt there under an, n,- sumcd name, and where you W1“ 0. shut out from the world for life. “The daughters of your race were all beautiful women,’ he said, slowly; 'but none were so beaumifuzl as you, who seem to ‘have inherited all the beauty of your race. You have waited, too, their quick, passionate nature. Quick to lme, and to love intensely, and quite as quick to hate, and hate bitterly.”- ‘ ‘Some three or tour generations back,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘there be- longed to your race a. hmandsome de- bonair, reckless fellow, who did more harm in the world Ohan good. He owned a princely chateau and a large estate, and spent money like a prince. At the age or thirty he had enjoyed every hap' limesâ€"every pleasure that life holds. Just as he was tiring of it all most pr0r roundly, a beautiful gypsy girl chanced to cross his path. Her dark, glowing beauty pleased him, and obeying a sud- den impulse, he made her his bride. The flame so quack 00 light in his capricious heart, as quickly died out; and the tet- ters that bound him to the beautiful gypsy were galling to him, and a thou- sznd times he cursed himself for wed- ding her; and always to the face of her who would have given her lifeblood tor one word, one kindly smile from him whom she idolized as a living god. About this time he met a fair-haired maiden, whom, with him, to see was to love, and loVe with all the mad ardor or his pas- sionate nature. But for the gypsy girl, he told himself, he would be free to woo “I. knew his wdrda as to my disposi- tion were quite true.” and win the only woman he could ever love. In speaking or the matter to a bosom friend, he was shown a loop- hole (in the marriage bond which held him, and he was not long in availing himself of the opportunity of turning the beautiful gypsy girl from his doom. her husband's home back to the nomadic life of her people, whom she had for when, and all for love of him. "‘It was on her eighteenth birthday that the beautiful gypsy girl fled from " ’The scene between chem was fierce and terrible. He thrust her from the grounds; and maddened to frenzy, she attempted no draw the silver arrow that caught back her long, dark hair, and bury it in his {aimless heart. “ 'l-n this she failed; but she left with him a. curse more hitter than to have been. slain by her hand would have been; and this was her curse: ing; and that their white hands on that day be stained with ‘the lire-blood or him whom they lovedâ€"the man who was found bold enough, despite her warming, to lead them to the altar. “ ‘It was horrible-«this curse the wild, untutored child of nature ~uttered; but it has followed them,’ :he said, ‘from generation down. Each daughter brav- ed tube by marrying, and on her eigh- teenth birthday, her doom fell upon her. Bel-ext of reason, a tragedy ensued. Tnhey lifted their white lunds against him whom, in reason, they had loved heat; but they never knew the sad end, for each deu ghter, :11 turn, spent her lonely h't'e hfiter that in the old stone house on the river road that had been set apan: for their use. ” 'Iour mother, Uldene,’ he continued, ‘was nearly eighteen and married, when she first heard the story, and, to avoid the curse, fled from her husband, tak- ing you with. her. The shock of the story killed her husband. Then we heard she came to America. We fol- luvscd her, but. found trace of her too late. “ 'Now, Uldene, you see Rutledge Chester’ 5 danger,’ he went on. ‘1: you love him, fly from hamâ€"save him; bet- ter that than slay him, or, knowing your may, have him turn from you in box- .. 2-, seek measures to confine you m an insane asylum. “ ‘If you refuse to fly, I will proclaim Jon; 51:91} 1.» my wand. Chaos-u. Tm THE WAICHMAN-WARDER: LINDSAY, 0N1. your rate In your own hands.’ r“I'went,” faltered Uldene, “although it nearly broke my heart to part from him; ‘Still, 1. must save him from my- self,’ I cried out no my own breaking heart. In my deSperat'ion, I cried out that I would enter a convent, and there, hidden from Rutledge and from the eyes of the world, end my miserable days. “He was to accompany me there: but on the journey Heaven interposed. 'l‘here was a. terrible railway accident, and .he who accompanied meâ€"aye, the whole worldâ€"believed that. then and there, I met my death. A young girl, setting in a seat back of me, held my cloak and satchel, supposing I intended getting a cup‘ of .tea at a railway sta- tion where the train was to stop. I had conceived this idea while 'he was in the smoking-cam- ahead. I 'had changed my mind about entering the convent. I alighted from the train, it thundered on, and you know_the rest. “I read in the papers of my supposed deathâ€"how I' had been identified by .the cloak and satchel, and how, afterward, my ‘1 sup; 088d mutilated remains had been placed in thg family vault by my grief-stricken hasband. ”‘He believes me dead!’ I cried, with a bitter sob. ‘And dead to the world and to him I must ever be!’ “What it cost me to live apart from him ondy Heaven knows, and the pitying angels. Two years passed, and, furnish‘ ing for one glance at his well loved face, I dared go to Washington, where he “as. I was heavily veiled as I prism-j him by, and looked at him with yearn- mg, wiétful eyes; but he did not know me. He never dreamed the dmrk-robed than he had 20 cagelgsslz 91.55%} by knelt on the spot where he had stood, and. with passionate, burning tears. kissed the cold pavement over which ht? “I WOULDN'T MARRY YOU TO SAVE YOUR LIFE.” “Matters might have drifted on in this way forever, had not an unexpected event happened," subbed Uldcnc. brvuk- ing down completely now, “and that was the announcement that greetmi my eyes my hand. The words seemed :0 stand out before my dazed eyes in letters of fire. My heart gave one great. awful throb, and I fell to the flour like one dead. It “as many :1 day befolc I my gained consciousness 11;, aiu, and realized what was transpiring around me. in the paper one dayâ€"of my 1111s!) lud's uzpmacbing marriage. Unly (10d kmmins “hat I suffered as I hold the paper not offend God and m 1n bv lvttiug the ceremony go on; and thenâ€"though 5mm" ed from Rutledge as completely as though I were indeed dead-still he was my husband; yes, he was mineâ€"min»! “‘Was I in time to stop the mar riage'!‘ I asked myself, wildly. for it must be stopped at any cost. I dared ”I made my way to Black-Tm Light- House, reaching there one hour in 3J- mnce or the ceremony. I had barely stepped upon the island en: a man came hz‘stily up the path, and I drew back into the shadow otthc trees until he should pass. As the moonlight mu across his face, I saw, to my horror, it was heâ€"the man whom you are bold.- in; yonderâ€"he who had wrocked my life by telling me the fatal story of the pastâ€"he who claimed to be my uncle and guardian. "Another step was heard, and he drew back motionless, among the treesâ€"so amu- the spot where I had shrunk back that 1 could have put out my hand and touched him. As the third [wrsun ad- vanced hastily, a terrible imprccation burst from my guard'mn's lips. “‘It is Rutledge Chester: he cried fiercely, below his breath. yu't: loud enough for me to hear. ‘Hc shall not marry the woman I low.- tn-night. 1â€"1 will kill him first. I ch him another grudge, too. 11 was he who forced me from the ranks of society; bu it WAS who found me out and hunted me down. dJSL'OVel'lug thmt l was a. smuggler, a rubber, and all that was infamous to his virtuous eyes; and he even traced to me the duel that took place at midnight in the graveyard, back of the old church in the suburbs. But be little knows (but there and then I first met sweet Vex-lie Setton, and held her captive in our rendezvous until she escaped. I would never have harmed one hair of her golden head, I loved her too well, even though she abhor-red me. I paid back the odd debt I owed Rutledge Chester in parting his first bride from him, but it has recalled on me . He is about to marry the woman I love: but I say he shall die firstâ€"here and now.’ flash of a cruel weapon, and only the mercy of Heaven prevented it from be- ing buried in the young man's breast. in the excitement following the wound- ed man’s startled cry, the man yonder escaped. I saw Captain Lansing come hurriedly up the path, stumble over the prostrate form in surprise, and there they came upon him, it seems. .“I tried to cry out, but the Sound died on my lips. The tall form drew nearer. I. who knew Rutledge so well. saw that it was not he; yet the young man up- proaching was family like him. In a moment he was abreast of 1.19 trees: then nhe would-be assassin sprang 1mm the shadows. I heard a. cry, I saw the “I have told my storyâ€"saved from in- ancy an honorable name. I have done my duty. This is the fatal" duyâ€"~â€"m_v {eighteenth birthdayâ€"and here and now let, we die. My own' confession has sedlcd' my fate, but I implore you not to immcemte me in an asylum. I am Weak. I feel thatI dm‘dyingâ€"dying. “In the confusion I made my way to Verlle, whom I found alone in her bridal robes. She thought we a ghost'at first, risen from the dead. I told her all. and she knew, poor girl, that her marriage with Rutledge could never lacâ€"he had a living wife. She could see, too. that I must never reveal myself to Rutledge, but go quietly away again. “Ven‘lie fainted, and I, with hittvr tears, silently as a shadow, glided swift- ly away. That is why poor erliu has been tossing in the mviugs of :1 brain fu‘er evm' si-xwe ,thut ulgkt.« Mean-u soften the sorrow that will be hers with the return of memory. I Wuuld have gone den no the grave without: rovoal- ing myself it it had not been for the pitiful crime fastened upon the innocent prisoner here, and from which I. an eye- "witness, alone can save pin: from the unjust sentence of a term of imprison- ment for long years. The wads trailed 01f heavily frn: her while lips, and, for the first tmc. she turned her eyes, in afiright. toward Ahm- 11311de your: husband. “1 have parted, you from Vex-lie, love,” she sobbed, “but you Will forgive unrâ€" forgiveâ€"Jâ€"loveâ€"youâ€"éo.” CHAPTER XXXIX. H 53:1on she find honor and dismay on his face, or gloomy sorrow because she had parted him from his love? I'Q#_ _..v‘.. rwâ€" â€"â€" “Rutledge,” she murmured, hoidinz out her white arms. But are he could reach her side she had fallen back in a deep, death-like swoon at the judge’s feet. SVVWH 31!, “Ht Juusc D LLblro Of course, the greatest excitement reigned, and the stranger soon found himself :in the prisoner’s box, in the place of noble Captain Lansing, who had been honorably discharged. uuâ€" 'V‘vâ€" “I am now in the hands of the law, where you have always wished to beâ€" hold me,” cried the stranger, turning fiercely, yet with a mocking smfle, to Rutledge Chester; “but I have cheated you. after all, from wedding the woman I love. I wish you joy with your maniac bride, for such she will surely be when she recovers from this shock and returns to consciousness.” Loud cries and hisses from the crowd greeted this remark, and the judge‘. tear- i-ng persona] violence J'u'aé’i’fisénér, had him conveyed immediately to an in- marily dispersed. . Uldene was carried to a coach, and Rutledge gave the order: "To the nearest hotel.” “Poor Uldene! Poorr, hapless Uldene!” he murmured, laying the beautifdl, marble-white face against his bosom. while tears, that were no shame to his manhood, stole down his face. "How well you have loved me!” In Vthat moment his hoart fought a great battle with right and wrong. He must put Verlio out of his life forever more end turn. his every thought to poor Uldene. He was only human. dear reader, and it be shed a few bitter tear: ever his vanished hope of winning hi9 lost love for his bride, we must re- member “to err is but human." Let it be said of him, he struggled maniully to put all thoughts of Verlie’s fair face {mm him. and to learn to face the won'd without her, and remember only Uldene, his young wife, who‘had been restored to him from the very grave, it seemed. An old physician was soon in attend- ance upon Uldene. It was the same old physician, older and grayer now. who had held Uldene :in his arms when she was aghttle babe, and who had predicted such a strange, uncommon life for the child as he gazed at the wee. pink palm lying like a crumpled roselent within his “In my opinion,” declared the doctor. “there are no symptoms of hereditary in- s: uity bore, and I am counted an expert in such cases. I firmly believed. as I listened .to her remarkable story to-day. that the man claiming to be her uncle, is, in reality, a true descendant of the gypsy girl she spoke of, and that for generations past they have delibemte'ly set about preparing this story, which has been handed down from father to son, and setting it afloat to terrify and destroy the hapless daughters of this race. These frail and beautiful women were so shocked by the prnlil-tiovn. and brooded over it with such horrible an- ticipation. chat constant brooding in time turned their brains and made then; raving maniacs. The child of each fair daughter was born before this period. therefore no taint of the malady was handed down to the child." ”The mm is a villain, an old ofiender against the law,” replied Rutledge. “No crime is too atrocious for him to at- tempt. “1 imagine he is at the end of his rope; he is wanted for too many crimes to ever again regain his freedom.” It is presumable that the man knew this, for in less than an hour there was news that he had, by his own hand, hurled his unforgiven soul into eternity. He left a written confession behind him, however, and, Strange to say, it was almost word for word the same as the doctor had predicted. lie was the last descend-1t of the gypsy girl, and his people had for generations back de- liberately destroyed the fair daughters of a bonny race, and all for revenge’s sake. The n pen tant. a While this scene was being enacted. quite another, and a. sweeter one, was being enacted in the shady orange grove that skirted the beautiful island tipped by the silvery waves or the glis 9min; mus. "You will answer my question, won’t you, Noddyâ€"dear Ready 2’” he says, winningly, edging up a. little closer to the slender figure, and attempting to take one of the little, restless hands that were toying with the wild flowers 'You have been my staunch, true little friend through the darkest hours of my life. Be my sunbeam in brighter hours. Say that you will be my little bride, Aeddy, darling.” t {’11. '1‘wo persons sat on a mossy, fallen 10g; they were pretty, capricious, blackâ€" eyed chdy aim] gallant Captain Lan- “I wouldn't marry you to save your life, Captain Lansing,” she declares, stunting up from the mossy log. “Will you tell me why, Neddy?” he .The smiling captain catches the wil- ful little beauty in his arms, and holds her there, much against her willâ€"and holds her there until she has answered his question; and the ansWer must have pleased him vastly, for, half an hour later, Neddy, blushing rosy red, slips into Venlie’s room at the great, dark light-house, and holds up a. little white hand, on the bctmt'hal finger of when t diamond glisteus like a star. persists. 80” We givethls'benuuml Sand A v Gnld ltingsetw itharuby GOLD and mopearls, for selling ' ' only lasets Parisian Beau- ty Fina at 10c. asset. These Pins are I‘mMn-Al in guld and enamel, premix! elv'mwd and mostly carded, three to a set. They are such splendid value oul’ agents a: H them inalmnstcven h'ousc Send us this mh enisemcnt and we \\ 1.1 .lmvanl the Pins. Sell them, rat um the money. and this [mantl- tulb‘uliduoldl‘ ingwill hes:- m \uu ’u_I' uni; “Because Iâ€"Iâ€"don’t care very much for you: no, not a bit,” she persists; but the blushes on the dimpled face tell him better. She does care for him. “Oh, it’s true, Verne.” she pantsâ€" "(mite true, after all. Captain Lansing loves me, and ondy me; and, oh, Vedie. L’m so happy! 1 hane promised to be his bride.” “May you ever be happy in your love, Neddy," she whispers, sofnly. “lie- member, love is the sweet boon llan-c dées not give to all.” by return In L11. almuhuvly free. nominiun Km any 1' 0.. Box -4 Toronzo. Can. Verlie looked with quivering lips into the bright face So trausfigurt-d with beaming love; and she kissed the girl's ripe, red lips. Then they talk of L'idcue in low, tender whispers. he had lived, unre- mossy, fallen ané Is very low, mey my, LVE'uuy whESpers. “May God grant her life in- md of dentin.” “A men!” breathed pure, gentle V’Mie, uttering the word in which a whute prayer was wmpressed with ‘11 he: heart. . And how fated it with Uldene ax that critical moment? “'e shall see. "Where am I? Have I been in?" she murmured, attempting to struggle :.'p from her pfllow, but the efiort Was In: much for her, and she fell backward, half rain-tin". “You are very in. my dar,” acid may doctor, gently; “so in that your life hangs by :1 single thread. You mass n .: exert yourself it you would live. Herv, drink one drop of this,” he said, taking 21le Via! [gram ghostsâ€"m! clasp Lu tho (Concluded on Page 11) INORDER That the children may :20: come from school havyocycd. languid, and listless. IN ORDER That they may be cheerful. happy, and contented. m IN ORDER IN ORDER To have the sensibilities keen. 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CHAPTER XL. low, they any,” N663! y God grant her life in- and sturdict day by mantdI m «pnmmm w, and WM znd Amt-flan roman-loll- dozdalntygok! 01' f! n in bed :0 Pin: at 10c. - 1‘] this advertise- lwo-‘ll wad the Hon:- ll army-mm m r R :m h willie rm. "lulf'ly {1.56. m hwy: 34 Ton-n.3,