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NOCH WENTWORTH | By ISABEL GORDON CURTIS, Author of " The Woman from Wolvertons I : CHAPTER IIL--(Cont'd.) | "Am I worth the trouble?" he inter- rupted "Worth 'the trouble! Idon't believe you know yourself yet. You have a wonderful imagination and such knowl- edge of human nature.. You couljl writé a great play, many of them pos- siblye You know men and women. You 'have laid bare the seuls of some of them when you talked with me. After you bring a being into life, think how you could make him live again on the stage!" Dorcas jumped to her feet. "An- drew Merry, go to work! Show them what you can do, if for notHing else than to please me and prove that haven't made a mistake." Miss Dorcas, sit down." The girl looked at her companion curidusly, "Liet me shake hands on a bargain, » he latighed. "That's a foolish little ceremony I used to go through with mother when I was a boy. If I prom. | ised faithfully I would do anything, I shook hands on it." Dorcas held out her hand cordially. Her clasp was magnetic, "Sit down again and listen," "For years and years # I've had a play crystallizing in It's all blocked out. Let me ou about it." Le hero is cashier in a bank, a young fellow, of good family joyial, happy-go- lucky, generous, democratic, He has married the bank president's daughter, who is exactly his opposite --cold blooded, haughty, selfish and "fond of luxury. There is a sweet, tender little daughter. tween the father and the child is beautiful. The man, trusting to luck to see him through, steals for years, covering his defalcations in the clev- erest way. He had to get money, for his wife denies herself nothing. | The father-in-law discovers the crime, exposes it to his daughter, then drops! dead. . She gives her husband up to] public justice. His trial comes off and he is sentenced to twenty years. | The child is told that she is father- Jess. The wife takes her father's ortune 'and goes West. When the | second act opens she has divorced the and married again. The .a lovely, true-hearted woman. engage] to the young mayor of: 3 y, and preparations are afoot: for the wedding, when she receives a' letter from the one man who remain- 'ed loyal to hr father--an old janitor t the bank. He tells her the story iad been hidden from her. The other, he nniless, broken. down, hope: Loss, to leave prison in a few 'weeks, She confronts her mother, who denies the story, but later confesses. The girl breaks her engagement, leaves home, and goes East. The old janitor takes her to live near the prifon until her father is released. Every day "sh watches the convicts at thier lock- step tramp and sees her father. The ing of that act, when she meets : leaving prison, can be tremendous in human interest." 'He turnai to look at Dorcbs. #Go on," she said. "The last act is laid i in a New Eng- people. - The girl and her father are living on .a little farm. Her lover comes, having searched for her every- where, Merry paused. The sun had dropped | below the horizon and the western sky glowed in red, gold and purple. "When," 'cried Dorcas in a flush of; enthusiasm, "when will you begin to! write?" "At once, tomorrow: I'll go away somewhere; I can't do it here." . "Go to Enoch, " fhe said. "He will be delighted. He has such faith in you and he loves you. Besides, you'll Tlhave his sympathy. Poor Enoch, the one ambition of his life is to be famous dramatist." "No?" said Merry incredulously, "Don't tell him you know it. I dis- covered it by accident. I was tidying his desk one day. I came on a pile of | manuscript. There were dramas,' 1|{comedies, tragedies, even comie operas. He has been writing that | sort of thing for years and years," "Queer he never told me! What were they like?" "Don't think me disloyal, but they a are awful! Some day, when he gets a great plot, he things he will sue- ceerh, He won't: It was cruel to tell him so. He's nothing but an expert newspaper man." "Dear, good, generous old Enoch." = "You will never tell him--never 2" "I won't," said Merry. : They sat for a fgw minutes in silence. The flush of the sunset began The love be- | to fade from the sky, Seagulls wheeled | Enoch's shoulder with an j above their heads. "We must go home," said Andrew. "Crossing these' rocks in the | dusk | would be perilous Dorcas rose and followed him, elasp- ing his outstrtched hand. When they | {leaped down from the sea wall to the beach, the girl asked: "This is our | last evening here?" | "I imagine so. You go to New { Haven next week, don't you?" Dorcas nodddd. z "Think of me working with all the courage and. energy you have awak: ened. When the play is written Twill bring it straight to you." Thére was eager anticipation i in her eyes. - "When you come I will ask a favor. May I play the daughter of the convict?" "You " Andrew stopped and looked down at her intently, "You--you-- dear child, yoy sweet, gracious wo- man!" Dorcas lifter. her cool hands to her blazing cheeks. "Listen! You don't think I could do it. I could. I have loved Shakespeare since I was a little girl. I know Juliet! father--a father disqualified, hopeless, and Degdemona and Rosalind, but I've lived with Cordelia, I've loved her Pve seen into her soul: Your girl is Cor- delia. I could 'play 'the part even if I have never been on the stage." Be- sides T can work; oh, you ought to see how 1 can work when I hase to!" "It is not that," Andrew protested. willage, among simple country She tells him the story. He jbe marries her and takes he father home { with them," | Pm an incipient playwright ?" ist." "had, I'd have been {woman at last." {steadfastly upon the man opposi | separation from his fellows." 'Enoch Wentworih sat littered, with sheets of an when a mock. sounded on' th " door. jo Second!" he | lerieds" ! Then: tried to gather the pages together . numerical order. "All right," cried a cheerful'; ve "Lord, it's Merry!" Enoch. He swept the sheets of paper |= into the drawer of his-desk, then he, 'rose and opened the door. Merry | 'stepped into the room with a dancing light-hearted: gaiety. that Enoch had, een him don with his stage garb. Sul : was accomponied by a dignity j manner odd to' the comegiian, a Ys : which had self-respect behind it.|" ntworth put an arm about him af. tionately. .\"Have you come into a fortune, 7" he asked with a laugh. "Better than that--I'm on the verge of making a fortunt." "Good!" Enoch pushed him into a 'comfortable chair and stood looking Sovx at him. "Let's have the news, a will," answeréd Merry slowly, "I've igot to--I want your advice and help. { I need it as I never needed it in my; life before. Only--I'm not go- ing 6 trot out a word of it until we ure of a couple of hours clear. I TS stand a solitary interrupti to-day." iy Wentworth shut and locked the door; then he opened a small cupboard. "What'll you have?" he asked, lift- ing down a couple of glasses. "Nothing." Andrew pulled a large encelope from - his pocket and sat down beside the fire,. Wentworth faced him with an expectant Took upon his face. "You never guessed, I.suppose, that est insects which Rare} roby Stuen tops. The former can be readily kill- ed with Paris green in the proportion of eight ounces to 12 ounces to a 40 gallon barrel of water, or with arsen- ate of lead in to 'three a fs or 40 gallons of water, Paris green kills quicker than arsenate of lead but the latter ad- 'mixture of both in the proportion of eight ounces:of Paris green and one and a half pounds of arsenate of lead to 40 gallons. of water will kill quickly and adhere well to the foliage The poisons mentioned will, to some extent, check the cucumber flea beetles 'but in addition to them, a better pre- ventive is a covering of Bordeaux mixture, on the foliage, The Bordeaux mixture should also be used to con- trol the early and late blights of potatoes, the latter disease causing rot. These are two of the common-~ est diseases. "To control the wy. and late blight of potatoes: s Bordeaux ns the until autumn. 5 ia safer to start. spraying with Bordeaux 'mix- ture when spraying for the potato bee- tles. 'The poison of the latter may be t, | mixed with the Bordeaux. From three to four sprayings: or more will be re- quired, the number depending on the weather. = Taking the average of three years, the increase of yield from spraying with Bordeaux mixture was at the rate of 94 bushels an acre. In years it is much larger. he importance of keeping plants growing ax late as possible is well il lustrated in'an experiment where the total crop of marketable potatoes per'acre whentdu "Never!" phatie. "Well," Merry laughed Hilgeicusly, "well, T am, I'm the coming grantat, Enoch's tone was eém- "I take off 'my "hat to. you, boyy" Enoch swept him a pantomime Tow. "Wait a minute." face grew unusually resolute. old man; you've got to take this seri- ously, or I won't tell you a blessed woud about it." Merry rose and laid his hand on jmploring gesture. "Dear old man, I want your help and guidance. I'm such a blamed | 59 unbusiness-like chump. ' If you hadn't been head and right hand and mother, father and brother to me for years, as {well as the truest friend a man ever in the gutter, "Enoch, " Merry's face flushed, "if I win [ out, it means more to me than fame or wealth--it means the happiness of a lifetime." :» "Andrew! A woman at last." * The actor nodded gravely; "Yes, a ""Not Drusilla?" "Oh, curb" your curi 1aughed lightly; "you. can't } at once. ty," he ive evry: ck u Ros re to be expected. --W.: ina leather LOE diges, Jou He eyes, Dominion. Horticaltori good iT Maco Ottawa. him. Merry was a singularly dram- atic reader. Across his face flashed |- each human emotion as he put it into words. Enoch forgot the outer world when Merry leaped 'into the words with which' he had clothed a daughter's greeting to her outcast Separator Milk For Calves. 'writing of his experience in calf | rearing and the value skim-mille as calf food, in t 'timid, stunned, "dumb after the long HH orsOVer En the last fifteen aud dur. Wentworth's cigar went out and hel 8 i forgot to light anether. He sat in utter silence, a silence which was half critical, although at moments he was deeply stirred, partly by surprise, partly by unconscious emotion. He breathed a half-stified sigh. This N%¥ task, such a splendid achievement, had cost oné man a months labor! 'He remembered the years of ardent. ': toil he had 'spent on what, as he re- |" iat le {alized sadly, was poor. Tt 1 aay "worse! ¥ he proportion of two | ¥ | ET and allow the colt to ? grin er will 'make it possible to feed the foal grain with very little diffi- culty. Allow the mare in the en- closure with the foal for a few. times, ad it will soon learn to'go in itself. ferably oats and bran, and perhaps some cracked corn, in the feed box.|fi To_ induce the dam to loiter about. Heres better than Paris green, hence a | With the colt, have the pen near 'a shade tree or the salt box. : By weaning time the foal will have become thoroughly accustomed to eating grain and will wean very easily, 'beside being in better co result of this additional feed. Try this plan this year and you will be surprise to find a sleek, fat, well-grown colt at weaning time.--C. 8. Anderson, in Farm and, {Dairs. The average dressing 1 tage of hogs is 75, 'while of ca and of sheep 48. Part of this differ- ence is due to the method of In the case: of the hog the and feet arg 'included in the "ca while thick | util gestive en the hog is fles ne small system. Cattle and sheep have large paunches and disgestive systems.| 'Sheep dress out lowest, due to the wool and the rather light fleshing of the carcass. The dressing 'percentage of animals of each class varies widely. This: is due to the amount of flesh, especial- ly fat present on the carcass, somewhat to the thickness of the ae and size of the heads and legs, and to the amount of fill or the amount of feed and water present in the diges- tive tract at the time of slaughtering. For the hogs the dressing percentage varies from 65% to 85% with an aver- For cattle it ranges | op JDiaEsTION of . separator | German a liberal supply or- grain, pre- prompt and 'continuing efforts th care for her war cripples are described inthe Medical Record by Douglas C. McMurtrie, editor of the American Journal of Care for Crip-. ples. Mr. McMurtrie says that "the" manner in which the problem is be- ing 'met is unquestionably sound." Care of the wounded was not dif- ficult' to organize on 'sn adequate scale. The other part of the work 1 was publicity cam-. 'was made throughout the coun- try to rid people of the idea that a crippled man was usel Employers' were urged for patriotic reasons to re-employ all erippled men possible. {The government is setting the example by retaining cripplés in the service of the State-owned railways. Tt has been pointed out that : the government can go further and, in placing orders or awarding contracts, insist that a proportion of the work- ers employed be war cripples. The segregation of cripples is dis- They are returned as far as possible to their own Sompmniies i|and their own jobs. Where the a pling has unfitted a man for the the case of cattle and | task he is trained for one as near I ed EE ou as he can porn , the idea being to ize the training he already has as - as is possible, Mr. Murtrie cites several éxamples. A young paperhanger, who had lost his leg, showed artistic ability and is in a trade school studying to be a de- 'corative artist, His former employer will re-engage him. A baker, whose left foot was-crush- i ed, is being instructed in bookkeeping and |and commercial arithmetic that he may enter the grain trade and. man- age the bakery of a dead relative. A young farmer, who lost one arm, is studying agricultural science and . learning to write with his left hand. It has been arranged that he shall 'look afber the business end of his bro-