BY "LAURA JEAN LIBBEY - 3 Author of " The Crime of Hallow-E'en," "The Flirta. ons a Beauty," " Willful Gaynell," Little Leafy - rd a Mechanic's Daughter." etc. . i 'nat was a funeral never to be for- tten. It was a pitiful sight to see sorrowful maid- wedding, place snowy flowers on her tomb, She 7 so beautiful even in death, se fair, young to die. eens girls ioe looked upon her smil- g marb with tear- atuined eyes, while mothars: with a shudder, ere their own darlings closer to their presets For many long year after' they told of the baatititul; golden- tin feen wife, who was so young and fair die. {They told, 'too, of the broken-heart- ed husband who followed the sad pro- cession to the grave one bright May morning, and of the white: haired, zeeni1e mother who had lost her al, whose bitterest sorrow had fallen up- on her in her old age; and they told of a dark- syed mTan ger who wip- ed away that mother's tears and ; y she held her in her arms when the world grew dark around her, drew the weary, white thead upon her strong, young breast, and comforted her with hopeful, lov- ing words that brought tears to every eye. Even strangers cried: "God bless her for the comfort she has brought this grief- stricken moth- " It wus all over. "Izetta," Ulmont said, sadly, ' going awas --going abroad for the present. Ulvesford Mansion haunts Will you stay here with our child until I return He turned away - od "Send at once for Abel Moore and his good wife, that you may not live here alone, now that Loraine's moth- er_ has returned to Lorrimer-Hatl Do not terch my ce hild to think unkindly of me, Ix ita he udded,-kolding-out his hands; AC vays let him'think of 'Iam ~ | Izelta' pliced her hushind who separated from™her by such webs of cruel faie. Ulmont held them for a mement only, dropped them suddenly, and was gone. The same dag that fair, rolden-hair- ed Lortine was lnid to rest under the drooping willows Ulmont Wlyesfacd left America, to be gone long years Spermps <soréver. ~~ hands in hed been strange OL, APT Os 2 XL "My Wife und My 'Child. " (wo years las er, one beautiful morning in midsuminer, Izetta Ross-- as she was still c --stood at one of the lace- irepel Ww vinden ws of Ulves- ford Mansion, gazing out into Lis brilliant sunshine. :"Ulmont, my husband! Ah, Ulmont Ulvesford, where uri thou now?" she murmured, half aioud. "Did 'oo call, mamma?" chirped a little voice, sweet us a roubin's, and a ey daint;-dimpled little darling, in ite lave und suft, pink ribbons, bounded into her arms. "No, Ulmont, my durling," she ans- wered, clasping him so closely in her arms that the roses she wore en her breast fell in a shower on tbe child's rosy cheek; "mamma did net call you; go and play " vith the butterflies and the flowers; mamma will watch you from the window." "%Es, 00' did call me," persisted the child, tossing his little curly head and pouting his sweet, red mouth that was only made fur kisses, and open- ing: wide a pair of dark, velvety eyes; a ; 'Ulmont, Uly, where is 'oo; nett blushed rosy red. "I meant your pupa, sweet," said. she "The papa in ee pic-cer in 'ee uzzer room?" lisped the child, oo ory so when 'oa sees it "Yes, dear," said Ize:ta, hesitating- ly; "you must look at that picture every day, Ulmont, and you must. learn to love him very. much." "Does 'oo love him, mamma " > "Yes," she answered, "very much." ¥ "Does 'oo wish he would 'turn' home, mamma?" es, very much, my pet," ans- zetta, caressing the beautiful face raised to her own.; A shadow full between Izetta and' the brilliant sunshine; she wondered ewhy her pert on thrilling with such ecstatic deligh "Izetta ---- wife ! Ulmont, -- my baby!" cried a deep, thiri ling voice with the mapplost cry that ever was beard. The beaut trul, queenly girl turned her head, the child still clasped in her arms. . ; A tall manly form stood before her; she glance' into the eloquent, plead- ing face; she heard the low, tremul- ous voice cry: "I have comd to claim my wife and my child!" aoe strong -arms were outstretched r instant, and [zetta and her ld were folded ford's breast. drew his wife toa sofa, seating himself beside her, his arms still en- eeraing her slender waist, while little » chirping like a robin on -- his Recast, was stealing half of mamma's kisses. "Izetta," whispered Ulmont, raising the blushing face of his lovely girl- ife to bis own, and gazing down in- her dark eyes, "I must whisper a gecret to you, darling, I am madly, ssionately in love --for the first li my own lovely wife. . . | the youlh ' woging." "*at makes. is { | to Ulmont Ulves- ehave been my doom, ag 4 wiimour you: ONE, Izatta, the woria would be a b! cr to mys; forget the past; we will live only in the future, = which shall havyd but one great 'the hope of winning my wife's love? See! I have little Ulmont's al- ready. Will you try to love me, too, dear, for little Ulmont's sake," Izetta glanced skyly up into the one | 8 in all che wide world she had loved so truly and so well, as she whisper "You lve not to try to win my love. Ulmont, my busband; that you have already, noi for little Ulmont's sake, but for your own!" That night there was a quiet wed- at Ulvesford Mansion to appease the curiosity of the outside world, who never dreimed of the strange drama that had been enacted by those two lives so ruthlessly torn asunder by the hand of fate. 4 Some five years oe the dancing summer sunshine feil across a path- way, powdered on either side with jes- samine and swee: mignonette, up which a lady and gentleman walked. Two children gamboled on before, and seovred ae roses, which they car- ried, "Ulmont, " called foe " mother, gen- tly, "take the ros¢ from little Lo- raine's hands and place them with your own." "Let me put my preity lady's grave,' haired Loraine. {Tbe children knelt beside a grassy mound, while the father and mother, with their arms about each other, reverentially bowed their heads. Beneath a drooping willow, where the whispering summer winds love to linger, and the birds trill forth their sweetest notes, stands a tall, white marble._ shaft. _pointing--heavenward, and as the golden sunshina falls lov- ingly athwart it poet read the in- scription which it bears: owin' roses on the " cried golden- SACRED To the Memory of LORALNEA Beloved Wifw of ULMONT ULV:ESFORD, ged 18 Years, "Thou Know est." No one but those two standing there, and God, save the feeble, white haired mother, who spent many a lonely hour with her face pressed close against the cold, white marble, and her arms twined around it, not even she who slepi beneath the daisies Enew of the great tragedy that had spread its dark wings over her bright young life. Th: careless, knew. The secret of that "fatal wooing," was buried with her,. "Fair Loraine," murmurs Izetta,her gentle tears falling on the daisies, and the soft, green grass. "Heaven knows I loved her who slumbers here with a love that might "murmurs Ul-q\su mont; "but after all, Izetta, when God called her He knew best; now all the love of my manhood is centered in my second love, and purified by suf- ferings, a love 'that will last through eternity !" Izetta's bead droops upon Ulmont's breast; their little children, Ulmont and golden- haired Loraine, flit close to their mother's side. Ths smiling heavens bend over them, the ripple of the brooklet and the song the birds sing to the fluw- ers are of their wondrous Icye. No sound breaks upon the harmony of those reunited lives, whispering of what might have happened through ful folly of that "fatal Soe Gud. curious world never \ @ ONE SPOONFUL & Will build for you good health, through good nerves, by using South American Nervine Almost all disease is the restilt of poor nerve action. Without good nerves neither brain, nor stomach, nor liver, nor heart, nor kidneys, can work well. Nerve food must be such that it wi'l be adsorbed by the nerve ends Such a food is South American Nervine, the greatest tonic known, a cure for dyspepsia and all stomach ail- fcan Nérvine , and am hells recovered, The Great Ameriean Rheuma Care is the onl Spmcahaingernsc re sure hb 1 obe we cha case of failure in ite record. Cure within three @hyhi relief instantly. 6& led presently. World 'Said : 'By ALLAN P. 'AMES ' é xo Br. x + oh "In this matter," said Easton, "here are three opinions to consider." "One is endugh for me," said the girl. "Your own, | suppose." "Of course. I presume one of the others is yours. Whose is the third?" Baston gave a long, sweeping stroke that sent the canoe darting far through the waters dnd laid the dripping pad- @le across the guuwale. ""The third," he replied, "is what the world says." "and who cares for that?" spoke the girl lazily from her cushions near the bow. "Public opinion is something none of us can afford to ignore." said the youth gravely. "But this is not a public matter. The extent of my liking for you is some- thing just between ourselves." "Our world tonight, Anne, {s not the world of last winter. It's smuller--just the little colony at this end of the lake, in fact; 'That's the way we men feel, at any rate. We come here to ret away from the world of work, and we want to keep wholly within this little pleas- ant sphere of our own. Now, you can't say that nobody about here has noticed my devotion. If you should inquire Vll bet you'd find that most of your friends can enumerate the times that I've proposed in the past month. Oh, they know all about us, and they're In- tensely concerned. You can't'Have for- gotten what an active interest you and I took in your sister's affair." "We were only rude children then." "Summer days like these make chil- dren of us all. l'ye been growing younger ever since I knew you. Now, I have a childlike faith In the world's good judgment. C: n't you let it settle this question for 1s?" "Do you yalue its opinion--abore mine?' asked the girl, with a smile he might have seen bad the moon been larger. "Oh, no; only, you see, your opinion in a measure is neutralized by mine. Here's a disinterested third party. Why not submit the question to him? I am convinced that you should marry me. You say you shouldn't. The rest of mankind are comparatively unim- portant, but let's leave it to them. Isn't that fair?' "Would you have them vote it at next election?" "No, no. I am in earnest, Anne. If all our friends thought as I do, wouldn't it make any difference to you?" "But I don't know what they think. I've never asked them. Have you?' "Certainly not," answered Easton in- dignantly. "But I know a way of learning--to a certain extent." "What's that?' "TZ istening." "At keyholes and open windows, I suppose." No, I don't feel quite young enough that. Besides, it isn't necessary. See here." Easton left his perch on the stern, worked his way to the center of the canoe and picked up a small mega- phone. "Put the little end to your ear," -he said, handing it to his com- panion: "Here's another just like it for me." "Why, Joseph Easton! I'm ashamed ef you! Do you often do things like this?" "Never did it before. exceptional case." "You're sure to hear something about yourself you won't like." "No danger," he replied cheerfully as he raised the funnel to his ear. "Don't they say all the world loves a fellow in my condition?' Then, while the girl sat watching him, with her own megaphone un- touched in her lap, he listened first in ene quarter, then in another. Sound travels surprisingly far at night on a calm body of water. To the unaided ear nothing was audible but the chirp- ing of insects upon the shore and the lapping of ripples along the keel. Nev- ertheless at the fourth trial Easton's attitude betokened that his megaphone bad intercepted some sounds more in- telligible. "Pity you're missing this," he chue "Better follow me." "Can you really hear somebody taik- ing about us?" asked Anne, interested in spite of herself. "Seems to be a couple of girls dis- cussing you," said Easton. "And very nicely too. Excellent sense those peo- ple have. Hush-- "Now they've switched off on me," he- added, after a pause. Anne could restrain herself no lon. ger. "It isn't so wrong for me to listen when they. are speaking of you," she said finally. The next moment two megaphones were leveled into the dark- ness. This ia a very This is what came through them: /"Roving fancy, did you say? Indeed he had. I never saw a man change ag he has since last summer. He showed a preference for Anne then, but he was willing to glance at the rest.of us occa- sionally. But now--well, it's a case, all t."' phone another Secale 'voice was : "Least 'dou about it. "But I shall 'alwys have aie exqiisite joke on Anne and Joe if they marry, as every body, can tell ao that she's the first girl ip "@heist ta" "rica rine. tehe have you to say thut?" "The best righ: in the warld. The first girl he ever kissed is me"-- "Splash! went Anne's mega hone inte the water. The youth whirled about to find himself « ifronted by-a pair of quivering shoulders and the back of a head thut was u whole encyclopedia of outraged feeling: The megaphone bob- bed aguinst the side unnoticed. "Anne, dear." he cried, "don't min® those busybodivs. It's only Bella Maia- ard. You can't care what she says." "Oh, I den't; I don't!" came back Its smothered tones, Then--'Spiteful thing! She wanted you herself. I always kuew she did!" "Wanted me?' echoed the youth, "Wanted!"--slowly realizing the import of the past tense. At the imminent risk of capsizing the frail craft, he crawled forward, placed a hand on each shoulder and gently turned her face toward-him. "Anne," he said, "you do care!" For answer the face was hidden against the front of his coat. "If yon had only listened longer," eb served Eaton, when conversation again became an adequate mode of expres- sion, "you might haye heard the dpnlns ard girl tell when it was I kissed her," "Y don't want to know," said Aline. "Your past is your own. Your present is mine." . ; "And my future." he added rently. "Rut don't mind In the leusc telling you how this happened. It was ata children's party. I was six and sha was nine, I think." The Original-of Major -Penttenhtin: . Miss Horuce Smith once told me a stary.. It was long: and complicated, but she assured me she had told i[t to my father, the late W. M. Thackeray, just before he wrote "Pendennis," and that it had partly suggested the open- ing chapters. It concerned a family living in Brighton, somewhere near Kemp Town. There was a" somewhat autocratic father'and a romantic young son who had lost his heart to the house- maid and determined to marry her, The father made the young man give his word of honor that he would not marry clandestinely and then, having dismissed him, rang for the butler. To the butler this Major Pendennis said, "Morgan," or whatever his name was, "I wish you to retire from my service, but I will give you £200 in bank notes if you will marry the housemaid before 12 o'clock tomorrow." The butler said, "Certainly, sir," and the young man next morning was told of the event which had occurred. As far as I re- member, a melancholy and sensational event immediately followed, for the poor young fellow was so overwhelm- ed that he rushed out and distractedly biew his brains out on the downs be- hind the house, and the butler mean- while, having changed his £200, sent # message to say that he had omitted to mention that he had a wife already and that this would doubtless invall- date the ceremony he had just gone through with the housenmraid.--Mrs, Richmond Ritchie in Cornhill Maga+ sine. ; Beating the Expressman. They haggled for ten minutes over the cost of moving. The woman claim- ed that the job was worth only $2, in- elrding a tip. The expressman insisted upun getting $2.25. At last the womam Won out. "All right," said the man, "if you won't pay any more you won't." So he piled the trunks, the books and the bookcases inte the wagon and drove away. The woman was jubilant. She told everybody in the house she was leav- ing about how she had at last got the best of that autocrat, the New York expressman, and when she got to the home of the friend with whom she was going to live boasts of her achieve ment still trembled on her tongue. "What do you think?" she began trie amphantly. "Excuse me a minute," said her friend. (S-gfore you go on t want to tell you out that expreseman. He got your things here withovt a scratch. He was so very nice and ev reful that £ gave him a quarter. He asked fcr it. He said you expected me to gire {t to him; that you would have given it yourself only you were short of change and couldn't spare it. I hope it was all Tight. Now, go ahead and tell your story." - "I don't think I have one to tell," said the woman weakly. "You have spoiled the point.""--New York Press, ENGLISH SPAVEN LiINIMENT jumps and blemishes from horses, ploed spavin, curbs, splints, ring bone, sweeney, stifles, spreias, sore and swollen throat, coughs, ete. Save $50 ey the use of one bottle. ranted the most w cure ever known. Easton turned fromoka gy to see War An "orem f A pe iors whe no Sth "first thing that oe did on poo was to have a ie at ing .o esate we ahaule™ =, a eer the line with our gloriols to_invite the bishops to -- i Saag put "em up. * along the "dm vs think harsh and bitter things 'of John, there comes @ moment when voices break with emotion, and the un- _bidden tear eyes. and cuneres to live: e gna Charta was- signed. year 113. "on. Easter on ir 'As there was a cheap excursion irc#n- Waterloo on that day, John said he would meet the barons at Runnymede where. they could talk the business over in between the sculling races. The barons did not quite approve of John's off-hand way of talking of their lovely Charta, and whem they met him at the station they ag ed round him quite rudely. thought. at first that it was aly os barons' enthusiastic desire to give him a cordial 'welcome, until he found that his watch and chain and his diamond scarf-pin had got mislaid in the seuffle. John tried several ways of escaping the signing of the Charter. . At first he said he had hit his thumb with the bam- mer while hanging up framed texts in 'the bedroom at home, and therefore couldn't hold a pen. When he foun that didn't go down he tried to stind on his dignity. In order to convinee the barons that bee didn't care tuppemce for the lot of them he put his hands in his pockets and kicked his dog in the stom- ach just to show his independence. Neither of these brilliant schemes worked, however. One of the barons pushed John from behind, while Fitz- Walter, the Pride of Bermondsey, bumped quite rudely into the King, ane then apologized by saying that he had tripped up over himself accidentally. After a lot of hard words had passed on both sides, the barons gave John to understand definitely that if he didn'. sign the thing there would be a rather untidy scene..Secing that he was eor nered, John said a naughty word, and signed on, and thus gave us the price less liberties which our iorefathers bled to maintain. s soon as John returned to London, his first business was to try and get a bit of his own back, ns the poet has so beautifully expressed it. Agents were sent to the Continent to hire mercenar- ies, who were offered an engagement for two months certain, with the usual ex- tra for matinees. In this way John collected quite an army, and he chased his barons up to Scotiand, and on -the way there he burnt all the villages and haystacks he came across. Some of the inhabitants as they were being suspend- ed by the heels over slow fires, were quite surprised to learn that all this red trouble was the first result of the Great Charter for securing to the people of England their priceless liberty. Many of them said at the time that they would rather be without the Charter, and scoop in what liberty they could for them- selves with a pitehfork or a pole-axe as they used to in the old days. While John was rushing about the kingdom, it happened that he had to cross the Wash, in Lincolnshire. Dur- ing the crossing the tide reared up on its hind legs and went for the transport ships and upset everything. John and his second wife escaped by wiling ashore, but all their trunks and brown- paper parcels containing the crown jew- els and the week's housekeeping money were swept away into the cold and soughing sca. This loss upset John so much that he turned into the nearest convent and cried like a child. A few days after that he got feverish and died, and the historians are not quite sure whether he passed away in consequence oi grief or whether, somebody poisoned him. Still, it is well known that 'grief seldom kills, whereas poison gets there every time when it is administered by an expert. And somebody may have hit upon the idea that it was 'about time this burning and killing was brought up with a jerk. Hen ve the rather abrupt end of--John.--*Pick-Me-Up." Spoiled by Succens. Julius Chambers related in the Read er how in 1887, while he was editing a paper in Paris, he conceived the idea of putting on his editorial staff an old beggar woman who had two wooden legs and who wus a well known sight on the boulevard. So he paid her a regular salary and had brilliant tnter- views written with leading men and women of Paris, which he published ever the signature "The Little Old Woman on Two. Sticks." He says: "It soon:became a matter 6f pride among, English and Americans to Know the wretched creature who had become so famous. Money was showered upow her by American and English visitors who had not fathomed the humor of! the situation and veritably accepted the inference that the beggar was ow speaking acquaintance with ell the notables of Paris. The episode finally. developed into a farce because the olf woman's vanity was roused by the at- tention notoriety brought her. She could not read English, knew nothing 1 about the contents cf the articles and actually flattered lerseif into the be Nef that she possessed physical attrac-. tion for the gerf@rous hearted men who gave her alms or patted her tenderly, em the shoulder. Like many another useful member of society, she was spoiled by success and one. 'day 'struck dor ighsr wase8" eae PeoWee however, RTE * of time, their strong -- signed.in the --- ye