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~me WW ' ' . , . m -. . ... ..... ...C. “was: ram \ .- ..., I) ' V _____..â€"' __.__â€"â€"- ASGOOeAs OLD- CHAPTER ELIâ€"Continued. 'Goocl morning. good morning,” said .'.‘ ‘ ~ . i :< ' - 2 'me. the stran er wan profuse heartinecc. ; 35.10 be annostsubli g ” I sailor who had taken Susan i a head. _ ~ ‘ :in Henchard's wordsâ€"faith so Simple He had not so much as turned his It was an act of Simple .faith The young Henchard . - 2 "IS ‘t‘ Mr. Henchard I am talking to. I on the spur of the moment, and on the "My name is Henchard.” "Then I caught 3’3 at hmeâ€"thatjsjtwenty years before. right. Morning’s the time for busi- ness, says I. Can I have a few words with you 2’” “By all means,” Henchard answered. ' showing the way in. I "You may remember me ?” said hisf visitor, seating himself. ‘ Henchard observed him indifferent- ly, and shook his head. , l " Veilâ€"perhaps you may not. My manic is Netwson.” . I {Henchard’s face and eyes seemed to- die. The other did not notice it “I1 l know the name well,” H‘enchard said; at last, looking on the floor. f “I make no doubt of that. VVelLl the fact is, I’ve been looking for yel this fortnight past. I went through (heterbridge on my way to Weydon- Priors, and when I got there, they told me you had some years before been living at Casterbridge. Back came I again, and by long and by late I got here by coach, ten minutes ago. “He lives down by the mill,” says they. So here I am. Nowâ€"that transaction between us some twenty years agone â€"â€"’tis that I’ve called about. ’Twas a I curious business. I was younger then ’ than I am now, and perhaps the less said about it, in one sense, the better.” “Curious business? 'Twas worse than curious. I cannot even allow. that I’m the man you met there. I was not in my senses, and a man’s senses are himself.” ; “We were young and thoughtless,” said Newsoin. "However, I’ve come to mend matters rather than open argu- ments: Poor Susanâ€"hens was strange experience.” "It was.” ' . . “She was a warm-hearted, home- spun woman. . She was not what they. call shrewd or sharp at allâ€"better she had been.” . . "She was not.” "As you in all likelihood know, she was simpleâ€"minded enough to think! that the sale was binding. She was as guiltless o’ wrong-doing in that par- ticular as a saint in the clouds.” “I know. it, I know it. I found it out directly,” said Henchard, still with averted eyes. "There lay the sting o’t 10 me. If she had known the truth she w 0'1de never have left me. Never! But how should she be expected to to know ’3, “ha: advantages had she? None. She could write her own name and no more.” . "\Ye'll. it. was not in my heart to undeceive her when the deed was done." said the. sailor of former days. "’I thought, and there was not much vanity in thinking it, that she would be happier with me. She was fairly happy, and I never would have undeâ€" ceived her till the day of her death. Your child died; she had another, and all went well. But a time cameâ€" mark me, a time always does come. Al’ time cameâ€"it was some while after she" and I and the child returned from\ I Americaâ€"when somebody she had con-v fided her. history to told her my claim to her was a mockery. and made jest of her belief in my right. After that she was never happy With me. . She pined and pined, and socked and Sighed. She said she mlust leave me, and then came the question of our child. Then a man advised me what to do, and II did it, for I thought it was best. I left her at Falmouth, and went off to 563. When I got to the other side of the Atlantic there was a storm, and it was supposed that a. lot of us, inâ€" cluding myself, had been washed over- board. I got‘ ashore at Newfoundland. and then I asked myself what I should do. “Since I’m here, here I’ll hide,” I thctight to myself; "twill be most. kindness to her, now she’s taken' against me, to let her believe me lost; I for.’ I thought, ‘while she supposes us both alive she’ll be miserable; but if. she thinks me dead she’ll go back to\ him, and the child will have a home.’ : I’ve never returned to this country till a mctmth ago, and I found that, as I: had supposed, she went to you, and: my daughter with her. They told me Q ‘n Falmouth: that Susan was dead. But ‘ Elizabeth-Janeâ€"where is she ‘3” . i “Dead likewise," said Henchard dog- gedly. “Dead 3” he said. in a low. voice. "Then what’s the use of my money to me f" Henchard, without answering, shook his head, as if that were rather a ques- tion for Newson himself than for him. “\\'here is she buried l” the traveller inquired. _ “Beside her mother,” said Henchard, in the same stclid tones. “When did she die ’6” “A year ago, and more,” replied the other without hesitation. The sailor continued standing. Hen- chard never looked up from the floor. At last Newson said. “My f'ourney hith- er has been for nothing. may as .well go as I came! It. has served me right. I’ll trouble you no longer.” Henchard heard the retreating footâ€" steps of Newson upon the sanded floor. Newson’s shadow passed the window. He. was gone. . _ Then Henchard. scarcely believing the evidence of his senses, rose from his seat. amazed at what he had done. It had been the impulse of a moment. He hastily put on his hat, and went chit in the direction that Newson had taken. Newson’s back was soon visible up the road. H‘enchard followed; and saw his visitor stop _at the Golden Crown, where the morning coach which had brought him waited half-an-hour for another coach which crossed there. . The coach Newson- had come by was about to move again. Newson mount- ed; his luggage was put 111,. and in ta. tow minutes the vehicle disappeared mJnnL i ' . : ' 9 . . . . faith ofaglance at her face, more than was still living- and acting under the form of the griz- zled traveller who had taken Hen- chard's words on trust so absolute as to shame him as he stood. . _ \Vas Elizabeth-Jane to remain his by virtue of this hardy invention of a moment? “Perhaps not for long,” said he. Newson might converse w1th_.his fellow-travellers, some of whom might be Casterbridge people; and the trick muold be discOVered. _ _ He watched the distant highway, ex- pecting to see Newson return on foot. enlightened and indignant, to claim his child. Bruit) no figure appeared. He returned to the house half ex- pecting that she would have vanished. No; there she wasâ€"just coming out from the inner room, the marks of sleep upon her eyehdshand exhibiting a generally refreshed air. . . “Oh, father,” she said smiling. “I had no sooner lain down than I napped. though I did not mean to‘. I wonder) I did not dream about poor Mrs. Far- frae, after thinking of her so; but I did not. How, strange it is that we do not often dream of latest events, ab- sorbing as they may be.” » “I am glad you have been able'to sleep,” he said, taking her hand with anxious proprietorshipâ€"an act which gave her a pleasant surprise. “Father,” she said, as soon as she recalled herself to the outspread meal. “it is so kind of you to get thlS; nice breakfast with your. own hands, and I id'ly asleep the while.” . “I do it every day,” he replied. “You have left’ me; everybody has left me; hOlW should I live but by my own hands 29” . “You are; very lonely, are you not ’3" “Ah, childâ€"to a degree that you know nothing of. It is my own fault. You are the only one who has been near me for weeks. And you will come no more.” . . :‘Why do you say that? Indeed I Will, if you would like to see me.” Henchard signified dubiousness. Though he had so lately hoped that Elizabeth-Jane might again live in his house as daughter, he would not ask- her to do so now. I \Vhen the-y had breakfasted his stepâ€" daughter still lingered, till the moment arrived at which Hemchard was accus- tomed to go to his daily work. Then she arose, and with assurance of coming again. soon Went up the hill in the morning sunlight. “At this moment. her {heart is as warm towards me as mine is towards her; she would live with me here in: this humble cottage for the uskingl Yet before the evening probably be will have come; and then she will de- spise me.” . This reflection, constantly repeated by Henchard to himself, accompanied him everywhere through the day. To the east of Casterbridge lay moors and meadolws, through which 'much water. flowed. (I‘he wanderer in this direction, who should stand still for a few moments onaquiet night, might hear Singular symphonies, from these watershas from a lampless orchestra, all playing in their sundry tones, from near and far parts of the moor. ‘Henchard, however, leaving the towm by the east road, proâ€" ceeded to the second, or stone bridge, and thence struck into this path of solitude, following its course beSide the stream till the dark shapes of the Tenâ€"Hatches cut the sheen thrown upon the river by the weak lus- tre that still lingered in the west. In a. second or two he stood beside the weirâ€"hole where the waiter was atrits deepest. He looked backwards and forwards, and no creature appeared in View. He then took off his coat and hat, and stood on the brink of the stream with his hands clasped in front of him. ~ \Vhile his eyes Were bent on the wa- ter beneath there slowly became visi- ble a something floating in the circu- lar_pool formed by the wash of cen- tunes; the pool he was intending to make .1115 deati'hâ€"bed. At first it was indistinct, by reason of the shadow from the bank; but it emerged thence, and took shape, which was that of a human body, lying stiff and stark up- on the surface of the stream. The sense of the supernatural was strong in this unhappy man, and he turned away as one might have done in. the actual presence of an appalling miracle. He covered his eyes and bow- ed his head. \Vithout looking again in- to the stream he took his coat and hat, and went slowly away. ' Presently he found himself by the door of his own dwelling. To [his surprise, 'Elizabeth-Jane was stand- ing there. Newson, then, had not even yet returned. “I thought you seemed very sad this morning,” she said, “so I have come again to see you. Not that I am 1 anything but sad myself. But ever had “Surely you learnt that too?” ‘3 and ever 'thin . .- 3 if The sailor started up, and took an‘ 3 g seem against 3'9“ 50: enervated pace or two down the room.' and I know you must be suffering.” He said to her, ”Are miracles still worked, do ye think, Elizabech I am nota read man. I don’t know so much as I could Wish. I have tried to per- use and learn all in life; but the more I try to know the more ignorant I seem.” i f, “I don’t quite think there are any .miracles nowadays,” she said. t “No interference in the case of des- =perate intentions, for instance? IVell, _perhaps not, in a direct way. Per- ;hapsk riotlt.h But “fill. “you come and wa w1 me, an .L will 5 ow ,what I mean.” i h you ! She agreed willingly, and he'took herover the highway, and by the loneâ€" ,ly path to Ten-Hatches. \Vhen they , got near the weir he stood still, and asked her to go forward and look in- to the pool, and tell him what she saw. . She went, and soon returned to him. l “Nothing,” .she said. “Go again,” said Henchard, “and , look narrowly.” I 2 She proceeded to the river brink a. second time. On her return, after some delay, she told him that she saw some- thing floating there; but what it was she could not discern. It'seemed to be a bundle of old clothes. t “Are they like mine?" asked Hen- chard. ‘ ”Wellâ€"they are. Dear meâ€"I won- der ifâ€" Father, let us go away.” :‘Go and look once more; and then we Willget home.” She went back, and he could see her stoop till her head was close to the ' margin of the POOL i She started up, 3 and hastened back to mi”, Stde‘ was only that “Well,” said Henchard; “11113 <10 3'0“ lwhen we both were there.” He say now?" 3, “Let us go home- ”Ohâ€"that’s rightâ€"that's. right. It , I saw him in the street f _ ,_ lwcndering if her embarrassment justiâ€" l ,- .'“-‘4- :.,.'_~,_.J--~ ified him in a new suspicionâ€"that. the , .I'”, . .: "But teli meâ€"doâ€"what is it float- 5 long walks which she had latterly been 1 ‘taking had anything to do With the ‘ 0' t e e?” " mE’Thl; reffigya” She answered hastily. “They must ha-‘v'e thrown it into. the river, higher uphmongst the Willows, to get- rid 01‘ it in their alarm as disâ€" emery; and i; mus: have heated down here.” . "Ahâ€"t0 be sureâ€"the image 0’ me! But where is the other? Why killed her, but saved me alivel” Elizabeth-Jane thought and thought l of these words, “saved me allVe.” as they slowly retraced their way to the length guessed their town; and at _ , meaning. “Fatherlâ€"I Will not leave I you alone like this!” she cried. ”May I live with you, and tend upon you as I used to do? I do not mind youri being poor, I would have agreed to come this morning, but you did .not ask me.” . ”k - . "May you come to me?, h cried bitterly. “Elizabeth, (font mock me! If you only would come! ’ “I will,” said she. 1 ”How will you forgive 1111‘ my roughâ€" ness in former days? You cannot!” ”I have forgotten it. Talk of that no more.” . . The next mornlnig the fact turned out to be as Elizabetthane had stat- ed; the effigy was discovered by a cow- herd, and that of Lucetta. a little higher up in the same stream. But as little as possible was said of the mat- ter, and the figures were privately deg- tro ed. . , . Dispite this natural solution of the mystery, Henchard no less regarded it as an intervention that the figure should have been floating there. Eliz- abeth-Jane heard him say, “VVhio is such a reprobate ‘as II. And yet. it seems that even I am in Somebody’s hand!" ' - .___â€"__ CHIAHIER XLII. But the emotional conviction that lie was in Somebody’s hand began to die out of Henchard’s breast as time slowly removed into distance the event which had given that feeling birth. The apparition of N ewson haunt- ed him. He would surely return. Yet Newson did not arrive. Liucetta. had been borne along the churchyard path; C'asterbridge had for the last time turned its regiard upon her, be- fore proceeding to its work as if she had never lived. But Elizabeth re- mained undisturbed in the belief of her relationship to Henchard, and now shared his home. In due time the bereaved Farfrae had learnt the at least proXimate cause of Lucetta’s illness and death; and his first impulse was naturally enough to wreak vengeance in the name of the law upon the perpetrators of the mis- chief. Lucetta had confessed every- thing to him before her death, and it was not altogether desirable to make much ado about her history, alike for her sake, for Henchardis, and for his own. 1 Henchard and himself mutually foreâ€" bore to meet. For Elizabeth‘s sake the former had fettered his pride sufficient- ly to accept the small seed business which some of the Town Council, head- ' tent.” young man. . i . There was nothing secret in Eliza-l ibethâ€"Jane’s movements . 1habitual reserve induced; and it. may 1 at once he owned on her account that 5She was guilty of" occasional conversa- ‘tions with Donald when they chanced that: one only? . . . Th3L PerlOrmance or theirs 4 be yond what to meet. Heiichard became aware of this by going to the Ring,.aiid, screen- ed by its enclosure, keeping his eye upon the road till he saw them meet. His face assumed an expressmn of ex- treme anguish. . ., “Of her, too, he means to rob _me!‘ he whispered. “But he has the right. I do not wish to interfere.” Could he have heard such conversa- tion as passed he would have been en- lightened thus much :â€" . with pain. He.-â€"“You like walking this way, i Wax-:15 sarsaparilln, as madc,;.'cu. 1:131: bliss Henchardâ€"is it. not so?” , 13y Aver, some so years ago. Sheâ€"“Oh yes. I have chosen this ‘ road latterly. I have a reason for it.” He.-â€"“And that may make a reas- on for others.” She (reddening).-â€"“I. don’t know: that. My reason, however, is that I Wish t3 get a glimpse of the sea every day. He.â€"â€"“Is it a secret why?" She (reluctantly .â€"â€"“'SL es.” . He.â€"“Ali, I don t there Will be. any good in, secrets! »A secret cast a deep shadow over my life. And well you know what it was.” . . Elizabeth admitted that she did, but she refrained from confessmg why the sea attracted her. ~ Heinchard vowed that he would leave them to their own devices, put nothing in the way of their courses, whatever they might mean. If he were doomâ€" ed to be bereft of her, so it must be. \Vith such a possibility impending he could not help watchfulness. The meet- ings seemed to become matters of course with them no special days of the week. i ‘ Once he was standing behind a wall close to the place at which Farfrae err-'- countered her, and he thought he heard the young man address her as “Dearest ElizabethirJane.” ' . Had she lost her heart to any other man in the world than the one he had rivalled, cursed, wrestled with for life in days before his spirit was broken, Henchard would. have said, “I am con- But content with the prospect as now depicted was hard to acquire. There is an outer chamber of the brain in which thou‘gh‘ts unowned. un- solicited, and of noxious kind are sometimes allowed to wander for a moment prior to being sent off whence they came. One of these thoughts sailed into Henchard’s ken now. Suppose he were to communicate to Farfrae the fact that his betrothed was not the child of Michael Henchard l nobody’s child; how 5 would that correct and leading towns- man receive the information? He mighg'l: ; an i at all â€"legally, possibly forsake Elizabethâ€"Jane, then she would be her step-sire's own again. . Henchaird shuddered. and exclaimed, “God forbid such a thing! Why should I still be subject to these visitation of the Devil, when I try so hard to keep him away?” (To be Con: inuvd.) ed by Farfrae, had purchased, to af- ford him a. new opening. I Here the settled themselves; and on each day their lives Henchard antici- i KATE GP. EENAYVAY. pated her every wish with a; watchful- l - ness in which paternal regard was Every one has heard the name 01 heightened by a. burning, jealous dread . Kate Greenaway, the talented English 0t rivalry. artist, who has done more to revolu- loglgildét'figg 1103:3131; glib: ndhciijotlii‘i’irg i tionize children’s dress than any other occurred to mark their days during the livmg woman. he woman is better remainder of the year. Going out but. W they saw Donald Farfrae only at rarest . _ . known in England and in America than . seldom, and never on a marketâ€"day. ‘she, and yet no woman's personal life ‘ intervals, and then mostly as a tran- Sitory object in the distance of the street. . “Time” in his own gray style,” taught i life as something sacred~ to herself and ! her friends, and has never allowed any Earfrae how to estimate his experience lot Lucettaâ€"all that it was, and all that it was not. He could not but perceive that by the death of Liucetta he had exchanged a looming misery for a sim- ple sorrow. After that revelation of her history, which mustheave come sooner or later in any Circumstances, it was hard to believe that life with her would havebeen productive of fur- ther happiness. ‘ BY the end of a year Henchard’s litâ€" tle retail seed and rain shop, not much larger than a cup ‘ ard, had develop- ed its trade considerably, and the step- father and daughter enjoyed much serenity in the pleasant, sunny corner in which it stood. The quiet bearing of one who brimmed with an inner acâ€" tivity characterised Elizabeth-Jane at this period. i i - She had her own way in everything now. In going and coming, in buying and selling, her word was law. “You have got a new muff, Eliza- beth,” he said to her one day quite humbly. “Yes; I bought it,” she said. “Rather costly, I suppose, my dear, wasit not?” he hazarded. ., “It was rather above my figure,” she said quietly. “But it is not showy.” . "Oh, no,” said the nettled lion, anxâ€" ious not to pique her in the least. Some little time after, when the year had advanced into another spring, he paused opposite her empty bedroom in passmg it. The present room was much humbler, but what struck him about it was the abundance of books lying everywhere. For the first time he felt a. little hurt by what he thought her extravagance, and resolved to say a word to her about it. But, before he had found the courage to speak, an event happened Which set his thoughts flying in quite another direction. Henchard, contrary to his wont, went out one Saturday afternoon towards the market-place, from a curious feeling that he would like to pass a few min- utes on the spot of his former triumphs. Farfrae stood a. few steps below the Corn Exchange door, and he appeared lost }n thought about something he was looking at a little Way off. - Henchard’s eyes followed Farfrae’s, and he saw that the object of his gaze Was no sample-showing farmer, but his own stepdaughter, who had just come out of a. shop over the way. She, on her part, was quite unconscious of his attention. 7 Henchard went away, thinking that perhaps there was. nothing Significant after all in F-rafrae’s look at Elizabeth- Jane at that juncture. . . But the mere thought bf separation fevered his spirit much). and in the evening he said, with the stillness of suspense, “Have you seen Mir. Farfrae toâ€"day, Elizabeth?” . Elizabeth-Jane started at the ques- tion; and it .was with. some confusion that she replied f‘N‘o.” -: l . .‘g ’. and habits are less known and talked of than hers. The reason of this lies in the fact that she regards her private one to interview her, and refrains from accepting attentions and entertain- ments that would bring her into acon- spicuous position. She lives, however, in an old and picturesque house, in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath,and has her studio here on the top floor, a large, well-lighted and cosy room, Its long windows open out into a bal- cony, where Miss Greenaway loves to sit on pleasant days. She is most inâ€" dustrious, and to her hard work, origin- ality, and love for children, is attribâ€" uted her great success. Like every oth- er successful man and woman, Kate Greenaway toiled long and earnestly before fame smiled upon her. First she studied at the art school in South Ken- s1ngton, and next at the life classes at Heatherley’s another famous London studio, and at the Slade school. When her first pictures were exhibited at the Dudley gallery they attracted some at- tention and much praise, and it was after this that Miss Greenawajr devoted herself to illustrating children’s books, and to designing Christmas, birthday, and dinner cards, menus, and all kinds of pretty and artistic novelties. A col- lection of pretty colored sketches of children dressed in the quaint, old-fash- ioned gowns of a century ago. publish- ed under the title of, “ Under the \Vin- dow," brought her fame. This was not only confined to the artistic brother- hood, but fashion iquickly recognised the charm and style of these picture- sque costumes and adopted them. Un- til then children had been overdressed or unattractively dressed. and the beau- tiful and numerous fashions in dainty gowns and cloaks and hats, which com- bine sensible comfort and warmth with aesthetic taste in color and form, (all date from Miss Kate Gi‘eenaway’s ef- forts fifteen years ago. MIME. CALVE. Calve, the Carmen of the century, su- perb Calve, is a boxer of no mean abil- ity. She can “hit, stop and get away” after the most approved fashion. In her personal luggage she always carries a stout inflatable bag, with; the hooks and elastic straps, by which at a. mo- ment’s notice, it may. be put in posi- tion. Instead of sanding up before a live antagonist, which might be danger- ' pus, she consens. herself with punch- ing a. noncompative but active bag. J ust half an hour after her cup of coffee, Oalve gets into a heavy sweater and a short skirt and merrily proceeds with her_ warfare until she is in a sort of perspiration which she considers death. to adipose. Then after a. cold bath she breakfasts and further enter. uses on a bicycle, of which she is a. de- voted advocate. , l , ‘. / i-uitr' "Vex:- J A ". . t . c 3' .' ' ' T '1 The, I: {:10 cream in wmc: tic-i - 'râ€": The: tiicuf'lit (sf :1 philanthropic ‘. mm- ‘ :‘<;2‘.l’3d:,' that would make 151:: a‘. i'or the multitudes that were '._’\‘..£ 1 WWW Aycrls Sarsaparilla was in its infancy half a. cen- tury ago. To-day it doth “be- stride the narrow world like a colossus." What is the secret of its power? Its cures! The number of them! The wonder of them! Imitators have fol» lowed it from the beginning of its success. They are still be- hind it. Wearing the only medal granted to sarsaparilla in the World’s Fair of 1893, it points proudly to its record. Others imitate the remedy; they can’t imitate the record: $0 Years of Cures. Sarsaparilla SUGAR COATED PIL-LS The Greatest of all Liver, Stomach and Blood Medicines, A SPECIFIC FOR Rheumatism, Gout and Chronic Complaints. 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