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tory OMeclals AILURE & smallâ€" 00 cages L ROWS. rn, Prince ere. j Bar f of a Under ase _mowever, Liliian, love, I simply mean ‘this," she says, with her sweetâ€" est smile, rising with her rustling, crisp sateen dress, and fresh ribâ€" bons and laces. "I wish to be courtcous _ to. Mr. Archer, and I fear I have not his good will. The poor feliow possosses a great aeal of "amour propre"â€"with a slight glimmer of a sneerâ€""and 1 feag» I have not considered it suffiâ€" clontly. But if you will second my inâ€" vitation, which I will send him in a letter, it will prevent my having to give a verbal invitation, which he might refuse, and so widen the breach between us which, for Mr. Damer‘s sake, I am unwilling to do." "I will ask him, or second your inâ€" vitation, as you call it," Gillian siys, indistinctly ; "but you will not blame me if he refuses it, will you?" "No! Blame you, dear chWIld! Cerâ€" tainly not!" her ladyship laughs, with a maternal caress of ler thin, long, white hand on Gillian‘s neck nd shoulders, which Gillian unâ€" ~J’g’ratemlly shrinks from with a disâ€" agrecable sensation down her spine. general estimate, and as ha particular reference to Mr. Archer, for which there is cular reason, except to ex ‘&»u. dearest child, the fine passable barrier there is | class and class. You must stand it fully, Gillian, love, grow older and take your place in the world. We ma those persons into our drawin and fto sit at our tables on occasions, but we never adm into our lives to b» our in our friends, our lovers. "However, Gillian, love, I mean ‘this," she says, with he; est smile, rising with her : crisp sateen dress, and {fr bons and laces. "IL wish courtcous to Mr. Arch "But surcly, my dearest child, you | care, after all those years to do not nced to be tO‘d,” her ]ady- set me at defiance openl" ship continues, with her insufferable | Thos® Irish never heed what they air of superiority, "that we nous ‘ :g",‘ c;ll' threat?n,ho; promé_se, u?Td;r autres cannot in fact or feeling reâ€" e inlluence of their emotions. e cognize the sons and daughters of gi:d h}'ster};:s of the Celt,‘ Tennyâ€" in}body peasunt bore or plebeian An(?agilxaen E;?'ged from Lady Da rn as ou ¢ © » «* T. P n as our cquals and mates, DC | mer‘s presence, and gladly left alone they ever so worthy or estimable: | wigy her thoughts and tender ""..(','r"(',‘m;:,:t',“;c“l'le’ spckk thi maiden reverics, thinks how she shall PMICC C OrEY SDCft 5 aSs & | best phrase her persuasive words to general estimate, and as having no George when she sees him ; how she p.!vl'.flc-ll:}r reference to Mr. George | will consider his se!lfâ€"respect _ and Archer, for which there is no parâ€" | Lady Damer‘s longâ€"continued slights ’z‘ ilar reason, f-xcept tq explain to | and contumely, for it has been nothâ€" you, dearest child, the fine but imâ€" | ing less; how she will gently press passable barrier there is between ; him to yield for her sake, if All class and class. You must underâ€" ‘olher arguments fail. stand it fully, Gillian, love, as you : And how he wilt yield, and how grow older and take your proper | he wili enter Mount Ossory as an place in the world. We may admit | honored guest at her solicitation. :.m;« p ‘;-_<to:m into our;{rawingroums, I ’I,':JV:":!:;‘ :‘ l;:mitl‘iil;'(‘fh::‘) rl"(‘)‘x‘lfd 2;{3 and fto sit at our tables on certain | "Y ¢© ‘ry means c OFs : £ occasions, but we never admit them ; #D°wW vh)m what she thinks and feels into our lives to b> our intimates, l at _ liis concession. _ _ _ Pies n i icar i na will. The poo great aeal of a slight glim 1 feay I have clently. But if vitation, whic letter, it will 4 A Pretty Irish Romance. ‘ i ‘ RPPH MA H 4AAA TRAIRPRRRRIRRRRRRRRRRAARAARARHAAARARA ever you dare to try to punish the innocent for the guilty, I‘ll pull the bhouse down on your head as well as on my own. Your head will be in the dust as well as mineâ€"I swear it Of courso he could mean nothing but an empty threat," she mutters again, reassuringly, sitting more cerect and touching up the ponies into a brisk trot. "How could any disgraceful revâ€" elations of his early life affect my ; position? â€" Besides he would notl i was born and curso th» hour 1 was druel enough to do what I am going to do. ‘You remember what Samson did, my lady,‘ he said," she mutters, trying to smile scorn{ually. " ‘*‘He pulled the house down on the heads of the Philistines, as well as on himself. That‘s what I‘ll do,/ he said ; ‘if ever you dare to try to punish the innocent for the guilty, I‘ll pull the Take Laxative Bromo Quinine Tablets. All dn“’lots refumd the money if it fails to cure. K. W. Grove‘s signature is on each box. 25e. i probing vounding For abo lrous to . vhich _ Gi oyal love vho is to rompts hi A#4t444 4%6*““‘“‘““{0“““%“000“0“&0““02 O TO CURE A COLV INX ONE DAY The Coming of Gillian: j W her. ( * when once she has passed the ; _ inun and the bridge beyond, | ads the groom back with a ; o be left at the inn "for Mri h r ladyship says, tightenâ€" over those long, sharp, _ keeth â€" of hers.. "H loveâ€"sick â€" devotion _ to and the swain‘s selfâ€"conâ€" il ked, cruel little good, tender, Giliian. Goodâ€" rather au r ladyship conâ€" 1 hurrying away done yesterday h the same reaâ€" ey pace slowly toward Mount t the hour hour I was I am going your inâ€" Gillian will not _ How she will strive to make his | memory of this eveningâ€"his _ first | evening as a guest of the host and | hostessâ€"one of the pleasantest of | memories. l Sho> will pay him such marked deference, extend to him such markâ€" E(‘(] favor, that no one can fail to ; see how she regards him in respect | and esteem, though they do not ikr.ow what place he holds beside. | "Lord of the pulse that is lord of her | breast." Not just yet perbhaps do | they know. The secret which they ;ehnro either with other is _ theirs ; alons perhaps for a few | happy, blissful days. Ho has said | he wishes it to be so. She of course i knows no other wish but his. We haldon care, after all those years to set _ me _ at defiance openly ! Those Irish never heed what they vyow, or threaten, or promise, under the influence of their emotions. ‘The blind hysterics of the Celt,‘" Tennyâ€" son may well say." And Gillian, freed from Lady Daâ€" mer‘s presence, and gladly left alone with her thoughts and tender maiden reverics, thinks how she shall best phrase her persuasive words to George when she sees him ; how she will consider his selfâ€"respect and Lady Damer‘s longâ€"continued slights and contumely, for it has been nothâ€" Ing less; how she wil! gently press him to yield for her sake, if All other arzguments fail. | _"I can‘t help mysolf! I can‘t deny | myself this one taste of pleasure and | delight, even though I am trampling | on selfâ€"respect and common sense in | yielding !" he whispers to himself. *E | can‘t resist herâ€"Heaven help me if I | am a weak, selfish wretchâ€"I can‘t ! resist her, and hor lova, and sweetâ€" | ness, ait* innocent tenderness, and | innocent devotion !"~ Py BE And so, through the sunny hours of that golden autumn day, the girl sits dreaming of her happiness with wordâ€" less thanksgiving to Heaven. Sho ig quite alone, as Lynch and Nelly are fraternizing wonder{fully in some remote part of the big barrac‘sâ€" castle. She is all alone with the frigâ€" rant, subtle flower seent, and the soft hum of the bees, and the golden stillâ€" ness of the afternoonâ€"waiting until he comes. And the afternoon comes slowly. She is counting the hours and the minutes until he comes. And the fragâ€" rance of the clematis, with its wreaths of _ greenishâ€"white starry bloom, floats in at the open: window into the shadcd, quiet room. It seems to the fond little heart that has given itself away so utterly and entirely as if these two blisslal afternoons and the one evening conâ€" stitute a lifetime. She has not lived in those former gray, dull days. She looks back on that pale, loveless, jJoyâ€" less existence into the dim past where it seems to have receded, and pities that poor, lonely, timid, unâ€" loved, unhonored girl before the glory and crown of her days had been given to her. She counts the hours and the minutes, even the minutes of this happy, expectant waiting; she will not leave this happiness again, perâ€" haps, for some time. Her happy life in the paradise of this gray old castle will come to an end this evening. But other joys and hopes will follow ; other hours, and days, and wpeks, and months, and years, for those two whose hearts and souls are wedded, whom heaven has joined together, and whom, thereâ€" fore, man cannot put asunder. And then, as the clock strikes four and the shadows are beginning to deepâ€" en in the silent old room, whose dark, heavyy furniture and somber fittings frams the bright young form with the virginal robes, the fair, pale face and starry eyes, "Like a precious stone, Set in the heart of the carven gloom," U [ there comes to the longing eyes .-mdl listening ears the echo of «he quick, ; stronug steps through the sikeut, corridors, and the sight of the openâ€" | ing door, and the tall, stalwart| form, the fair head, and ardent | blue eyes, the vision of her earth-i ly desire, her soul‘s gladness. l The swift crimson tide of passionâ€" ate, speechless emotion, rushes to her choeks, and spreads over her soft, white neck with its innocent, babyish curves, its rounded, woâ€" manly loveliness. Sweet, quivering, silent lips, and sweet cyes . of sby â€" rapture greet him as he comes to her side where she sits in her low chair, and knocling down so that his fair, closeâ€"cropped head is on a level with her dusky, sliken locks, he gathers horâ€"slvr.dcfi slip of girlhood as she isâ€"so easily into his strong arms against his broad breastâ€"such a noble, sturdy bulwark for a weak little woman against the waves of the rough ccean of life!â€"and kisses her pure, loving lips with a passion of tenderness that is strange to himsel{l. _ _ \Â¥Aii â€"o For the pure, fond lips have kissed him back again, and the dark eyes glow with unspeakable love into the blue eyes which are looking down on them ; and the gentle head rests with a sigh of happiness on his breast, and one hot little white hand essays to clasp the big, brown, muscular fingers tightly. _ ‘"Dear George," she whispers. "I am so happy."‘ | "Ard you wiill come, Seorge ?" Gillian repeats, for the fourth â€" or fifth time, and for the fourth _ or fifth time George answers her, rather absently and reluctantly : u‘:,Yes, Gillian, I will. As you wish "I know. It is only for my sake â€"as I wish it," she answers, wistâ€" fully and gratefully. "You will acâ€" cept Lady Damer‘s invitation as in hisg lvbfi;;:"io\:‘e’l'evsa,wl;ararle'; life. They are botb young, they both an overture of good will, for my sake! I will iry to reward you, dear George." t "But _ you _ must do someâ€" thing for me in return," he says, thoughtfully, taking her gratitude as a matter of course, with masculine sel{â€"possession. "I â€" cannot forego every prospect of independence, Gilâ€" lian," he says, almost sternly. "You must consent to let me go abroad for this trip, at all events. My selfâ€"resâ€" pect is in question, my dear girl, forâ€" il we are ever to be anything to each otherâ€"I _ cannot propose myself to your father to become a peasioner on his bounty." ::Happy with me, Gillian ?" he asks. Yes," she says, innocently. "I love you so." And then he registers a passionâ€" ate, reckless vow that, come what may, he will give her the happiâ€" ness her womanly heart yearns for as a flower for the sunlight. That he will take the happiness that her sweet womanrly love can give him each can give the other '.hex will take and possess. And he registers the vow on the sweet, unsullied llqi that have never known a lover‘s kiss but his. And Gillian‘s loveâ€"lit eyes dwell upon her lover‘s handsome face with silent adoration, and her finâ€" gers clasp still more tightly the big b}'m}vn ones she endeavors to enâ€" circle. She trembles, and presses closer to his side, every fceling but the mighty, selfish passion of a woman‘s first love thrust into abeyance. . _ _ $ "To go away from mo ?" she whisâ€" pers. "For a year or longer? Oh, George |" 6 iCE 4 p He, smiles, the least little bit of an impatient smile, and looks down at the delicate, flowerâ€"like face, with the shining eyes and crimson lips, with rather amused surprise. "Does that seem too dread{ul ?" he asks, ruffling her soft, perfumed hair with a lover‘s freedom. "You didn‘t know there was such a person as me in existence six weeks ago." ‘"And now I feel as i I had never livetl without you, as if I never could live without you any more!" she says, passionately. ‘ 9 And George smiles again, rather amused, flattered, and surprised. She does not, think, poor, fond litâ€" tle soui, that the very lavishness of her love is making its preciousness less considerable in his eyes. If one tread on flowers, one cannot prize them as the one blossom which is beyond reach, or perchance is in posâ€" session of another. ""I don‘t ask you to live without me, dear," George says graciously ; thinking that, at least, the rich father will ba forced to own that the lover‘s cause has no such pleader as she, his only child; that he, the lever, can stand proudly aloof, cherâ€" ishing his selfâ€"respoct, until the rich man‘s pride gives way to his parentâ€" al love. It is not a generous thought, but a man is never generous to the woâ€" man who loves him with an avowed passion and absolute devotion. "I don‘t ask you to live without me," he continues, "only to part with me for a while, until I have in some degree struck out a career for myâ€" self which I shall not be ashamed to ask you to share. 1 cannot consent to live on your money, Gillian, though it may help us to have a home much sooner than we otherwise would ; but I cannot stay on here, relinquishâ€" ing every hope and endeavor â€" a meanâ€"spirited fortuneâ€"hunter, waitâ€" ing until you are old enough to defy your father and share your money with me! You will not ask me to do that ?" "I will ask you nothing," Gillian says, huskily, and drawing away from him with a cold, sickening sense of disappointment and pain. _ To And George draws away also, rising to his feet vexed, aid impatient, with a man‘s eruel lack of compreâ€" hension. "I mast be firm with her," he thinks. "I cannot aliow her to unâ€" man me, and make me a dawdling, dishonored fool! After all, it is only a little parting pain, and for a short time. It would be nothing but unâ€" manly weakness to let a little girlâ€" ish disappointment at the loss of a lover‘s society, change all my purâ€" poses "1 really have a prospect of makâ€" ing a carcer for myself if I get in with these people, and I had a most kind, encouraging letter from my friecna Dalroy this very afternoon," ho says hurriedly, his heart rather smiting him as ho sees how swiltly all brightness and gladness are gone from the face and form that droops visibly. "He as good as offers me the po@t of mineraiogist and petrologist to this Industrial Expodition, Gillian," h« urges, coming closer to her again. ‘"‘The pay is not much, only two thousand dollars for tho year, and expenses of course, but it may lead to something betlorâ€"Dailroy says he is sure < 4t‘ ,; will ; someâ€" thing _ that will givo me seope for efforts of body and mind ; something to satisty my intellect and the longings of my heart," he says, his handsome, sunâ€"browned face flushâ€" ed with excitement; "something botter than vegetating all my days here in this place as Mr. Damer‘s land steward, and the object of my lady‘s gracious patronage !" "Yes, I see," Gillian says, quietly. And she does see and know the truth, and it is like iron entering her soul. She possesses no influence over him. Her influence, nor _ all that her love can cast into the balâ€" ance, can weigh against one settled purpose of his. M on uitret: a5 * E Stops the Cough and Works Off the Cold. Laxative Bromoâ€"Quinine Tablets cure a celd in oneday. No Cure, No Pay. Price 2% cents *St ‘Béâ€"e,hl understand. And I would not stand in the way of your success, you know." C g She is very quiet and gentle, with even a faint smile on the wistful face. But the light is gone from her eyes, and the music from her voice. The "rift within the lute" has come. 3 "As for the succ>ss, my darling, CHAPTER XXIIL on Miit ons ront ts > esn ie cocomencty har ies are i CLree ioi sn weme 0 > Ccomanny im e ho says, tenderly, and the girl shivâ€" ers a little, "I am leaving that beâ€" hind mt in leaving you. Gillian, you are not vexed with me, dear? You cannot know what it is to feel as a man does in my cramped position, with never a chancoe as other men havei" and again his heart smites him and his conscience reproaches him. "I never had armything to hope for beyond the mere everyday wants of my existerce until I knew, the day before yesterday, that you cared {or 1mc." he whispers, stooping down o her. He cannot let well enough alome, like other foolish mortals. Havirg tried to tear away the clinging tenâ€" drils that are wound around his heart, and begun to succeed, he sudâ€" denly seeks to atone for his pain and hers, and woos the tender growth close to him once more. ‘‘*You speak so, when you knowâ€"you know !" she says, half audibly, turnâ€" ing to him, and still trying to keep her face averted, "when you know that if all the world were offered to me on one side and your ‘bare hand,‘ as you say, on the other, I should take that as riches and honor beyond all that earth could givo me without ‘‘My darling," he urges again, ‘"‘don‘t be cold and unkind to me! Reâ€" member, it is only because of the great difference between us that I speak so, because I can feel that you have stooped to care for a poor felâ€" low who had nothing but his bare hand to offer you in returm for your love, and youth, and beauty, and wealth," But Gillian pushes him away now, with a burning blush and quivering lipe, * y«‘ "I believe you would !" he says, bitâ€" terly, blaming himsel{, and yet unable to stut his heart against her. "Gilâ€" lian, my sweet little wife, I shali come back to you true and faith{ul, my litâ€" tle love, even if we part for a while, perhaps only for a few months. 1 shall come back to you, you know, and then, if they do not persuade you to forget me, and if your fathâ€" er will not anathematize me for a penniless adventurer, we shall be married." you ! "But suppose that papa will not consent," she whispers. "He does not care very much for me, but he may rnot consent, you. know." "‘Then we shall marry when you aro twentyâ€"one, my dearest," George says, very decidedly, "as I may then be able to offer you a home, and with your own money, we can manâ€" ago so that you will not feel _ the great difference in your position." "But George, my money isâ€"â€"*" Gilâ€" lian says suddenly, and then stops as suddenly. "Butâ€"not before it ?" George asks, quickly, from some intangible sugâ€" gestion in her manner. "It does not come to you sooner than that, does "Your money is what?" he asks, rather coldly. The expression rather grates on him. ‘"Nothingâ€"that isâ€"of course it is mine," Gillian says, stammering. "It is mineâ€"when I am twentyâ€"one, as you know ?" it? "Oh, ro! Not unless I were marâ€" ried," Gillian says, rabbling over her words in a most desperate haste, and crimsoning to the tips of her ears as George laughs. "Oh ! It comes to you as soon as you are married?" he asks, in a meaning tone. ‘"So if I were to get a license, in fortyâ€"eight hours I ghould be possessor of twenty thouâ€" sand pounds ? Rather a temptation that. for a fellow who hasn‘t fifty pounds in the world ! Would you marry me in fortyâ€"cight hours, Gilâ€" lian, ifâ€"I coax you ?" And poor little Eve creeps closer to her Adam, in perfect trust, and faith, and reverential love. "If 1 thought that papa would not be very angry," she whispers, with her arm around his neck. ‘"George, darling, you are my husband now in the sight of heaven, are you not ? You said. I was your little wife !" "I shall not see you until toâ€"morâ€" row evening," Giilian says, sorrowâ€" fully, clinging to him still, though she keenly Teels that he is eager to go. "No, not until toâ€"morrow evening," he says, trying to say it chcerfally and carelessly, and feeling halfâ€" ashamed of himsel{ that "toâ€"morrow evening" seems afar off, across & dim gulf of separation. "I â€" shall think it all over, Gillian, and when wo meet I will tell you what I think will be the best for us both. We shaqll surely have a chance of a few words togetherâ€"shall we not ?" "Yes, dearest, I must," he says, pressing one farewell kiss on _ her cheek. "No, Gillian, do not keep me, dear ! You are tempting me and tryâ€" ing me too hard. I can decide on nething but you while I stay4" "We may," Gillian says, in a mournfully low tone. "Must you go now, George ?" l She laughs delightedly at this, as a welcome evidence of _ a certain power over him ; but her yearning eyes follow him sadly to the door. Looking back he sees her standing alone in her white dress in the gloomy room, the familiar old room which he is leaving as he is leaving her ; and an ominous, dreary sense of desolationâ€"ol â€" cutting â€" himself adri{t from home and peace, and love and joyâ€"an ominous chill of error, of mistake and loss creeps over his spirit. _ 2 And she sees his hesitation, and his backward, lingering look, and thinks with desperate resolve and hope that she may prevail even now, and rushes to the door after him. " George! Gceorge! _ don‘t leave me !" she says â€" wildly, her heart beating madly. *" Don‘t leave me, George! My loveâ€"my husbandâ€" anything but leave me! Take me with you, George!" she mutters, hot and cold by turns with shame, and fear, and passionate hope, her words almost choking her as she utters them. "‘Take the money ; it will be all yours then, you know, and take me with you l x " Oh, Gillian ! Don‘t! You aro drivâ€" ing me mad !" he says almost fiercely, thrusting her back. "I can‘t marry you and take you with me now! I can‘t take all from you and be able to give you nothing in return! I 930 !" S 1 won‘t! Thereâ€"you have made me speak harsbhly to you now. Be a brave, sensible girl !" . g39%4 : THEâ€" MURDER _ OF â€" OWEN. Sho hbhas shrunk at her repulse as from a blow. Dumb, heartâ€"broken, ashamed, with great bright tears falling down like rain, she turns away instantly, and goes over to the winâ€" [ Speaker. Hitherto it has been taken _ for granted that with the death _ of Princeo Llewelyn and his brother David in 1282 the royal line of Wales became extinct. Mr. Edward Owen, of the ludia Office, lhas recently proved in the "Transactions" of the Cymmrodorion Eociety that this was not so, but that the last male desâ€" cendant of Llewelyn the Great only died a century after. Llewelyn, the last Prince, was survived by. three brothers. Owen, the eldest, lived and died an obscure country gentleman in Carnarvonshire, and left no isâ€" suso. The turbulent David, who had been created an Englsh baron, was tried for high treason after Lleâ€" welyn‘s death, and was hanged, drawn and quartered. The younger, Roderick, became a pensioner ol the English King, marriecd un English heiress, and lived und died in England. His only son, Thomas, succeeded to two small estates in England, and on« manor in Wales, but he was alâ€" ways in want of money, and almost all the traces I1eft of him are conâ€" cerned with his dealings with money lenders. He leit, however, at his death in 1363 a son named Owen, who redeemed his Tamily‘s fame, who became a hero vn{f romance even in the brightest age of chivalry, and whose tragic death was in keeping with the unbhappy traditions of his ancient house. LAST WELSH â€"PRINGE Many of Them Died Violent Deaths. Owen ap Thomas ap Roderickâ€"as ho is. styled in the State papersâ€" seems to have been a generous, highâ€"spirited and fearless lad, well fitted for the task of restoring the fallen fortunes of his house and race. In carly life he grew dissatisâ€" fied with his position as a needy and suspected sojourner among liis Hereditary Foes. He flod to the Court of France, where he was received with the honâ€" ors duo to the righiful Prince of Wales. He fought against the Engâ€" lish at Poictiers in 1356, and the glamor of his name drew many a Welsiman away from the standard of the Black Prince. On the concluâ€" sion of pearce between the English and French, Yenain de Gallesâ€"as "Owen of Wales" was called by his new â€" friendsâ€"became â€" captain _ of one of those free companies that spread terror throughout the mountâ€" aing of Switzerland and the plains of Lombardy. When war broke out again between England and France, Owen returned once more and led tho expedition in 1372 against Guernsey, which all but captured the island from the English garriâ€" son. He was, however, recalled to fight tho English in France _ and Spain, and we find him appearing in Brittany as an honored _ comâ€" radceâ€"inâ€"arms to the noblest knight of Christendom, Bertrand du Gueseâ€" lin, "and bore himsel{ so well," says the old chronicler, "that he was greatly praised and woell beloved with the French King and with all the lords." The pitiful story of Prince Owran‘s death six years later is told with simple pathos in the vivid pages of Froissart, who was his contemporary, and perhaps an acquaintance. Owen was at the time laying sflege to Morâ€" tagneâ€"surâ€"Gironde. "‘This Yuan of Wales," so runs the old chronicler‘s story as translated by Lord Berners in 1523, "hadde an usage beyng beâ€" fore Mortagne at the siege, that gladly in the mornyng when he was up and redy, he wolde come before tho castell, and sytte downe and The above is a likeness of Mr. G. U. Kent, 408 tAimour street, Ottawa, taken from a recent photograph. Seven years ago Mr. Kent was cured of Bright‘s Disease of the Kidneys in its last stages by Dodd‘s Kidney Pills, and has enjoyed good health ever since. The full particulars of this remark» able cure, as sworn to, were published in these columns & few days ago. TARIO ARCHIVES TOoRronto (To be continued.) MR. G. !HI. KENT. a good long epace, and syt and beâ€"« holde the castell and the country, about, beynge out of doute or feare of any thynge." Now, "on a mornyng betymes, wha‘ the wether was fayre and cleare," his body servant, John‘ Lanib, came to him as he was thus sitting "on an olde stocks of wode." Lamb had been Prince Owen‘s squire for nearly a year, and had completely won his confidence. He had pretended to bring Owen tidings o( his beloved Wales, where he said all men were looking anxiously to Owen for de«= liverance from the English yoke. Early this summer morning, "every esw uis uts Acaaa c ettih + Aoataine 13 ET man beynge in their lodgynges aslepe," Owen badeo Lamb fetch his comb. Lamb went into the tent, but "the devyll entred into him, for beâ€" syde the combe, ho brought with hym a lytell Javelyne of Spayne with a large heed of steel, and with the sime strake this Yuan as he sate, clene through‘ out the body, so it he foll downe starke deed." m t o. This was the end of Owen, the last of the princely line of Wales, when barely forty years old, " slayne by great unhap and treason." His asâ€" sassin fled for refuge to the castle, where the English captain reluctâ€" antly afforded him protection. _ Mr. Edward Owen has proved beyond doubt from State papers preserved in the Record Office that the murder of the gallant "Owen of Wales" was premeditated by the English King‘s Council and deliberately planned by the English officials at Bordeaux» The miscreant Lamb and his aiders were liberally rewarded by the Eng= lish Government, and Lamb‘s receipt for the price of blood is still among our records. The Virtue in the Kunckie Bone of a Leg ot Mutton. Modern wisiom smiles at the super4 stitious charms our forefathers and mothers used to depend upon to cure their ills and preserve them in health .Weare not all wise folk yet by any means, but at least we do not believe, as the Devon and Cornâ€" wall people used to do, that the nuckle bone of a leg of mutton worn around the neck is sura cure for sciatica, or that "blackheads" in the face will disappear immediately if the afflicted individual creeps under an arched bramble brancn. * § Y Sozodont Liquid 25c Large Liquid and Powder 95e AB stores or by mail tor the price. . Sampie for posings 88 Sozodont â€" Tooth Powder A Somersetshire cure for consump= tion was to lead or carry the sul« ferer through a flock of sheep in the early morning, when they were first let out of the ficld. Some mothers used to place consumptive children in cots in the contre of & sheep fold, and there leave them from 11.30 to 1 o‘clock in the morgâ€", ing, believing that the lpglady‘quMQ The fellow hwo talks about him« self is seldom an interesting conver» eationalist. 4 pass away before the rising of that morn‘s sun. i . .o s / > k West of England {folk say that an invalid, when going out for the first walk during the convalescence, must take care to go with the sun, from east to west, or west to east, if after surdown, otherwiso a serious relapse cannot be avoided. 1 In South Wales, as late as 1848, # In South Wales, as late as 1848, & woman who had been bitten by & mad donkey was persuaded by her neighbors to go and cat grass in the nearest churchyard.â€"McColl‘s Magâ€" agine. \"ap e 4 CGood for Bad Teceth Not Bad for Good Testh QUEER IDEAS OF CURES. HALL & RUCKEL, Montreal, Kembe His Heed 25° M4