6 YOU'LL FIND IT ALWAYS PAYS. Be happy! Gather, on life's road, The sweetest flowers you And! gome pleasures are for you bestowed. liut choose the proper kind. How fair a face temptation has, How joyous seem her ways; Look not therein, but bravely pass— You'll find it always pays! Though here on earth, or there aboT*, He now that heart we prize, lit member that a mother's love Is one that never dies. 60 heed the counsel sh* would give. That good attend your days; And let them guide you while you live; You'll find it always pays! Honor the aged, as you should. And give them reverence due; And "do to others as you would ; That they should do to you!" A kind word here, a good deed there. Like sunshine casts its rays. And mak. s the world more pure and fair: You'll find it always pays. Be honest In your dealings all in every word you say; Then you may never fear to fall, Nor shun the light of day. Stick to the truth, my little friend, And hold the word that strays! Begin in youth, and in the end You'll find it always pays! —George Blrdseye, in Golden Days. BORN TO SERVE By Charles M. Sheldon, Author of"IN HIS STEPS," "JOHN KING'S QUESTION CLASS," "EDWARD BLAKE," Etc. (Cupjright, 19W, by Üb*rleM M. ShoUiou.) CHATTER V.—CONTINUED. Barbara found an opening and moved away. The rest of the even ing she was conscious of being largely let alone. There was no coarse or vul var objection to her; but very many of Mrs. Vane's guests showed their feel ings in a way, several of them said afterwards, so that Mrs. Vane would know how far she had mistaken her own place in society. As the guests began to leave, Bar bara nervously went to Mrs. Vane to say good and found Mr. Morton with the Dillinghams just saying fare well at the door. Mr. Morton bowed .gravely to Barbara as he said good night to Mrs. Vane and went out, Miss Dillingham taking his arm as they passed down the steps. "I am going to ride," Mrs. Dilling ham said to Mrs. Vane, as she waited ip the hall. "The carriage is just com ing around. I told the young folks to goon. It is a beautiful evening for a walk." Barbara walked back into the sit ting-room and sat down by the table of prints and turned them over silent ly. When the guests were all gone, rs. Vane came in. "What! you here, Barbara? I thought j'ou had gone." "So, I wanted to talk with you a little while," said Barbara, with an effort. "Why, I do believe you are almost crying," the old lady exclaimed, com ing up to her quickly. "Have you had a trying evening? Tell me all about it." Barbara told her, and added some thing more that made the sharp eyes soften and the abrupt manner change to one of great gentleness. "Don't worry, dear. It will all come out right, I know. Just go right on with your work. I understand it all perfectly. I'm old enough to be your grandmother, and I've seen more re markable things happen. The Lord takes care of more things than we give Him credit for. We must trust Him when we are in all sorts of trouble. And yours isn't the worst, by any means. But it's too late for you togo home now. I'll send William over to tell Mrs. Ward, if anyone is up there, that you are to stay here to-night." So Barbara remained with the great hearted old soul that night, and in the morning she went back to her drudg ery, sobered by the events of that eventful evening, and trembling a lit tle because she had intrusted her cecret even to one so old and so loving as Mrs. Vane. But on the whole it comforted her. Under other circum stances she would have told no one fcut her mother. But Mrs. Clark was nervous and irritable, she did not un derstand Barbara, and lived a daily protest against her choice of life work. To learn now from Barbara that she had come to think a great deal of the brilliant young minister of the great Marble Square church would have seemed to Mrs. Clark like another madness, and what Barbara needed at this crisis in her life was not reproaches or tears, but encour agement and good-hearted affection. She was a girl who gave her own •flection quickly. From the day she met Mrs. Vane she had understood her. It was the same with Mr. Mor ton. It is a mistake to suppose that the greatest feelings must develop slowly. The feeling that Barbara ex perienced was not long in point of time, but she herself was the best judge of its strength. It is probable that she was afraid of its develop ment in so comparatively short a time, and one way she took to ascertain the truth was to talk to Mrs. Vane frankly about it. Some things the old lady gave her that evening out of her own experience reassured her as to her own heart. Barbara had been afraid that her apparently sudden giving up ■of her life as it faced this other life was wrong. There was a tremor in the thought of unseemly haste un worthy of so sacred an event. But, as the days went by, she found It was not so. u.ie did not know all, herself, but the experience that had come to her lent strength to her re solve to prove herself worthy of the faith he had said he had in that kind ®t a life, the life she had chosen. At the same time, she faced with a grav ity that was making her older than her years, the fact that the very na ture of her position would make it impossible for her ever to realize an Answer to her own heart from his. •So it was with mingled feelings of Ambition that Barbara took up the daily round again. Tlie results of the evening so far as her own position was concerned were insignificant. Mrs. Dillingham kept her word, and called on Barbara's mother. She also eeut a note to Barbara, inviting her to call; and a little later she even in cluded her in a quiet afternoon tea at her house. Barbara ought to have accepted these overtures, for they represented a good deal of courage on Mrs. Dil lingham's part. Barbara regretted a little later that she had not gone. But she had at the time, after that one night at Mrs. Vane's, concluded that she had attempted a thing that was of no value. She would approach the matter from another side. She was trying to think it all out, and had many talks with Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Vane about it, when an event oc curred that threatened to interrupt all her plans and prove a real and serious crisis in her life as a servant. It must have been three weeks aft er that evening at Mrs. Vane's when Alfred mine home from college for a few days, lie had not been in the house an hour before Barbara was annoyed by his attentions. They were so marked that his mother no ticed it. Barbara was intensely in dignant, and Mrs. Ward was much disturbed over it. In the afternoon, Barbara could hear loud voices in the sitting-room; and in the midst of it all Carl came out into the kitchen, crying and trembling, and saying that his mother and Alfred were quarreling. Barbara, knowing what it was all about, could not help feel ing relieved when the voices ceased; and after a time Mrs. Ward came out and had a talk with Barbara, apolo gizing for Alfred and promising that there wouiu be no recurrence of the matter. Barbara listened in silence, and when Mrs. Ward was through she said: "Alfred never would have be haved as he did if he had not been drinking." "Do you mean to say that Alfred drinks?" Mrs. Ward almost shrieked. The experiences of the morning had given her one of her headaches. "He does, lie drank when he was here last fall." "I can't believe it possible. He has nervous headaches. He bathes his head in alcohol to relieve it. He has told me so many times," exclaimed Mrs. Ward, indignantly. "But 1 know he was drinking this morning, or he would never have be haved so. No gentleman would ever have spoken to me as he spoke, Mrs. Ward, if he hadn't been under the in fluence of liquor." Mrs. Ward lost her temper. After wards, in quiet thouglitfulness, Bar bara knew that her nervous tension was responsible for what she did. "It's not true! You are too much given to thinking of yourself. You are too good for your place." "Then, if I'm too nod for my place, perhaps I had better not stay in it," spoke up Barbara in a sudden passion. But she was not an angel nor perfect, only a girl, worn out, perhaps, with the constant toil; and, at any rate, she was sorry for it the minute she spoke. "You can leave any time! The sooner, the better!" Mrs. Ward said. "I'm sorry," Barbara began. "You needn't say anything. The sooner you leave, the better. We have all been worried to death over you ever since you came!" ejaculated Mrs. Ward; and, bursting into a hys terical fit of weeping, she retired to the lounge in the sitting-room. If Barbara had waited until the weeping was over, and then gone in and told Mrs. Ward she had decided not to leave until her week was out, Mrs. Ward would have apologized. But the quickest passion is roused by injustice; and Barbara, smarting under the lash of Mrs. Ward's nerv ous-headache tongue, went at once to her room, packed her things into her trunk, put on her hat, and turned to leave the house. Down in the kitchen she found Carl crying. "Where are you going, Barbara? Don't go away. I'm frightened, every thing is so queer," he cried, lifting his arms to her. She took him up in her lap and kissed him. "Why, you're crying, too, Barbara. Everybody's crying. What for?" "I'm going home, Carl. Your mam ma thinks I had better go home." "Are you coming back?" "1 don't know, dear," Barbara an swered as she put the child down. "Don't go, Barbara," the child cried as she went out of the door. "Don't cry, dear Carl. Perhaps I'll come back again," Barbara turned and called out to the child, kissing her hand to him. . CHAPTER VI. A KITCHEN IS AS ROYAL. AS A PAR LOR. As Barbara walked away from the Wards' that afternoon, she fully thought that iier social experiment was finally over, and that she might as well write "Finis" to the dismal attempt she had made to solve even a small part of such a complex prob lem. But beiore she had covered the short distance between the Wards' and her mother's, she experienced a feeling of remorse that she had given way so miserably to her passion in the interview between Mrs. Ward and herself. She even hesitated at the corner before she started down the street leading home as if she had some serious intention of going back to ask Mrs. Ward to receive her again. But it was only a moment's pause, and then she went on and en tered the house, where she soon told her mother the whole story. There were tears on Barbara's cheeks when she finished. "I seem to be a total failure in every way, mother. I haven't even learned grace to control my tongue." "Neither has Mrs. Ward, from what you say," replied her mother, with more spirit than was usual for her. "It seems to me she is the one who is most to blame. In 112 act L Barbara, I don't se# CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, • THURSDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1901. how you could have done differently. She compelled you to leave." "O. I don't know about that, mother If I hud not got angry —but it's al over now, anyway. There is no use foi me to try any more," and Barbart broke down completely, crying'hard. Her mother wisely let her have her cry out, and then said: "I can't helj feeling glad it has all turned out as it has. You know 1 have never approved of your going out to service. You sim ply throw yourself away." "I don't know," Barbara replied, sad ly. "Somehow I cannot help feeling, mother, that I have failed to do what I ought to do and that the regret over it will stay with me all my life. 1 be gan with a high purpose to accomplish something, and 1 have failed utterly." "You have at least tried your best." "No, mother, I don't think I have. I ought to have expected just such things as those that happened io-day. But it's too Lite to do anything now," she added, with a sigh. "The question is: What am I to do? I expect it means going into Bondman's until I can get a school." Her mother tried to comfort her,but Barbara was more depressed over the situation than she had ever been in all her life. She had met her dragon, and had been completely routed. And she had even at one time thought con temptuously of the dragon! But, as she went to her room that night, she felt with great humiliation that the dragon had won and she would never again have the courage to look him in the face. The next day she sent over for her trunk; and, when the expressman brought it.he handed her a note that had been given him by Mrs. Ward. Barbara opened it 1n some rxcite ment, thinking it might be a request to come back. But it was a scrawl from Carl, who had at different times been encouraged by Barbara to print real letters to his father and brothers. "Dear Barbara: I am very sorry you have gone. Won't you come back? I do not feel very well to-day. My head aches. If you will come back I will be good to you. Your loving "CARL." When she had read this note, which Mrs. Ward had let Carl send, she sat down on her trunk and cried again. It, seemed all so dismal a mistake, such a waste of her life so far. She did not look forward to the future with any degree of hopefulness. It seemed as if all her high ambitions were destroyed and all of her ideals swept out of her life. The next two days she spent in help ing her mother with some sewing and in little duties about the house. In every moment of leisure from these duties her thought at once went back to her ambition to serve, and the more she dwelt upon it the more hopeless she grew. In the morning of the third day after she had left Mrs. Ward, and she was at work washing the breakfast dishes, when a note was brought to ber. The V:— J ■ ; T "YOU COME TO STAY?" ASKED CAUL. reading of it stirred her pulses as she stood in tlie kitchen and read: "My Dear Barbara: Carl has been taken ill ar.d is a very sick child. He calls for you constantly. Can you come and see him? 1 do not dare ask If you will come to stay again, alter my unkind words to you. But I am sure you will be willing lo please Carl by coming to see him. The uear child Is very ill indeed . "MKS. RICHARD WARD." Barbara went out to the sitting room at once and showed the note to her mother. "Of course, I will go right over there," Barbara said, as she put on her iiat. "Will you stay if Mrs. Ward asks you to?" her mother asked, with a tone which conveyed curiosity mingled with dissuasion. "1 don't, know," Barbara hesitated. "I don't think she will ask me to come back." "I think she will," replied Mrs. Clark. "And my advice, Barbara, is that you say no. I can't bear to think of you as .finally becoming nothing but a serv ant." Barbara did not answer. She said good-by to her mother and started for the Wards'. On the way her mother's last words, smote lier again and again. "Nothing but a servant!" Was it, then, so low a place for a human being to fill a place of service where the help rendered was a necessity to a fam ily? Was this place in society so in significant or so contemptible that it could lie characterized as "nothing" but service? What was worth while, then, in the world? Was it worth more to the world to paint pictures, or to sell dry goods, or teach school, or spend time in eating and drinking and dressing up for parties as so many rich and fashionable people in society did all the time? Were these things more useful than the work she had been doing of caring for the physical needs of a home so that it could devel op in the strongest and best ways? Mrs. Ward met her at the door as she was about to ring the bell. Sl'e had evidently been looking for her out of the front window. "I'm so glad you have come," she said, and in a few words she explained Carl's condition. She did not say a word about the scene between herself and Barbara, and Barbara did not in troduce the subject. "Carl was taken down with the fever the night before last. He has been steadily growing worse. Will you go right up and set him now?" Mrs. Ward led the way, and Barbara followed, feeling strangely depressed as if in anticipation of some great trouble. She sat down by Carl and the child knew her. "Little man," she said, using a term she had often given him, "are you glad to see Barbara? 1 am so sorry you are not well. So sorry." "You come to stay?" asked Carl, •peaking with great difficulty. "I'll stay with you awhile," Barbara answered, glancing at Mrs. Ward, who was at the foot of the bed. "I mean all the time, all the time," Carl repeated, slowly. "If your mother wants me to," re plied Barbara, who in the passage from home to the Wards' had really made up her mind to stay if she was asked. "O, I do want you to stay, Bar bara!" cried Mrs. Ward, suddenly. Then Barbara saw that she was worn out with care of Carl for two nights, and the housework in addition. [To Be Continued ] VERY MYSTERIOUS. The Queer Manner In Wlilcli a I.ndy'a Ureal (iot Hadly Satu rated. Mrs. Jessie Be Mercado, writing in Harper's Magazine of her experiences in Jamaica, tells the story of two treasures stored away beneath a bug gy seat. She lived at Old Harbor, a small place about 20 miles from Kings ton. "One day," she says, "when a visit to my Kingston dressmaker was a ne cessity, I ordered a young negro boy to get upon the rumble and drive me to the town. "1 paid a visit to the dressmaker, re ceived my frock —a light summer tiling —and placed it in the box beneath the buggy seal. Then I drove to my sis ter's, where I went to escape the heated part of the day, giving my boy sixpence and telling him to see the sights and return at four o'clock. "He turned up punctually, with the gown still in its place, and indue time we reached Old Harbor once more. When I went to take out my crisp mus lin, I found to my consternation that it was a wet, soppy mass. No raia had fallen, and 1 turned to the boy, asking: 'What in the world does this mean? How —' "But the look of helpless amazement on his face stopped me. " 'Lor', missis, it am queer,' he ex claimed,'but not so queer as what done happen to me! Me bought a quattig (three cents) worth of dat pretty ting dey calls ice, to bring home to show to my sister, and I put him in dar wid your dress to keep him safe—and now him gone for true, and how him get out I dunno, wid you sittin' on him all de time.' " Iteineinlirnnee and Heaemlilnnee. Living near a monarch does not nec essarily make a man a courtier, as we may see by a story of King Edward VII. Every Christmas for a number of years his majesty has given lo an old tenant on his Sandringliam'estate a pair of boots. The old man's feet are just, the size of those of the king, who always tries on the boots before pre senting them. This adds, of course, to the old man's pride in his gift. On one occasion, some months after the regular gift had been made, the prince of Wales, as he then was, met the ten ant, and noticing that his boots showed palpable signs of wear and neglect, advised him to polish them. "Ah," returned the old man,"l never look at those boots, dirty and worn as they are, without being reminded of your royal highness!" In relatingtliis incident at home—for a prince tells his family funny things as readily as the plainest citizen—his royal highness said: "A well-meant compliment, I dare say, but a very doubtful one!"— Youth's Companion. AVlmt's in a Nnmcf The grammatical thief is not a thief, but a kleptomaniac. The propertied drunkard is not a drunkard, but a victim of nervous prostration. The preacher who marries a rich wife, and leaves the pulpit, is not a shirk, but a sufferer from bronchitis. The lawyer who has too much money and too lit tle ability to practice in court is not a lawyer, but a member of the bar. The man who is "connected with the press," but works on no sheet, is a "journalist" and not a newspaper man. The fellow, without labor or income, who is never poor so long as anyone else is rich, is not a tramp, but something a deal more contempt ible. The speculator who owns a mar ble quarry is not a sculptor. The rich man who buys a newspaper is not an editor. The politician who fails is not a statesman, and the one who finds that he can no longer fool any body is not a sage.—Brooklyn Eagle. •John Chlnanian*a Knay Itainient. Those who understand the subject have to admit that when it conies to the question of rational dress the Chinaman has very much the best of it. Who is there of us, arrived at a certain rotundity of figure, who can comfortably pick up a nickel from the sidewalk without risking the integrity of many vital points«>f his raiment? American clothes are not made for the performance of much stooping or do mestic gymnastics, but the Chinaman, in his loose, easy fitting clothes, is as free to stoop, jump, run or turn hand springs as a small boy in bathing. In a Chinese suit of clothes you can lie down and with the same amount of comfort that you can stauc up and walk.—Brooklyn Eagle. % * v Strategy. Oldheimer (standing' in his garden showing a friend the neighbor's new fence) —You see, doctor, at last my neighbor has put up a new fence in stead of the old hedge through which his chickens came and scratched up my garden. Doctor —How did you manage? Go to court about it? Oldheimer—Court nothing! Every few days I sent him a couple of dozen eggs, and when I had him used to the eggs I stopped and told him his hens had laid them in my garden. In less than a week I saw that fence go up.— N. Y. Times. An Kxperieneed Arll«t. Star —This is a very good play, but it will have to be revised considerably. Dramatist—lmpossible, sir. Star—Oh, it must Vie. You make the hero appear in every act. That won't do. The hero must be taken out of the first act and also out of the last. Dramatist —What! Open and close the play without the hero? Star —Certainly. You see, I am my own manager, and I shall be busy in the box office during the first act, and very often busy with the sheriff dur ing the last act. —London Fun. It Makea a DifTerenee. "But, as a citizen, you must admit that civil service is a good thing," urged the reformer. "My dear sir," replied the politician, "everything depends upon the point of view." "How is that ?" "If your friends are in and want to stay in, you will be satisfied that civil service is of incomparable value to the community; but if your friends are out and want to get in. you will readily see that it is an outrageous imposition and of real detriment to the munici pality."—Chicago Post. Antnmn Daya, Once we were glad. The year was young; 'Twas when the smiling spring had sprung. But now it's old. for, sad to tell, The melancholy fall has fell. —Philadelphia Press. SIMPLE ADDITION. "How do you dare charge me sll for this room when you advertise rooms at five and six dollars?" "Well, don't five and six make 11?" Fliegende Blaetter. Becoinliifr. In Eden or.ee a rib became A woman, so they say. And now its ribbons that become A woman of to-day. —Philadelphia Press. He Nndu't Been I>end. 'Squire White was very ill with fever, and at the crisis was reported dead, though instead he lived through it. Uncle Josh, meeting a neighbor of the 'squire's the next morning, inquired with due solemnity when the funeral was to be. "The squire's funeral? Why, he isn't dead!" "What!" exclaimed Uncle Josh. "He ain't dead? Nor hain't been?"— Leslie's Weekly. Ily Hi rtli riK 1>•. "To what," asked the young woman with the notebook, "do you attribute your remarkable power in training these animals and keeping them in subjection?" "Well," replied Mile. Castella, the Lady Wonder of the Arena, "I think I inherited it from my mother. She was a strong-minded woman. My father was a regular bear, and she had to subdue him about once a day as long' as she lived."—Chicago Tribune. Wnnteil sn Illustration. A little boy was advised by his father to use illustrations in liis con verse whenever they should occur to him. "For," continued the parent, "there is no more forcible way of conveying or impressing your mean ing." Shortly after the boy was be ing lectured on generosity. "It's bet ter to give than to receive, Johnny —far better." "Illustrate it, papa. I think I shall understand it better."—Tit-Bits. Before and After. "This," said the druggist's assist ant, "is a most wonderful hair renew er. It's our own preparation." "Well, give me a bottle," said the bald-headed man. "But I say, come to think of it, why don't you use it? You're pretty bald yourself." "I can't use it. You see, I'm the •before-using assistant.' The 'after using assistant' is out to lunch. You should see him." —Philadelphia Times. Her View of It. "Mine!" cried the lordling. "All mine!" Anil he undertook to draw the girl to him. "Yours!" retorted the beautiful but sophisticated maiden of wealth, draw ing away. "Well, I guess not. You've got it wrong. I'm simply investing in a husband and a title as an addition to my establishment." —Cliicagq Post. Not a Ilaatlrr. "I tell you," the sprightly passen ger in the pepper-and-salt suit waai saying, "there is nothing' like g-et upi and hustle. I hustle. If business! doesn't come to me I go out and hunt* it. Yesterday I made nearly sll re-t pairing sewing machines. Had six l jobs. I can afford to take a holiday! once in awhile." "Well," slow'ly replied the passen ger in the suit of somber black. "I'm not so good on the hustle. I've only had one job in the last six months." "That's too bad," replied the other, sympathizingly. "What's your occu pation?" "Building lighthouses." Arid the conversation drooped.- Chicago Tribune. Ont of the Wet. Into each life some rain must fall. And lucky the feller Who when the shower may come along. Has got his own umbreller. —Brooklyn Life. U1- TO HIM. "Yas, Miss Cutting, that's a fine dog. Would it—aw —surprise you —aw —if I told you that dog knows as much as I do?" "Not at all."—Louisville Courier- Journal. Mn tellies*. She Is a matchless beauty. And that she can't forget. A match to make she's tried for years. But all in vain, so it appears That she is matchless yet. —Leslie's Weekly. He Liked It. Wife—llow do you like my new hat? Husband—The idea of paying big prices for— Wife—Big prices! Why, I made it myself. Husband —Dm—yes—er—as I was saying, the idea of paying big prices for such monstrosities as the milli ners are showing! Now, your hat i 3 a work of art. Looks as if it came from Paris. Beautiful, my dear.—N, Y. Weekly. llow He Reached Her Heart. "She has accepted you, you say?" "Yes." "But she refused you a month ago, when you told her you were worth a million dollars and would lay it all at her feet." "She did." "Then Sow did she come to change her mind?" "I marked my fortune down to nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars." —Leslie's Weekly. She Felt Wicked. Revivalist —Is it possible that you dance? Fair Sinner —Oh, yes, often. "Now tell me, honestly and fairly, don't you think the tendency of danc ing is toward sin?" "I must confess that sometimes while dancing I have very wicked thoughts." "Aha! I feared so. When is it that you have wicked thoughts?" "When my partner steps on my toes."—N. Y. Weekly. Porrn. The mar's that's overdressed you'll meet Too oft 'mongst human kind. He wears his polish on his feet Instead of on his mind. —Washington Star. k :i> UIITE COHUGCX, l yi/ & Wm Hungry Hawkins —What is a float ing debt, Tommy? Tommy Tatters—A steamboat wit's mortgage on it.—Kansas City Times. Solnee for the Ohncnre. Don't sorrow though you are forgot Amid the world's dissensions; The biggest nuisance frequently Attracts the most attention. —Washington Star. 1 t'n a Jlew Baiue. "Let's play that you're the Venus of Milo," exclaimed the resourceful young man. "What's the object of that?" she asked. "Why, it would be utterly impossi ble for the Venus of Milo to slap tlia man who stole a kiss from her," he ex plained. The game proved to be a most en joyable one.—Chicago Tost. I.ii UK iiiiue ol the Hand. Yeast —A man can't always tell 'what's in your mind by the way you shake his hand. Crimsonbeak —No; but he gener ally ean size up the situation by tha way you shake your fist.—Yonkera Statesman.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers