Demorralic ac Bellefonte, Pa., March 23. 1900. EE EE TC CAAT, JACQUEMINOTS. *‘It was awfully good of you to remem- ber me so handsomely, dear Bob,”” mur- mured Irene Benson as she buried her somewhat pronounced chin in the gorgeous bouquet that had elicited the remark. The individual so affectionately styled ‘Bob’ was, according to his cartes de visite, Mr. R. Sinclair King, though within a few years of the date of this story he bad always given prominence to the first name bestow - ed upon him by his godfather and godmoth- er, and had correspondingly obscured the one that now stood out so boldly against the chaste cardboard background. Intimate acquaintances still addressed him as ‘Bob?’ with or without adjectives according to their sex and sentiments. In the capacity of fiancee his present companion naturally exercised a special right over him, against which hedid not rebel. True, she was the fourth young lady in half as many years that the gushing, flax- en-haired, money-burdened Mr. King had bound himself to with sacred promises, solemnized by temporary sincerity, and of course society laughed at her for expecting to retain the devotion of a man who bad so quickly tired of three handsome predeces- sors. But Miss Benson only smiled sweet- ly. She was not beautiful certainly; but she never for a moment argued the ques- tion with the mirror. Her vision was won- derfully clear and easily discerned such de- fects as an elongated chin that would not diminish with age, an aspiring nose, and an absence of natural color in the cheeks. Nevertheless, she was by no means plain, and at times her large gray eyes seemed to lend their beauty to her features. Then, too, she was admittedly clever—a quality that can ofttimes hold a man when the tin- sel bonds of fascination have snapped. Already the engagement was three months old, and though the watchful professed to notice a gradual decline in the gentleman’s attentions, there was nothing sufficiently marked to attract any general comment. As a matter of fact ‘‘dear Bob’”’ was tir- ing ever so little of his fourth conquest, but he was not yet epris with anything more desirable, and he scorned the old adage so redundant with caution. He thought Irenelooked remarkably well on this evening, and he bad led ker away from the throng of dancers to gladden her heart with a few efficacious and well tried words of praise. They were a little battered with much campaigning, for Mr. King’s range in metaphorical composition was painfully limited, but as they were all il- lumined with the glow of gold tbe neces- sary effect was invariably produced. Everything had proce:ded very nicely until Irene had murmured her thanks for the flowers. Then a wave of hot confusion that experience and diplomacy could not keep back swept over the gentleman’s fair face. He moved restlessly in his seat,then glanced askance at the bouquet. Several times he cleared his throat and straight- ened his neck as though breathing with an effort. Meantime his companion continued the one-sided conversation. “Red is my color,’’ she said,—the deep, rich red of these roses. I was so delighted when they arrived this afternoon that I fairly danced with joy. Aunt thought I was crazy, but when she saw the cause of my actions she was almost as bad herself. It was really too good of you, Bob." “Don’t thank me, Irene,’”’ commenced Mr. King. But Irene cut him short. “Why shouldn’t I thank you?’’ she asked effusively. *‘I know lots of engaged girls whose intendeds never bothersending them flowers. But you are not like that, ’’ and she hent her gray eyes upon him, shining with love and gratitude. But this did not serve to put Mr. King at his ease. A clammy perspiration stood out on his smooth, low forehead. “Are you ill, Bob ?'’ asked Miss Benson, suddenly looking up and seeing the meta- morphosis in her dear one. She seized his hand and stroked it nervously, while her twitching face and short drawn breath ex- pressed the anxiety she felt. With a mighty effort Mr. King pulled himself together; and from his manly chest there came a laugh of great dimensions, but so hollow and heartless as to seem but the echo of a past happiness. “I'm all right,”’ he said boisterously: “never felt better,though it is a trifle warm; but the fact is--well, dear, about that hou- quet. Was there any card sent with it? “Why should there have been a card ?”’ inquired Miss Benson softly. ‘‘It was not necessary. 1 knew you sent the flowers, because only you had the right to do so. But, dear, 15 was very extravagant of you to send such a profusion,” and again her face songht the caress of the velvety petals. Admiration bad somewhat displaced the agitation in Mr. King’s eyes as they rested upon the rounded arms and dazzling shoul- ders of his companion, so Eve-like in mod- est nudity. “They are beautiful,’’ he murmured with great tenderness. She thought he referred to the roses. He wondered why he had diminished his attentions to this girl, who would make him such an attractive wife. Her hair was exceedingly pretty and bore the closest in- spection. He would have liked to touch it with his lips, had not the tall figure of a man just then loomed up before him. It was Clarence Lovelace, one of the hand- somest beaux in society. “I must ask you to pardon my intru- sion,”’ he remarked, addressing himself particularly to Mr. King, ‘but Miss Benson waltzes so divinely that I didn’t feel I could let her off her engagement with me.”’ No objection could be offered, and Mr. King was left fete-a-tete with a vacant stare. It was with a feeling of intense jealousy he noticed that the rose in Mr. Lovelace’s but- tonhole corresponded in color with those of Miss Benson’s bouquet. Was this more than a coincidence?’ he asked himself. He followed the couple with his eyes un- til they were out of sight. “He looked at her confoundedly soft,” he muttered. ‘‘Wonder if he sent her the flowers? It would be just like his impu- dence. I don’t like him, anyway. I’ll see that he enjoys no more of Irene’s ‘divine dancing’ 7’. Mr. King returned to the ball-room, jeal- ous for the first time in his life. He found an irate partner awaiting him with little pretense of patience. Usually mild and laughing, he apologized his unavoidable de- lay with a savagery that revealed the true extent of his repentance. Always a graceful dancer, he conducted himself on this occasion with so much awk- wardness that he was soon the cynosure of many surprised eyes so much so, in fact, that before the music was much more than half way through his part- ner was forced to call a halt, for the pace had been a fast one and she had not escap- d without several collisions which had more or less deranged her toilette. Anger sparkled in her eyes, but to no effect,—for Mr. King’s gaze kept a close watch on his absent thoughts. Curiosity impelled his partner;to follow the former; she saw Miss Benson gliding gracefully along with Mr. Lovelace, a magnificent bouquet of Jacque- minot roses which she held peeping over his broad shoulder. “Are you still enamoured of Miss Ben- son ?'’ she pertly asked, for the brevity of Mir. King’s attentions was ordinary talk. “I am engaged to her,”’ he answered stiffly. Sill 2”? The query was aggravatingly sarcastic. “I hardly understand you,” remarked Mr. King with great dignity. The lady laughed good-naturedly. She was pretty and much admired. Mr. King had neglected to pay due homage to her charms, and she took a malicious enjoy- ment in adding to his evident discomfort. When it was rumored that his attentions to Miss Benson were losing force, Miss Archer bad taken hasty counsel with her- self and decided upon a plan of campaign by which she might capture and retain the regal favor. On this evening she had hoped by a preliminary skirmish to get things well under way, but the gentleman's pre- occupation upset her calculations. When she realized that his fiancee still held his inner thoughts, her chagrin rose to the sur- faceand was driven hither and thither by the wind of disappointment. She there- fore plied her partner with annoying ques- tions. “You mustn’t mind me laughing,” said she, as the echoes of a well-modulated ef- fort died away without a struggle, ‘‘but you see, Mr. King, you've announced your engagement so many times, and you have transplanted your affections so rapidly from one lady to another, that—well, IT presum- ed your understanding with Miss Benson had by this time become a misunderstand- ing.”’ “Indeed ?”’ “Now, you shouldn’t be angry with people for thinking this. You’ve been such a flirt, and it was whispered that your attentions to your present fiancee were—— well—="" The speaker hesitated with charming provocativeness. “Were what?’’ asked Mr. King more impatiently than etiquette demanded. The music had by this time ceased, and he noticed with rising wrath that Mr. Love- lace occupied a divan with Miss Benson and was fanning her assiduously. Miss Archer viewed the same picture with dif- ferent feelings. ““Well,”’ she continued, ‘‘the ramor be- gan to circulate that your attentions were abh——not as ardent as they might be, and, of course, every one expected soon to hear of your again being fancy-free. You’ve deceived us so often, you know.” “Every one is liable to make mistakes,” retorted Mr. King. “Certainly; that’s why I wondered if your engagement with Miss Benson was still on.”’ “I haven’t made a mistake this time.” A few hours earlier he might not have felt so positive on this point, but he was now bound to foil the donor of the gor- geous bonquet—the hateful flowers which, from time to time, his lady-love pressed to the full lips that rivalled them in color. And Lovelace gazed at her so affectionate- ly that the jealous man saw in him a rival. “I'm so glad you have decided to settle down,”’ murmured Miss Archer. “Thank you.” “I must congratulate you on Miss Ben- son’s ‘appeatance this evening. Her gown looks almost as good as new, and her bou- quet is really the handsomest in the room. You show remarkably good taste.’ Mr. King did not mind the cut at his fiancee, so uncomfortable did the reference to the flowers make him feel. “How is it you're wearing a rose of another color?’ continued Miss Archer, nodding towards his buttonhole. “I always wear white.” “It looks pink in this light.” The speak- er’s glance was ever so quizzical. At this juncture the orchestra launched out into a brisk polka, and with a look of jnexpressible relief Mr. King bowed his adieu to the tormenting young lady. With desperate resolve to be alone, he hastened to the smoking-room on the flat above, where a hazy curtain floating about the entrance showed the purpose it served. He was angry at being so unmercifully chaffed by a girl who he felt would be quite con- tent to occupy the place in his heart now filled by another, but he was chiefly upset on account of that bouquet which he had not sent. He seized a cigarette from the table, and, lighting it by the gas, puffed away vio- lently. He began to feel positive that Lovelace was the man guilty of the un- pardonable offence. It was true he should have sent Irene flowers for the ball, but forgetfulness was not a crime, and this was his first offence. The evidence against that cad Lovelace was very strong. First and foremost, he wore a rosebud the same color as those carried by Irene. Even Miss Archer noticed that coincidence. Then the fellow had put his name down on her program for three dances on the strength of old acquaintance. A nice excuse, in- deed ! As Mr. King thought these thoughts his brow contracted in anger. He would put a stop to the thing. Yes, indeed. He would show Mr. Lovelace or any other man that Irene Benson was his own particular property. His eyes flashed fire and his mouth exhaled smoke to such a degree as to lend a fierceness to his bearing which he was not strictly entitled to. He viewed himself in the mirror opposite with satis- faction. Irene would be his. He certainly had of late fallen off some- what in his attentions, but he convinced himself that this heralded no change of feeling. It was simply carelessness, and Irene, of course, understood it. She at least trusted him if others did not. She understood him, dear, good girl that she was. And he would show the world that her confidence was not misplaced. He had made mistakes—three mistakes—but he had likewise discovered them before it was too late. Now, however, his choice had fallen on the right person. He did not try to reason out why in the last few weeks he had found enjoyment beyond the limits of the presence he now craved. He either forgot about that reactionary spell or gen- erously forgave himself. ‘‘It was his na- ture to.” - He consulted his program feverishly and found he had the next two dances with Irene. It was well, for with so much on his mind it was exceedingly difficult for him to contain himself. It took but a few minutes to find his partner and conduct her to the fragrant bower where he had heard the story of the roses. They had begun to droop some- what—a circumstance that Mr. King put down as significant; the donor’s hopes would die as quickly. Irene, he thought, looked better than ever. In spite of the fact that she had danced almost continuous- ly, her face was as clear and cool as when she had commenced, while the simple and becoming dress that Miss Archer had sneer- ed at seemed fresh and uncrumpled. Mr. King gazed at her ardently, though he winced slightly whenever she buried her protruding chin in the rose-petals. This chin had become perfectly moulded, in his altered imagination, and he disliked seeing it in such close contact with an un- known’s gift. However, it was not his intention to disabuse her mind of the ideas it contained pertaining to his generosity and attention. Certainly he would not again leave himself open to the charge of neglect, and meantime Mr. Lovelace or some other envious rival would deserve his gratitude for having stepped into the breach. “Irene,’’ said he softly, and after a short search his hand found hers, ‘‘we have been engaged tor over two months.” ‘Yes, Bob.” ‘There is nothing to prevent our getting married at any time.”’ ‘‘No, Bob.”’ ‘“Then, dear, suppose we fix the day.”’ **Oh, Bob !’’ and Miss Benson's pale face became suffused with an exquisite blush that indicated maidenly pleasure not un- mixed with confusion. ‘‘Yes, dear, I want you to name theday. But it must be soon—inside of two weeks, ”’ exclaimed the enraptured man, his whole being longing for the early possession of this treasure so marvelously more precious with the increased demand. “I’m afraid I couldn’t get my trousseau ready in two weeks, dear,’”’ expostulated the blushing damsel ; ‘there is so much to be done.”’ **Then say in a month,’’ he begged, in amendment to hisformer motion. Self-sacrifice and generosity shone in Irene’s gray orbs as she shook her head. **No, dear,’’ she whispered, ‘‘I shall not disappoint you in any way. It will be a rush, but since yon desire it I'll be 1eady in two week—two weeks from to-day; and this is Wednesday.”’ **Are you sure it isn’t asking too much of you, loved one ?”’ ‘Nothing would be too much for your sake,’’ she murmured. ‘‘Brave little girl !"> No one was in sight: he rapturously kissed the pretty mouth so close to the flowers. Theirodor, while almost stifling him, increased his desire for possession. ‘‘Take one of these roses in memory of this evening,’’ she purred. Her dainty fingers extracted a bud from the companion- ship of its fellows and held it up within the shadow of his Roman nose. ‘‘I shall press the others,”” she added ‘‘and keep them forever. ‘No, no; don’t do that,’’ exclaimed Mr. King excitedly. *‘I'd rather give you something more lasting—more substantial —to mark the event with.”’ ‘‘But these flowers are so beautiful.’’ ‘Yes, yes; but no more so than others I'vesent you.”’ *‘Oh, yes, they are, Bob. You never showed such good taste before.’ **Do you think so ?’’ he asked ina weak, hopeless voice. : “I'm sure of it. And it’ssuch a hand- some bouquet, too. Wear this, dear, won’t you, for my sake? You should wear my colors, you know; and, to be frank, I was a little disappointed when I saw your but- tonhole this evening.” “It was a mistake, darling. Strange, though, isn’t it, that Mr. Love- lace should be wearing a rose the same color as yours?’ “Now you speak of it, it is funny. Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if any one thought that he sent me the bouquet ? And people might, too, on account of your wearing pink.”? : 4 - The pretty mouth contracted ina be- coming pout that greatly lowered Mr. King’s opinion of his own qualities. ‘No one could think such a thing,”’ he said with forced gayety, ‘‘considering that you are engaged to me.’’ *‘But the world is cruel, dear. I know you and trust you, but other people sneer : and say I cannot retain your love because you have heen engaged to other girls.” Tears sparkled on the curling lashes; the low voice trembled. “They'll see in two weeks. You will then be Mrs. King, and we’ll have the laugh last, you see.’’ “Why Bob !”” murmured the lady. “Yes; and I'll announce the date this very evening.’ ‘And you’ll wear this bud ?”’ “Certainly I will,”’ and his manly chest heaved as Miss Benson removed the pink rose and substituted the one of deeper hue. “Won’t Lovelace be wild !”’ he mused. Then, addressing his fiancee, he said: ‘‘Don’t bother about keeping any of those flowers after to-night. Flowers die, you know, and our love is everlasting. A dia- mond star would be a more appropriate souvenir, and it would look well on your beautiful neck. You may give me some- thing as a keepsake—a lock of your hair, for instance. Yes, by Jove! I must have that for my locket.’’ “I shall cut it for you when Igo home.”’ *‘Dearest one !”” and as no one was near a significant sound followed the words. “Why, Boh,” exclaimed Miss Benson suddenly, looking at her program, ‘‘I am engaged for all the dances,and the orchestra is playing a waltz now. This is the fourth I have missed. What will my partner say ?"’ ‘““That I’m a lucky fellow. They'll be angry, but you are my property, you know.”” And she did not contradict him. Two weeks later Irene Benson became Mrs. R. Sinclair King in full view of the city’s elite. There were many surprised men, and no fewer jealons women at the ceremony. Mr. ling was voted eccentric for having jilted handsomer girls than the bride, with whom he was evidently much in love. “‘She’ll never know that I didn’t send that bouquet of roses,’’ he mused as he es- corted her down the church aisle. At the same moment Mrs. King was wondering if her husband would ever dis- cover that she had spent a precious fifteen dollars on the celebrated bouquet that had been the rapid and successiui means of end- ing her days of spinsterhood. By Edgar Maurice Smith, in Lippincott’s Magazine. Their Little Weaknesses. “Nations and women are a good deal alike.”’ ‘In what way ?”’ “Well, when one woman gets a new hat her neighbor wants to go right away and get a better one, and when one nation builds a new warship all the others start right out to get bigger ones.” “THE NOBLEST MIND—The best con- tentment has.” Yet, however noble in mind, no man or woman can have perfect contentment without physical health. The blood must be kept pureand the stom- ach and digestive organs in geod order. The best means for this purpose is Hood’s Sarsaparilla. It promptly cures all biood humors and ernptions and tones up the system. The favorite cathartic is Hood’s Pills. 25c. © $00000000000000000.00 2S sessed Mon. | Tues. | Wed. Thurs. Pri 1 2 3 4 5 8 7 ROBERT HARDY'S SEVEN DAYo. A DREAM AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. BY REV. CHARLES M. SHELDON, Author of “In His Steps.” “The Crucifizion of Philip Strong.” “Malcom Kirk," Etc. {Oopyright, 1800, by Advance Publishing Co.) 2 lS eet ttt Dt00obetee 4 Wed. Thurs. Fri. Sat. _ Sun. | ‘ CHAPTER It was Sunday night. and ilor > Hardy had just come heme irom toe evening service in the church at Pa ton. He was not in the babit of attend. ing the evening service, but somethin said by his minister in the morning had impelled him to go out. The even: ing had been a little unpleasant. and a light snow was falling. and his wife had excused herself from going to church on that account. Mr. Hardy came home cross and fault finding. “Catch me going to evening service again! Only 50 people out, and it was a sheer waste of fuel and light. The sermon was one of the dullest 1 ever heard. 1 believe Mr. Jones is growing too old for our church. We need a young man, more up with the times. He is everlastingly harping on the ne- cessity of doing what we can in the present to save our souls. To hear him talk you would think every man who wasn’t running round to save souls ev- ery winter was a robber and an enemy of society. He is getting off, too, on this newfangled Christian sociology and thinks the rich men are oppressing the poor and that church members ought to study and follow more closely the teachings of Christ and be more brotherly and neighborly to their fel- low men. Bah! I am sick of the whole subject of humanity. I shall withdraw my pledge to the salary if the present style of preaching continues.” “What was the text of the sermon to- night?” asked Mrs. Hardy. “Qh. I don’t remember exactly. Some- thing about “This night thy soul shall be demanded’ or words like that. 1 don’t believe in this attempt to scare folks into heaven.” “It would take a good many sermons to scare you, Robert.” “Yes: more than two a week.” replied Mr. Hardy, with a dry laugh. He drew off his overcoat and threw himself down on the lounge in front of the open fire. ‘““Where are the girls?” “Alice is up stairs reading the morn- ing paper. Clara and Bess went over to call on the Caxtons.” “How did they happen to go over there?’ Mrs. Hardy hesitated. Finally she said, “James came over and invited them.” “And they know 1 have forbidden them to have anything to do with the Caxtons! When they come in, I will let them know I mean what I say. It is very strange the girls do not appear to understand that.” Mr. Hardy rose from the lounge and walked across the room, then came back and lay down again and from his recumbent position poked the fire sav- agely with the shovel. Mrs. Hardy bit her lips and seemed on the point of replying, but said noth- ing. At last Mr. Hardy asked. “Where are the boys?” “Will is getting out his lessons for tomorrow up in his room. George went out about 8 o'clock. He didn’t say where he was going.” “It’s a nice family. Is there one night in the year, Mary. when all our children are at home?” “Almost as many as there are when you are at home,” retorted Mrs. Hardy. “What with your club and your lodge and your scientific society and your reading circle and your directors’ meet- ing the children see about as much of you as you do of them. How many nights in a week do you give to us, Robert? Do you think it is strange that the children go outside for their amusements? Our home”—Mrs. Hardy paused and looked around at the costly interior of the room where the two were—‘“our home is well furnished with everything but our own children.” The man on the lounge was silent. He felt the sharpness of the thrust made by his wife and knew it was too true to be denied. But Mr. Hardy was. above all things else, selfish. He had not the remotest intention of giving up his club or his scientific society or his frequent cozy dinners with business men down town because his wife spent so many lonely, deserted evenings at home and because his children were al- most strangers to him. But it annoyed him, as a respectable citizen. to have his children making acquaintances that be did not approve. and it grated on his old fashioned. inherited New England ideas that his boys and girls should be away from home so often in the evening and especially on Sunday evening. The maxim of Robert Hardy's life was “Self interest first.” As long as he was not thwarted in his own pleasures he was as good natured as the average man. He provided liberal ly for the household expenses, and his wife and children were supplied with money and travel as they requested it. But the minute he was crossed in nis own plans or any one demanded of pim a service that compelled some self denial he became hard, ill n .tured and haughty. He had been a member of the church | ut Barton for 25 years, one of the trus- | tees and a liberal giver. He prided ' himself on that fact. But so far as giv- ing any of his time or personal service was concerned. he would as soon have thought of giving all his property away to the first poor man he met. His min- ister had this last week written him an earnest, warm hearted letter, express- ing much pleasure at the service he had rendered so many years as a trus- tee and asking him if he would not come to the Thursday evening meet ing that week and take some part, whatever he chose, to help along. It was a season of anxious interest among many in the church, and the pastor earnestly desired the presence and help of all the members. Robert had read the letter through hastily and smiled a little scornfully. What! He take part in a prayer meet- ing! He couldn’t remember when he had attended one. They were too dull for him. He wondered at Mr. Jones for writing such a letter and almost telt as though he had been imperti- nent. He threw the letter in the waste- basket and did not even answer it. He i would not have been guilty of such a lack of courtesy in regard to a busi- ness letter, but a letter from his minis- ter was another thing. The idea of re- plying to a letter from him never oc- curred to Mr. Hardy. And when Thursday night came he went down to a meeting of the chess club and had a good time with his favorite game, for he was a fine player and was engaged in a series of games which were being played for the state championship. The superintendent of the Sunday school had lately timidly approached Mr. Hardy and asked him if he would not take a class of boys in the Sunday school. What, HE take a class of boys! He, the influential, wealthy manager of one of the largest railroad shops in the world—uE give his time to the teaching of a Sunday school class! Fe excused himself on the score of lack of time, and the very same eyening of his interview with the superintendent he went to the theater to hear a roaring farce and after he reached home spent an hour in his favorite study of chem- istry in his laboratory at the top of his house, for Mr. Hardy was a man of considerable power as a student, and he had an admirable physical constitu- tion, capable of the most terrible strain. Anything that gave him pleas- ure he was willing to work for. He was not lazy, but the idea of giving his personal time and service and talents to bless the world had no place in his mind. : And so as he lay on the lounge that evening and listened to his wife’s plain statement concerning his selfishness he had no intention to give up a single thing that gratified his tastes and fed his pride. After a silence just about long enough for some one to give the expla- nation just given, Mrs. Hardy said. speaking coldly, as if it were a matter of indifference to her: “Mr. Burns, the foreman, while you were out.” “He did? What did he want?” ; “He said four of the nn in the cast- ing room were severely injured this afternoon by the bursting of one of the retorts, and the entire force had quit work and gone home.” “Couldn’t Burns supply the place of the injured men? He knows where the extras are.” “That was what he came to see you about. He said he needed further di- rections. The men flatly refused to work another minute and went out in a body. 1 don’t blame them much. Robert. don’t you believe God will pun- ish you for keeping the shops open on any Sunday?” “Nonsense, Mary,” replied Mr. Har dy. Yet there was a shadow of un easiness in his tone. “The work has got to go on. It is a work of necessity. Railroads are public servants: they =2an’t rest Sundays.” called “Then when God tells the world that] it must not work on Sundays he does not mean railroad men? The fourth commandment ought to read: ‘Remem- ber the Sabbath day and keep it holy. except all ye men who work for rail roads. Ye haven’t any Sunday.’ ” “Mary, 1 didn’t come from one ser- mon to listen to another. You're worse than Mr. Jones.” Mr. Hardy half rose on the lounge and leaned on his elbow, looking at his wife with every mark of displeasure on his face, and yet as he looked some- how there stole into his thought the memory of the old New England home back in the Vermont hills and the vi sion of that quiet little country village where Mary and he had been brought up together. He seemed to see the old meeting house on the hill, at the end of a long, elm shaded street that strag- gled through the village, and he saw himself again as he began to fall in love with Mary, the beauty of the vil age, and he had a vision of one Sun- lay when, walking back from churel by Mary’s side, he had asked her to be his wife. It seemed to him that a breath of the meadow just beyond Squire Hazen’s place came into the room just as it was wafted up to him when Mary turned and said the happy word that made that day the gladdest, proudest day he had ever known. What, memories of the old times! What!. He seemed to come to himself and stared around into the fire as if won- dering where he was, and he did not see the tear that rolled down his wife's cheek and fell upon her two hands clasped in her lap. She arose and went over to the piano, which stood in the shadow, and, sitting down with her back to her husband, she played frag- ments of music nervously. Mr. Hardy lay down on the lounge again. After awhile Mrs. Hardy wheeled about on the piano stool and said: “Robert, don’t you think you had better go over and see Mr. Burns about the men who were hurt?” “Why, what can I do about it? The company’s doctor will see to them. 1 should only be in the way. Did Burns say they were badly hurt?” “One of them had his eyes put out, and another will have to lose both feet. I think he said his name was Scoville.” “What! Not Ward Scoville!” “I think Burns said that was the name.” Mr. Hardy rose from the lounge, then lay down again. “Oh, well, 1 can go there the first thing in the morning. 1 can’t do anything now,” he muttered. But there came to his memory a pic- ture of one day when he was walking through the machine shops and a heavy piece of casting had broken from the end of a large hoisting derrick and would have fallen upon him and proba- bly killed him if this man Scoville, at the time a workman in the machine de- partment, had not pulled him to one side at the danger of his own life. As it was, in saving the life of the mana- ger Scoville was struck on the shoulder and rendered useless for work for four weeks. Mr. Hardy had raised his wages and advanced him to a responsi- ble position in the casting room. Mr. Hardy was not a man without generos- ity and humane feeling, but as he lay on the lounge that evening and thought of the cold snow outside and the dis- tance to the shop tenements he readily excused himself from going out to see the man who had once saved his life and who now lay maimed for life. If any one thinks it impossible that one man calling himself a Christian could be thus indifferent to another, then he does not know the power that selfish- ness can exercise over the actions of men. Mr. Hardy had one supreme law which he obeyed, and that law was self. Again Mrs. Hardy, who rarely ven- tured to oppose her husband's wishes, turned to the piano and struck a few chords aimlessly. Then she wheeled about and said abruptly: “Robert, the cook gave warning to- night that she must go home at once.” Mr. Hardy had begun to doze a little, but at this sudden statement he sat up and exclaimed: “Well, you are the bearer of bad news tonight. Mary. What's the mat- ter with everybody? 1 suppose the cook wants more pay.” Mrs. Hardy replied quietly: *‘Her sis- ter is dying. And do you know I be- lieve I have never given the girl credit for much feeling. She always seemed to me to lack there, though she is cer- tainly the most faithful and efficient servant we ever had in the house. She came in just after Mr. Burns left and broke down, crying bitterly. It seems her sister is married to one of the rail- road men here in town and has been ailing with consumption for some months. She is very poor. and a large TTI nt » a) 7 \/ a ad o A 3 “One of them had his eyes put out.” family has kept her struggling for mere existence. The cook was almost beside herself with griet as she told the story and said she must leave us and care for her sister, who could not live more than a week at the longest. 1 pitied the poor girl. Robert. don’t you think we could do something for the family? We have so much our selves. We could easily help them and not miss a single luxury.” “And where would such help end? If we give to every needy person who comes along we shall be beggars our: selves. Besides. 1 can’t afford it. The boys are a heavy expense to me while they are in college, and the company has been cutting down salaries lately. If the cook’s sister is married to a rail- road man, he is probably getting good wages and can support her all right.” “What if that railroad man were in- jured and made a cripple for life?’ in- quired Mrs. Hardy quietly. “Then the insurance companies or the societies can help them out. 1 don’t see how we can make every case that comes along our care. There would be no end of it if we once be- ean.” Cosiierab SESY Weks. Jell-O, the Dessert, pleases all the family. Four flavors: Lemon; Orange, Raspberry and Strawberry. At your grocers. 10 ects. Try itto-day. bp
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers