Beware fata
Bellefonte Pa.. February 3, 1905.
I Ss.
WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO-DAY.
We shall do so much in the years to come,
But what have we done to-day?
We shall give our gold in a princely sum,
But what did we give to-day ?
We shall lift the heart and dry the tear,
We shall speak the words of love and cheer,
But what did we speak to-day ?
We shall be so kind in the after-a-while,
But what have we been to-day ?
We shall bring to each lonely life a smile,
But what have we brought to-day ?
We shall give to truth a grander birth,
And to steadfast faith a deeper worth,
We shall feed the hungering souls of earth,
But whom have we fed to-day ?
We shall reap such joys in the by and by,
But what have we sown to-day ?
We shall build us mansions in the sky,
But what have we built to-day ?
"Tis sweet in idle dreams to bask,
But here and now do we do our task?
Yes, this is the thing our soul must ask :
“What have we done to-day ?”’
— Christian Intelligencer.
A LITTLE TANGLE
MOOR.
Engine 47, which had been climbing a
steep grade for many hours, slowly dragged
its train into the monntain hamlet of Crags-
moor, coughed spasmodically several times,
and finally stopped short with a patient
snort of exhaustion. Three passengers in
the parlor-car, roused to sudden action by
the voice of the porter automatically an-
nouncing the name of their station, rose
stiffly, straightened themselves, collected
their band luggage, and gazed in outraged
disapproval at the thoughtless rain that
poured outside. In each of them was a
clearly defined sonsciousness of the har-
mony between the general conditions con-
fronting them and their individual frames
of mind. It was ten o’clock at night, the
train was two hours late,a November storm
was raging, and they had quite possibly
missed the stage connection to their dessi-
nation—the great sanitarium six miles
further up the mountain.
Oue of the three, a slender, good-looking
youth of twenty-four, with hollow cheeks,
whose lung-fed flush told its hypocritical
tale, struggled into his greatcoat and laugh-
ed softly to himself with the grim comfort
of defiant acceptance. The second, who
might have been ten years older, a singu-
larly handsome man in well-fitting gray
tweed, merely raised his eyebrows. The
third, Miss Grace Beresford, turned toward
the porter a face that was very charming,
despite the absence of deeper feeling than
that of determination to bave him Carry
her lugeage out into the night. She indi-
cated it by the gesture of a hand not gloved
out of expression. All three, however,
beiug thoroughly trained American travel-
lers, responded with a practised composure
to the trainman’s curt injunction to ‘step
lively.” In another moment they were
out of the warm car and on the dripping,
deserted platform, catching, with the
agility of long experience, books, umbrellas,
and other impedimenta the porter tossed to
them. With a hoarse farewell cough, that
seemed somehow horribly suggestive in
that famed resort for victims of tuberculosis,
the tired engine resumed its weary climb,
threw back toward them a few friendly
sparks of warmth and light, and writhed
around a carve. :
The thrze travellers strangers until now,
bat brought into something approaching
intimacy by their common sense of injary,
exchanged glances of sympathy and under-
standing. There was no stage or other ve
hicle in sight. Then the man in tweed
tarned to Miss Beresford. Raiging his hat,
he spoke to her with a
of authority.
‘You two run for shelter,’’ he suggested.
‘Go into the waiting-room, and I will at.
tend to these things,” indicating the heap
at their fees.
The younger man at once grasped his
own suit-case and reached down for the
woman’s. She made an instinctive move.
ment of protest.
*‘Please go in,’’ repeated the first speak-
er. His voice was more urgent, but as he
spoke he touched the hoy’s shoulder with
a hand that expressed comprehension. The
other flushed, then laughed a little, and,
quietly picking up as much as he could
carry, started off obediently.
‘‘Come,’’ he said to Miss Beresford; ‘‘yon
musén’t get wet.”’?
She followed with docile alertness, the
third traveller close behind them with ber
remaining possessions. Cool and steady of
nerve though she was, Miss Beresford was
conscious of a depression even deeper than
the gloom of the sisuation warranted. So
this was Cragsmoor! The chill of death
seemed in the rain and on the breath of the
AT CRAGS-
wind that howled around them. Her eyes’
turned to the young man now striding
rapidly a little in advance. He was well
muffled up and apparently wholly indif-
ferent to the weather, but she knew such
exposure might hold serious consequences,
and she sighed for him and for those who
loved him.
The waiting-room, when they reached it,
was already ai ing hospitality to a red-
hot coal stove, which seemed to enhance
the permeating odor of a badly trimmed
kerosene-lamp. The two faltered at the
threshold, but their mentor in tweed push-
ed them gently forward. :
‘‘Pretty bad, I admit,” he said, cheer-
fully, “but better than the rain—especial-
ly if we leave the door open. Now I will
try to get a carriage. I am right, am I
not’’—his pleasant haritone voice hesitated
for the first time and his gray eyes turned
uncertainly on the woman—*'T am right in
thinking we are all for Cragsmoor Sani-
tarinm ?”’
‘I am going there,” she answered,
quietly. .
As the young man started to speak the
Kerosene-scented atmosphere precipitated
an attack of conghing, and they could only
wait with cloaked sympathy until it ceased.
**Yoa can read my tag’ he then remark-
ed, briefly.
Miss Beresford hurried into speech.
“Yon are very kind,” she said. ‘‘I am
afraid I am—"’
He interrupted her. ‘‘We are all going,
it s2ems,’’ he said, lightly, ‘and I can get
something to take us, I think. If this is
your first journey there’’—he hesitated
again- ‘the ride may seem rather alarm-
ing. Itis up a steep mountain, with a
ravine on one side, and at {irst glance it
looks trencheions. But there is really no
danger. The drivers go slowly, and they
are very careful. However, as we are stars-
ing so late, I doubt if we reach the sani-
tarium hefore midnight.”
She smiled at him brightly. “‘I am not
nervous,” she assured him. “Bas I think
we =hould start as soon as we can.”
He lets the waiting-room at once, and
pleasant assumption’
she turned to the young man, who was
now looking out of the window with eyes
that apparently saw nothing of what they
rested on. She was struck by the delicate
beauty of his face and the tragic reserve of
his expression. He was dressed in deep
mourning, and the dark circles under his
eyes suggested lack of sleep. He wheeled
about as she approached and looked at her
closely, with an expression which puzzled
ber until he spoke. He had brown eyes,
and there was now a quick, almost boyish,
sympathy in their direct glance.
*‘I beg your pardon,” he said, deprecat-
ingly. *‘I hope you won’t mind my tell-
ing you how awfully sorry Iam you have
to join this melancholy colony of ours-—
and on such a night at that. It’s not a
cheerful human experience. But you look
80 weak---youn will be leaving us cured in
a few months. Lots of them do, you
know. My name is Allen,’ he added.
She extended her hand impulsively. On
the instant she liked him and felt almoss
as if she had grown suddenly to know
him.
“It is very kind of you to care,” she
began with warmth, “‘but—"’ :
He interrupted her, possibly inferring
that she might not care to speak of herself
to a stranger.
‘You will forgive my lack of ceremony,
won’t you ? hut there’s a good deal of the
brotherhood feeling up here. It is one of
the compensations. We help each other
all we can. Still, at the best, as I said,
it’s not a pleasant experience. However’
—he made an effort to be more cheerful—
‘‘we rub along fairly well. Fellow feeling
makes us ‘wondrons kind.’ I’ve known
patients who seemed almost sorry to leave
when they got better; they had hecome so
fond of the others.”
The sound of voices at the door inter-
rupted him. The man in gray tweed ap-
peared, soaked but philosophic. Behind
him, in the darkness, loomed a covered ve-
hicle which the driver was hacking up to
the platform. Miss Beresford hoped the
thought of the vehicle which always re-
ceives its passengers in the rear did not
occur to her companions.
‘‘Here is the carriage,”’ their unknown
friend informed them. *‘It is a closed one
with two seats. Ishall sit in front and
you will be very cozy here bebind.’
Hedrew back a wide flap as he spoke,
and indicated the saug retreat within.
Allen, bag in hand,jumped forward,sprang
into the seat beside the driver, drew the
rug carefully around his knees, and looked
back at them with a glint of humor in his
sombre eves.
‘‘Thank you,” he said, almost curtly,
‘but I don’t demand all the good things
of life just yet. I'll sit here.” He drew
his hat lower over his eyes as he spoke and
pulled closer together the heavy collar of
his coat, between the edges of which a silk
muffler gleamed white against the dark-
ness. The driver, to whom he had nodded
as he took his place, drew a rubber storm-
cartain from under their feet and fastened
it in front of them to the ribs of the ocar-
riage, folding she edge in under Allen’s
chin with a deft and friendly hand. Then
he touched the off horse with his whip and
the slow ascent of the hills began.
To Miss Beresford the whole experience
held a strange, rather awful fascination.
Evidently one left conventionalities be-
hind, if not hope, when one entered Crags-
moor; and why not ? One presumably left
them behind when one reached the gates of
death; and to the inexperience of the girl,
wholly new to close knowledge of serious
illness, Cragsmoor and those grim gates
seemed almost synonymous. Bas evident-
ly, as the now silent young man in front
had said, even here there were compensa-
tions—humanity, brotherhood, kindpess,
help. She recalled how quietly, how
naturally, these two men had taken her
under their care. To them she was evi-
dently a fellow patient, sick and alone.
Allen, who could not show the active use-
fulness that lay in the power of the other,
had made up for his enforced inaction by
his gentle sympathy. Miss Beresford had
pictured them all as members of a stricken
colony of dying men and women, waiting
grimly for the inevitable end with a certain
dogged hardness of spirit. Already, and
still miles away from the sanitarium itself,
she began to realize her misiake. This
quick response to need in another, this
ready helpfulness, must sweeten even such
surroundings. She assured herself that
these men could not be alone in their brave
acceptance of one of Fate’s most malignant
decrees,
Her thoughts turned to the man at her
side. His familiarity with the place be-
spoke him a patient, but evidently, she
decided, one with a good fighting chance.
He was pale, and now seemed a little tired
as he eat back after tncking the rugs around
her and carefully fastening the flapping
leather into place. On the thought she
spoke.
“I am afraid we have let you do too
much,’’ she marmured, with an acute pang
of self-reproof. “‘I should have attended
to my own things. Iam ashamed.”
He laughed softly. She saw the flash of
his white teeth under his brown mustache.
““The whole transaction did not take ten
minutes,’’ he answered, “and I am almost
dry now. Besides, what is a drenching
more or less ? It’s all in the day’s work.’
Allen, who had been wrapped in silence
as in his garments, turned quickly at this,
‘‘If that is a conundrum,’’ he announec-
ed, casually, ‘‘I can answer it. A drenoh-
ing more or less is a funeral more or less.”’
The silence in which this was received
by his companions evidently filled him
with quick compunction. “I heg your
pardon,’’ he added, hastily; “I shouldn’s
have said anything so idiotic. It was in
abominable taste. But, somehow, it oc-
curred to me, and I'm—not quite myself
tonight. Make allowance for me if you
can.”
‘‘Ot course yon know you should not
talk in this weather,’ suggested the man,
quietly. ‘And out there on the front
seat !”’
‘I shall not—not much, that is. Bas
while I’m at it, I will add handsomely that
I bave no narrow prejudice against con-
versation in the back seas.’’
*‘Our duty is large hefore us.”” Her
neighbor tarned to Miss Beresford in frank
cameraderie. ‘‘We must talk,” he added,
*‘if only to keep him quiet.”
The young man protested quickly. *‘Oh,
well, if you’re going at it like that,”” he
cried, ‘‘I shall fall asleep. I know I shall
—and that would be horrible. Why, look
at the possibilities of the situation : dark-
ness, storm, the wild mountains ail around,
the world a million miles away, and we—
here together. We could make literature
in these hours if you two had the diamatie
instinct as I have it,”’ he added, with
modesty,
The others smiled. “Then possihly yon
may have something to suggest,’”” Miss
Beresford remarked.
He shifted round in his seat, ebongh to
reveal faliy to them an exquisite profile.
in which each feature was sharply etched
by the twin artists in line effects, Disease
and Suoffering.
‘Most assuredly I hase,” he responded.
‘“We have never met before. We are
thrown together under abnormal condi-
tions. Therefore, let us make a fair stars.
Let us indulge in the luxury of speaking
to each other with absolute candor, of tell-
ing each other the exact and the whole
truth—as if we had already finished with
the small affairs of this old world, as if we
were three ghosts.’’
Miss Beresford shivered, but the man be-
side ber replied, the quiet amusement in
his tones contrasting sharply with the rush
of the other’s words.
It sounds diverting, at least,”” he ob-
served, calmly. ‘Possibly you will go still
further and suggest the lines along which
these frightful revelations are to be made.
What are we to talk about ?”’
‘Ourselves, of course!” The boy flung
the words back at bim almost before he
bad finished speaking. ‘‘Ourselves! Oar
noble, ignoble, wholly unsatisfactory, and
intensely interesting selves. Let us turn
from the contemplation of our flower-
strewn, neatly marked graves for two hours,
and tell each other what we are and what
we'd be if we were—alive !”’
The man laughed again, good-naturedly.
‘‘Ouve serious objection to your plan is
that you evidently are not going to stop
talking long enough to give us a chance,”
he commented. ‘‘If you will, you know,
for just a little while, we might begin. The
lady may ask any leading question she
pleases,and I will answer as well as I can.’
‘It’s a bargain !”’ cried the other. ‘‘But
no nonsense, mind. Play fair. It’s the
real thing, you know; the truth, the
whole truth, acd nothing but the truth.’’
‘“Very well. It shall be the trath, whats
there is of it; but not necessarily the whole
trath. However, if you speak again I stop
short.’
Allen nodded. Miss Beresford’s eyes
turned toward the man with a sudden in-
terest in their brilliant depths. She might
as well wring from the situation what it
might hold.
‘‘Then you really mean to do it 2’
asked.
“Yes.”
‘‘No matter what I ask ?”’
‘“‘Er—yes, I suppose so, if it's in the
bond.”
‘But I haven’t promised to do it,remem-
ber.”
‘Oh, but yoa will. You’ll be led into
abandoned recklessness by my shameless
betrayals.’’
He leaned back comfortably in his seat,
replaced a rug that was slipping from his
knee, and turned his gray eyes on her with
a peculiar gleam in their depths. Miss
Beresford thought a moment.
‘We cannot see you very well. Describe
your appearance, ’’ she commanded.
‘‘A man of thirty-five; five feet eleven
inches tall ; weight, one hundred and
eighty-five pounds. Eyes gray, bair and
mustache brown. Figure good, carriage
graceful, features strikingly handsome.
Dressed carefully and in perfect taste,”
remarked the interviewed one briskly and
with anemotional veracity.
The description was as exactly trae as it
was unlooked for. Mise Beresford langhed
outright, with delicious candor ; and a
chuckle of appreciation came from the
front seat.
‘“‘Are you vain ?"’
“Yes.”
‘Do you consider yourself irresistible to
women ?’’
‘‘Not to all.”
‘“To a good many ?”’
The victim writhed beside her. “Er—
no,’ he stammered. ‘‘Isn’t that about all
along these special lines ?"’
‘Dear me, no. It is precisely along
these lines that a man shows what he is.
Are you married 2"
“Yes.”
‘“‘Are you a good husband ?"
“Yes.”
‘‘What are your most serious faults 2’
‘‘Jealousy and stubbornness.’
‘‘And your best qualities 2»
‘‘Loyalty, I imagine, and being sincere.
Can you doubt that? And, possibly, gen-
erosity. But I bave a great many others.”
‘Such as—?"’
‘‘Patience, for one.
sion !”’
Miss Beresford smiled back at him.
“I admit,”’ she said, “‘that I bave asked
aimost as many questions as even an ‘ab-
normal situation, justifies.”
‘Thanks. Now it is your turn to give
up your life.”
The words died on his Tips, for they as-
sumed an unforeseen prophetic character.
They bad been proceeding slowly, the
horses slipping and stumbling on the icy
road from time to time in the darkness of
the storm. Now, withont warning, there
was a scramble, the sound of falling rocks,
a crash, pitchblackness, and then oblivio
for Miss Beresford at least.
When she opened her eyes it was to re-
ceive directly in them the bright flash of a
carriage-lamp held close to her face. She
was inside the overturned vehicle, close to
the edge of the ravine, and the horses, too,
were down and struggling ineffectually in
their tangled barness. Her companion of
the hack seat knelt before her, the blood
flowing from an ugly cat in his forehead,
but otherwise apparently unhars.
‘‘Prink this,” he said, urgently, as he
caught her startled gaze. She swallowed a
mouthful from the flask he held to her lips,
and the sting and warmth of the brandy
revived her. She struggled out onto the
road, be helping her as gently as a woman
could have done it.
‘*How do you feel ?’’ he asked, anxious-
ly. ‘‘Any severe pain anywhere ?
She kept on her feet, wavered dizzily for
a moment, and conquered the sense of
faintness that rolled over her. ‘Forget
me and look for the others,” she said.
‘You are mistaken in thinking me an in-
valid. Iam perfectly well. See to them
and let me belp if I can.”
As she spokr: a head appeared over the
side of the ravine near them and the driver
crawled slowly into view. ‘Fell down,’
he explained, succinctly, if unnecessarily.
*‘Not very far, though; guess I got caught
she
Witness this oceca-
on a ledge. Roadway caved at this side.
Hope you’re all right. Where's Mr.
Allen 2”
The two men plunged on the same im-
pulse toward the overturned carriage. The
rain sitll fell steadily, and the ahsoluse
blackness around them was broken only by
the flickering gleam: of the carriage-lamp
which one of them was carrying. Sudden-
ly the driver uttered an exclamation and
fell upon bis knees. Miss Beresford ran so
the spot where Allen lay, pinned down by
the fallen carriage, which had in some un-
accountable fashion turned on him as they
all went over. He was on his back, and
his white face shone weirdly out of the
gloom. His hat had fallen off, and his
black cuily head rested in a little pool
formed by the rain. The realization of all
the scene might imply rushed over her,and
she groaned irrepressibly. As iu a night-
mare she watched the two men unharness
the horses, which now lay quietly where
they had fallen,and raise the heavy vehicie
into place. She helped when she could,
oblivious to the storm, conscions only of
the wish to be of some use tothe boy—to
save him, to get him home.
It was only a moment before he opened
his eyes, but it seemed a long time. She
and the driver had worked with a will, hut
it was the man in gray who finally brought
Allen to consciousness, examined him
rapidly for possible injuries, and lifted his
emaciated body into the carriage, to which
the driver had again harnessed the horses.
‘‘Better let him sit hebind here now
with me, so I can hold him,’”’ he said,
tersely. ‘‘He’s very faint and muddy.’
So she sat heside the driver, turning to
watch the man as he wrapped the boy up
like a mummy and held him in the curve
of his strong arm, wiping his damp fore-
head, administering the brandy at inter-
vals, and speaking to him from time to
time with a gentleness that held an almost
tender note, she thought. Allen seemed
dazed and in a kind of stupor. He roused
a little, however, as they drove up to the
main entrance of the sanitarinm, where
a sleepy night clerk received them. The
latter came forward quickly when be
recognized the man.
“Why, Mr. Chester—"’ he began, then
stopped short as the meaning of the di-
shevelled condition of the travellers dawn-
ed on him. At the sound of the name
Allen sat up, a slow, compiehending fear
dawning in his eyes.
*‘Chester!"” he cried. ‘‘Are you Chester 2’
And then under his breath: “*Chester—
Chester. Good God!’ With which
aspiration, or commentary, Mr. Allen re-
sumed his unconsciousness as apparently
the only thing befitting the occasion.
An hour later, after various scenes of ex-
citement due to rousing nuises and doctors
and caring for the voung man, Mr. Ches
ter paused for a good-night word with
Miss Beresford.
‘I can’t imagine why my name excited
him 80,” he mused. ‘‘I’ve never heard
his, nor seen him before, as often as I've
visited here.’’
Miss Beresford looked at him as he stood
before her in the strong light of the hall
lamps.
‘Then you're nota patient,” she said,
warmly. “I'm so glad.”
“And I’m so glad you’re not ! Of conrse
I couldn’t say it before that young fellow,
but I felt it, I assure you.”
He took her band and held it a raoment,
smiling down at her.
“I didn’t like to deny it before him,’
he said. ‘‘Somehow it seemed to comfort
him to think we were all in the same boat.
And he was in such a queer mood. He's
in some big trouble, aside from his illness,
Ithink. Didn’t you feel it?”
She nodded.
‘I wonder why my name—'' he began.
Then another thought came to him and
his face clouded. ‘‘I have come here every
Friday for two years, to spend Saturday
and Sanday with my wife—whoisa pa-
tient. Good nighs.”’
The next morning, as Miss Beresford sat
by the bedside of the stricken woman
friend she had traveled so far to see, a few
chords were played on a piano in the next
room, and a rich baritone voice began to
sing, softly, but with marvellous expres:
sion. The words of Matthew Arnold’s
‘‘Longing’’ came distinctly to her ears :
‘Come to me in my dreams and then
By day I shall be well again.
For thus the night will oft repay
The hopeless longing of the day.”
The invalid lay back among ber pillows
with a long sigh of satisfaction.
*‘Now we'll have a treat,”’ she said, con-
tentedly. ‘‘That is Mr. Chester singing to
his wife. He always does when he comes,
and I enjoy it as much as she, for their
rooms are next to mine.’’
Miss Beresford hesitated. She had not
wentioned to her the accident of the night
before; plainly she was in no condition to
be excited by such details. But it .conld
do no harm to speak of Chester.
‘‘He is charming, I think,” she said,
quietly. “I drove up from the station
with him last night.”
The invalid’s eyes widened insudden in-
terest.
‘Did you really ?’”’ she exclaimed.
*‘Then you found him—all that he is: the
sweetest, the dearest, almost the finest
man I've ever known. Every woman in
the sanitarium is enthusiastic over him, ex-
cept’’—she hesitated a moment, and low-
ered her voice—*‘except his wife,”” she add-
ed at last.
Miss Beresford looked a question.
“It’s a tragedy, ’’ wens on the other,slow-
ly. ‘‘She has been here two years,and every
week of that time he has come to spend the
week end with ber. She has gained rapid-
ly this past year. She could have left long
ago if she wished. But instead, as regular-
ly as he comes she has a relapse, lies around
on couches, has nervons attacks, and tbe
rest, all to the end that he may think her
worse and let her stay longer.”
‘But why, in Heaven’s name?'’ Miss
Beresford looked around the chill white
walls with an inward shudder. Through
the great open windows that filled one side
of the room she could look out on the side
of a mountain—bleak, forbidding. “Why?”
she repeated.
‘The old storv—another man. He also
ss a patiens here, and they are together con-
ttantly through the week, until Mr. Ches-
ter comes. Then the other disappears—
iakes to the woods or stays in his room.
At all events, he never appears, and they
have never met. He has been at the sani-
tarium more than a year and is constantly
losing weight and strength. She could
leave, you see, but he cannot. And so she
stays.’’
‘‘But—how ghastly!’’ exclaimed the
other. ‘‘Doesn’s she care for her hus-
band 27’
“Very much, in a dependent, sick fash-
ion. That is the most extraordinary feat-
ure of the situation. When Mr. Chester is
here she keeps him beside her every mo-
ment aod he fetches and carries for her
like a little spaniel. He sings to her, reads
to her;he almost dresses and undresses her.
All her nurses have a vacation ; he takes
full charge. One night he carried her up
and down the room in his arms for hours,
becanse she was nervous. She seems per-
fectly content when he is here. She leans
on him absolutely and evidentiy loves him
in a way. But her mad infatuation for the
other is obvious to every one. When the
husbavd goes, he comes. By remaining
hereshe can have them both. Hence again
—she remains.”
Silence fell. The voice in the next room
was still singing. As they listened it sbop-
ped suddenly, answered soothingly some
remark in fretful, high-pitched feminine
tones, and then went on again; this time
in the words of a quaint Irish love-song:
“Put your head, my darling, darling, darling,
Your bonnie black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, wild thyme of fragrance.
Who could deny you love 2’
‘And he doesn’t suspect at all 2’? Miss
Beresford asked.
“Dear, no! He hasn’t the remotess idea,
And, of conrse, no absolute wrong bas heen
done him, except in a deal of love-making,
I fancy, on the verandas and under the
trees. Tempestuous erotics are scarcely
in order here, as you must feel, Besides,
Mr. Allen is a gentleman. ”’
‘“Allen !”?
The invalid missed the slight start that
accompanied the words.
“Yes. ‘for such is indeed his name,’
she ¢ 1oted, languidly.,
“I'ne tangle seems rather a hopeless
one.'’ Miss Beresford reflected, aloud.
Her friend sighed wearily. On no’
she said, ‘‘is is nos hopeless, fur two rea-
sons. Oue'is that Mis. Chester really does
love her husband and will probably “even-
tually come to her senses and care only for
kim. Most women would cettainly select
him of the two to fall in love with.” The
speaker paused a moment, then resumed:
“The other is that Mr. Allen must, unfor-
tunately for himself, soon be ont of it alto-
gether. He comes of a line of tuberculosis
victims. His father and mother hoth died
of it many years ago, and a week ago he
went to Chicago to attend the funeral of his
only sister. Tuberculosis, also. They pro-
tested here, for it was a reckless thing for
bim to do at this season, but he went, He
adored the girl. She was here, too, for a
while, and then went home to die. She
and an older brother lived together. He
and this yonog Allen (be is hardly more
than a boy) are the only ones left
now. Six months more will probably
eliminate Allen from Mr. Chester's unsus-
pected problem. By the way,’’ she added,
curiously, “I wonder if he is back yet?”
The voice in the next room sang on:
“How deep the slumber of the flood—"’
The invalid turned with sudden restless-
ness. “‘Deep, indeed,” she said. ‘‘Bus
who can tell when it may awake?’ Then
she closed her eyes. ‘‘Let us listen and
doze,” she saggested, drowsily. “I’m
afraid I’ve heen talking too much—the
scandle about my neighbors, at that !”’
Late that afternoon Miss Beresford, tak-
ing a brisk stroll in the grounds, encoun-
tered Mr. Chester. He stopped at once.
‘I hope you found Mrs. Chester better,’
she eaid as they shook hands. There was
a friendly, rather personal touch in her
sympathy.
He shook his head. ‘‘On the contrary, ’’
he replied, gravely; ‘she is much worse.
She has learned within the last hour, in
some way, of our mishap of last night and
of the consequences to Mr. Allen, who is
very ill, I’m sorry to say. It seems she
knows him. All the patients, apparently,
take a strong interest in each other, and
she is so sympathetic that it has upset
her terribly. The doctor has just given her
a gocd sedative, and she is dozing, so I
came out for a turn,”
*‘Ob, I'm so sorry !”’ Miss Beresford ex-
claimed. ‘‘And about Mr. Allen, too. Is
he really critically ill ?”’
“I believe they are very anxious. Heis
in the infirmary, they say. We might go
and ask.”
They walked together to the detached
building which sheltered those patients re-
quiring special attention. A young, stern-
faced house physician came to them in the
small reception-room.
‘‘Mr. Allen,” he said, with professional
abruptness, ‘'is a very sick man. In fact,
be is sinking fast. We bave telegraphed
for bis brother. I doubt’’—his voice soft-
ened a little—*‘if he gets here in time.’’
Out in the bracing mountain air again,
away from the odor of antiseptics and the
dreary rows of patients quiescent in loung-
ing-chairs along the veranda, Miss Beres-
ford drew a long breath.
‘‘Ohb,”’ she cried, ‘I shall be glad to
leave this horrible place !”’ She darted a
look at his face as she spoke. There had
been something so cheery about him
that his quiet gravity moved her deeply
now.
“There seems to be a special pall bhang-
ing over it today,’’ he said, slowly. “I’ve
been conscious of it all the afterzoon—of
something unusual in the atmosphere.
I've decided to take my wife away next
week if T can persuade her to consent. She
has made a good start toward recovery,
and I know she will come out all right in
the end. Well try Florida. We went
there on our honeymoon, when all the
orange blossoms were in bloom, and she
loved the place. Perbaps—’’ his face bright-
ened ns the inspiration came to him.
‘‘Yes,”” he added alertly, “I'll take her
down there for a supplementary honey-
moon ! That may complete ber care.’
’
“I hope 80,’ sa«d Miss Beresford, rather |
breathlessly. Uncounsciously she touched
his arm. She felt her sympathy going out
to the unconscious man at her side, but his
rival’s contribution to the solution of a
problem suddenly turned her thoughts to-
ward him. For even as Chester’s confident
tones ceased a nurse came to the window
of young Allen’s room and quietly drew
down the shade.—By Elizabeth Jordan, in
Harper's Bazar.
Shortage in Peanut Crop.
The peanut has always been regarded so
entirely an American product that it will,
perhaps, occasion much surprise to many
persons to learn that $25,000 worth of
them were imported into the United States
last year. A report from Consul General
Hennis at Marseilles says that for the first
time African peanuts (arachides) have
been received at Marseilles and hase been
re-exported to the United States. The
value of these exports during the fiscal
year 1904 was $25,065—shelled nuts,
$17,411; nuts in the shell, $7,654.
As some sample lots of American pea-
nuts had been received in Marseilles the
year before this turning of the tables may
occasion surprise. It appears, however,
that the exports of the nuts from Europe
to the United States were in consequence
of an unusual shortage in the American
crop and consequent advance in price.
A repetition of this shortage in the Unit-
ed States is unlikely, although home buy-
ers will now have to consider the foreign
market in establishing their prices. The
African nuts are inferior to the American
for comestible purposes, althongh richer in
oil. The Virginia peanut is undoubtedly
the finest in the world in quality, but
yields so poorly in oil as to render improh-
able the creation of an American oil crush-
ing industry unless steps are taken to se-
cure a new variety combining the advantage
of the standard American nut with the
percentage of oil in the foreign nut.
—If the world seems dark, dear Madam, and
you don’t feel very well,
If your enervated system need correction,
If a month or two of dances has at last begun
to tell
On the freshness of your exquisite com-
plexion ;
Oh! seek not on the cricket field to drive
the ball for four,
Oh ! sport not on the tennis court or river !
It’s far more healthy exercise to scrub the
kitchen floor,
And extremely beneficial to the liver,
—The Bystander.
——Don’t evergrieve to death if yon can
belp it. Such a death is very unsatisfac-
tory to the doctors, as it affords them noth-
ing to cut out.
———Subserihe for the WATCHMAN.
HISTORY OF THE POTTER FAMILY.
Including a Sketch of the Lite of Gen. James Pot-
ter, and His Descendants,
COLLATED BY
DR. THOMAS C. VAN TRIES.
Apologies are commonplace. Perhaps
they are, generally, out of place; yet the
writer begs pardon for offering a word of
explanation by way of introduction.
History, in its literal sense, is the compi-
lation aud classification of historic facts.
The facts in the following sketch have
been gathered with much care from various
sources, each one of them being regarded
a8 entirely authentic and reliable. The
writer especially takes pleasure in acknowl-
edging himself to be very largely indebted
to that prince of local historians, the late
Hon. Jobn Blair Linn, for numerons ex-
tracts from his learned and-elaborate *‘His-
tory of Centre and Clinton Counties.” Also
for many facts gathered from his ‘‘Annals
of Buffalo Valley.” In fact, we have in
several instances followed his text very
closely. His intimate acquaintance with
the Colonial Records of Pennsylvania had
eminently qualified him for this work.
The writer is also under special obliga-
tion to the surviving members of his fami-
ly for free access to his extensive library of
rare historical works. Many important
items have also been gathered from various
other sources.
John Potter, the father of Gen. James
Potter, was a native of Tyrone, Ireland,
born of Scotch parentage in 1705. He and
his wife came to America with John Ham-
iltou and Isabella Potter Hamilton, a sister
of Mr. Potter, in 1741, ‘aboard ye goode
ship Dunnegal,’’ landing at Newcastle, Del-
aware, in September of that year. He first
located near the site of the present town of
Shippensburg, Pa., but was settled in An-
trim township, near Greencastle, in what
is now Franklin county. Pa., as early as
1746. On October 6, 1750, he was commis-
sioned first sheriff of Cumberland county,
which was organized the same year. He
was again commissioned sheriff for a second
term in 1753 or 1754. He died about 1758.
His wife died at the home of her son, Gen.
James Potter, at Middle Creek, now in
Snyder county, Pa., after the runaway of
1778.
The general impression among the de-
scendants of John Potter has been that
his residence in Ireland was upon the hanks
of the Foyle river. Recent researches,
made by Mr. G. O. Seilhamer, who went
to Ireland some three years ago, as the
agent of Hon. Thomas R. Bard, United
States Senator from California, to look up
the ancestry of the Bard, Potter, and Poe
families, resulted in his discovering upon
the records in Dublin the marriage in 1726,
of a John Potter to Catharine Crozier, by
Rev. Baptist Boyd of the diocese of Clag-
her. These parties belonged to the region
of the Blackwater river, which is much
nearer Dublin, and probably 150 miles
from the banks of the Foyle.
The children of Sheriff John Potter
were Thomas, who was captured with
Richard Bard and killed by the Indians;
James, Samuel, Anne, Catharine, Mary,
Hannah and Isabella. It is impossible at
this distant day to give their names in the
order of their birth,
(1) Samuel, son of Sheriff Potter, mar-
ried Susannah Poe, half-sister of Capt.
James Poe, of Antrim township.
Their children were (1) John, who lived
and died in Mercer county, Pa.; (2)
Thomas, (3) Martha, who married William
Hill, father of State Senator Hill of West-
moreland county, Pa.; (4) Annie, married
Robert Brown, father of Dr. S. P. Brown of
Greensburg, Pa.; Mrs. Brown, Sr., was a
sister of Mrs. Fannie Broce Campbell, wife
of Gen. Charles S.' Campbell, a brave sol-
dier, and cousin of the writer. (5) Cath-
arine, married Capt. James Carnahan of the
8th Pennsylvania (1776), father of Rev.
James Carnahan, D. D., LL L.D., who was
President of Princeton College from 1823
to 1854.
(2) Catharine, daughter of Sheriff Pot-
ter, married James Carothers, and her sis-
ter (3) Hannab, married John McMillan.
These two families removed to Westmore-
land county at an early date.
From bequests made by Gen. James Pot-
ter in his will to several of his nephews,
we learn that his sister (4) Anne, married
a Young, his sister (5) Isabella, a Jordan,
and his sister (6) Mary, a Beard. He al-
so mentions in his will, “John Latimer,
son of my sister, Margaret Latimer.”’ He
here undoubtedly refers to his sister-
in-law, Mrs. Margaret Latimer, of Phila-
delphia. The use of the term sister for
sister-in-law has always been very common
among relatives, as everybody knows.
Gen. James Potter, son of Sheriff John
Potter, was born in Ireland in 1729, and
was about twelve years of age when he
landed with his parents at Newcastle, Del-
aware. He had no advantages of education,
but fine natural abilities and great energy
overcame that want. He, early in life,
evinced a military spirit, and soon became
couspicuous in Indian warfare. At twenty-
five years of age he was a lieutenantin a
border militia company. February 17,
1756, he was commissioned an ensign (col-
or bearer) in a company of which his father
was captain, and served under Col. Arm-
strong in the famous Kittanning campaign,
and was wounded in the attack of Septem-
ber 8, 1756. October 23, 1757, he was com-
missioned lieutenant of the Second Battal-
ion, and promoted captain, February 17,
1759, and October 2, 1764, he was in
command of three companies on the north-
ern frontier.
Gen. Potter resided during his early
manhood on the banks of the Conococh-
eague creek, near Greencastle, in what is
now Antrim township, Franklin county,
Pa.
His first wife was Elizabeth Cathcart.
Her sister Margaret was married to George
Latimer, of Philadelphia. a descendant of
Bishop Latimer, of England. Their fami-
lies were very intimate. Hence ‘‘George
Latimer’’ has been perpetuated as a family
name among the Potters for several gener-
ations. Gen. Potter’s first wife lived only
a few years. She died in Antrim township,
leaving one son, John, and an infant
danghter, Elizabeth, only six months old.
This danghter in after years married Capt.
James Poe, of Antrim township and hecame
the grandmother of the writer of this ar-
ticle. Mrs. Potter was baried in Brown's
graveyard, about fonr miles from Greencas-
tle, Pa.
Gen. Potter's second wife was Mary,
widow of Thomas Chambers, and dangh-
| ter of James and Mary Patterson, of Ferm-
enagh towhship, now in Juniata county,
Pa. The second Mrs. Potter died in 1791
or 1792, and is buried in the old Stanford,
or Cedar Creek gravevard, ahout half a
mile southeast ot Linden Hall, Centre
county, Pa. Ne
Gen. Potter removed to Sunbury, now
in Northumberland connty, Pa., soon after
the purchase of 1768; and on March 24,
1772, he was appointed one of the justices
of Northumberland eounty at its organiza-
tion, and was one of the commissioners ap-
pointed to run its lines. He soon after-
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