SREY LN En > & . Bou im. NESE pm Bellefonte, Pa,, September 3, 1909. WASH YOUR OWN WINDOWS, A certain woman of censorious mind, To criticise her neighbors was inclined; Their dingy houses with discolored paint And dirty windows, were her chief cemplaint. Her righteous soul became at length so vexed, She called her pastor, Rev. Take-a-Text, Told him her trouble, and bescught advice; The wise old doctor answered in « trice: *Get soap and water and remove the stains, And dirt, and fiy-specks from your window panes.” The woman did so, and, to her surprise, Beemed to be looking out of other eyes; Her neighbors’ houses, now no longer seen Through dirty windows, all were white and clean. The moral of this story seems to be: Who looks through dirty windows dirt will see; Wash your own glass and then, as like as not, Your neighbors’ window panes will have no spot; Extract the beam before you vainly try To take the mote from out a brother's eye. ~[Charles D. Crane, in The Advance. THE GREATEST UF THEsSK, As he stepped off the train Crichton glanced up at the big black clock with the gold bands just as if be bad been a com- muter from Scarsdale or Mamaroneck. In reality it bad been over two yeare since he bad set foot in his uative town, but bis mind, like tbat of all good travelers, focue- ed itself unconsciously and immediately opon familiar places. Is was already a quarter past three o'clock, so be burried ever to the telephone booths to call up Curtis before his friend should bave lefs she little glass office down in Wall Street. A quarter past three is usually a very busy moments in a broker's office, and Crichton was reminded of the fact by the snarl from the office boy who answered his call. Even Brooke Curtis himsell spoke somewhat peremptorily until be quite understood who was at the other end of she wire. Then there came: “‘Well, well, well- that’s five. Arrived in Boston this morning eb? You say you'se at the Grand Central. Well, check your stuff rights out to the place aud take the three-forty train. Try to make yourself comfortable, and I'll be out on the four-forty-five in time fora game of squash. Tell them you have come to stay—don’t forget. Stay—sure. Head- guarters while you are in this country. It's seally great—you've saved wy life—this town is dead in summer. I'll telephone them to meet yon at the station. Good- by!” An boar later Crichton was lounging in a deep leather chair in Curtis's billiard- room. He bad changed to his flannels and wae smoking and reading the time away until the master of the honse should return and join him in a game of squash—preced- ed, of course, by the traditional walk through Cortis’s beloved vegetable green- houses. He dropped his book avd blew a long, thin cloud of gray tobacco smoke into the yellow sunshine, which stretched an wobroken path from the open window to the great, empty hearth across the room. The whole place was filled with a golden haze, and through this and the gray smoke Crichton looked out of the broad window on the stretch of deep green sward running dowu to the water aud then beyond to the great beights of the Palisades. Toe man smiled at the wonderful heauty of it all, long uncbaoged. Since his col- lege days, when he used to spend his sum- mer vacations with Cartis, he bad looked out on that same scene of green grass, and blue water, and gray rocks, and it was one picture of America that he had always re- membered on his travels in strange ocoun- tries. It came to him at times when he was a little tired, mentally, or when be bad been ill in a foreign land and with strauge faces ahout him. Ever since Brooke Curtis bad first be- come master of Edgemere it bad been an uowritten law that, during the summer months, no women folks, not even women servants, should ever enter this wing of the house. Curtis and his yoanger brother Ned bad their rooms here, and so bad Crichton one story above them. On the groonnd floor was the billiard room, and as there was no danger of feminine intrusion, Cartis and his men guests usoally waunder- ed about the whole wing in the most un- conventional emmmer garments, Is so hap- pened on this occasion that Crichton was in a fairly presentable condition, although be bad already discarded his coat and tie and bad rolled up his sleeves in anticipa- tion of the coming contest at squash. When through half-closed eyes he first saw the tall figure with the flimsy white waist aod the long, oclose-fitting duck ekirt, it seemed as if some fairy princess bad risen from the lawn and was coming to waken bim from bis dream. And then, as he instinctively pulled himselt out of the low chair, he became guite conscions that shis waa no fanoy at all, but a very good-look- ing girl who was breaking in where she bad po right to break in. She oertainly was very good to look upon, at least so Criobton Saought, ow Doon ion his presence,she came thro e rench window, the sunlight tailing on a mass of golden brown bair, aod lighting up the clear skin, flushed crimson after walk over the country roade. It was, bow- ever, with a certain amount of unprepared. nese, hoth ae to his mental and pb, attitude, thas Crichton rose to reoeive his lady visitor. At the sight of him the girl uttered a low ory of su and back to- ward the window. “Ie's all ¢. I assure you, it's all righe,”’ ul Crichton. ‘‘Just let me ges into my coat and I'll introduce m Ln “It’s all right if you don't ges into your coat,” eaid the girl. ‘‘It’s rather becom- ing. Ned told me I must never come in brre, but [ was quite sure no one was at home." “Ned told you?" asked Crichton. “Yes, I'm Mies Ferguson; Ned and I are stopping over at the Ellisons’.”’ “‘Delighted,” and Crichton bowed. ‘I'm Jim ton—you may have heard— Brooke and I-—"' “I’m afraid not,’”’ interrupted the girl, snd she held out her band as if Crichton bad been her oldest man friend. ‘‘You see I’ve only joined the family very re- Seorly, and I really don’t know any one in New York. I'm from the Golden Wess,” “Really,” said Crichton, ‘‘and did I un- derstand you to say that you had joined the family?” “Oh, you don’t kuow, then?’ And the Suggestion of a blush heightened the girl’s or. “I’m afraid not,’”’ he answered. ‘‘I, too, have been away for some time.”’ “‘Well, you see,’ said the girl, “I’m en- a long | said gaged to Ned. Yes, I am, regularly en- | | ‘A Bark as Miduight?”’ Crichton asked. gaged. Announced and everything Wonld vou like to see my ring?"’ The girl laid ber band in his, and Crica- ton examiued, with wuch solicitude a splendid cabochon ruby. “Do yea like it?" she asked. “Perfect!” be said, aod released ber hand “That's what I tell Ned; it's gnite per- fect. It's really the only engagement ring I ever saw that wasn’t tagged with an apology. Every girl friend I ever bad when she showed her engagement ring said that is wasa’t what Billy or Tommy or Harry really intended to give ber, but jnst as be was going to buy is the market went ap or down, of a rich old aunt who ought to bave died didn’t. You kaoow all the sentiment really went ont of eogage- mens rings with tam-o-shanters and kiss. ing games. What do you think of Ned, really? Yon most know him pretty well— you seem so much at home bere.” Crichton started to pull down bis sleeves. “No,” said the girl, “‘that’s all righs. Leave them up. I didn’s mean thas, real- ly. Why don’t you take some Scotob? There it is back of you on the table—club soda and everything. Please don’t mind me. Ned says I drive bim to drink. Queer effect to bave on a man, no?’’ Crich- ton got up and moved in the direction of the listle sable with the bottles and bigh glasses and a big bowl of ice. “To be guite candid,’ be said, *‘I don’t think that Ned ie good enough for you. Ned's a nice, good looking lad, at least he used to be, but he's nos in your clas at all.” “Now you're makiog fun of me. Don's think I always talk so much as I have jost pow, because I’m really rather a serious person. it was agaiost she rule to come in here at all, bat it was a ¢hort out to the library.” “Where's Ned now?’’ asked Crichton. “I lefs bim on bis way to the stables. There's something the matter with his riding horse. How long have you known him?" “‘Always,”’ avswered Crichton. ‘‘You see I was a kid friend of Brooke’s even be- fore we went to college together. Ned sort of grew ap at our knee." Crichton poured out his drink and, car- rying bis glass, walked over to the empty hearth. **Is must be fun,’’ said Miss Ferguson, “to go to college for four years with wien one really cares for.” “Yes, said Crichton, ‘‘there were three of us. There was Brooke and Willie Sher- man and myself. We were always to- gether for those four years—four long, beautiful years, when we never koew a care or had a doubt that the world bad been made for onr especial benefis.”’ “Aud then—?" “Aud then came the awakening—the debacle. The winter after we bad taken oor degrees we bad learned of what very little account we really were. Curtis be- came an ununiformed messenger boy 1n hie father's office by day and a cotillion leader by night; Willie Sherman conceived a lively up-to-date interest in people who bad lived a few thousand years before and spent hie livelong days digging up mounds where it seems they bad carelessly left their bones and foolish trinkets.” *‘And whbas hecame of you?’ Crichton straightened wp and looked fairly into the girl’s eyes. In his glance, it seemed to Miss Ferguscn, there wasa certain look of surprise and wonderment that she really did not know what bad be- come of him. “I wens to Paris,’’ he said. The girl emiled. ‘‘Ab, that wicked city.” “Yes, it is wicked, I suppose,’ he said, *‘for women and boys juss ont of college. They rob you women at the dressmakers' by day and the boys at the cafes and jar. dins by night. Still, it's a well lis oity and it seems rather cheery after a few months in the desert, or a winter with thie the faded yellows and pinks of Spain aod Italy. There is so muob there for the old ones who have dug deeper than the veneer that the tourist loves. Why Paris is as full of ns dead ones as the cawacombw of Saint Calixtus. I just came from there.” “‘How lonely the other dead ones must be,” «aid the girl. ‘*What were they do- ing?’ “*Oh, just about the same thing—watch- ing the Seine boats and feeding the epar- rows in the Bois and sharing the ignominy of Alsace-Lorraine by plastering ber statue with tin wreaths.” ‘“‘And the live ones?” she asked. ** Le monde du sport? Ob, they were beat- ing each other's brains ont at polo, at Bagatelle and olimbing up Montmartre every night to beara man sing at a new cabaret. Rather amusing be was, too, sort of a F chap. He really bad one great song.”’ Crichton walked over to the piano, carzfully put down his cigarette and glass of Scotch, and ran his fingers lightly over the keps. “Do you speak boulevardier Frenck?"’ The gir! nodded. ‘‘Pretty well. Ned takes ‘La Vie Parisienne,” and a girl I know who lives over there sends me most of the cafe-concert songs. I send her the new coon s—-sort of musical exchange. Please go on.”” She put her elbow on the piano and rested ber ohin between the palms of her hands. Crichton swang the piano-stool bail around toward the girl and partly sang and partly recited the song to her. “My, but you do speek good French,” Miss Ferguson when Crichton bad finished and had begun feeling his way through the introduction of anikbat sing. ysical | ‘“That is really quite wonderful, iw? 0s so di a ui rect and maple, Sud there is such a ees y under the apparent humor of it all. Who wroté it?”’ *‘I don’t know the gentleman's name. I i ne it was the swan song of one of the dead ones. Probably wrote it on a marble table at a cafe, dressed in a slouch bat, a black cape, and a black flowing tie, and a large glass of absinthe in front of him.” “And all Paris,” she added, ‘‘is singing the 2tory of a man’s lite while the man is starving in a garret " ‘‘Probably,”” said Crichton, ‘‘and no doubt we will learn later that he soid that very song for five france, while the pub- lisher with his illegitimate prooeeds built a dirigible airship that was the talk of all Paris. Did you ever hear that French song of the airship and the automobile? No? Well, then, I'll sing it to you, but in the absence of a chaperon I think we will omit the last two verses.” When the song was finished Critohton got up and bowed to the girl and waved is band in the direction of the piano stool, “My firet number,” she said, ‘“‘is rather a showy piece, even a little theatrical. It's called ‘A Bark at Midnight.” Half an bour later Ned Curtis found his fiancee still as the piano and Crichton a in an armobair si his Scotch and look- ing straight ahead at the girl’s brown hair, whioh jhe sole says of the ying oun streak. ed with gold. e two men shook hands warmly. 1 was a listle pervous. Yon see “Did youn ever hear Miss Ferguson sing Curtis said be really didn’t know and lefs it to Miss Ferguson, has the girl, coloring a little, admitted that he bad not, and con- wunoed to rou her fingers lightly over the keyhoard. “1 shink it's the most wonderful thing I ever heard,” said Crichton. “I really be- lieve she would have played it for me the shird time if vou badn’s interrupted.” Aud shen Brooke Cartis, the master of the house, came burryiog in witha very boisterons welcome, aad the song and even Miss Fergnson and her fiance were forgot- ten in the greeting of the two old [riends. “Come on,” said Carsis ; ‘‘we’ll take a walk around the grounds. I want to bear alli about yourself, and these two young lovers would be in the way.” “Good-bye, Mr. Crichton,” eaid Miss Ferguson; ‘‘we woun's be bere when you re- surn. Thank you so much for the songs. I wish you would wend me the one tbe Montmartre poes wrote if you can get it for me. Good-bye.” They shook bands and then Crichton and Curtis, arm-in-arm, went ous and left the girl and Ned together. The young man crossed the room and leaned over the deep lounging chair in which she sas. Mechanic- ally she raised ber band, which he took in both of his, and, raising is to his lips, light- I kissed she tips of ber fingers. The girl's eyes followed the figures of the two men crossing the lawn. “What an unosnal person your friend Crichton is,” she said. ‘How is it thas I never beard you #peak of him before ?"’ The young mao, still bolding the girl's band, sat on the broad arm of the chair. “I don’t know,” he said, ‘‘except that he bas always been Brooke's particular friend. He is sn good deal older shan lam, butl rather thought pretty mach every one had at least heard of Jim Crichton.” “What would owe hear,’ she asked, “good things ?"’ Ned got ap and crossing to the table slowly hegan to prepare bimself a drink. “Yes and—no,”’ be said. ‘‘He is and al ways was one of the finest men God ever made, but Jim made one mistake." “What kind of mistake ?"’ she asked. “It must bave been serious.” “Is was,’ he said, “‘one of the kind peo- ple never forget, though in a way they for- give. I might as well tell you, because somebody will sooner or later, and I'll tell you the true story.’’ The girl settled deeper in the low chair, ber eyes still following the two wen, who, far across the lawn, had stopped to examine a wall covered with old English ivy. “When Crichton had finished college,’ Ned began, ‘‘he went over to Paris and settled down. One way and another he spent a good deal of money, at least Jim's father thooght so, although the old man was very rich. However, fora long time be kept on sending Jim remittauces far be- yond his allowance, but be didn’t fail to tell him what he thought of his extrava- gaoce. Finally, Jim got in with a pretty quick crowd and he used to play poker and baccarat with them as oue of the clube. Well, one morning be woke up and found himself very wach in debt. The men whom be owed weren’t the kind he conld ask for time, and it was just a plain case of pay. He cabled his father exactly how things stood, and in a few hours be got a pretty rough answer, absolutely refusing the moo- ey and telling bim he would bave to live thereafter on his regular income. Of course, Jim needed the money, but tbe old man’s wire was what did she business. I honestly believe, just out of spite and to show bis father that he conldn’t down him he signed a check with his fath:r’s name for twice tbe amount he bad ssked for. The ress was easy, because the people at the bavk kuew Jim and knew his father was good for any amount. Bat when the check reached New York the old man denied it. I suppose it was because be loved Jim better than anything else in the worid, and be- canse he had done everything he could for him all his life, he lost bis head completely and denounced Jim as a forger all over his old office. Half an hour later he tried to deny everything he had said and insisted the check was all right, but it was too 'ate. Every clerk in the office hurried uptown and told she story at some tea or dinuver or club, and,although they kept the story out of the papers, it was all over with Jim.” ““‘And ther ?'’ asked the girl. “Ob, then ? Well, Jim came home and the two of them started in to spend years trying to undo the harman they bad both done in a moment of anger. It almost kill. ed the old man,and Jim took him from ove health resort to another, trying all kinds of cures, but there was no care for that kind of trouble. The old mao died in Jim's arms, asking the boy's forgiveness with his last breath. I guess Jim would have been will- ing to quit then too, bat he had the young machinery the old man lacked, and eo he kept on going.” “And some of bim lived, but the most of him died,” the girl interrupted. “No, bardly that,” the young man said. “As a matter of fact, Jim never was any good until he signed that check. He was a orazy, wild kid before that, but the trou. ble made a man of him absolutely. He couldn’t turn to individuals any more, ex- cept a few like Brooke who loved him bet- ter than anybody in the world, because he koew they knew the story, and that it was | abroad always being told behind hie back—just as I am telling it to you. So for lack of indi- vidual friende he made a friend of the whole world. He devoted himsel! to ideas and and books and races of people. There hardly a settlement where any white man bas been that he doesn’s know well, and I think he has read more, and more intelli. gently, than any one I ever heard of. course, the part of it all is that Jim ie at heart bly social; he has the hears of a woman and he loves his kind more than any man I know. But instead of friends made of flesh and blood, he has to shut himself up in his library with only his books about him, or go ous and look for eet or along the rocks of some God-forsaken coast where white people don’s even ges shipwrecked.’ “But he told me he often went to Paris,” the girl interrupted. “Oh, yes, he does. He slips back shere just as be does over bere sometimes. Bat it don’t lass. He can’t go to the houses of the only kind of people he wants to know, or he can't be a member of a decent club. You would bave bard work to find any in- dividual who says he does nos feel & Jim Crichton juss as Brooke or I feel, but there ie always thas intangible force 8 ing pst him. He is the very best in the world, but the world hasn’s forgotten and never will forget that he once a miserable bit of paper. Now, that’s ton’s story, and I don’t know what that song of yours is abous thas yon sang to him, called ‘A Bark at Midnighs,’ bus, judging €ep | from the tle, Tm not surprised thas it in. Mise Fe.guson up and crossed the room to the wi iB ow which looked ous on the river, turned pink and gray in the last rays of the evening sun. ! “14's not a very happy story,” she said. | “And yet somehow it seems as long as bis father forgave him the rest of the world wight forget. Was there uo practical way fer him to get back ? Couldn't Brooke, for instance, or yon ?"’ “Ned shook his bead. *‘I don’t think 80,” he said, ‘‘becanee if there bad been any way Brooke would bave discovered is long ago. 1 always bad a theory that a woman could bave done it. If he had mar- ried a girl of sufficient position and strength, I think she might bave won back his place for him.” ‘“‘And vo woman ever loved bim enough for that 2" : yf SEppose not,” be said. *‘That is, no woman he cared for. It would be asking a good deal of a girl to share thar kind of a life, and, besides, most men would rather drown than be thrown a life-preserver by a woman.” “And yet,” aocswered Miss Ferguson, “she world is really very full of charity.” “In a way is is, bus I think most people feel a good deal about it as they do about their securities ; they prefer investments in several baskets. It would sake a good deal of perve for a woman to constitute Jim Crichton ber favorite charity.” “I wonder,” said the girl. ‘‘Riog for the cait, won’t you. Ned? It's time we were starticg for the Ellisons’.”’ A few minutes later Crichton and Cartie stopped in their walk sbrough the formal gardens long enough to wave to the young people who passed them on their way ont of the grounds. “Lucky boy, Ned, I must say, even il he is my own brother,” said Curtis. *‘She’ll make a wonderfully fine woman.” “Wonderful,” added Crichton. ‘‘It was such foo to talk toa girl like thas even for half an hoor. I mean a girl who dido’t know and juss met yom on your own,” Crichton stooped and kicked ata weed on the edge of the walk which the gardener bad overlooked. ‘‘Do youn suppose she knows now ?'’ he asked. Curtis J bis arm through Crichton’s and taro him in the opposite direction from the road down which the cart was fast disappearing. “Dear old Jim,” he said, ‘‘I suppose she does by now.” and as for the maoner of my speech, it each other avd we could bave gone away. seems to me that my way is the only save | But how do we know that those who came op so talk honk LT Ive Noudestul Saw atsef 8 would have oe Siungth B30 take u a big piece of news y one. e | She burden you know that they wou first doctor who told me was an old fellow | bave been satisfied, as you and I could bave a EE I Loe re Bt tion, was on the desk in | the the sun over oar * front of him in bis office. I think be must smell of she ground under our feet? Do have bad a lunch eogagement, for he was | yon know that those who wight follow us forever g at bis bat, aud wheu he | would not choose to live with their kind, told me about bow things stood he grabbed | and do you know that they would be brave bis bat and barried out of the office ahead | cvough Xo hold up thal beude in the sroud. me.”’ places ?' e girl rose from her r **And then ?"’ asked the girl. aud, laying her band on Crichton’s should- “Then—oh—then ? 1 weut out, too, al- | er, half turned him about, so that the red though rather slowly. It wasa wonderful glare jum he fire shone July in his face. i og bn ol EAI rid PIR ei ge ry gid glass room. I was tryivg all the time to | told you what my own mother will never think just about how long it tock thirty know. Is there anything else I can tell days to pass, and the ouvly thing I could | you before you go?" Rab Tg Bd TIC Sh i ge e me seem ver ase n es, en always seemed to me et monthly bills | Crichton shrugged his shoulders very slight- come in at leass twice a week. I bad a |ly avd smiled pleasantly into ber face. Is very good lunch and enjoyed it, 100, juss | was a tmile such as be might bave vouch- like she men you read about in the papers | *afed a wayward child. He to took the the morning they are going to be banged. Aud I sat some time smoking—long alter the otber people bad left the place. Did you ever read that people who are drown- 10g think of all their past sins ?"’ The girl nodded and leaned back in her chair, looking fu!l into the shadowed face of the man silbouetted against the fire in the broad hearth. “Well do you kuow is never occured to me,’ Crichton wens on, ‘‘to think of one single sin. I thought of all the bappy hours I had ever spent. There were ocer- tain people and certain places and certain things that is just seemed as if I bad to see before I quit. But, Lord, it was absolutely impossible. Ove of them, for instance, was a little stretch of beach on an island I al- ways say [ discovered in the South Pacific. At sunset the water is pink as coral and is runs up on the pebhles, and the stones look like great white pearls—it’s gnite wonder- ful. I bave spent a great many happy days there. Another was a native girl I used to know in a listle town just beyond Misda in Tripoli. She was very sweet and good to me when I was sick once, and I think she would really bave been willing to marry me, too. She had a smile that bave traveled a great many miles to see Crichton’s stay in America was very | geveral times, and there was a sheen to ber short. He decided quite suddenly one gopper skin. And then of course there day that he must retarn to the Far East. | were certain theatres in London and Paris, A letter from Paris ten days later to Brooke and there was a path in the Cascine at Curtis, aud then be disappeared entirely. | Florence I wanted to see again very much. Summer passed and winter and summer | The trees grow over it and after a shower, companionship in some South African for. | band again, and then one day, late in November, Crichton turned up once more in New York. He went to his hotel and asked for a letter which was awaiting bis arrival. Once in his room he tore off the envelope aud reread the short note many times. This was all it said : “DEAR MR. CRICHTON~I shall be glad to see you any afternoon after five, as [ am pearly always at home then to give my friends a cup of tea. It ie good to know Sat you are about starting in this direc- tion. “Indeed, I bave often thought of the day I broke into the billiard-room and in- sisted on singing to you. ‘Sincerely yours, “MARGARET FERGUSON." Late that afternoon he was standing in front of the fire in the drawing-room of the Ferguson home, and Miss Ferguson was sitting behind the teacups, ogling, at least #0 Crichton thought, much more beaun- titul thao she looked that day he bad first met her almost two years before. “Bat this time,” she said, ‘‘you bave come to stay for a long visit 2’ Crichton looked down into bis teacup and smiled. *‘I fear not,’ be said. “I am going away very soon.”’ “You're =o disappointing. Can’t you possibly stand us for a few weeks ? Where are you going this time ?"’ “I haven’t an idea,’’ he said, ‘‘not the faintest, believe me.” *‘That’s even less complimentary to us. What does Brooke #ay to this plan *"’ “I baven’t se:n Brooke yet. You know I only arrived this afternoon. I wanted to see you first ; in fact, is was to see yon that I came back to this country. Not that I don't want to see Brooke, bless his soul, but—"' “‘You wanted to see me ?'’ the girl inter- rapled bim, “Me?” e light from the fire shone full upon her face, and Crichton noticed that her color was very high and that her eyes seemed to avoid his. “Yes,” he repeated, clasping his bands behind bim, ‘‘to see you and to ask you a favor. I am not going to ask it becanse I think you owe me anything or because I can ever possibly repay you, becanse I can’t. it's a favor you wounld do for an utter stranger, because I think you are vatarally charitable and because it really don’t amount to much anyhow—at least to on “Yon really are most mysterious,”’ the girl said. Crichton noticed that the color bad left Mies Ferguson's face and that she was smiling up at bim quite pleasantly, and so he smiled back at her. “It really isn’t very amusing, as a matter of fact,’’ he said. ‘‘It happened about this way. You remember that very soon after I first ig you two years ago I went The girl nodded. “My inclination was to think about youn a great deal, but I did my best nos to do s0. You see you were engaged to Ned, and for that and other reasons I tried to keep my mind on other e and other things. And then one day, when I was down on the west coast of Alrica, I got a letter from Of | a man who writes me sometimes and he ne on see there was no reason ~~ 1 should not think of you ali I wanted to, was there ?"’ Crichton hesitated, but the girl did not potice him. She was locking into the fire, her obin resting between the palms of her [8 “Apd soon after that,’’ he continued, +I booked back to civilization, and when I reached Paris I got some very important news. “Good news ?*’ the girl asked without fooking up. Crichton shook his head. “I imagine most people woald call it bad news, he said, “and I do, too, in a way. It seemed I bad taken some sort of fever on she trip, and that bad rather complicated matters in my system. I weans to see a lot of doo- tors, and it was quite wonderful how they ”, greed won said I ne pet "aa te . He might live a con monte, bus the best the rest con! do was thirty deys.” Her chin still resting in ber bands, the rl slowly torned her eyes to his. She ooked at him slowly from bis fees, as il she were trying to verily his words. “J can’t quite believe you,’ she said. “You don’s look like a dying man, you certainly don’s talk like one.” " It I should step into Sie dselight, "he said, I would certainly look like one, | with not even thirty days ahead of him ; when she son breaks ons and shines through, the dripping leaves glisten like beautifully polished silver against the | patches of gold sunshine. There were two or three Russian dishes I wanted to eat again, too, and I should have liked to hear that Huogarian baud at Bodapest. Yon know I never could understand good music. There is a place on Rbode Island where I should have liked togoto. It'sa | queer, old-fashioned little place by the water, and 1 don’t suppose it really means anything to moss people, bat I spent my summers there as a kid, and I like to go back and wander along the hard beach, and take long walks through the pines where we used to play at Indian massacres. [t's a nice old place, and all the distances seem #0 absurdly short compared to the old days, but it’s terribly filled with ghosts— listle ghost of langhiog children. “There were lots ol other things I want: ed to do and see, but of course I couldn’t run all over the world in thirty days very well, could I? I worked it out pretty well that day at Laurent’s, and I argued and fought it out with myself for a long time. Bat gracione ! 1 knew all the time what I . wanted to do and what I wae going to do, and thas was to come back and see you and perhaps ask you to sing for me again.” As Crichton finished the girl looked up at him questioningly, but she man’s face wae still in the shadow. “There is no hope ?'’ she asked. ‘‘Doec- tors have given up many men for dead years and years ago and the men are alive today. We all know of such cases.” Crichton shook his head. “I'm afraid I'm not one of them," he said. ‘‘A month is the most I could bave, and I had to beg for that. Just think, only a month left of the sunshine and the eweetness of life. And I tell you it is sweet, Misa Ferguson, and it is fine and good—even if there are fogs, we learn in time thas at some old place there is always a sun shining back of them.” “Bat it is a long while before the sun breaks through sometimes,” she said. ‘'I don’t know just what to say to you, Mr. Crichton, because I really don’t know you at all, and yet I feel that I never knew any one quite so well. I didn’t break with Ned on acconntof you, but I did doit on ac- count of your type, or rather on account of his. He was a good,sweet soul, but he was just like the rest of them bere—the men, and the women too, for that matter, are Prefs much all made in the same mold. I ave to go back to my father’s ranch three months every year to keep near the earth and see all of the sky at once. You were different, and I wanted to know you very, very much. I was going to write you to come and see me in town before you sailed, and then—"' “And then ?’ he asked. ‘Then? Well, why not ? It can’t make any difference now.” “None.” “I didn’t send for you because I thought I cared too much.” “But you Sew you were not going to Wary Curtis " “Yes,” she said, “I knew that from the first day.’ ‘Then there must bave been another The 1 nodded up at the dark fign 1! ap e re. “Yes, = was another reason.’ “Not the old reason—the reason of every dall fool fh seis club. widow the reason why ev ebutante to keep a from me ” Crichton, still standing with his back to the fire, clasped his hands bebind him aod slowly laced and unlaced his fingers. “I judged,” he said, “from what I saw of you before that above all you were charitable. I am sorry that I could not bave gone away still thinking so.” “Charity ?"’ she asked. ‘‘Do you call that charity ? I mean the kind of charity that begins at home. It mayn’s bave been + —————————————_— 115 5A——— ————— band, which still rested on bis shoulder, in both of bis, and gently touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. *“There is vothing else,’’ he said, ‘‘ex- cept to say good-bye.” ‘Good-bye,” she whispered, ‘‘and God belp you.” Crichton bailed a passing bansom and took his place in the long row of carriages woving slowly down she avenue. He glanced up with hall-closed eyes at the many changes which bad taken place since his last visit; narrow towering hotels and broad square banks had apparently grown | ap overnight, and the brownstone houses of the friends of the early days bad been tarned into decks of shop windows. But of the crowds on the sidewalks, the faces of the men and women in the passing car- riages, be saw nothing—his thoughts were still of the firelit room he had juat left and the girl who had told him ‘‘good-bye.’” When he reached the hotel he found his servant waiting for him in his room. *‘We are going to take a long trip this time, Lawrence,” he said. ‘I don’t want to reach Paris before the late spring or early summer, 80 | think we had better go by way of Yokohama. Find out, to-night if poseible, when the next boas leaves 'Frisco, Please By Charles Bemont Davis, in ier's. ——Do you know where to get the finest canned goods and dried fruits, Seobler & Co. The beautiful water lilly roots in the mud below the stream. All the fragrance and [aiiness of the flower are affected as the root is affected. If the root is injured the flower droops and its whiteness is marred by blot and blemish. A woman's beauty is intimately related to the health of the delicate female organs. No woman who sof- fers constantly from female weakness can retain her good looks. One of the [acts noted by women who have been cured of diseases of the delicate womanly organs by Dr. Pierce's Favorite Prescription, is the return of the color to the cheek and the brightness to the eye when the care has been completed. ‘‘Favorite Perscription’ bas been well named by women who have heen healed by its use, ‘‘A God-send to women.” It dries debilitating drains,cures inflammation, ulceration and female weak- nesa, and re-establishes the ailing woman in sound health. Sick women are invited to consult Dr. Pierce, by letter, free. All correspondence private. Address Dr. R. V. Pierce, Buffalo. N. Y. Evidence That Penguin's Pinions Were Once Used For Swimming. Ornithological puzzles are the pen- guins, with their curiously shaped wings and odd. unbirdlike, upright car- riage. The peculiarities of their wings suggest that the penguins are descend- ants of birds which used their wings rather than legs in the pursuit of prey under water, and as the struggle in- tensified between the competing indi- viduals the most expert at this sort of swimming would get the most food and oust less successful rivals. The winners gained advantage over their neighbors in proportion as their wings improved as swimming organs and in- versely and of necessity became less suited to perform the work of flight. In all other birds the feathers, though shed annually, are more or less grad- ually displaced. But in the penguins the new feathers all start into being at the same time and thrust out the ola feathers upon their tips so that these come away in great flakes. Whereas in all birds save penguins the new feathers as they thrust their way through the skin end in pencil-like points, formed by investing sheaths, in the penguins these sheaths are open at the tips and attached by their rims to the roots of the old feathers, and hence these are held to their succes- sors until they have attezined a suffi- cient length to insure protection against Linco'n as He Knew Him. Asked under the civil service rules to write what he knew about Abra- ham Lincoln, an applicant for the po- lice force of New York wrote: “Abraham Lincoln was born in Ken- tucky at a very early age. His father moved the family to Ohio, floating down the Mississippi. If he had not been killed by a murderer he might be living today. He was an intelligent man and could easily have been presi- dent of New York city.” — Ladies Home Journal. 8 Needed Airing. it “What's the matter with you?” dey manded Borem hotly. “I've got a™ right to air my opinions, haven't I?" 7 “Oh, of course,” replied Brightly. “They're so stale and musty they cerhy tainly need something of that sort.”— . Philadelphia Press. charitable to you or to me, but the world wasn’s made for you and me. We might as well try to dam a flood as to hold back what the world wants to think of us. And don’t forges, Crichton, that the world jot going to stop with us, any more & . gan with us. Is it charity to cus the al- from your own neck and tie it aboot A he mn rp, © et, © man ro our ; bave made up for much. to be unselfish—the Lord knows I have suffered enough to want a little pleasure and peace before I die.” i ,”? she said, ‘‘I know all of that. I know that we could bave been . because we could bave been content Suspended. Tams ve decided to suspend your sen- if: ; i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers