6 A BLOSSOM IN THE SOUL Across an apple ripe, from out your store, Cu' a thin transverse slice, through grain and core, Not quartering or ranging with the stem. There, In the center, an artistic gem. (Safe In that casket, guurded and concealed. Held to the light, Is unto you revealed; Perfect tn outline, though long hid In gloom. Is limned a perfect, shapely apple bloom; The spirit of the blossom, from the past Preserved within the apple's heart to last. A seal and symbol, though thus veiled and mute— That blooms ara really souls of ripened fruit. That blossom once made fragrant far and wide, Like scented snow, but who thought It would hide Within this body as a secret shrine. Perfect in form and in ghost-like outline. Proof of the all-important, eladsome truth. That old age may possess the hoart of youth. Men missed Its youthful presence, thought It dead. Watched for Its disappearance with vague dread, Long missed Its beauty, thought Its petals gone, Tet here, like some veiled nun, the flower lived on. Its fragrance sealed, Its beauteous petals furled, Retiring for a season from the world. But all the while the body 'round It draped. Was by God's law of beauty deftly shaped. And all the rosy-cheeked, prosaic whole Was thus perfected by a flower-like soul; Bealed In its casket, of its life a part. Printing a blossom on Its Inmost heart. •Thus sleeps the music in the silent lute, .Thus lives the blossom in the ripened fruit. Thus may the human thought and human tongue. Take beauteous form from thoughts for ever young; Cray hairs and furrowed face Its outward part, But blooms of childhood in Its Inmost heart. I. EDOAIt JONES. | A CLEW BY WIRE I > 5 Or, An Interrupted Current. 5: ' BY HOWARD M. YOST. §: Copyright, 1896, by J. B. Llpplncott Co. 2; CHAPTER VII.—CONTINUED. "Have these mysteries any relation to, or any connection with, the sealed cellar?" Sonntag tinaly said. "The woman said nothing about the strange cvents'being located in any par ticular place, and I did not think to ask her," I replied. The old lawyer's ques tion opened up a new train of thought. Could it be possible that the strange voice 1 had heard proceeded from the sealed cellar? "Ah! I suppose the women are su perstitious and think the place is haunted. Such ideas generally get abroad about old, long vacated houses. But you do not mind their talk? You are not afraid of ghosts, are you?" The old fellow's eyes twinkled merrily. "Well I have never come across any of those shadowy beings. I could tell better after I met one. I hardly think talk alone could frighten me," I replied, somewhat shamefacedly, remembering ihow nearly I had been unnerved the .night before by my own reflection. "I will be over some time to-morrow, iand will see if anything can be done re iffarding the mysterious cellar," Mr. [fionntag said, as I rose to leave. "And —pardon me for referring to the unfor tunate affair —have you heard of any Inew developments in the robbery case?" "What!" I exclaimed, "you know of it too ?" "Certainly. I lived near Philadelphia at the time and I read the papers," he xeplied, smilingly. "It seems I cannot escape hearing of that terrible affair," I said, bitterly. "At: bho loves you then." •"And I acted the part of a fool, too, in the matter. Instead of putting forth every effort to find the perpetrators I let the thing go; let others, who could not possibly have had the interest in the cuse that I had, undertake investi gations. I am rightly served for my supineness, for I have heard nothing about it at all. I know what I knew the morning of its occurrence, not a bit more. Others have failed; I intend to pee now what I can do." "You intend going into the affair, then?" he said, dryly. "I do, with all the energy and re source I am possessed of." "Do you know how near you came to being arrested for the crime?" Bonntag asked. "Why, yes. I know, of course, that would have happened could anything have been found against me." "Well, there was enough to hold you, on suspicion at least." "Then why did you not arrest me? I am sure 1 was willing. I courted a trial." "It was very seriously talked of among the trustees. But the president opposed it, for one," Sonntag said. "Yes. I know he rea]ly believed me innocent." "But liis objection was not the strong est influence which arose in your be half," continued my agent. "The strongest, most powerful opposition to your arrest came from one whose influ ence outweighs even the president's." "One of the trustees?" 1 asked, eager ly- "Yes." "You cannot mean —" "Sylvester Morley," interrupted the lawyer. "Mr. Morley!" I exclaimed, joyfully. For 1 knew, great as Sylvester Morley'* influence was, there was one who wield ed a greater, since she could influence her father. Was it her sweet self that had come to my aid through her father? It would be happiness to know this; but. then—why had she passed me without a greeting? My face must have told a whole story to the shrewd old lawyer. When I turned toward him again there was a very grave expression on his face, and a contemplative look about his sharp eyes as he regarded me. "You seem highly elated by this,"he said. "Oh, I am. What young man would not feel highly honored in knowing that a man of Mr. Morley's standing had defended him?" I exclaimed. The old fellow saw the blush which spread over my face, however, and he smiled as he replied: "I do not court your confidence, but it is plain there is some power behind Mr. Morley which led that gentleman to defend you. Now. believe me, Mr. Conway, I do not ask for curiosity; there is a grave purpose in the question I am about to ask you," he went on, as the smile died from his face and what seemed to me to be deep concern appeared instead. "The ques tion is this: Are you nn especial friend of Miss Morley's? Are you engaged to marry her?" "No. But, had the suspicion of the robbery not fallen upon me, I probably would have asked her to be my wife long before now," I replied, rather won dering at myself for telling this to the old fellow 011 so short an acquaintance. "Ah, she loves you, then?" "That I cannot say. I believe she did think very highly of me at one time; but I promised not to hold any com munication with her until my inno cence was known. It is a year since then. Whether her feeling for me has changed or not I do not know." "You hava kept your promise, then?" "Why, certainly!" I answered, with some indignation at the implied doubt of me. "Now about the investigation you de sire to engage in," Sonntag said, changing the subject rather abruptly. "What do you propose to do? How go about it?" "Oh, hire some smart detective," I replied. "I suppose that will be the only way. What else can I do?" "Do you think the bank officials have done nothing? Do you think you could find any shrewder detectives than have undoubtedly been working on the case? If the bank with all its tremendous re sources has not succeeded in running the robbers down, how can you expect to succeed when your limited means would make your search merely a superficial one?" "But, heavens, man! what am I to do? Carry this load to the grave? Why, Mr. Sonntag, this suspicion of me, you can not imagine what a horrible thing it is, how it darkens my life!" I exclaimed, in bitterness of spirit, as I realized how hopeless my case seemed. "You have been patient so long\inder your trouble, a little more endurance will not hurt you," Sonntag said, in answer to my despairing words. "You'll come out of it all with fly ing colors some day. Now it may not look so to you, but to me it appears that you have done a great deal your self, in the investigations which no doubt are still in progress." "How can that loe? I have done noth ing." "And that is exactly what I mean. That very course seems to me to be a great feature in the search, though you cannot see it in that light." Sonn tag smiled in a knowing way. "In what respect lias my supineness aided the case?" I asked, curiously. "By allowing the real perpetrators of the crime to feel secure in their posi tion, knowing as they probably do that you are still the only suspected party." I was much impressed by the old fel low's words. "You ought to have been a detective," I remarked, at which he turned his sharp glance toward me and answered: "Yes, I might have done something in that line. But I prefer a quiet life." Sonntag followed me out to the bug gy. 1 took up the lines, but a thought occurred to me, and I delayed my de parture to voice it. "Do you know Mr. Morley?" I asked. "No, I do not," was Sonntag's answer. "Then where did you get your in formation about that gentleman's de fense of me?" "Oh, such news gets out sometimes. Still, I don't mind telling you. It was from Horace Jackson I received the in formation." "From Jackson!" I exclaimed, in sur prise. "You know Jackson, then?" "Yes; merely a speaking acquain tance, though. He comes here quite frequently." "llow can he get away from the bank?" I asked. "He is not employed there now. Jackson has become quite wealthy, at least so he himself says. He has made some big strikes speculating in coal lands. He said he could not afford to devote his time to the bank for a paltry salary when his interests outside had grown so important. So he left about live or six months ago." "Then he did finally fulfill his threat of leaving," I remarked. "He was al ways talking about leaving," 7. con tinued, in explanation. "As he still held onto his position notwithstand ing, it got to be a standing joke in the office about Jackson quitting the job." | "Ah, indeed? He seemed, then, to I desire that every one of his associates CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, APRIL 14. 1898. might expect his leaving nt any time?" remarked the lawyer, with a signifi cance I could not then account for. "I suppose so, or he would not have reiterated his intention so frequently. And he's become rich? No wonder. He told me once he was interested with Mr. Morley in a few business ventures. Well, he's lucky. You'll foe over, then, to-morrow ?" "Yes. Good-day." CHAPTER Yin. When I again passed the depot at Sidington on my way home, there was a lady on horseback talking to the agent. It needed no second glance to tell me it was Florence Morley. Her face was turned toward the fellow, and so she did not see me. I drove along slowly, keeping my eyes upon her, and debat ing in my mind whether I should stop and address her or not It was a strong temptation, and only fear held me back, a cowardly fear too. I doubted how my overtures might be received. I had chosen my course of my own accord and I would follow it. If it was contrary to her wish she would find a way to tell me. After passing the station I my horse to continue at a walk, so that "Ai d what did you auiwerP" Florence must catch up with me if she intended to ride to her home from Sid ington. The resolve to stick to my promise was growing weaker since Sarah's com ment upon it. A word from Florence, I knew, would cause me to break it, and I really was impatient for that word. Soon the sound of approaching hoofs beating the hard road reached me. Nearer it came and nearer, until finally I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of a swaying petticoat. She pulled in her horse to a walk, and then I turned my head and glanced at her. My heart was in my throat when I looked, but the smile that greet ed me dispelled my fears like mist be fore the morning sun. But the smile was not all that told me of her emotion at again meeting me. The deep brown eyes were suffused with tears. With my own heart leaping for joy, I reinea my horse to a stand still. In an instant I was at her side. She extended her hand, and with my assistance sprang lightly to the ground. I took her horse's bridle over my arm and, with the disengaged hand, helped her climb into the buggy. "Tie the horse to the back axle, then come here beside me," were the first words she said. 1 lost no time in obev ing. Imagine, if you please, the over whelming joy to be seated once more beside her who held my whole heart in her keeping. I could not trust myself to speak, and it was she who (began. "Are you not pleased to see me once more, Mr. Conway? Because if you are r.ot, I certainly will not tell you how happy I am in again meeting an old friend." The soft, sweet tones of her voice, which I loved so to hear,- now a tremble to them. 1 glanced at her, and —well, Florence was still my true heart, as she had been throughout, notwith standing my doubt and fear. "The past year has been an eternity to me," I finally said. "And who is to blame for that, I won der? And, too, when was the mystery cleared up, since you are now speaking to me?" she said, with a joyous laugh, which told me as plainly as words could how she had missed me. "It is not cleared up; sometimes I think it never will be. I could not have found fault with you had 3 - ou forgotten me. Will you forgive me when I con fess I was fearful you had?" "No. Ido not think I can quite for give that. What reason had you for mistrusting me?" she earnestly asked. "You passed me this morning, you know, without bowing." "I was so startled, and we had gone by before I realized that it was you who were standing there. That was a slight cause for mistrusting me, sir." "It was and I am very sorry. Indeed, I have been a fool right through the whole affair. I see it now. I had no right to make such a promise." "Well, I do not think you were a fool. But, forgive me, that promise was a foolish one, and —and just a trifle un kind." The tears again started in her eyes, and her voice took on the tremble which went so appealingly to my heart. "Never again will I be so foolish!" I exclaimed. "I will see your father and tell him I have broken my promise, that it was impossible to keep it, and that it its simply absurd to subject us to the misery of a longer separation. Ma - I tell him that? May I speak for both of us?" She hung her head, while the red flush spread over her face. Then she murmured: "Yes, speak for Ibotli of us. Why not, since it is true? Perhaps you'll find father has changed his views a trifle." "Not in hie opinion of my innocence, I hope," I said. "I have been told he strongly objected to rny arrest. And I know whose influence caused him to do so." "Not mine, really," Florence earnest ly replied. "Father believed you were innocent, and took the stand he did for that reason. I did not know about the robbery until after the first meet ing of the trustees. It was at that meeting' that he opposed your arrest. I remember he felt quite triumphant afterward, for most of the trustees in sisted upon your immediate arrest, and it was only after father said that he won Id never consent to it that they gave up the point." "Now that is pleasant to hear," 1 cried, joyfully. "What reason have you to think he has changed his views re garding the promise?" "This morning, after we had passed you, I said: 'That looked like Nelson Conway.' Father laughed at me, and answered that it must have been an hallucination produced by constantly keeping my thoughts upon you." It is impossible to describe the fasci nation of Florence's manner when she told me this—how maidenly basliful ness blended with love's boldness, how the blushes dyed her smooth cheek, while her eyes shone with a confident, happy light. "Then at lunch this noon father asked me if I —l liked you as much as ever. 'Liked' was not the word he used, but never mind, we'll use it now." "And what did you answer?" I asked, eagerly and expectantly. "That not a day went by that I did not think of you. And oh. Nelson," she continued, her voice deep and full in its earnestness, "that was not half the truth. Why should I hesitate to con fess it to you, my dear friend?" Here I made use of my disengaged arm. I could not help it. I drew her closely to me and kissed'her blooming cheek. "I certainly shell not goon if I am in terrupted," Florence said, in gentle re monstrance. "What did you* father say in an swer?" 1 finally asked. "lie said he thought perhaps it was unjust to both of us> to insist on your keeping the promise/' "Did he say that?" 1 exclaimed. "Then Florence—" but really It is enough tosay that the dear girl promised to be my wife, even though the ttuspicion should not be removed from me, providing Mr. Morley's consent could be gained; and she moreover promised to do all she could to help me gain his consent. [TO BE CONTINUED.] ACQUITTED BY THE CROWD. How ft Leadville Juilftf Dodged to Mnkr Voted. Twenty years ago Powers was an. en gine wiper In the shops at Burnham. Hut, losing an arm in a railroad wreck, he was obliged to use his head more anil his limbs less in the business of mak ing a living for himself and little, fam ily. Drifting into Leadville with th<» first tide of fortune hunters. Powers re mained there as long as he could con sistently and until the sheriff took him down to Canyon City to live perma nently, that being considered a health ier climate for a. man of his tempera ment (he had shot and killed his son-in law, Pat Kennedy, in a friendly go-as you-please with Colt's revolvers). But Powers was not nearly so vicious as he looked, and during all of the years that I knew him he had never once killed a man-—a pretty good record for that vicinity. He was always a potent po litical factor, and filled various posi tions of honor and responsibility, from justice of the peace up to policeman and janitor of the courthouse and super intendent of the chain gang. While dealing out justice in tiie old citfy jail, a Missourian was brought before him for a preliminary hearing upon the charge of horse stealing. That was ranked as a capital offense in Leadville in those days, punishable with death. Hut the cuinrit was from Joplin, and had many friends in the camp, albeit the court was crowded with them, all determined, as every fiue Missourian is, to see justice dome. In the midst of the proceedings a stentorian voice was heard in the rear of the room, shouting: "I move, your honor, that the pris oner be discharged!" That was all Powers wanted. Tocon viet the Missourian would have been fatal to his hopes of a reelection, and without waiting for a second to the proposition he put the motion to the: house and declared it carried unani mously, which it was. The court then adjourned to Johnny Shea's, where the friends of tlio vindicated man did the hand-some thing by the judge, the clerk and all of the bystanders.—Denver Times. Gentlemen IA Court. At an assize court the late Justice Maule was engaged in passing sen tence on a prisoner, when one of the officers of the court annoyed him by crossing the gangway beneath him with papers for members of the bar. "Don't you know," cried the judge, se verely addressing the official culprit, "that you ought never to pass between two gentlemen when one of them is addressing the other?" Having thus relieved his mind, the judge proceeded to pass sentence of seven year's' penal servitude on the other gentleman.— Household Words. Hnrd to Plonne. The Mm x people are very plain spoken. Hall Caine, who ia their ac knowledged historian, tells a good story of a grumpy old Methodist woman in the Isle of Man who could never be sat isfied with her preachers. of them, being about to Wave, called to say good by. "Well, good-by," she said, "and God bless ye, and may the Lord send a better man in your place." Next day his successor came to see her. "Well, I hope the Lord has sent a good man," she said, "but there's none so good that comes as them that goes."—Troy Times, -—Every time a woman cleans hotis>" she finds a lot of things she had forgot tern about.—Washington Democrat. FASHION FAVORITES. Varloti* >!«»«!♦•* for tlie l.ittll*** Tliul lluvc* 4 uuulit tin* Popu lar Fancy. Parisians have not yet tired of the combination of red and gray and a biuck skirt. In the autumn it was a hat of red straw, adorned with red tulle, poppies and a few black plumes or wings, and the boa of gray "ostrich feathers was a necessary finish to the costume worn with it. Now there is a cape or eoat of gray astrakhan, or gray faeed cloth, elaborately braided and tiimmed with gray fur, a black skirt and red felt hat, with black plumes. Light-weight white woolen dress fab r'es in fancy weaves are used for debutantes' afternoon and evening g"V\ lis. Russian fronts of pearl and white satin are seen in many blouse jackets .:nd evening gowns. Sailor suits for boys grow 110 less in popular favor, and the only changes are in the modes of decoration and acces sories. An acceptable change can be made by having two vests, one cheviot and one of white pique. The wide collar is cut in sailor fashion in the back, while the front forms re vers, edged and held together by a silken cord. Sets of collar and revers can be bought in many different styles of silk, wash materials or fancy cloths trimmed with braid or embroidery. If a little lad's knickerbockers are not out at the knees nor his jacket worn through at the el bows such a "set" will make his suit appear dressy and fresh. Skirts and blouses of Maderia work are being mounted on colored silk foun dations and are to be worn with silk skirts. The effect is smart, and the fa .hion will probably extend through tl.e warm season. Foreign fashion leaders are wearing large c| uantities of expensive passemen teries, consequently it is a foregone con clusion that the women of this country will adorn their spring con feet ions wi: h j< is. beads and sequins. Overskirts. or the effect of overskirts, are one of the leading skirt modes for the spring. The simulated polonaise formed of trimming looks well in black velvet ribbon. A black grosgrain, garnitured in this way, has three rows of black velvet upon each side of the front breadth, in graduated stripes, the first ending about six inches from the waistline with a rosette; the third still shorter, finished in a similar man ner. A rose-pink cashmere gown for after noon shows a traced design in gilt threads, and is finished with a mink edging on skirt, revers, cuffs and collar. —St. Louis Republic. A RARE WOMAN. Tilt* One (.rent Iti'imnn Why Maurice Loved the l-'nlr Clnrliulu Devotedly. "Clorinda," said Maurice Fitzpatriek, the proud young patrician from Peoria, "I love you." Miss Bull winkle, the beautiful daugh ter of the millionaire butterscotch mak er, staggered back as if she had been struck." "No, no!" s'he cried, "surely you don't mean it!" "Yes," Maurice replied, "it is, alas, too true!" Clorinda Bullwinkle sat down and looked at the flames that were flicker ing up from the gas log. She was in deep thought. For awhile it seemed as if the shock would be t(;&mueh for her; but little by little she recovered her composure, ajid, turning to the hand some young man, at last she asked: "When did you find it out?" He looked at his watch and replied: "Just a little while ago. I have felt symptoms of it for some time, but it didn't break out until this evening. Now I can doubt no longer. Clorinda, I repeat in stentorian tones that 1 love you." "And," she returned, after another thoughtful pause, "can 3011 explain win-? You know lam a materialist. 1 do not accept facts as such. I must first know the underly ing causes. It is not sufficient for me that a bird flies. I must know WII3- it flies. Am I too swift for 3011, Maurice?" "No, darling," he cried, falling upon his knees in front of her, "the clip is none too fast for me. I am in some sense a bird tn3'self. I love you because you are unlike all other women that I have ever known." "It glads 1113' heart," she said, "to hear 3"ou sa3" this; but still there is the old proposition. You sa3' I am uniike all the other women that 3-011 have ever known; 3-et 3-011 do not tell me how or why. Co 011." "The explanation is eas3'," he said. "You have not once explained what 3'ou would do to the Spaniards now if 3011 were a man. Therein 3'ou.are unlike all others of your sex." "Maurice!" she cried, flinging herself into his arms, "it is enough. Where shall we goon our wedding trip?"— Cleveland Leader. Typhoid l'ntlent*. As the result of long-continued and careful experimenting, an eminent phy sician prescribes as n food for typhoid patients bananas hi their perfectly ripe state. 111 severe cases of t3'phoid the lining membrane of the small intestines becomes irritated and inflamed, and finally develops ulcers of various sorts, which throw off coating after coating, leaving the walls of the intestines dan gerously thin. Solid food coming in contact with these delicate spots pro duce a rupture, with the most serious results. The banana, which is almost all nutrition, dissolves, and is largely absorbed before it reaches the inflamed part. The trifling residuum is so fine and pulp-like that no harm comes from it. For this reason, and because the banana has but about five per cent, of •-vaste, it is considered the very best possible food for peaple suffering from this t'ui'ui of disease. —N. • Ledger. 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