6 ' AS YuU AHD I WIL *- BE. Though men may h c- np the dollars up In golden, gleaming piles. Though thi y may bask beneath the light Ot fickle fortune's smiles. Yet, when death beckons unto them, And murmurs: "Come with me," They're just as dead that day. my boy, A* you and 1 will be. The dollars and the joy they bring, The Jewels and the wine, 1 linger ever on this side— >y cannot cross the line. "The poorest, meekest of us all, And he who is most proud. Are on a level, for there are No pockets in a shroud. JJo pockets—for the shrouded has No need of pockets more— But all his deeds—the good and bad— They ail have gone before. And when he fares to heaven's gate Ills future fate to reek. «Tls well, if haply there may be A tear stain on his cheek. *Tls well— for on our balance sheet No dollars have a line. Hut every one of sorrow's tears Like gleaming jewels shine. And all the smiles that we have coaxed To drive out misery Weigh In our favor—when we're dead, As you and 1 will be. —Baltimore American. Copyright, ISM, by J. B. Lippincott Com pany. All rights reserved. CII A PTEIt XL —Continued. "May I ask wliy this extraordinary interest in a private soldier?" The president was smiling, his sad, kind face questioning her closer than his lips alone. She described the scene of her friend's heroism, the quick interest of her hearer revealing the kindly heart within him. "Grand!" lie said, briefly. "I should be glad to see him—but no" —and he turned slightly towards the mass of papers—"the crowd waits." "The man that this soldier saved," she said, simply, "was a—kinsman of mine—one to whom I am greatly in debted." "And is that all?" "That is all," she answered. But un der the playful, mocking gaze of the president she felt her face grow crim son. He smiled and bowed gravely from his chair when he noticed the tell-tale blush. "That is all!" he said. One line tipon a sheet of oflicial paper and the touch of a. handbell, and Frances found her self under the guidance of a messen ger on her way to the war department. At the door of the department she met Raymond Holbin in a new and glitter ing uniform. He was coming out, but, seeing her. stripped in surprise. "You here!" he exclajmed. "Why not?" She gave him but a glance, a sarcastic smile playing about her lips. "It is no place for women; you •hould be at home." "It is no place for men; you should not be at home, Capt. Holbin." An an gry reply arose to his lips, but he checked it. "You know why T am not," he said; **l have been unfairly treated; but <wy the word, and I will go even as a private soldier—if you will prom ise—" "It is immaterial to me whether you go or stay," she said, and passed in. Holbin waited a moment and fol lowed her, keeping out of her sight. "What was it the young woman wanted?" he asked of a clerk ac quaintance, with careless indifference, when she was gone. "An order for the parole of a pris oner and a pass through the lines." As Raymond walked away in deep thought, a messenger pointed him out to a hotel porter, and me latter hand ed him a sealed envelope. Within this was a card bearing the name "Lou ise." CHAPTER XII. When Virginia seceded and her young men rushed to the front, among the first to seek a commission was Raymond Ilolbinv This was in the days when most people believed that the military feature of secession would prove little more than a grand «pectacular demonstration. Gradu ■ates of West Point were at once in great demand, and backed by the Brookin influence Holbin was ap pointed a captain of infantry among the state troops, no search of his rec ord being at the time possible; but when the state transferred her troops to the confederate government, and Holbin sought a colonelcy, advancing in support of his application the fact that he had been an oflicer in the reg ular army, the matchless memory of the southern president recalled his history. Jefferson Davis had been sec retary of war at the time the Holbin ■court-martial was held, and the rec ord coming before him for review, he bad promptly approved the sentence «112 the court. A long struggle to se cure a modification of the sentence had followedi—and in this struggle many politicians had been arrayed by Holbin's mother, but in vain. The »»ntence stood; and these people nev er forgot the issues involved; the Holbins hated Jefferson Davis. The name "Holbin" had clung to the mem ory of the hero of Buena Vista; he declined to appoint Raymond Holbin -or to commission him in any way to command honorable men. The deci sion was in harmony with his devo tion to his principles, a devotion that was destined to make him in the end the most unfortunate of American ttatesinen. This new public reflection upon Hol bin filled him with an ungovernable fage. Had safe opportunity offered, fee would not have hesitated to send ■a bullet through the heart of the man who was responsible for it. Indeed, he armed himself, and for many .mouths was convinced that he uiigrht at jn.r moment be dedicated to the discharge of a patriotic duty. The president of the confederacy walked daily in the presence of death, for fanaticism and desperate men sur rounded him. His safety lay in the fact that he walked in the sunlight, where the results of an attack prom ised never less than life for life. And Raymond Holbin was not the man to barter his away; he bided his time. A far more dangerous enemy was his mother, who numbered official ac quaintances in Washington by the scores, and who knew when and where to plant the deadliest blow. This woman, secure in her social posi tion, displaying by her own efforts and the efforts of her stepdaughter in hospital work devotion to the southern cause, was in secret fast bal ancing accounts with Jefferson Davis. Friends of Raymond liolbin, for he still had a few, with the aid of his mother, secured liim a bomb-proof po sition with a rank of captain; and there he stuck, with ail the time for plotting that might be demanded. What seemed to liolbin an oppor tunity for a sweeping revenge came very unexpectedly. Up to thefi he had been but an instrument in the hands of his mother and that large circle of invisibles known to him who sapped the strength of the confeder acy. Their many interests preceded iiis. The opportunity came through Louise, lie did not dare to disregard her card and responded instantly to her implied command, armed with his old secret and a virtuous indig nation. He had almost forgotten her. A year before, when she had suffi ciently recovered from her illness to permit it, he had sent her north, de ceived by "sacred" pledges, to a new hiding-place. The immediate opening of hostilities had seemed to fix the separation. It had never occurred to him that she would make an effort to cross the lines. The new meeting between Louise and Holbin was marked by a great display of passion on his part; she was calm and collected, a suggestion of reckless ness, however, in her eyes and every movement; her face relentless and white with despair of an abandoned life. For the first time Holbin failed to move her to anger or to tears. "1 came." said she, when his rage had spent itself and in answer to his de spairing offer of money if she would depart, "not because I need your as sistance—that is, your money, for I do not; lam now well supplied." She could not have touched him in a more delicate spot. A swift jealousy, a curi ous indignation, filled him. "Whose money?" he asked, breath lessly. "lie is very- rich, and gives with a lib eral hand when the woman is smart, is able, is fearless, and willing to risk her life at his bidding." It was not the speech, but the cautious glance which involuntarily she gave to her surround ings that awoke a suspicion in his breast. "Louise, you are a —" "Hush! I am a mother robbed of her child; that is explanation enough; for such a woman is capable of any thing. even murder, as you know. Ray mond, where is my daughter?" He looked at her uneasily, and the white feather appeared in spite of his efforts to conceal it. "She is well, and well cared for." "I asked you where, and you have not answered me!" "There is much to be agreed upon be tween us before I tell you that," he said, after a pause, during which he narrowly watched her. He took a seat close beside her and continued in his old confidential, half-appealing way: "Louise, I am ruined, a dis graced man, and ripe for anything that will take me out of this city." lie paused, but she did not answer or seem to hear him, and he added: "My downfall began when I was un true to myself— to you. I have never had a moment's good luck since; everything has gone wrong with me." Still she did not answer him, but her bosom heaved once or twice, and a strange look came into the white face she turned towards him. "I have now no chance on earth except a chance to play for even and quit the country. Louise, if I succeed will you go back with me into the old sweet life? I will be true to you; I will right all of your wrongs— will be a fa ther indeed to your child. Let us go, Louise, out of this wild, heartless country back across the ocean to the little English home, back to our flow ers, back to the old life." He took her hand, and this time she did not withdraw it. "My child," she Baid, almost in audibly, her face lowered and her bosom rising and falling rapidly. "That will be all right—all right. I swear to you she is well and has not forgotten you. She never fails to ask for you, and at night to say her little prayer." A cry burst from the wretched woman. "My baby! My baby!" She sank her face in her hands, then sprang to her feet, "iou deceived me," she said, frantically, beginning to walk the floor, "I cannot—l cannot believe you." "I have no cause to deceive you, Louise—none." He spoke very ten derly; "and I would not if I could— now. This uniform, these shoulder straps, mean nothing in my case but disgrace. I am a stay-at-home. The dullards of my class at West Point are brigadier generals in the field; I am a uniformed clerk." "The woman—?" Louise could not conclude her question. "She will not assent," he said, sav agely; and then quickly, lest a nat ural inference should array her against him again, "I have purposely made myself so obnoxious to her that she would rather be a pauper than share a fortune with me. She has yet" time to decide, for she is not 21; but I know her decision in ad j vance." I"And then?" CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 1901. "Then life with you, Louise our child's happiness provided for. I do not count upon that fortune; the slaves will be free and all valuta up set; land will not be worth much in this state." Louise came close t> him and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "If I could only trust jou," she said, sadly, "all might yet be well, for 1 have a way—" "What do you mean?" She hesi tated and, leaning over, whispered a sentence in his ear. He lifted hit. face quickly. "How much?" "Our own price." "Our own price!" "And revenge, Raymond, revenge for jou." "Revenge?—yes—well said. Xo price could be complete without that. \nd what a revenge! The assassin stabs his f°e and is infamous; the man vho slays his country's foe is a hero. Louise, you have made me happy, »nd you little know how chance has fa vored you. 1 am connected with the war department I have friends around me; and, better, I have my facts in hand." "You w ere planning then, '.00." "I did not know what in jht arise, and 1 was determined to be ready; I was tired of doing the work while eth ers reaped the benefit. But now coaies the greatest difficulty—and that re minds me. How did you get iere through the lines?" "You remember the little farm in which I had only a life interest, the only thing we could not sell? I was warned that it would soon be within the southern lines and was sent there to wait. Jackson's army passed ever it, and I came onto liiehmond and de livered my messages." Holbin was as tounded. "Who do you know here?" She shook her head. "Not a human being beside yourself. I placed my papers in a certain receptacle to which I had been directed. If there is an an swer I shall find it in the same plice at an appointed time." Holbin walked the floor in great excitement. "Iknow both the place and the time," he said; "I took your messages; but there never would have been any an swer except for this meeting. I alone can supply the information which is desired, and I shall not let it go through the usual channel. It is the chance of my life. I have facts that no other human being could have accumu lated, facts of vital importance. My God, Louise! A million dollars is a small price." "Give them to me," she said; "I will deliver them upon one condition." "One condition ? Name it." "The price shall be paid to me." Hol bin stood in deep thought. "Xo," he said, as if dismissing some mental argument, "it is too dangerous a mission for any woman. Capture would mean for you certain death." "My child!" she said, simply; and then: "I shall find a way to get through." "Then make the trip safely, and I swear to you I will surrender the child and come to you, too." "Oh, Raymond, promises, promises! It would be inhuman to deceive me now." "You will control the future if you deliver my information and collect the price." She knew him well enough to understand that this logie with him was conclusive. "Then I go," she said, "but how?" "I shall prepare a way," said Holbin. But when he was gone Louise, free from the influence of his personality, began to feel all her suspicion and dis trust returning. She reviewed calmly but bitterly his life with her; it had been a succession of deceptions and ut terly selfish. She asked herself over and over what recourse would she have if he should slip away and leave her in Richmond, and gradually, as she considered his manner, she became convinced that he intended nothing more or less so far as she was con cerned. The spirit which had sustained her during the past year returned, and she felt herself full of fight. Ex perience had given her better control of her nerves; her life, when away from Holbin, carried a more masculine note; most women who goto school in Washington acquire it. She had come to Richmond with the full intention of seeing Mrs. Brookin, forcing a settle ment of her claims upon Raymond, and securing her child. Of success as to the latter she felt assured; the other was doubtful. In the hour after her last interview with Raymond it came to her as an inspiration that she now had a weapon in her hand that would beat down any guard, pierce any ar mor; for he had admitted his connec tion with the enemy and had a gigantic enterprise afoot. She had but to insist upon a settlement in advance and to threaten; but the pressure upon Ray mond should come from his mother. She therefore determined to carry out her original intention, call on that lady, and have a plain talk. Her sur prise was complete when at the mo ment that decision was reached the card of Mrs. Brookin was brought to her room—complete, because not only was the visit of this lady a most as touishing thing, but upon that card was a sign for which she was instruct ed to look in every instance—two peri ods following the name. The meaning of the two periods was that the visitor had a message to be sent by word of mouth only and that she might be trusted. By what means the visitor knew of her Louise was not informed; but she had been given a name and direct'ed to register under it, and she readily guessed. She at once said, after the formal greetings were over: "I perceive, madam, that your mourning has reached the second pe riod." The visitor moved her chair close and made a statement, carefully Miorded, of considerable length, and this Louise was required to repeat over and over until its main points were fixed in mind. It related to a cabinet meeting of the day before. Mra. Brookin then offered • few commenti upon the weather and the unfortunate war and would have arisen, but Louise detained her. She said, bending over her: "You have a son in the war depart ment who is in great danger, and his indiscretion has endangered you and our whole system—" "Lower! —speak lower, for God's sake!" "He has grossly deceived and wronged a woman named Louise, and has been rash enough to let her into his and your secrets." Mrs. Brookin was almost unable to articulate; the otlier handed her a glass of water. "Where is she —this Louise?" she asked then. "Madam, she stands before you." Louise had then and there a part of her revenge; the elder woman, in spite of all her experience, gave way to a sudden panic. But only a few moments was she absolutely helpless. Habit and the calm face before her restored her presence of mind. [To Be Continued.] IN LOVE, BUT WAS THRIFTY. The Carefnl Young Mm Objected to I'uyliiK the Second Time (or the Ilnnna, The late I'rof. Shuttleworth, of London, was particularly fond of tell ing how, when he once acted as lo cum tenens in Devonshire, he had to proclaim the banns of marriage of a young yokel and a village maid. A fortnight later the young swain called at the professor's lodgings, re lates the London Telegraph. "You put up the banns for me," he said. "Yes, I remember," replied Mr. Shuttleworth. "Well," inquired the yokel, "has it got togo on?" "What do you mean?" the professor. "Are you tired of thegirls?" "Xo," was the unexpected answer, "but I like her sister better." "Oh, if tne original girl doesn't mind, you can marry her sister." "But should I have to be 'called' again?" "Certainly, that's necessary," an swered Mr. Shuttleworth. "But should I have to pay again?" "Yes, it would cost you three and sixpence." "Oh, would it?" rejoined the yokel, after reflection. "Then I'll let it re main as it is," and he did. Too Smnrt an Uncle, To measure all things by the lit tle yardstick of our own experience is a most unsympathetic and some times unkind method. Forward tells of a small boy who pronounced judgment upon this peculiarity of his elders. "I caught him all myself, mother, I did!" lie cried. "A big fellow, so long!" The eager little hands measured an uncertain length, that might have belonged to anything from a minnow to a good-sized trout, and then the boy trotted away to recount his ex ploit to a neighbor. He came back very quietly. "What did Uncle Gray say?" the mother asked. "Oh, he said he'd caught lots bigger'n that. I guess everything was bigger when he was a boy, but I wish he didn't always 'member it. When I show him my long lessons he says he used to have longer ones, and when I do lots of work he tells me hrmv he did more when he was like me. I wish," said Davy, reflectively, "he'd left a few big things for me to have all to myself, 'cause, you see, I didn't live when he was a boy!" The Straight Ticket. The professor's ej-es twinkled above his evening paper. "My dear," he said to his wife, "I fear that habit is stronger than principle with you suffragists." "What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Professor. "Why, here is an item from a western paper which asserts that after a recent local election in Col orado, where, as you know, equal suffrage rights prevail, the tellers found a dozen or more cookery reci pes in a ballot box." "They were voted by mistake, I'm sure!" returned Mrs. Professor, stoutly. "They ought to count just the same. Tuesday is an awfully busy day, anyway. And I am just as sure as I care to be that when men first began togo to the polls they made mistakes in the ticket, too!" The professor's eyes twinkled be hind his paper, but he replied, with the perfect gravity of one who has been thrice refined in domestic fires: "Without doubt, my dear."—Youth's Companion. Aiding and Abetting-. A cheap-jack Leeds butcher brought his cart to a standstill in Lady Lane. An old woman looked with longing eyes at the pile of bones and gristle which the butcher loftily referred to as "joints" and "steaks," but was evidently very poor indeed, for she hesitated to pay threepence for a scaleful of "selected bits.'* " 'Ere, have 'em at tuppence,'' growled the butcher. "It's too much," said the woman. " 'Ave 'em at a penny." Still the woman hesitated. There was a look of pity, mixed with disgust, on his face as he mur mured pathetically: "Still too much? 'Ere, 'ang it, I'll turn my back while you sneak 'em!" —London Answers. Hard on Papa. Fond Mother—Beautiful silk dress es, Johnny, come from a poor, insig nificant worm. Johnny—Yes, I know, mamma Tapa is the worm, ain't he?— Moon shine. UNIQUE PHILANTHROPY. Mrs. Smith, AVlfe of Cnllforn ia'» "llorux Kine," ExprrtH <0 Adopt u Hundred Ciit-I*. The responsibility of rearing 100 daughters and starting them all prop erly in life is one that would cause most mothers to shudder. Yet that is what Mrs. F. M. Smith, of Oakland, Cal., is going l to take upon herself. She is going to adopt 100 poor girls and rear them as tenderly as the fond est mother would her best loved child. Mrs. Smith is the wife of the man who is known throughout the country as the "borax king." He controls the entire borax trade of America and is rated in California as a multi-million aire. It is the money made from borax that will permit Mrs. Smith to care for 100 girls, some of them hardly more than toddling babies, from now up to the time when they are young women and go away to firesides of their own or to the life work which they shall select. 15ut if any of them should not marry or would not show any inclination to take up a profes sion, why, then they will do just as any daughter of any ordinary family would do —simply stay at home and live her own life in her own way. Mrs. Smith is not going to adopt her hundred girls for any certain period of years, to be sent away at the end of that time, regardless of whether they want togo or are pre pared togo or not. The home which Mrs. Smith will provide for these homeless girls is to be a home in fact, and the girls are to be taught to regard it as such. Mrs. Smith's hundred daughters will live in ten houses, ten girls to each house, on a 35-acre tract of land, near Arbor villa, Mrs. Smith's home in Oak land. The first of the ten houses is already being built, and work on the others will begin at once. The girls are to have every oppor tunity to learn all that they wish. They will goto the public schools and attend church. Every effort will be made to equip them with a prac tical education, as well as the ac complishments that an ambitious girl naturally craves. Each girl will be permitted to fol low her own particular bent. Those who wish to attend the university after completing the work of the graded schools can do so, and those who wish to become milliners, dress makers, or follow any other trade or profession will be given every facility for doing so. But think of becoming foster-moth er to more than eight dozen girls. Think of the cares of teaching eight SOMK OP MRS. SMITH S WARDS. dozen daughters to sew and to cook and to be nice, sweet little girls and keep their little noses clean. Think of the ice cream they will eat, and the shoes and the dresses they will wear. Think of two dozen daughters with the toothache and a dozen more with colds in the head. Think of the time when they are sweet sixteen and be come acquainted with the boys from the university. Think of the moon light nights and the ten porches of ten cottages on which are sitting eight dozen daughters with twelve dozen callow-headed young men, who part their hair in the middle and thrum guitars and sing the "Spanish Cavalier." This is where the borax king will find that he is a foster-father, and if it devolves on him to send all those callow youths home at ten o'clock he will find life extremely strenuous. But Mrs. Smith, says the Chicago Tribune, has no thought of the many cares and worries that her foster daughters may cause her. She believes that she is putting her money to the best use possible and there are few who will quarrel with her on this point. The Ilnlr In Hot Wenthpr. Oil the head at night three times weekly. On the following day wash with soap and water, rinse and expose to the sun's heat for as many hours as possible. Let the sun fall on the scalp. It in not necessary to expose the entire ecalp at one time. One part, may be shielded while another is bavin# its sun bath. Few people are aware that by a skillful use of the comb severe strain-litness can be remedied. It is difficult to convey in words (\ correct idea of the necessary motion of the hand. It resembles that employed in whisking an egg into r. frothy state. The comb is moved rapidly and very lightly, with the result that the hair assumes a fluffy condition. But this is merely temporary. J BREAKFAST XN NAPLES. Vender* of Hot Client n lit*, IlollttA Corn nnd Coffee Ilemler (he Housewife'* liife ICasy. A paper by Mary Scott-lTda, withi drawings from photographs by Henry Hutt, brings clearly before tin* reader of the Century certain phases of Ital ian life. In the "short and simple annals of the poor" in Naples there is nogetting up and lighting the lire to cook the family breakfast. The wayfarer ar riving on an early train, or the reveler returning from some gay ball at dawn,, sees the first movement of the im mense wheel of human appetite, in the shape of a dismal-looking creature muffled in a ragged overcoat and shuf- SELLKK OF HOT FIELD CORN. fling sluggishly from door to door of the opening bassi, or ground floor shops and tenements. He carries a long-handled iron pan half filled with smoldering charcoal, whereupon sim mers a quaint copper pot full of a mix ture that purports to be coffee. This compound, which he duly administers to his clientele, is the sober Neapoli tan "eye-opener." Well-sweetened and well warmed, it costs only one cent, anil is the beverage of the early risers; of hackinen returning from the night's chill station, of watchmen making their last rounds, of workmen shaking off the lethargy of insufficient sleep, of women half poisoned by the night's rest in houses devoid of ventilation. Very soon the air becomes vocal with the characteristic calls of the break fast venders, "llot, hot, and big as ap ples!" shout the sellers of peeled chest nuts. These are boiled in huge cald rons in a reddish broth of their own. making, which is further seasoned with laurel leaves and caraway seed. Acent'sworth of the steamingkernels, each of which is as big as a large Eng lish walnut, is a nourishing diet that warms the lingers and comforts tha stomach of troops of children on their way to school, or rather to cooperative creches, or nurseries, where one poor woman, for a cent a day each, takes care of the babies of a score of others who must leave them behind to earn the day's living. Meantime dignified cows pass by "with measured tread and slow," shak ing their heavy bells and followed by their beguiled offspring, whose busi ness it is to make them "give down** their milk at the opportune moment, and to let the milkman take it. Noth ing can be funnier than this struggle between the legitimate owner, the calf, and the wily subtractor of the lacteal treasure. Although tied to his moth er's horns by a rcpe long enough to reach and even lick her bag. but not to get any satisfaction out of it, his bo vine wit is often sharp enough to give the slip to the noose and elude the vigi lance of the keeper, occupied, perhaps, for the moment, in quarreling with some saucy maid servant over the quantity of milk to be paid for. "fhe scene which ensues is worthy of the cinematograph. As a sequel, calfy's tail is nearly pulled off, but he has spoiled the oppressor's game for one day, anyhow. Striking Color Combination. This season sees one of the strangest color combinations and odd mingling of fabrics that Dame Fashion has ever given a suffering feminine world. Thus, red and pink are frequently em ployed together. Heather or helio trope are considered to harmonize well with Nile, willow or lime green. The palest possible blue contrasts with peach blossoms, while two or even three different shades of gray or brown nre often mingled in the sam« costume, not as regards the trimming, but the material of the dress itself. Another rather peculiar "melange" is very pal* blue and bright scarlet or crimson.—Chicago Ameri ca if. Veil* Are Gutns Out. Lace veils have no longer the vogue which a few seasons ago gaves them. It is noticeable that the wear ing of veils is not what it once was. This is due partly to the constant teaching of fashionable hygienic ex perts, who claim that the toft film drawn over the face tends to clog the pores, interfere with circulation and eventually dim the clearness of the complexion. Four Matrimonial Fallnre*. Marriage has proved a sad failure to George W. Anderson, who, after marrying 17 wives and deserting them all, now finds himself, at the age of 08, in a West Virginia poorhouse. His last bride he won and married after a courtship of two days. She was * rather giddy maiden of 74.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers