6 REST AND WORK. Where 1B rest? In what Isles of the eum mer-gind seas? Xn what gardens of balm? "Neath what sleep-drooping trees? By what still-llowing waters, what lily fringed streams? In what meadows of silence, what valleys c# dreams? •Neath what tluindorless skies, by what hillsides of sleep.' On what moon-lighted mountain, or star lighttd deep? Xes, where on the earth's or the ocean's wide breast Is the home of release and the harbor of , rest? Why. here in the corn field—and take up your hoe! Right here in this mill—make Its wheels onward go! Itlght here with your engine—up steam and away! Bight here with your sewing machine every day— Where there's work, there Is rest, and It's nowhere beside. Though you travel all lands and you sail every tide. ■Where is rest? Goto work, and your spirit renew, JFor no man can rest who has nothing to do. —Sam Walter Foss, In Christian Endeavor World. Copyright, 1899, by J. B. Lipplncott Com pany. All rights reserved. CHAPTER VX.— CONTINUED. ' "God has arranged it for us," he said, « glad note in his voice. "I have found you without seeking; I have looked into your face without knowing—why —what is it?" The girl had drawn be yond the reach of the arms stretched out towards her and was sadly shak ing her head. "What does it mean?" she said, in fear, her voice trembling. "Why are you here in that uniform?" "Upon a mission requiring the ut most secrecy, Frances; discovery would cost me my life! I shall ex plain—" "A spy! You a spy! Ah, I can believe «11 the other things now—they told me only the truth!" She began to wring lier hands; but, suddenly drawing up her slender figure, she said: "Capt. Somers, leave these premises «t once—and Richmond, or —yes, even I—will give you up to the law." He saw her mistake, but he was as proud. "You condemn me without a hear ing." "Your uniform, your presence in this •city condemn you!" "Xo Sorners was ever a spy. I have risked my life to help a dying \voman," lie said, quietly. "I came here to see a man named Raymond Holbin." "Raymond! What of him?" "You know him, then?" "Yes! Yes! He is here —in this Siouse!" "Take him my message, and we part ■for all time, Frances; tell him that lonise is dying—tell him to come here tome —" "Louise! Oh, sir—wait! Will you not tell me who is Louise?" "A lovable woman whose life has been a failure. It was she who fired the shot that night—not at me who once loved her, but at Holbin, as she thought, the man who had brought her nothing but sorrow." Amazed and dumb, Frances was re garding him with questioning eyes. "And the child ?" she began, weakly. "Ah, there is the most pitiable part of it. Holbin has never married Lou ise." The girl covered her face an in stant. "Forgive me," she said. "I wronged you—niy friend." "You do not say my husband. So let it be." "I cannot," she answered, in great distress, "when I think of my poor boys dying aud dead all around me! some day when it is all over, perhaps;— but not now, not now! Rut oh, sir," she exclaimed, looking in terror about her, "come inside, come in; the danger is frightful." Somers drew himself up and saluted. "Kindly deliver my message. I shall vait here." "You must not—you shall not! Quick, sir, into my room." "It is the room of a young girl," he said; "if I am discovered there the life that I lose is nothing compared to her loss!" A struggle was going on in her heart. Her face was white, and a wan smile dwelt upon it. "It is your wife's room," she said, "and you will be safe there." lie took the hand, touched his lips to it, and suffered her to lead him in. Above their heads, a woman, hearing every word, leaned out a moment. The upward glare of the swinging lamp lit up her face, savage in its vindictive joy. As Richard Somers entered' the room the woman overhead closed the blinds gently. The floor she traversed gave no warning to those below. CHAPTER XVI. The woman who leaned from the upper window of the wing of the Brook in residence that June night in 1862 was the ever-cautious mother scanning the outward route chosen for her son, ■who at that moment was in his room concluding his arrangements for a per ilous enterprise. The tiirfe had arrived when Raymond Holbin was to risk his future upon one bold stroke. If he failed, he was no worse off than at the moment, unJ*ss, indeed, he should be captured, jfrth the Brookiu fortune dissipated by war, ilichmond presented but few attrac tions for him. If lie succeeded in all i'liat his busy mind had planned, life iield for him Frances, revenge and wealth. The cause for hesitancy lay in the possibility of detention and dis covery; for although the papers which be so highly valued were, as he sup posed, unintelligible to any mind other than his own, he was a confederate of ficer, and deoertiott meant death, lit had secured three weeks' leave togo south upon urgent business, but this did not alter his liability. What passed through the mind of this man as he sat in his room that night may be imag ined. It may be assumed that he thought of Louise, who with bogus dis patches in her saddle pockets and false ly informed had gone to her death upon that distant road. Holbin had actually ridden nearly to the point with her; had ridden until warned. He had waited when she left him until the fatal volley was fired, and then, terri fied, fled home and took refuge in his room. His mother, cool and unflinch ing, had sought him there, a mute question upon her pale face, and he had roughly, fiercely ordered her away. For, let justice be done him, he had this time in his weakness executed the dictates of a stronger will than his own. He had not intended to be fair with Louise; he had intended to desert her again, and leave her to find her way out of Richmond as best she might, and he did not then intend to return; but the murder was not a part of his plan. He was unnerved and unfit for the Enterprise which now m»»nt so much for him. Arrayed in the worn uniform of a federal prisoner, his papers and pass safe within his beast-pocket, hU horse concealed in the garden, Ray mond had been on the point of ventur ing forth when a sergeant reached the house with an official communication requiring an answer. The soldier stood at the front door, and with prompt decision the woman who left the rear window hurried to that point. "Quick!" she said; "run around to the side gate and come to the wing room. A Yankee spy is there. Kill him if he attempts to escape. A thou sand dollars if you kill or capture him." The soldier ran, cocking his gun as he entered the side gate. The mother went at once to her son's room. She met William, who was bringing an an swer to the soldier's letter. "Yes'm, he's in es room," he saW. The light in her son's room shone through the transom. There was no time to explain to Raymond. Know ing his violent and excitable nature, and remembering his disguise, which he might forget if there was an alarm below, she noiselessly turned the key in his door and glided onto her room. But Raymond had left his room imme diately after handing William the note, and was already approaching Frances' room bolow. As he passed the hall en trance, the door leading from the apartment into the garden opened and husband and wife entered. With aery of amazement he rushed into the room, drawing his sword as he entered. "Who are you, sir?—why are you in this room?" he asked, angrily. Somers drew his sword instantly and con fronted him. Holbin had paused and was staring wildly. "Richard Somers!" "Yes!" Somers gently put aside the slender form which instantly inter posed between him and the man he had sought. His eyes scanned the familiar uniform of his old enemy in doubt. "Speak out, sir!" "Spare your voice, Raymond nolbin. I came with a message for you. Louise is dying in my camp; I was unable to resist her prayer. She implores you to goto her to right her wrongs, for her child's sake. Go, if you are a man, and can; let this marriage take place; do something for the miserable woman whom you have so deceived." "She was not killed, then!" "She is dying!" said Somers, shocked and sickened at the matter-of-fact [fljDifl/ En K INfl© i itH BLIND, ALMOST, WITH BAGE, SOM EBS BUSHED UPON HIS ENEMY. question. "Did you suppose that she was dead?" "Yes. She Insisted upon trying to run the gantlet." A light dawned upon Somers. A cry of horror escaped him, and all the old enmity for the man came rushing over him again. "You encouraged her! You knew she was going to her death! You sent her under a false promise—her statement! Frances, Frances, out of this room! God has sent me to avenge Louise. Madman, murderer, we settle many debts to-day." Blind, almost, with his rage, Sotners rushed upon his enemy. Their swords clashed as, facing each other, .the two men circled about the room. Then Holbin's sword went down. With incredible quickness he avoided the thrust which was almost a part of the disarming*blow, rushed to the casement window, leaped into it, and burst open the blinds. His hand thrust in his bosom quickly reached backward; a pistol flashed. At this in stant the sergeant rushed into the room, saw the blue uniform escaping through the window, and the extended pistol. He leveled his gun and fired. The man in the window reeled back and plunged headlong into the room. "It couldn't be helped, captain," said the soldier,lowering his weapon. "Once outside he would have given us a long chase. Did he hit you?" Well might he ask the question. Capt. Somers was deathly pale as he looked upon the body of his foe. "Xo," he said, utterly at a loss to un derstand the situation. Frances, in the moment of the tragedy, reeled against the wall, sick and faint, but the CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, AUGUST i, 1901. instinct of a woman whose loved one is in danger Instantly rallied her to her senses. She was the first to realize the full significance of the soldier's action. "You have saved our lives," she said, weakly; "any reward you may claim is yours. The man was evidently a spy." Her hospital experience and familiar ity with tragedies had served her well. But the strain was fearful, and she cov ered her eyes again. Brief as was the respite for Somers, it was sufficient. Passing his arm around her, he urged her out of the room. "Three minutes keep everybody out for three minutes, and I am safe," he whispered. .White as a ghost, but brave, she took her stand at the foot of the stair and waited. Somers returned and bent above the figure of his enemy, his mind at work. The reference by Louise to the dis patches, the blue uniform, the horse tied in the yard, the hour, and the character of the man aroused a multi tude of suspicions. • From the pocket he drew a sealed packet and a folded paper, the latter a pass through the lines. There was no time for an ex amination of the package; the soldier, leaning upon his gun, was waiting. Promotion for Somers was in sight; but he had entered the room with an avowal that he could not disregard. "Sergeant," he said, "take this to the war department; it will bring you pro motion, I think. The honor is yours." "But, captain, it was you who really did the work. Were you after him?" "Yes," said Somers, slowly, "I was looking for the man and had reason to suppose that he was on these premises. I came into find him. He evidently en tered this room in—desperation! Uo at once, sergeant, and send an am bulance. What f#unily lives here?" He asked the question in support of his character as a stranger. "Capt. Holbin's, sir! He is up stairs." Full of the importance of his secret, the soldier hurried away. Somers passed through the hall and out through the other door into the gar den, lifting his hand towards Frances. Steps were approaching the stairway; she passed quickly to the outside and found him waiting. "They will find him in the uniform of his country's enemy," he said, "and the papers from his pockets will prove liim a spy. lam unknown. The soldier w ill say that a confederate officer pursued the guilty man until he took refuge here, and disappeared." The girl stood mute and silent before him. "Farewell, Frances," he said. "Farewell, sir." He looked at her a moment in doubt, and in silence left her. When he glanced back over his shoulder he saw her white form still motionless under the tree. A horse near him whickered inquiringly; he untied him and rode out. As he ap proached the gate a shriek reached him from the wing-rooin, and turning he spurred back again, Frances was re entering the room. "Wait!" he cried in agony—"Wait!" ne threw himself from his horse and was instantly at her side. "Frances, Frances, is it thus we part? Think what it means! Will you not give me one word?" She turned slowly and wearily upon the step. "There is nothing to say but 'fare well.' If I were a mother, and my son came to me as an enemy of Virginia, I should say the same to him." "You do not love me, then," he said, bitterly; "love forgets, forgives every thing!" She lifted her face, white with , an unspeakable suffering. "Father in Heaven, Thou knowest my heart! Thou knowest how I have atoned to my own people for him; how for him I have ministered to my enemies—Thou knowest, Thou know est! And now," she said, sobbingly, "my heart breaks —I am weak! Will you not go? A mother is in this room with her dead!" "To-morrow begins a bloody strug gle; and I would wish to carry with me into eternity, if I perish, one kiss from the woman I love —my wife! Will you refuse me that?" She cov ered her face with her hands; then suddenly she threw har arms about him, her lips to his. He held her a moment, white and silent. Pushing him from her, she turned to enter the house, but sank upon her knees, lean ing her head against the door. Bend ing over, he laid his lips in one long kiss upon her curls, and in silence left her. CHAPTER XVIT. Richard Somers did not need his pass that morning, nor have to ex plain why he, if a paroled prisoner, was wearing the uniform of a confed erate officer. That uniform was his salvation in his wild ride upon th? crowded road, for aides and couriers were rushing to and fro and no one questioned him. Day was breaking as he neared the front, and the tu mult of a great battle surrounded him. He passed cavalry, moving in fantry and artillery, and was soon swallowed up in the confusion. He had no knowledge of the topography of the country; there was no chance to use a pass in that mass of con fused men—he could oniy move for ward with the host. An officer, rein ing up violently by his side, gave him an order to carry to a struggling line that, half enveloped in its own smoke, reeled back in front of a wooded slope on wliicu some guns were being han dled desperately, and on that slight eminence as he approached in a mad gallop he saw at intervals the familiar stars and stripes. He passed the con federate iine, at that moment badly broken, its officers riding as madly as he up and down it in an endeavor to rally it, and seeing here his only chance of escape, took it. Burying his heels in the flanks of tlie terrified animal he bestrode, he headed straight for the battery. He swung back in the saddle as though endeav oring to stop a runaway horse. A little thicket screened him for one iuetant, and emerging beyond that, he lifted his handkerchief In the air, waved it and with the speed of th« wind swept on into the lines of blue. Strong hands seized the bridle; and then a cheer went up from the bat tery. Col. Somers was with his own again. Somewhere in the records of tha government is told how one battery, the focus of artillery and infantry, held back for hours the tide of bat tle that day; somewhere are preserved the names of those who fell, and of the few who, at last, with despairing strength dragged back the guns that had not been dismounted, and saved them from capture; but no official record preserves the picture of a wrecked and half demolished cottage by the roadside, the body of a frail child dead in the arms of a dead woman visible through the shattered timbers. The picture lives to-day only in the memory of a soldier, wlio, standing before it a moment under the bursting shells of that June morning, covered his eyes and mur mured a prayer. To this same place in the after years came one day in June a man and woman who tenderly laid flow ers upon a grave beneath the one cedar which had escaped the battle's wrath. A slender shaft of marble stood above the grave, and upon it was carved the name of the dead woman who slept beneath. By the grave a rose-vine was growing. Its upward branches clung to the tree and let fall long streamers of white blossoms, peace banners, in the breeze. "I planted it here when 1 gave the place to the boy who brought you through the lines to me that night, Dick. It is a Lamarque, too. I want ed her to share the white rose with me —to sleep peacefully under it al ways. For somehow, Dick, I have al ways felt that once you loved her, and that you loved me at first be cause she had taught you how to love." She lifted her blue-gray eyes and rested them upon the manly face of her companion; a tender light was gleaming in their misty depths. "And I am glad, my husband, that her brief life was blessed even for a little while with'the worship of a brave gentleman's heart." He drew her to wards him, and her face grew radiant against his breast. "God bless them both, mother and child!" he said, gently; "and God bless you, Frances, my wife!' THE END. A PROFLIGATE KING. Milan of Servla AV'nn n Itnd Man, a 11(1(1 Father and an Abomina ble lluitband. Few even of the wisest precepts bear universal application, and that de inortuis would debar some of the de funct from any sort of recognition. The best we can say of King Milan of Servia is that the rascal possessed a persuasive tongue, says the London Saturday Review. One day when a mob was howling for his blood outside the Konak at Belgrade, he came out upon the balcony amid a pandemoni um of groans, but before the lapse of many minutes all were listening to his language with rapt attention, and soon his peroration was the signal for wild applause. He was a bad king, a bad man, a bad father, and an abom inable husband, and we can only plead for him that an evil nature and a shameful education were accentuated by the blackest misfortune. To the in nermost recesses of his soul—if indeed such a being could claim a soul—llo was a gambler, and he slaked his throne, his reputation, and the regard of his friends as lightly as the hard earned dinars extorted from a long suffering peasantry. The demon of ill-fortune pursued him everywhere, as it has the habit of pursuing un skillful players. Yet never surely did any man receive greater indulgence or deserve it less. Defeated by the Turks, he was rewarded by his people with kingship and by Europe with a province; exhibiting gross cowardice at Slivnitsa, he retained the devotion and confidence of his nrmy; outraging his saintly queen with physical cru elties and open insults, he found her everready to forgive; bought off again and again by an impoverished ex chequer, he could always count upon the charity of the subjects he had be trayed. Smart Lunatic. Although this anecdote from Short Stories is so good as to suggest the hard writing which makes easy read ing, we all know that for unexpected ind splendid intervals of lucidity the unbalanced mind cannot be surpassed. Horace Mann, the famous educator, was sitting one evening in his study when an insane man rushed into the room and challenged him to fight. "My dear fellow," replied Mr. Mann, "it would give me great pleasure to accommodate you, but I can't do it, the odds are so unfair. I am a Mann by name a man by nature, two against one! It would never do to fight." "Oh, come ahead!" the insane man answered. "I am a man and a man besid.e myself. Let us four have a fight." Called to Preach. The old negro was working in tha cotton field one hot day in July. Suddenly he stopped and looking to ward the sky, he exclaimed: "O Lawd, de cotton am so grassy, de wuk am so hard, an' de sun am so hot, dat 1 b'lieve dis darky am called to preach!"—Booker T. Washington, in Outlook. The Unnal Result. Drummer — What was the effect of the bifr Temperance agitation here last week? Landlord (of Pettyville tavern) —Aw, several persons who had never drank in their lives were persuaded tq >wt« iSt —Judge. v j CARDINALS AT ROME. Have Singular Privileges and Rules for Their Conduct. Alwayn I)rci»« In Red and ntlquett* Dora Sot Allow Them to Walk— llie Sacred College and How It la Constituted. While in Rome etiquette does not allow a cardinal to walk. He must have a carriage and pair. When he goes out beyond the city walls an at tendant follows him. Going to a pub lic ceremony at the Vatican he is en titled to a gala train of three car riages, and if a prince to four. In the pope's chapel the cardinals kneel at the benches on which they sit. They wear at ceremonial func tions a cassock with a train of cloth in winter and of moire in summer. Jollars, shoes and stockings are red. The girdlh is of red moire with gold tassels, the rochet of lace and the mo zetta the same as the cassock. In I Rome the rochet is covered with a red ; mantelletta; outside the city it is un covered. The hat is red felt with gold tassels. The cardinals di curia, or those re siding in Rome, are entitled to a year ly income, or piatto cardinalizio of 32,000 lire—about $6,400 —which is paid out of the ePter's pence. The cardinal dwelling ordinarily has these special apartments: At .the entrance is an antechamber for the domestics. Above a credence are the arms of the , cardinal under a canopy. On the wall 'are suspended his two kneeling cush ions, one of red and the other of violet silk, and his two umbrellas of the same colors. These last are for cov ering him when he is making a solemn entry into a church or following the viaticum bareheaded. The second room is for the cardinal's secretary. The third is called the antechamber of the biretta, because the red biretta is placed there on a console before a crucifix. Then comes the throneroom. When a cardinal asserts that the pope has said this or that, or has given such an order, he must be believed on his word without being obliged to CARDINAL VANNfTELLI. (The Most Popular Member of the "Sacred College.") prove it. This is called the oruculum rivae vocis. Cardinals should be 30 years of age. Mgr. Martinelli will be one of the youngest members of the college. He is now 53. Cardinal Skebensky, arch aishop of Prague, is the youngest, be ing only 38. Cardinal Yives y Tuto somes next. He is 47. Then Mgr. Martinelli fits in, says the Baltimore Sun. When the sacred college is complete there are 70 cardinals, namely six bishops, 50 priests and 14 deacon 3. Cardinals of a lower order have, with the consent of the pope, the right of jption to pass to a higher order. The Seacons can chose the vacant places of the cardinal priests if they have been deacons for ten years, and have ' been ordained to the priesthood. The | senior cardinal priest present in ' Rome when one of the six bishoprics ! falls vacant has the option to succeed ! to it, with the exception of the sees ■ of Ostia and of Porto, which are re served for the dean and the subdean lof the sacred college. The dean is • the senior cardinal, dating from his promotion to one of the sees. There are now 67 cardinals —40 Ital ians and 27 of other nationalities. It is said that Pope Leo XIII. desires always to have the membership near the plenum, or limit, and that he said just before making out the recent list of 12 new cardinals: "Better that there should be as many as possible to choose from in the next conclave." Pope Pius IX., having had the longest reign, created the most cardinals, 179; Pope Leo XIII. has buried 136 cardinals since he began his pontificate. Besides Cardinal Martinelli seven other cardinals have had to do with the church of North America. They are Cardinal Cheverus, the first bishop of Boston; Cardinal McCloskey, arch bishop of New York; Cardinal Gib bons, of Baltimore; Cardinal Tascher eau, of Quebec; Cardinal Perisco, bish op of Savannah; Cardinal Mazzella, the Jesuit theologian and professor at the college at Woodstock, Md., and Cardinal Satolli, former delegate to the United States. Of these cardinals Cheverus, Perisco and Mazzella had left this country before they were created cardinals. nebnUe to Stlnicr Employer*. Judge Danforth, of Maine, believes that a fair salary tends to keep a man honest. Lately, in speaking of a con victed bank cashier, he said: "I wish that the law permitted me to send with the accused every one of the bank directors who, through a long term of years, expected you to do your work, live respectably, bring up a large fam ily and be honest —all on a salary ot |6O" a year." FUNSTON TO RESIGN. Man Who Cnptnred Affnlnaldo Will Uuit the Army (or Prolitnbio Commercial Work, Army officers returning 1 from tha Philippines report that Gen. Fred Funston expects to tender his resig nation as brigadier general in the regular establishment and engage in private business. He is quoted as having said as soon as all active mili tary operations in the islands cease he will give up his place in the army and will represent a large commer cial concern which has made him a handsome offer for his services. His resignation is expected to be forth coming before October. The report that the Kansan would resign was BRIG. GEN. FRED FUNSTON. (Will Leave the Army Soon to Engage In Commercial Work.) thoroughly discussed by officers at tbe war department, and while no one seemed to have any direct infor mation concerning his intentions tha statement that he would leave the army was generally accepted as true. People in Washington who knovr Funston say that he is not by nature adnpted to the routine of a military part in times of peace and that his spirit of daring and enterprise will lead him into other fields. Officers who have returned within the past few days said he did not ex pect the promotion that resulted from his capture of Aguinaldo and that when he was shown the cable gram from the war department an nouncing his appointment as a briga dier general he expressed astonish ment that his exploit should have led the president to accord him such recognition. At that time, it is said, he was making arrangements to get out of the army, his intention then being to accept a proposition of a large business concern to represent it in the Philippines. The promotion for the time being, of course, divert ed his attention from such plans. The offer is said to have been re newed since, and as it would bring him a much larger salary than that of brigadier it is understood he haa almost decided to accept it. BRAVE CAVALRY HORSE. Its Memory HHN .Just Been Perpetu ated by the Erection of a Monu ment in Ohio. Survivors of the Twelfth Ohio cav alry have unveiled a monument erected over the grave of "Frank," a veteran war horse connected with that regi ment during the rebellion. Frank was a thoroughbred Ken tucky colt, five years old when he en tered the service 36 years ago. Fleet of foot, strong of limb, and with the splen did endurance of the true thorough j. /M;' FRANK A 3- MR THE WAR HORSCSA ;?#/., 0,A.12 REG.O.C/A-I P' ED IBaa A.2QY;\\ m AIL.TO Trtl IN HONOR OF FRANK. (Monument Erected in Memory of Famoui Ohio War Horse.) bred, he soon earned for his rider, Abe Conger, of company A, the distinction of being frequently detailed for spe cial service. Several extraordinary marches of over SO miles a day are placed to his credit, but the event which most endeared him to the hearts of the troop was his being a participant in the capture of Jefferson Davis. During the term of his service he acquired a wonderful veneration for his country's flag and many are the pa thetic stories told in this connection. It is the special pride of Capt. Harter to relate that one day when a flag was being raised at a schoolhouse near the field in which Frank was grazing h# jumped the fence as soon as he saw it and stood beneath its waving fold* until it was removed at night. The monument, which is on Capt. Barter's farm at Upper Sandusky, is a single bowlder, extremely hard and red and gray in color, with sharply cut facets which sparkle and glisten in the sunlight as it beams upon the spot which will long be venerated in honor of one of man's best friends and an influential factor in the making of his tory. I'nele Snin'n Penny Coinage. Last year the United States coined 08,540,243 cents, which sounds hir. but it is less than ft penny apiec*.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers