6 The Mystery OF Carney-Croft By JOSEPH BROWN COOKE «*prrt(ht. I HUT. br atorrl'rtM Corporation.) CHAPTER XVl.—Continued. She leaned forward weeping bitter ly, and I said nothing until she began to control herself once more and choke down her sobs in an effort to ■peak again. Then I said gently: "Don't say anything more about it sow, Miss Weston. I am sure you will do what is best, and though I am ut terly at a loss to know what you mean, t am, of course, willing to wait A reasonable time until you are able to ttell me. I will trust you without question, and in every way, but you will understand that we both owe it to Miss Carney to do away with all this mystery as soon as we can. It is spoiling her pleasure in life and ruin ing her property, too, and, as her friends, we must not let it continue if wa can possibly put a stop to it." yes, I know," she said, "but we foustn't stop it now. It's too soon, Mr. Ware, and if Florence should learn the truth now it would break her heart." "Why, what do you mean?" I ex claimed. "You surely do not expect me to bplieve that this affair could affect Miss Carney in any way, do you?" "Yes," she moaned, rocking back and forth in her seat and speaking with difficulty, "it would affect her and all of us here, but me, most of all, Mr. Ware; me, most of all. When the time oomcs it will be easier for everybody, hut nothing can be done now, or things will be even worse than they are. Oh, I do wish I could tell you what little 1 know about it, Mr. Ware, but I cannot, and I know that you will trust me for a few days anyway." I walked slowly with her back to the house, and, when dinner time came and she sent down her excuses, I learned that no one in the house was aware that she had been ont during the day. Miss Carney looked pale and care worn and said that she had spent the best part of the afternoon lying down and nursing a severe headache. Mrs. Randolph seemed reticent and de pressed and the meal passed off slow ly and without incident. When we rose from the table I had formulated a plan •which, I thought, might relieve the situation somewhat and, apprising no one of my purpose, I set out in the direction of the Widow Bruce's cottage. It waa my intention to put the matter squarely before her and ask her, not necessarily an ex planation of affairs, but a friendly co operation with me in putting an end to the annoyances she had been caus ing. I had not formed a bad opinion of the woman from her appearance, and the new turn things had taken made me wonder if she. like Miss Weston, might not have been drawn into this business unwillingly and in all innocence. More over, I was convinced that matters were far from being as tragic as Miss Weston, in her hysterical emotion, would have me believe, for I could not conceive how a staid, respectable place like Carney-Croft could, by any pos sibility, be drawn into an affair that might not be satisfactorily explained in one way or another. fn a word, I had no doubt that a quiet, good-natured talk with Mrs. Bruce would accomplish all that I could wish, and I was prepared to of fer her money or any other induce ment that she might name if she would let the matter drop. I confess that my curiosity was greatly excited, hut I was willing to forego all knowl edge of the underlying facts in the ease if the Bruce woman and the rest <it them would only depart and leave us in peace. I approached the cottage from the rear, coming down by a short cut through the fields, and as I turned the corner of the house by the open sitting-room windows I heard a wom an's voice sob out: "Oh, I must! I must, Mrs. Bruce! I «annot live unless I do!" Mrs. Bruce made some reply In a gentle, soothing tone of wonderful sweetness, and then she emerged from door of the cottage with her arm affectionately around the waist of Annie Weston, who was weeping as if her heart would break. The two passed on down the little gravel walk toward the gate, while Mrs. Bruce continued to pour words of comfort into the ear of the agonized girl; and I turned and retraced my steps to the house that I might, be there before Miss Weston ar rived. CHAPTER XVII. A Vale of Tears. By walking rapidly and taking the short path over the hill, I was able to reach the house several minutes be 'fore Miss Weston, and just in time to see Miss Carney come out of the door and poer into the darkness in a timid, hesitating way. '"Oh, it's you, Mr. Ware," she ex claimed, wilh a nervous little laugh. **l am so glad. I couldn't see who it was at first, and I'm in such a fidgety state to-iiiglit that I am almost ready to start at my own shadow." She came down the steps and stood by my side, while the light from the open doorway streamed out and touched her face so softly that it poised in the surrounding darkness like some faint, angelic picture ideal ized by a master's hand. "I came out to try and find Annie," she went on, "she does not answer when I rap at her door and I thought she might be here. My! what was that?" she gasped, coming closer to me and grasping my arm. It was only an owl far away In the timberland and, when I told her, she laughed quietly but almost hysterical ly, and still clung to my side while we listened to the weird, unearthly sound that was wafted again and again to our ears from out of the blackness of the opposite river bank. She shivered slightly and I said: "You are cold, Miss Carney. Le me get you a wrap, and then, won't you take a little walk? There's a chill in the air to-night and the exercise will do you good." She made no reply, but looked at me gratefully, as if I had done bor some great service. There was a warm woolen golf cape just inside the door, and, snatching it up, I hastened back and threw it over her shoulders, clasping it myself at her throat while she drew her hands under it and nestled comfortably in its generous folds. We turned and walked slowly down the path under the stars, away from the house and with our backs to the road along which I knew Miss Weston would pass in another minute. After a few moment's silence, broken only by the drowsy splashing of the river and the cheerful, friend ly hum of the insect bands that make half the charm of an October night. Miss Carney .said, with a contented little shrug: IIS Walked Mile 9 and Miles. "Oil, how delightfully warm and comfortable this cloak is, Mr. Ware. You always seem to know exactly what I need, for I am not nervous any more and I really believe it was nothing but the cold after all. We mustn't go far, for I ought to be looking for Annie this very minute. We can turn at the tennis court, can't we?" "Whenever you wish," I said, with an effort, for I was becoming intoxi cated with the glory of her presence and her slightest hint served me as a command. "J really must not stay a minute longer," she murmured, almost apolo getically. "Annie has had such a hard day of it and I must see If there is any thing she wants. I suppose she is asleep and did not hear me tap, for I've looked everywhere for her and was just going back to her room when I saw you come out of the night like a —like —a —Oh! I mustn't say ghost, Mr. Ware! It's no longer a joke, is it?" We had stopped at a little rustic ar bor by the side of the walk and my hand rested on the trellis in front of Miss Carney. She did not speak, and I thought she was laughing softly to herself when suddenly she leaned for ward and a hot tear fell on my wrist and was followed by another and an other as she gave up entirely and choked with convulsive sobs. "Why, you mustn't do this!" I ex claimed, solicitously, laying my hand instinctively on her arm and then drawing it away in a guilty fashion. "You are completely unstrung, Carney. The day has been too much or you, and you need rest and quiet. Shall we go back into the house?" "Not yet," she sobbed. "Not yet, Mr. Ware. I must not go until I have con trol of myself again. Oh, it is aw ful —awful! I don't know what I shall do!" "Why, what is it?" I asked anxious ly, as 1 stood helplessly by her side. "You surely haven't let this little af CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THLfcR»SDtAY, JULY iB, 1907. fair of the morning take such a hold of you?" "Oh. 110 —no —no —" sho moaned. "I am going to tell you In a moment, just as soon as I can talk coherently. You will forgive me, won't you, Mr. \7\re, but there is no one else to whom I can go, and yet I seem to do nothing but take up your time with my trials and worriments." I led her out into the path again, thinking she would grow calmer as we walked, and she said no more until we were nearing the house, when she resumed in a plaintive* tone, broken occasionally by a half-suppress ed sob: "It's about Annie, Mr. Ware, and I did not tell you at first, for I thought I could see her myself and find out what it all meant. Ever since this morning she has been walking up and down her room crying and sobbing, and this afternoon I heard her say such dreadful things that I almost feared for her reason." "What did she say?" I asked gently. "Oh, I hardly know," she went on, "but she seemed to be calling upon heaven to forgive her for some dread ful sin that she had committed, and she was so wrapped up in her anguish that even my knocks at the door made no impression upon her. Then she would grow more calm and only sob and moan for a time, but soon those awful words would come again and it seemed as if she would go mad. She has always been subject to occasional attacks of melancholy and when I would try to learn the cause of her trouble she would put it off as a mere fit of the blues. "You don't mind my telling you all this, do you, Mr. Ware, for you have always helped me out of every diffi culty, and it is second nature for me to turn to you now. At first I thought I could straighten it out myself, but she wouldn't even let me see her, and then, Mr. Ware, since dinner I have not heard a sound from her room and can get no response when I rap. IX you know," she whispered, touching my arm in a frightened way and shud dering as the spoke, "I can hardly bring myself to say it, but I —I —al- most fear she has taken her life!" Her eyes filled with tears again, and I lost no time in saying, reassur ingly: "You mustn't take such a gloomy view of it, Miss Carney. There's noth ing to worry about, I am sure, and as to Miss Weston's having taken her life I can promise you most positively that she not only has done nothing of the sort, but that no such idea has ever entered her mind." "I knew you would cheer me up as you have always done," she exclaimed gratefully, "but how can you be so cer tain about Annie, Mr. Ware? Remem ber, you don't know her as well as I do." "Look!" I replied, pointing to a win dow of Miss Weston's room, and there, in the full glow of the lamp within, she sat at a table writing rapidly Miss Carney gave a glad little cry and started away toward the house, but turned in an instant and extended her hand, saying: "You have cheered me up, Mr. Ware, just as I knew you would. Thank you so much, and —good night." As her hand lay in mine she turned it until its back was uppermost and then raised it slightly. I had already been sorely tempted, but this was more than I could bear, and, bending forward, I touched It. s.'shtly aasl rev erently with my Hps. "Good night," she repeated, softly, "and thank you again." I watched her until she had disap peared into thr« house and then 1 turned and walked miles and miles over the deserted country roads, my head bowed down and tny mind nearly dazed. When I returned to the house the cold gray morning light was breaking in thf eastern sky. (TO BE CONTINUED. MADE A NEW FASHION. Good Joke Played in Old Days on Would-Be Fashionable. Old Camden, In his "Remains," tells a good story of a trick played by a knight upon a would-be fashionable shoemaker. Sir Philip Calthrop purged John Drakes, the shoemaker of Norwich in the time of King Henry VIII., of the proud humor which our people have to be of the gentlemen's cut. This knight bought as much fine French tawny cloth as Bhould make him a gown, and sent it to the tailor's to be made. John Drakes, a shoe maker, coming to this tailor's and see ing the knight's gown cloth lying there, bid the tailor buy cloth of the same price and pattern and make it of the same fashion as the knight's. Not long after the knight, coming in to the tailor to be measured for his gown, and perceiving the like cloth lying there, asked whose it was. "John Drakes', the shoemaker, who will have it made of the self-same fashion that yours is made of." "Then make mine as full of cuts as the shears will make It!" John Drakes had no time togo for his gown till Christmas day, when he meant to wear it. Pergeiving the same to be full of cuts, he began to swear at the tailor. "I have done naught but what you bid me," quoth the tailor, "for as Sir Philip Calthrop's garment is, even so have I made yours." "By my latehet!" quoth John Drakes, "I will never wear gentlemen's fashions again!"— London T. P.'s Weekly. LIFE INSURANCE A SACRED TRUST. Responsibilities of Officers and Di rectors. Evidently President Kingsley of the New York Life Insurance company has learned the great lesson of the times with respect to the responsibil ity and duty of directors of corpora tions. Speaking to the new board of trustees, on the occasion of his elec tion to the presidency, he emphasized the fact that "life insurance is more than a private business, that life in surance trustees are public servants, charged at once with the obligations of public service and with the respon sibilities that attach to a going busi ness which at the same time must be administered as a trust." He also realizes that similar respon sibilities rest upon the officers of the company. "I understand," he says, "your anxiety in selecting the men who are day by day to carry this bur den for you, who are to discharge this trust in your behalf, who are to ad minister for the benefit of the people involved the multitudinous and exact ing details to which it is impossible for you to give personal attention. My long connection with the New York Life—covering nearly twenty years— my service in about every branch of the company's working organization, gives me, as I believe, a profound ap preciation, not merely of the heavy burden you have placed on my shoul ders, but of the standards of efficiency, the standards of faith, the standards of integrity, which must be main tained at all times by the man who serves you and the policyholders in this high office." Best of all, perhaps, he feels that words are cheap, and that the public will be satisfied with nothing short of performance. "My thanks, therefore," he continues, "for an honor which out ranks any distinction within the reach of my ambition, cannot be expressed in words; they must be read out of the record I make day by day." "Soap Bubble Hanging from a Reed." Our life is but a soap bubble hang ing from a reed; it is formed, expands to its full size, clothes itself with the loveliest colors of the prism, and even escapes at moments from the law of gravitation; but soon the black speck appears in it and the globe of emerald and gold vanishes into space, leaving behind it nothing but a simple drop of turbid water. All the poets have made this comparison, it is so strik ing and so true. To appear, to shine, to disappear; to be born, to suffer and to die; is it not the whole sum of life, for a butterfly, for a nation, for a star? —Henry Frederic Amiel. The Psychological Moment. The fact that Priam was closeted with the adjuster did not prevent Cas sandra from dropping into say that she had told him just how It would be. "She was all I saved," murmured the burnt-out monarch, jerking his thumb at the retiring prophetess. "Say no more," rejoined the other. "We'll call the loss total, and if I could make it any more than that, old man, I'd do it, under the circumstances." This incident shows the value of a word spoken at the right time. —Puck. Full Particulars Wanted. When the nurse brought the cheer ing news to Toperton recently that he had just become the father of triplets, he betrayed no particular satisfaction. "Boys?" he growlingly queried. "Only one boy, sir." "Well," said Toperton, "goon; don't keep me in suspense. One boy—what are the others?" —Sketchy Bits. Parental Advice. "Father, 1 am thinking of getting married." "All right, my son, but remember that love is not everything. Taka care to select a wife who will support you in the style to which you have al ways been accustomed, or you run the risk of being very unhappy and may bo of having togo to work yourself." It takes almost as many tailors to make a man as it takes collectors to Induce him to pay for the job. fsJtOAj»£K& CARE OF THE GRINDSTONE. A Good Way to True It Before Sharp ening the Tools. Every farmer knows that a grind stone will wear unevenly. In sharpen ing mower knives, the edges are liable to be worn down and unless the stone is of first class quality, it will also wear like the eccentric on an engine. Comparatively few grindstones are in good working order. A new stone, while it may be of good quality, is frequently hung so it will not run "true" so that the longer it is used the worse it gets. When a stone gets this way it can be made perfectly cir cular by trimming it down with a burr Rig For Making a Grindstone True. pick or even a good cold-chisel will do. It is very difficult to do by hand, but a device, such as is shown in the accompanying illustration, will be found very convenient for this use. A little post can be fixed to the end of the grindstone with a slit in the upper part, into which a piece of hard wood is fastened, long enough to reach to the other end of the frame. This should be made of two-inch stuff, a little wider than the stone. An open ing is made in this piece, the width of the stone, to insert the cold chisel or mill pick which is wedged in the same way that a plane chisel is set. At the opposite end of the frame, explains The Farmer, another post is bolted on that has a series of holes so that it can be raised or lowered ac cording to the unevenness of the stone. It would be well to put a rivet at each side of the chisel to prevent it from splitting out. A weight of some kind, fastened to the piece back of the chisel so as to make it bear on the stone, will be all that is needed. The stone can then be turned slowly until the uneven parts are cut away. Water should be used on the stone while it is being turned. POINTS FOR THE FARMER. Turn a few shotes into that old orchard and let them cultivate it. Spray the melon, cucumber and to mato vines thoroughly every ton days with bordeaux mixture to prevent blight and rot. Oat hay cannot be made hap hazard. There is a time when oats may be cut so that the straw and grain together make a valuable feed. In fertilizing the orchard aim to use a manure not too rich in nitrogen. When an excess of nitrogen is used you obtain a vigorous succculent growth that is easily injured. If your barn cellar has been smell ing bad this winter, now is the time to clean it. Let it dry out thoroughly this summer and provide drains so that it will be kept from becoming wet again. When meadows yield only a small amount of hay it frequently pays to turn them up and cultivate them for two or three years. Manuring some times does not help matters. The soil needs turning up, so that the sunlight can sweeten it. On land too wet for cultivation alsike clover will often make fine crops. Plow it when in good condi tion, sow about four pounds of seed per acre and harrow lightly both ways to cover the seed and smooth the ground. Alsike clover will stand a good deal of moisture. Function of Phosphorus. Phosphorus, in the form of phos phates, is found in all parts of the plant, but tends to accumulate in the upper parts of the stem and leaves, and particularly in the seed Its func tion is apparently to aid in the pro duction and transportation of the pro tein. It also seems to aid the assimi lation of the other plane food ele ments. An insufficient supply of phosphoric acid always results in a poorly developed plant and particu larly in a porv yield of shrunken grain. Nitrogen forces lehf and stem growth and phosphoric acid hastens maturity.—Prof. 11. Harcourt. Timothy Soil. Timothy does best on rich loams, with a moderate supply of moisture. It is a mistake to sqw timothy on low, wet lands, where red-top or meadow foxtail would do better. Meadow lands need cultivating. Use a sharp tooth harrow or disc early in the spring and go at it as if you intended to seed the field fresh. Then seed lightly and harrow well. That is aii the cultivation necessary, but it will do wonders in Increasing the Uaj crop. THE BEST HE COULD GET. Amateur Gardener Could Not Under* stand Why Seeds Did Not Sprout The woes of the amateur gardener are very amusing to others, but de cidedly rea! to the man who haa spoiled a suit of clothes, blistered his hands and lost his temper in his ef forts to make things grow. A young man, recently married, early In the spring secured a sub urban place, mainly with the Idea of "fresh, home-grown vegetables.' Every evening he would hurry through his supper and rush out to his garden, where he displayed more energy than skill. But, alas! When many little green things began to break the ground in his neighbors' gardens, his own remained as bare as the Sahara. "It certainly has got me beat," he confided to a friend at his office one day."l can't understand why not a blessed thing has come up. I planted peas and corn and tomatoes." "Perhaps the seed were refective," the friend suggested. "I hardly think it was that," th« gardener replied, "for I got the very best —paid 15 cents a can for them." THERE IS A REASON. The Medical Times Explains Why Doctors Oppose Patent Medicines. The Medioal Times for April in a moment of frankness explains the whole opposition of physicians to "pat ent" medicines which are taken with out a prescription, in the following words: "We will hardly repeat here the specific statement to the effect that in one year $62,000,000 has been ex pended on patent medicines in the United States. Enough to give every practitioner in the country a yearly income of $2,000. In the face of such facts as these, all talk of love of hu manity, altruism, self-abnegation and the like becomes cheap and nauseat ing. It appears to us that such bun combe should give place to homely common sense." Reliable authority states that the gross amount of the "patent" medi cine business is about $40,000,000 in stead of $02,000,000 but taking the Medical Times' figures as correct they represent an outlay of considerably less than $1 per capita for home medi cation. The cost of doctors' fees ex clusive of medicines except such aa are dispensed for the same period, probably was approximately $230,000,- 000. This is reached by allowing an average income of $2,000 to each of the 115,000 physicians in the United States. Even allowing that a gross business of $62,000,000 is to be divid ed between 115,000 physicians the in come of each would not be increased more than $540. PRIVILEGES OF A GENTLEMAN. Youngster Probably Will Change Ideas in Course of Time. There is a small boy in this town, says the Baltimore American, the son of a rather distinguished lawyer, who has decided opinions on what constitutes true aristocracy. One day recently a friend called upon his mother, and, while waiting for the hostess, was entertained by the small boy. "What are you going to do when you grow up?" was the stereotyped question she propounded in the effort to start the conversation. "Oh, I am going to smoke." "Yes?" "And chew." "Oh!" "And gamble." "Indeed!" "And swear." "Really!" "And drink corn whisky." "And why are you going to do such things?" asked the visitor aghast. "Ob, all southern gentlemen do them." Collieries Under the Sea. At Cape Breton there are immenss colleries being worked under the ocean. These submarine mines cover a thousand acres, and are being in creased steadily. The mines are en tered at the shore, and the operators follow the vein beneath the water for more than a mile. It might be ex pected that the weight of the water would force its way into the mine. The bed of the ocean is as tight as a cement cistern. A sort of fireclay lines the submarine roof of the mine, and the sediment above is held in place and packed down by the water pressure until there is not a crevic® nor a drop of water from overhead. The Royal Road. Struggling Author —Why, De Poesy, how prosperous you look! Was your last book of poems a success? De Posey—No-o, can't say that it was. "Published a popular novel, per haps?" "No." "Ah, then you have written a play. I have always held that play writing, while not the highest form of art, was nevertheless —" "I have written no play." "You haven't? Where did these fine clothes come from? How did you pay for that handsome turnout?" "I have abandoned literature and am peddling clams." —N. Y. Weekly. Why "Kangaroo." "Kangaroo" is a queer word. It means "I don't understand" in the tongue of the Australian aborigines. When this strange animal was first beheld by Europeans they inquired of the aborigines "What is its name?" And the puzzled reply gave the animal its name.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers