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.
fsJtOAjȣK&
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.