/ 93355595555 IN THE. 2PO393329203952 y Ls Ee I Bs Se I Bo EI Bs Bs oo Bs Bs Bs Bo 2s Bs Bs Bs SEES SSEESEEEesssssssss . The girl lightly swungherself down from her pony and ran forward. The man was _lying close tothe trail, his white face turned upward, his arms stretched out. As the girl knelt be- side him a strand of her black hair fell from beneath her soft, gray hat and touched his face. He twitched his eyes open. For a moment he was bewildered. Then he slowly smiled. “Howdy, lady?” he hoarsely said. The girl drew back. “Ain't you got any sense?” she brusquely asked. “Very little,” he lazily answered. “What's the new proof?” “Lyin’ out here in th’ sun,” she said. “Come, lift yourself. Here, hook onto this.” And she gave him her hand. He was weak and limp, and for a + moment he tottered, but she held to him firmly. ; “Wobbly,” he said, with a quick smile. “Get your bearings,” ed. “Straighten up. arag!” “A mere frazzle,” he smilingly add- ed. “The next puff of wigd may be expected to flutter me along and hang me on the nearest bush.” “Cut out th’ poetry,” said the girl, she command- My, but you’re ~ “and brace up. Can you walk now?” He tested his feet carefully. “They seem to be dependable,” he replied. “Whither away, fair lady?” “Drop it,” said the girl sharply. *No foolishness. I'm neither fair nor 2 lady.” She pulled up the straying strand of her hair.as she spoke and tucked it under her hat. His smiling eyes movements. “I'm a sick man,” he said; ‘“‘an ab- Ject example of masculine helpless- ness. Sick men must be permitted to babble. Even at the risk of incurring your displeasure I shall allude to You as a Diana of the plains.” “Plain enough, heaven knows,” said the girl. “But there, th’ sun has got into your think box. You’ll be seein’ things an’ screechin’ next. Come.” He leaned on her heavily as they moved toward the pony. And the ef- fort caused him to cough feebly. “I don’t know what's come over e,”” he faintly said. ty fit this morning.” “It’s th’ sleepin’ in th’ sun at noon- day. I tell you,” said the girl sharp- ly. “Nobody but a tenderfoot would do a fool thing like that. Kin you bold on to th’ pony?” “I think so,” he replied. “I’ve held on to bigger ones. But where are you taking me, Diana?” “My name is plain Anna,” said the girl brusquely. “I'm takin’ you down to our ranch. . Th’ cabin is beyond th’ elump o’ trees yonder on th’ creek, I live there with Uncle Jim. Let me help you.” She got Lim balanced on the saddle and led the pony down the trail and across the lowlands to thecreek. Pres- ently they came in sight of the cabin, a half bungalow affair, with wide porches, and flowers and climbing vines all about it, and with the creek ~—quite a wide and noisy stream— splashing along 100 feet away. The girl helped the stranger down and led him to the porch and put him in a big, clumsy rocker with many eushions, and ran and fetched him a drink. He sipped the contents of the glass slowly. “I thought I was going to faint,” he said presently. “That was the reason I didn’t have more to say to you. I'm usually pretty gabby. It’s fine here.” He looked around with an approv- ing smile. The girl whistled to the pony Any the latter trotted around the bushes and disappeared behind the house. Then she took a seat on. ,the single step of the porch. “You from th’ East?” she asked. “Boston.” “Doctor sent you out here, of eourse?”’ . “Yes. He gave me up, all right. Baid Southern California was my only hope. I came out more to cblige him than anything else.”” . “Come alone?” “Yes. » No folks?” “Mother. She's abrozt.” | *Where are you stoppin’?” “ “Los Angeles. I'm in a sanitarium there. Pon’t like it. It’s lonesome, Been there a week. Don’t sleep well. Made up my mind to run away this morning. Boarded a train. Got off at second station. Wandered up and ~ down and fell asleep.” Then you came.” He told this in a series of little gasps and the girl studied his face while she listened. “How old are you?” she abruptly asked. How George Verner Found Found Health and a Wife in Southern California. W. BR. ROSE, in Cleveland Plain Dealer. Lon followed her. “I seemed pret- OPEN. Ean ae Sie fa en en ao fm am eS “Thirty-four.” “You're young yet.” He knew what she meant. “Oh, well,” he smilingly answered, “I’ve seen almost everything worth seeing and I'm pretty tired .° it all.” - She shook her head. Sh. was con- sidering. “What you want is to live out in the open,” she said. “Some do get well, you know. There was a girl come down here from Sacramento. Pretty far gone, too. She was th’ daughter of an old friend of Uncle Jim’s. We put up a tent for her out there yonder by th’ old redwood—an’ there she stayed. That was five year g0 — I was just fo'teen — an’ she’s livin’ yet-—married an’ a mother. She sends me a present every Christmas, an’ some day she’s comin’ here for a “visit an’ she’s goin’ to bring th’ kids.” The man in the big chair leaned back with an air of profound satisfac- tion. “This is fine,” he said, with a little sigh. ““There’s a healing tonic in this breeze and there's soothing music in your voice. Life seems a rather pleas- ant condition just at this momeat.” - And then a little paroxysm of coughing seized him and he struggled for breath. The girl's face was full of pity. “You say you’re all alone.” “Yes,” he gasped. “Mother far away?’ “Yes “That’s pretty bad. You may be thirty-four, but you seem like a boy. How would that idea of the tent out there suit you?” “It’s a great idea,” he eagerly said. “It fascinates me. I can pay for everything, you understand. By Jove, this is awfully good of you! But can you arrange it?’ She nodded. “There is only Uncle Jim,” she an- swered, ‘an’ he does whatever I ask Lim. He is getting a little old an’ th’ rheumatism is botherin’ him, an’ he can’t get around much, an’ so I inow he’ll be glad to have you near by.” “I'll pay well for all the bother I make,” said the stranger in the same eager tone. “We’ll see about that later,” said & Town: What shall I do? I do this? all your acts and ail the powers of concentrated Wealth, Fate, Bad Luck, Enemies, Chiggers, Hook-worms and Unkind Gods cannot prevent you from winning for yourself Permanent and Increasing Success. Happiness.—Thomas Dreier. “You won't make much bother—you don’t look that kind. An’ there’ll be plenty of help. There's Uncle Jim an’ me, an’ Marie, that’s our cook, an’ Jose an’ Felipe an’ Mar- | lo — they're th’ Mexican boys that work on th’ ranch. be altcgether lonesome.” “And when can I come?” “Just as scon as you like.” “To-morrow?” “Yes.” “By Jove, I feel better and stronger already! I'm absorbing something helpful by just looking at you. your pardon—what am I to call you! “My name is Anna.” “And mine is George.” The girl arose. “I am going to get you somethin’ to eat,” she said. ‘‘An’ when you go back to th’ city this afternoon Jose shall go with you. He has business there an’ is a bright boy. He’ll see about your baggage for you an’ come back with you when you're ready. You must excuse me now, George.” ‘Yes, Anna.” He laughed suddenlyand the breeze lightly rufled his hair and the song of the creek was like a lullaby in his ears. the girl. tray he was fast asleep, the smile still on his white face. little table. “Poor tenderfoot,” she murmured. in foreign parts. sorry.” and waited for him to awake. Twenty-four hours later George itation. It had a board floor, and sides that ‘would roll up and a place comfortable cot. ““She’s a very capable girl,” he said. “There ain’t any more 50,’ the ¢ld man. I beg; For a time the invalid seemed sto | me. Nobody ever was quite so kind improve a little. He was happy in his new way of living, for the benefit and pleasure of life in the open strongly appealed to him. But nothing pleased him better than to get out some favorite book and read it aloud to the girl. He had to read carefully to avoid hoarseness, but his voice grew stronger in time. Anna was a rapt listener, and what seemed very strange to him, she loved the authors he loved—and Robert Louis Stevenson more especially. ‘‘He was a ‘lunger,” too,” George explained, “and always frail and deli- cate — yet full of hopefulness and helpfulness. But the darkness fell on him at last; fell on him at a time when he could have still done much for: the world he loved so dearly. Why, what’s the matter?” For the girl had suddenly risen pod gone away sobbing. George Verner stared after her. “I must be more careful,” he said. “But it was strange for her to take it that way.” : So the girl and the invalid became very good friends. ing, so gentle, so thoughtful. “I don’t see how I can ever pay you for all this care,” he told her one day. ‘“As long as you can read those sto- ries to me,” the girl responded, “I won’t worry you for any balance on account. Trouble is they a‘n 't going to last much longer.” George Verner laughed. He could laugh now without coughing. “There are lots of other bouks,” he answered. “I have but to wave my magic pen and lo! thew will appear! Next week we will roll up our sleeves and tackle Dickens. You will like Dickens, gentle Anna.” She suddenly frowned. “I don’t like the name you just called me,” she said. ‘I'm not gen- tle. I'm just Anna.” And she went away in the abrupt fashion with which he was beginning to be familiar. : George Verner had been living in the open for four months and he was none the worse for his experience. In fact he seemed a little improved. Then one day he was much worse. The change couldn’t be explained. Jose was hurried to Los Angeles with directions to rush back with a doctor. The doctor came and looked dt George and slowly shook his head. “Speak up,” whispered George, “but not too loud. I have faced this thing so long that it has lost the pow- er to scare me.’ “Then,” said the doctor, “this ols like the last call. Of course we can't tell. You may rally. I'll do what- ever science can suggest. But it The Waster Otostions. ~ EFORE performing any act, great or small, ask yourself = these questions and you will find in your hands the Master Keys that will give you entrance into Success Why should I do this? ‘When shall I do this?. How shall Have a good reason for And success is only another name for would be wise for you to set your house in order.” That afternoon George Verner looked up and asked Anna, who was sitting by the cot, to call her uncle. So Anna brought him in and they "Tain’t as if you'd sat by George's side, and for a mo- i ment there was a little silence. When the girl came out bearing a “Now, friends,” said George, “I've got a little deal to propose to you, and, of course, you are going to let me have my way about it — you wouldn't think of opposing me now. That’s out of the question.” He paused and caught his breath. “Give me my own time about this. I'll get somewhere presently. In the first place, I am George Verner, of Bos- ton—and nothing else to boast of. I am quite alone in the world, save for my mother, who is now somewhere in Italy, I fancy, with my new stepfath- er. I have some roperty—property that my mother will never need. ' She is a wealthy woman and has married a very wealthy man. There is quite a lot of this property, all in good shape. The inventory is with the letters and other documents in the package yon- der. You are to take charge of all those papers, Anna, wnen—when it is necessary. There is a letter there for my lawyer and another for my mother.” | “All alone an’ with his mother away | It makes me plumb through, and I'll do the rest of my for his books and his clothes, and a ' have all that’s mine. ’ declared | comfortable. “Don’ t,”” said Anna very softly, and She put the tray down softly on a turned away her head. George reached out suddenly and caught her hand. : “Stay here,” he said. “I'm almost talking to Uncle Jim. Now, see here, And she seated herself on the step Uncle Jim, I want to do a square deed | before I say quit. I've led a pretty careless end selfish life, and it does Verner was settled in his canvas hab- | me good to think that I've got this chance, Uncle Jim, Anna here. Listen. I want to marry I ‘want her to I want to make her comfortable for life, and give her the power to make others about her To marry her will sim- plify everything. She's been good to % She was so will- and thoughtful. And you see it’s just a mere form—but a necessary one.” “No, no,” murmured the girl. “I'm going to leave the arrange- ments to you, Uncle Jim—only they must be hurried. And now, Anna, girl, you won’t oppose me, I'm sure. You’ve humored me all through—you must humor me in this. Make it as soon as possible—just as soon as pos- sible. And now let me rest.” Uncle Jim arose slowly, but the girl suddenly slipped to her knees beside the cot and put the wasted fingers to her lips, then drew away with a sud- den sob. This time it was a clergyman that Jose brought, and in the little tent he married the weeping girl to the sorely stricken stranger. “Just a sick man’s whim, reverend sir,” George murmured with a brave smile, “and yet one of the worthiest acts he has ever done. Your hand and my thanks, good.sir. And your hand, Uncle Jim. And now yours, Anna.” . He looked up in her face with a bright smile and then the heavy eye- lids dreoped and he fell Bglespnis hand held fast in the girl’s. He was sleeping quietly the tot morning and did not awaken until af- ternoon. “What!” here?” | And he lay there a long time with his eyes half closed. “I believe I'm much better,” he suddenly said. And from that moment he began to mend. The doctor, being duly sent for, was amazed, but did what he could to conceal the fact. “Science doesn’t recognize mira- cles,” he said, after he had examined George very carefully, “but I'll admit this is a pretty close imitation of the old fashioned brand. I'm ready to predict now that you are good for a bunch of years. You’ll never be strong, but with reasonable care you should outlive many stronger men.” So George Verner continued to mend, but not a word sald he of that strange marriage. But one day he showed Uncle Jim a carefully pre- pared paper. “That’s a settlement for Anna,” he said. “It’s half I've got.” The old man shook his head. ‘She won’t touch it,” he said. So the weeks passed away, and George slowly improved, and Anna was still the helpful Anna of cld, but no word was uttered by either con- cerning that strange rite within the tent. And then one bright afternoon a surprising thing happened. A lady came down the trail from the high- way on the ridge, the sound of a mo- tor preceding her coming. She was quite a grand lady, and carried herself with a stately air. George Verner looked up and reec- ognized her and hurried forward. “My son!” she cried and held him fast. “Why, you look almost yourself again, dear. Just think—I’'ve come all the way across the continent to find you. I left your stepfather in New York—he’s not at all well, Can you go back with me at once, George?” George drew Yack: “Wait, mother.” He turned and looked toward the cabin. “Anna,” he cried. Her vcice answered him. “Yes, George.” She "came to him quickly, but stopped short at sight of the lady. he murmured. “Still “My mother, Anna. Mother, my wife.” “Your wife!” “Listen, mother. Wait, Anna. Mother, there was a time, not very long ago, when I believed my mo- ments were numbered. And then the desire to do a good act influenced me to ask Anna here to marry me—to marry your son, mother, who was no better than a dead man. Anna had been good to me in a way that noth- ing could repay—and she could not resist my last request. So we were married and I fell asleep with her hand in mine, and when my feet splashed in the dark waters she drew me back—and held me to the shore and defied the black shadow—and that is why I am here to- -day, moth- er.” He paused a moment. “Anna married me through a misapprehen- sion, mother. I took what now seems an unwarranted advantage of her goodness. I am willing to make the best amends I can. But just now, mother, I cannot go with you without Anna’s consent. If she wants me, if she will bid me stay, I will know that all is well for me.” He paused again. The mother looked from the girl to her son. “This can be easily arranged, dear son,” she said. “Come. I am your mother.” And then Anna looked up — her eyes blazing. “And I am your wife,” she eried and flung her loving arms about George and held him fast and would not let him go. George looked at his mother with a sudden smile. “Anna wins,” he said. Matrimony is about the only thing that will take all the conceit out of a silly woman. A Package Mailed Free on Request of MUNYON'S PAW-PAWPILLS The best Stomach and Liver Pills known and a positive and speedy cure for Constipation, Indigestion, Jaundice, Biliousness, Sour Stom- § ach, Headache, and all ailments arising from a p88 disordered stomach or Av, sluggish liver. They contain in concen- trated form all the virtioy. and values of Munyon’s Paw- Paw tonic and are made from the juice of the Paw-Paw frait. I ‘un- hesitatingly recommend these pills as being the best laxative and cathartic ever compounded. 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Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers