Her Face of I
j Youth. I
\ By WILLIAM STANHOPE \
5 Copyrighted. 1?)9. by Associated \
A Uternry Press. \
"The Dead sen fruit of ashes, that is
nil life has meant for 1110. I wonder"—
But here Mr*. Ellery St. John drew
herself up with a start. "What!" she
thought. "Talking to myself like an
old woman! Really I must not be so
much alone."
Being alone at all was new to Mrs.
St. John. She had always been on the
qui vlve from her brilliant girlhood
through the ten years of her married
life and nearly ten of her widowhood,
and the restlessness told on her.
Fine lines about the eyes and mouth
told of the nerve destroying pace of a
modern woman of fashion. Margaret
St. John seemed possessed with a spir
it of unrest and had forgotten how to
relax.
This year she seemed too listless to
plan her usual spring trip and was
staying in town. But she must be
amused. She turned from the desk,
where a bundle of old letters had given
a melancholy drift to her thought.*,
and took up one of the club calen>l: :'s.
Ah, there was miniature day at the
Women's club. That looked promis
ing. "An exhibition of old miniatures"
would certainly be amusing. These < b
solete things would afford more t
n passing smile, and there was sure
to be good music. .'lrs. St. John lis
tened not only with her ears, but with
her heart, to a fine voice.
She was followed by envious glances
as she entered. Her perfect gown,
with the delicate bits of old lace, was
worn well. The women of the club
thronged about her, each with some
special bit of gossip, the ambitious,
pushing ones 011 the edge, glad of a
smile or bow that held out hopes for
social advancement.
As tho president took her place they
settled Into their seats to listen to the
brief program. A brilliant harp, piano
IT WAS TO Sir IK THE DIM TWII.KIHT AND
I.IBTEN TO MAKOAHI.T BINU.
and violin trio, the first number, ended
with a flourish. Then, following a few
sweet bars on the piano, came a voice
so pure, so ric h, so clear, that an utter
quiet settled on the audience. "O del
mio dolce ardor!" sang the girl. A
critic might have found Haws In the
execution, but It was a voice that sank
Into one's heart.
Mrs. St. John gave the singer her
utmost attention. She had no program
—ln fact, never cared who these people
were who amused her, but some note
in that girl's pure voice stirred her
profoundly. Once long ago a voice
strangely like this had called to her
heart, but she was not allowed to re
spond. Her parents were too world
wlae to permit any wandering from
prearranged plans.
But In her moments of self commun
ion Margaret St. John always heard
that voice call to her out of the si
lence. Now It seemed to her almost as
if this secret of her heart was being
proclaimed to all the world.
She looked eagerly at this girl whose
▼olce charmed them, a Blender figure
in a black gauze gown, dark eyed and
foreign looking. "O del uilo dolce ar
dor!" faded Into a faint minor, and
Mrs. St. John roused herself at the
sound of soft clapping of gloved hands.
She did not applaud.
Another number or two of Instru
mental music followed, then a soft
hum of conversation everywhere as
the teacups were handed about. Mrs.
Johjg_ moved with tlie_rest towyd
the miniature exhibit, pellghted little
peals of laughter told of the outfitter
in these old pictures of the past that
the wave of fashion had left stranded.
Mrs. St. John glanced over them In
her bored way. Really, except for
that solo, It was scarcely worth the
trouble of coming, she thought. Then
suddenly, face to face, her youth
looked at her. It was her own pic
ture. Bbe looked at the card. "Lent
by Miss Margaret I>elafleld," she read.
"Who Is Margaret DelafleldT* she
Mid akwd.
"Why, our sweet sing*. Mrs. 3t.
John. Hasn't she a supvrT> voice 112 an
nrered the president Mrs St John
pot out her hand. "Where is she*
Take me to her."
The president slipped her arm around
her, for she looked as if she would
faint, and turned to the door of the
• nteroom. "Here, dear," she said; "I
will send her to you," and asked one!
of the ladles to see that Miss Dela-'
field came to thera at once.
When the door opened and the young
girl entered the president left them.
Mrs. St. John reached out her hands
to this girl. "Where did you get that
old miniature?" asked she. "It Is so
interesting. Whose picture is It?"
"Oh, the picture was father's! It
was so beautiful I offered It to the
ladles for the exhibit. I do not know
whose It is."
"Tell me of yourself," the worldly
woman said as her gaze searched the
face of the girl, whom she had drawn
beside her on the divan.
"Oh. I have been singing at the clubs
this winter—Just the smaller ones at
first, you know. I was very fortunate
to have the opportunity of this after
noon."
"But your childhood," eagerly nsked
Mrs. St. John—"your father, your
mother?"
Bit by bit Mrs. St. John got the
whole story. Margaret was the daugh
ter of the lover of her youth, Elwood
Delafleld, who bad married an Italian
woman while studying abroad. Both
parents were dead, Margaret told her,
and the friends of her father In the
American colony In Rome had advised
her to come to America, where there
were many opportunities to add to her
slender income.
Mrs. St. John said impulsively to
Margaret: "Come home with me, dear.
I knew your father very well, and I
must know his daughter too."
At dinner she watched the girl reflec
tively. Every tone In her voice was
full of memories. Long they talked
that evening in Mrs. St. John's luxuri
ous room. "Stay with me, dear. I am
a lonely woman. We will see about
cultivating that glorious voice." And
she held her in her arms and kissed
her good night.
Margaret Delafield went away full
of delightful dreams of a rosy future.
How could people say Mrs. St. John
was cold and haunhty? Why, she was
as sweet and tender as a mother. Far
Into the niirht Mrs. St. John mused,
looking at the pictured face.
So he had kept It all these years, and
the girl was called Margaret. She
would keep her for her very own, and
every act of kindness would be as a
recompense for all she had denied her
self. She should have the best mas
ters, but there would l>e 110 more sing
ing at the clubs. Margaret was for
her.
It was a nine days' wonder. "Just a
sudden fancy,"' said some of her wo
men friends, while others said, "Mrs.
St. John looks like a woman who had
an luterest In life for the first time
since I have known her." She had an
interest Indeed. It was to sit In the
dim twilight and listen to Margaret
sing. Then she asked always for the
old songs, the songs of her girlhood,
when Margaret Delafield's father had
called to her heart, but fate forbade
her answering.
To the Highest Bidder.
Even tobacco buyers have theii trou
hies. Ouo of them, who represents a
New York house, met a Connecticut
man who had sold his crop. The buy
er was amazed at the price the man
said he had received.
"You have been cheated," said he.
"You are entitled to more money than
that."
"Well," replied the farmer, "nothing
has been paid to bind the bargain."
"Then I'll give you o ceuts more a
pound and a bonus of #IOO for the
crop."
"Agreed," exclaimed the farmer, and
he received a check for the full
amount.
"Oh, by the way," observed the buy
er. "who was my rival iu this transac
tion'.'"
lie was informed.
"I might have known it," said he
sadly. "That man Is my partner."—
New York Press.
Saved by Fireflies.
The gigantic tropical fireflies which
F-warm in the forests and cancbrakes
of most of tho low lying West Indian
Islands once proved the salvation of
the city of Santo Domingo. A body of
buccaneers, headed by the notorious
Thomas Cavendish, had laid all their
plans for a descent upon the place, ln
lending to massacre the inhabitants
and carry away all the treasure they
conveniently could, and had actually
put off their boats for that purpose.
As they approached the land, however,
rowing with mutlled oars, they were
greatly surprised to see aa Infinite
number of moving lights In the woods
Which fringed the bayou up which
they had to proceed, and, concluding
that the Spaniards knew of their ap
proach, they put about and regained
their ship without attempting to land.
His Conciliatory Way.
Mr. and Mrs. Pickaway, although
really fond of each other, had frequent
quarrels owing no doubt to Infirmities
of temper on the part of both. Mr.
Pickaway was telling his troubles to
his elderly maiden aunt
"I try to bo as good a husband to
Bertha as I know how to be," he said,
"but we don't seem to get along. It
takes so little to Irritate her, and when
she starts to scolding she never knows
when to stop. She takes offense, too,
at such little things."
"Then don't say those little things,
Joshua," said his aunt. "When she
Is cross you must try to be concilia
tory."
"1 am conciliatory. Aunt Betty," ho
answered. "I often say to her, 'Ber
tha, I know the utter uselessness of
trying to reason with you, but will
you listen to me Just a minute?' and
she gets mad even at that."—Youth's
Companion.
Odd Mcde of Naval Warfare.
Lcroy Tobey of Penn Yau, N. Y„
has a new scheme of naval warfare.
He has written a long letter to the
navy department at Washington in
which ho offers It to the government.
He proposes that battleships be equip
ped with a large supply of fenceposts
and barbed wire. When the enemy's
vessels come within range pay out
the wire and posts in such a way aa
to encircle the enemy's vessels. The
wire will get tangled In the enemy's
propeller, and then It will be easy
enough tor the American naval com
manders to lay siege to the disabled
ship or fleet until hunger and thirst
force it to capitulate. Mr. Tobey was
informed that the department could not
adopt this new method of warfare.
His Stroke of State.
She—l'll wager you have told lots of
other girls that you loved them. He
Well. If such has been my misguided
career It is now In your hands to put
a stop to It.
Without foresight Judgment falls by
Its own weight -Horace
l^orthport's
Myytery.
By ALEXANDRA DAGMAK
Copyrighted, 1909, by Associated
Literary Press.
She came to Northport alone and un
announced, an entire stranger to every
body. She boarded at Mrs. Polk's, and
It was thought that when fall came she
would go away, as did the few other
city dwellers who were able to get
summer accommodations in the con
servatlve old town. But when fall
came she bought a pretty cottage on a
quiet street.
The first thing Mrs. Wrest did after
going into the house was to hire Cor
nelia Bangs, partly as a servant, partly
as companion. Cornelia was a peculiar
old soul, but respectable and a good
worker, and the position Mrs. Wrest
offered must huve been a real godsend.
Of course all the ladles in the neigh
borhood went to call upon the new
resident. She received them graclouslv
and served them with tea and cakes
made in Corneliu's best style. But she
told them nothing that they had con- •
to hear, and they went away with their
curiosity completely batHed. Who was
Mrs. Wrest? Whence bad she coiyel
Was she widow or divorcee? They
were at liberty to conjecture what they
chose, but they could find out nothin;;
positively.
Cornelia Bangs, being proverbially
close mouthed, was as Impenetrable as
lior mistress. She didn't know. That
was the answer she made to all
queries.
It was evident that Mrs. Wrest
meant to live very quietly and cared
very little for social doings. Most oI
her time she passed in reading or
playing upon her violin or doing little
kindnesses for the sick and needy.
Mrs. Wrest attended all the services
of the church, although she had pre
sented no letter for membership. Sin?
dressed alwayi very beautifully I'i
black, but she wore no Jewelry save a
large pearl brooch, which Mrs. Ilay.
Ml'.S. WREST MIIVED A HTOB AN'D LIFTI'.II
HKK KYES.
the Jeweler's wife, said was the finest
of the kind she had ever seen.
No other woman in Northport had
such a way of wearing her clothes, i t
carrying herself, of tilting her chin.
And no other woman was as beauti
ful. If she had not been beautiful
there would not have been so much
said or thought about her.
She had a calm, pale face, surround
ed with dark hair as with a frame.
Her eyes nlso were dark. Inscrutable
In their depth and stillness. tier
mouth drooped a little, but then some
mouths are not shaped for eonstnnt
smiling. It was not a sad mouth, and
It was not a happy one. It was Just
still, like the rest of her face.
If she had had a great sorrow she
hid It skillfully or else she had no
heart. There were a great many wom
en who thought she had no heart
That Is often the first nccusatlon
brought against a beautiful woman by
others who are not so beautiful.
She had Ilve<l In Northport two years
when something happened. Peter Mere
dith fell in love with her. Of course
there might have been other men than
Peter In love with her and probably
were, but Peter was the only otie that
ad_vertised his regard boldly.
All the young unmarried women
were simply dying for Peter. In the
first place he was rich, and In the next
his good looks would have mado him
eligible without the addition of money.
Ills married sister took him to task
as soon as she suspected Ills Infatua
tion. She had kept him from marry
ing a good many years, because she
wanted the money for the small Pe
ter, her, son. and she did not Intend to
be outwitted now by a woman who
had nothing but her handsome fare to
recommend her,
"You don't know anything about
her," she urged.
"I don't ask to know anything that
she does not choose to tell me. I love
her well enough to trust her." Peter
answered valiantly.
"Good heavens! She may be an ad
venturess!" cried his sister, losing her
temper.
Then Peter lost his and declared that
he was going straight to Mrs. Wreet
to ask her to marry him. lie went,
Mrs. Howland, who lived opposite, saw
him goto the door, saw Cornelia
Bangs admit him and take htm into
the parlor. Thou she flew for the spy
glass which had belonged to her fa
ther, an old sea captain. But the spy
glass was, after all, very Inadequate
to the occasion. She could not hear
what was said, though she drew her
own conclusions when Peter came
forth, dejected.
Mrs. Wrest had Indeed refused hiai.
It was Incredible. Peter took it very
hard. It was his first experience In
not getting what he wauted.
j Instead of being grateful to Mrs.
' Wrest for not accepting him. every
j unmarried woman was angry with her.
I It was not long before scarcely a worn
ian save Mrs. Howland visited Mrs.
I Wrest. She was at liberty now to read
! and play the violin as much as she
chose and to sew for all the poor that
needed new garments, all because she
had refused Peter Meredith, whom no
body wanted her to have.
Why had she done It? There could
be only one reason. She had no busi
ness to marry! She had a husband
living from whom she had no divorce!
Though Mrs. Wrest was apparently
conscious of the increasing feeling
against her, Bhe made no sign. She
still attended church regularly, wear
ing black and sitting alone In her pew,
apparently unconscious of all who
were so fiercely conscious of her. She
was sitting thus one morning perfectly
still, with her small bauds folded and
her face lifted to the minister.
The church was unusually well filled,
and Mrs. Wrest's pew was the only
one where there were vacant sittings.
The ushers understood that when there
ceased to be room elsewhere strangers
might be shown to places beside her,
aud so now, when a mau entered the
I vestibule very late, he was taken at
1 once to Mrs. Wrest's pew.
lie was a tall man, with n pointed
blond heard and blond hair just slight
-Ily gray, distinguished looking and
handsome. Mrs. Wrest moved a little
and lifted her eyes. Then her face
went suddenly white, and she crumpled
forward in a dead faint.
The stranger lifted her up and with
out noticing any one's interference bore
I her into the vestibule. Mrs. Uowland
and a few others rose Instantly and
followed after the twain.
"This is m.v wife," the stranger ex
plained tersely. "Is there anything
j you can do for her?"
She opened her eyes and looked
j straight into those of her husband.
1 who was holding her as If he would
never let go again,
i "Gordon!" she said and fainted away
I again.
| Next day Mrs. Wrest had ceased to
I be a mystery, for Mrs. Uowland told
all she knew, and she knew a great
) deal. She had heard the whole story
from Editha, while her husband sat
by ready to atilrm every word.
1 Gordon Wrest was the heir of an
: old uncle who had once been in love
with Editha's mother. Not feeling
! able In Justice to provide for Editha
1 as he wished, he left Ills money to
I Gordon, only on the condition that he
! marry her. So Gordon carried out the
i old man's wishes and became possessed
both of Editha and the fortune,
i All went well till Editha found out
i the condition of the will, and of
| course she Immediately thought that
i Gordon had married her for the
! money's sal;e alone. She wasyoung
and foolish and passionate, and with
out stopping to ask her husband a
question or reason with herself si e
i gathered up what was hers and tied.
She thought she would seek out some
| little place, make herself a home and
i settle down to a life of seclUßlon and
' good deeds.
' Her husband had found her by the
merest chance. "I have speut three
years of my life looking for you," he
said. "When a wreck delayed me here
for a few hours and 1 decided togo
to church 1 had no Idea of the con
sequences. It seems as if n kindly
fate must have led tne to your very
side. Editha, If our long separation
i has accomplished nothing more it
must at least prove to you that 1 love
you."
! "And the future," Mrs. Wrest said.
| looking up into his face with such a
! sniilo as her face had never before
( been seen to wear, "must prove that—
! I love you."
AN EXCITING RIDE.
Galloping Over a Rough Mountain
Road In the Andes.
Ingoing over one of the mountain
: roads on the way to the crest of the
I Andes the traveler has need of steady
j uerves. A passage In"The Andean
| Land," by O. 8. Osborn, describes the
Journey.
The road is narrow and rocky aud
rutty and steep, with no walls to
speak of except tumbledown ones that
feu-reuse the danger by their false sug
gestion of safety, aud iu one place tbs
wagon would fall 2,000 feet If It
should roll off the edge of the moun
tain.
The road baa no graceful sweeps or
round, easy curves as It takes Its way
op the titanic heights, but rather It
slgzags like the teeth of a saw, ascend
lug In short stretches and doubling
back at sharply acute angles, leaving
very little room for a team and wagon
to turn In when driven slowly and
carefully and two abreast.
Now, Imagine, if you can, the horses
driven madly in a gallop, no trot—that
would be slow—but In quick, short,
jerky Jumps, such as the mußtang-like
i animals would make under the saddle
j when pressed.
The short, high coach follows the
! cavorting horses, Jerking, careening
and sprluging like a small bout Ball
j lng In a wildly choppy sea. You per-
I celve that the wheels are strong and
the springs, too, uud the whole rig evi
l dently intended for chariot racing.
The driver groans, yells, whistles
shrilly, cracks bis thick rawhide whip,
lashes bis horses and does everything
he knows that will Inspire fear and
Induce speed. All this you become ac
customed to in a measure on your
dash up the narrow road dug Into and
blown out of the giant riba of the tow
ering mountains.
Move to Abolish Tip*.
Walters, porters, bellboy a, barber*
and others will He In wait for Repre
sentative Murphy of Missouri, who has
Introduced a bill in the house to make
tipping In the District of Columbia an
offense punishable by fines varying
from $5 to SSO. Mr. Murphy expects
to receive cold soup and [>oor service
at the hands of any waiter who recog
nizes him and looks forward to suffer
ing under the shears of barbers. He
will also carry his own suit case on
trains If the porters know him. His
bill provides that the person who gives
a tip shall be guilty equally with the
person who accepts It. Representative
Murphy bell >ves tlint the cost of living
would be materially reduced If his bll>
' should become a law.
Cupid and
Conversation.
By SUSAN H. MORLEY.
Copyrighted, 1803, by Associated
Literary Press.
Mrs. Naughton came out of the par
lor and shut the door carefully behind
her.
"It's too cold for you to set In there
tonight," she said. "My, you can't see
out of the windows! There's no senso
In freezing this room to let the heat go
in there."
She knelt down before the battered
sheet Iron stove and ran the poker vig
orously through the redhot coals with
in. "You can set In here tonight,
Dena," she went on."For myself I
prefer this room any day to the par
lor."
Dena listlessly swept up the ashes
and did other trivial things, as her
mother directed. The room had tho
shabby, much used look which no
amount of care could transform Into
cheer or even homeliness.
Dena felt It anew each time ehe re
turned to It after her absence as a dis
trict schoolteacher. If she could have
bought a new carpet and a chair or
two and a stove with isinglass and
nickel she might have made it look to
her liking, but her mother would not
allow It.
Beauty in Mrs. Naugliton's eyes was
of trivial consequence Indeed, although
there were times when she regretted
volubly her daughter's apparent lack
of It.
Mrs. Naughton unfolded her skirt
and smoothed out an Imaginary crease.
"You better set tlie teakettle on, Dena.
And stir up the kitchen tire. It hain't
quite supper hour yet, but I like to
have everything ready in time."
Dena hurried from the room. Tlioro
were tears in her eyes, and her face
looked flushed and wistful. What was
the use of it all? she thought bitterly
as she filled the teakettle.
Had she not dressed obedient to her
mother's bidding these four Saturday
"NOW BUN TP AM" OET HEADY," ITER
MOTHER COMMANDED.
! ulghts in succession in the foolish hope
; thut he might come? She set the tea
kettle on. stirred the lire and went up
! stairs.
I In the second drawer of the bureau
lay the pink albatross wulst folded iu
white tissue paper and sprinkled with
rose leaves gathered the summer be
fore from the I.a France rosebush that
grew In the yard.
She had worn it four times vainly
and twice not In vain—those two pre
cious evenings when he had really
come. She would not put It ou tonight,
no matter what her mother said. She
could not bear to sit another evening
In it waiting and listening to every
footfall with hope Hiid longing and ul
timate despair.
A sob burst from her. and she flung
herself upon the lied, with her bands
over her face. But she did not cry.
She dared not. It would not do for
her mother to see her tears or to sus
pect that she cared poignantly.
Why could not her mother see that
he would r.ot come again and cease
torturing her with expectations? Her
little first roirmuce was over almost
before it had begun, and in her heart
she knew v hat had ended it.
It shamed her to tl:i:ils • 112 I
er all, she could not blame him. And
she could not blame her mother either,
foolishly Ignorant of the ruin she had
wrought.
Dena was twenty-four years old.
and she had never had a lover. For
six years she had taught steadily with
out anything happening, and she was
growing very tired when he came. He
was the son of the people with whom
she boarded, and he had been away a
long time.
Dena liked him instinctively. She
bad never seen any one she liked so
well—so strong and thoroughly self
reliant he looked In the week that was
left to her before her school closed.
They became good friends, and be told
b«r when she went away that he
would come to see her.
The doctor told Dena when she went
nome that she must rest for the re
mainder of the winter. Her mothet
grumbled openly. She did not like to
see the girl Idle, but she became recon
died to It when she discovered that
Dena had an admirer.
It was her belief that every girl
should marry before she was twenty
five, and In Dena'B case there was lit
tie time to lose. She set about hurry
lng up this possible match.
The first evening Nick came It was
sho and not Dena who entertained
hlni. Her nimble tongue scarcely
paused. She gave him Dena's exact
history from her first tooth to that
dav. Dena sat by und heard with
Nick In nu embarrassment of slleix e
that she could hardly have broken had
she been permitted.
Never hnd her mother been so volu
ble with that destructive volubility
which wearies and sickens. At Inter
vals she (danced nt Nick's puzzled,
amused fa< e and clasped her hands
harder to keep from crying out.
All that week her mother discussed
her prospects and gave the advice Inn
own experiences warranted. Once Delia
cried In agony, "But can't you see tint
he may not even think of marrying
me?" and fell thereafter into tearful
silence.
But the following Saturday evening
he came again, and again Mrs. Naugh
ton sat in the room and talked every
minute. Nick and Dena parted with
out having said half a dozen words tc
each other.
But this time Nick looked neither
puzzled nor amused. His eyes nar
rowed speculatively as he watched
Mrs. Naughton.
When at last he went away Dena
knew to a certainty that he would
never come again. But each Saturday
evening her mother made her take up
her role and play It through. She had
to dress and sit and wait.
Tonight she would not—she would
not. For once In her life she would
assert independence.
"Now run up and get ready," her
mother commanded as they rose from
the table. "I'll do the dishes."
Dena turned and faced her desperate
ly. "I'm not going to change my
dress," she said breathlessly.
"You ain't? Do you want him to
see you In your common clothes?"
"ITe won't see me."
"What do you mean? What aili
you?" Mrs. Naughton was astonished.
Dena turned wearily away. "1 mean
that he won't come again—ever," s!i<-
said and escaped upstairs to her room.
Mrs. Naughton looked after her, her
restless eyes steady enough for once
aud her restless tongue still.
Dena heard her moving about; the
dishes rattled violently. Presently sli
called from the foot of the stairs:
"I'm going out for a spell."
Dena was lying on her bed cryln:
now unrestrainedly. She lifted hei
head and managed to ask:
"Where?"
"Over to Mis' Henderson's."
Dena's head went down with a
groan. She knew that her mothei
would drag her poor little secret forth
and dissect it mercilessly before the
hungry eyes of the old gossip who was
almost her only friend. The outei
door opened, closed, and then all was
still. Dena cried until she could crv
no longer.
The doorbell jangled, and she sprang
off the bed, polished her cheeks bur
rledly with her damp handkerchief and
ran downstairs. Iler hands trembled
as she opened the door, too dazed tn
realize who was waiting to enter.
"Good evening, Dena," said a pleas
ant voice. "May I come in?"
lie put her aside gently, entered and
closed the door himself Dena stood
motionless with surprise and joy.
"Aren't you glad to see tne? I'id
you think I was never coming again V'
lie took her hands and looked down at
her tenderly. Then Dena's voice cat:ic
and she looked up at him.
"Yes, I did think so. And 1 didn't
blame you, for I understood. Oh,
Dick!"
He took her Into his arms. "But i
found, dear, that nothing on ear' :
was a sufficiently big obstacle to kee;:
me from loving you and wanting >
iind seeing you again to ten you so !f
I come back inn month for you, cin
you. will you be ready togo with me;'
"Oil, Dick!" Derm erlod. and her six
weeks of trouble and doubt and despair
melted from her tike a garment ol
snow In this new sunshine.
A Parisian Tragedy.
"I atn here to kill you for denouncing
Colney!" The speaker was a mat'
named Koetiit and the scene a small,
fifth rate cafo In a mean street In
Paris.
Koenlt was a member of a gang ol
Apaches, the murderous Parisian hoo
ligans. Another member of the gang.
Colney, had been denounced to tho po
lice by a woman named Sarah Karon
tnaer. A court of Colney'a associates
had tried the woman in her absence
condemned h"** and by lot had chosen
Camllle Koenx ,o carry out their sen
tence.
"Make up yonr mind you hare tc
die," continued the man callously. "1
give yo* a quarter of an hour to setti«
your affairs." With these words be
left the cafe.
Some twenty minutes later the
wretched woman summoned up cour
age to leave tho place. She was hardly
In the street before Koenit sprann
upon her with an open knife and
ftruck her to the heart.
Koenlt was arrested, but owing to
the foolish leniency of French criminal
law escaped with penal servitude for
Ufe.
This story reads like cheap Action.
It Is, however, sn absolute fact, and
any one acquainted with criminal life
in Paris and other great cities knows
well that organized crime never fails
to take terrible vengeance on those
who betray their fellow criminals. -
Patis Letter.
A Dismal World.
"Why are you sad, my dear? You
ought to be supremely happy. Here,
I've just Inherited a fortune, and ev
erything looks rosy. 1 can't under
stand why at such a time as this you
should look so dismal. What is it?
Have you heard bed news from
home?"
"No. no; It isn't that. I'll try to
throw It off I suppose I'm foolish not*
to be thoroughly happy. Let us not
mention the matter again."
"But I Insist on knowing what It la
that so depresses you. If Ifs anything
that I can help I shall"—
"Well, If you must know, I've Just
heard that the Snobielghs next door
ore going to move away, so she'll not
be here to feel Jealous of me when wo
begin to put on style after you get
your money."—Chicago Record-Herald.
Streets of Rubber.
A new process for paving streets
with vulcanized rubber has recently
been Invented by a Brazilian and
promises to revolutionize the rubber
trade In that country. Vulcanin, as
the compound is called, is a mixture
of crushed stone or coarse sand with
a vulcanizing medium, the composi
tion of the latter being a secret of the
manufacturers.
EATING OF GRAIN
BY MANKIND
High Priced Food Remedy Urged
by a Scientist.
DIFFERENT RATION FOR CATTLE
Dr. H. P. Armaby Believes In Cutting
Animals Down to ■ Coarse Fodder
That Human Beings Cannot AasimU
late—Declare We Would Sav* on Blft
Percentage of Food.
Dr. Henry Prentice Armsby of State
College, Pa., who is a great expert In
animal nutrition, says we waste too
much good food on our animals and
that we should use grain ourselves
and grow coarse fodder for our ani
mals. By so doing we would sav®
largely on 45 per cent of our dally
food, and that ought to have a lot of
effect on high prices.
The Armsby program is simple
enough. It amounts to little more
than this: That the time has come for
the American people to begin eating
the food that they have been throwing
to the steers and the hogs and work
out a new ration for the animals. Aud
! yet that idea when worked out means
I that millions of bushels of grain that
now go into the nation's animal food
and dairy products will be directly
available for human consumption and
that we will have the beef and the
butter ami the cheese as well.
As Dr. Armsby casually tells it:
"You see, we are already confronted
with a food problem, and one of the
potent factors toward its solution Is
to ascertain a more economic ration
for cattle. We must learn how to ob
tain animal food and dairy products
by feeding cattle on a ration that con
tains nothing that can be assimilated
by human beings—that Is, we must
utilize our grain crops for man's con
sumption entirely and feed cattle on
coarse fodders not palatable to human
beings. Animal food and dairy prod
ucts make up 45 per cent of the food
consumed by the people of the United
States. By using a cheaper ration for
animals we will get that 45 per cent
of our dally food cheaper and thereby
relieve In a measure the ordinary wage
earner of his fight to feed his family."
All very plausible, all simple enough
to hear It told, but a program that
has not been worked out in its details
—a program that I)r, Armsby has,
however, advanced further than per
haps any other scientist.
Steer In a Calorimsier.
The experiment Is centered around a
calorimeter and a steer. The steer Is
just a steer. The calorimeter suggests
in appearance a bilge refrigerator. The
bos consists of an inner chamber of
sheet copper that can 1' tightly closed,
surrounded by two wo< leu wall ', leav
ing a dead air space of about f<>:ir
inches between. It is i:i the closed i:i
ner chamber, lighted by i 'He g! si
windows and supplied by a <■" —r.
current of pure air, that the State I
lege steer, which may become hist' \
lives.
The temperature of tb" chamber ■
be regulated to the hundredth pari of
a degree. Every physical change with
in it can be weighed down to the hun
dredth part of an ounce. The amount
of food energy given off in heat 1?
measured, the amount of food energy
used for mere physical upkeep is meas
ured. and the rate of growth is meas
ured. The experiments show exactly
what proportion of the food energy of
each ration can be used by the animal
to produce meat or milk or work and
how much is simply used up in heat
ing the surrounding atmosphere.
A Saving of Millions of Dollars.
The practical man. however, is inter
ested In results, not mechanism. What
do all these experiments amount to?
Where do they lead? They lead to an
era of cheaper production, says I)r.
Armsby. They amount to this: What
Dr. Armsby can do others can do after
him, and already the State College ex
periments have laid the basis for an
economy In unlnial rations that if ap
plied throughout the nation would
mean a saving . 112 millions.
"As the den Oty of population and
the demand for bread-stuffs Increase,"'
says Dr. Armsby, "the stock feeder is
constrained to use the cheaper by
product feeds in place of grain. From
the economic viewpoint, then, it la
highly important that that portion of
our nationnl wealth represented by
these Inedible products should be util
ized to the best advantage, yielding a
more liberal supply of food to the con
sumer.
"Thus, you understand, the calori
meter Is showing us how to conserva
our grain to feed the men, women and
children of the country by eliminating
it entirely from the ration of cattl®
and substituting In its stead present
fodder crops, new fodder crops and
more grain byproducts."
SITU SEW 1
A Rellatol*
TIN SHOP
ftr alt kind «112 Tin Rooflngi
•poutlnc nnd G«n«r*l
Job Work.
•toy**. Hcattrt, Ran***,
Fumioti, #to-
PRICES TDB LOWEST!
QMLITT TIB IB8T?
JOHN HIXSOiV
SO. 1W E. FBONT 81,