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ELEANOR ILLOSTRj RH.LIV1 ^ # 'i, * "Vw V-V . (Copyright by ELI SYN0P81S PREFACE.?*Mary Marl?" explain? ha apparent "double personality" and Jus Why she is a "cross-current and a contra diction;" she also tells her reasons to writing the diary?later to be a novel. Tfc diary is commenced at Axidersonville. CHAPTER L-Mary begins with Nurt Sarah's account of her (Mary's) birth which seemingly interested her fathei who is a famous astronomer, less than i asw star which was discovered the sam night. Her name Is a compromise, he mother wanted to call her viola and he father Insisting on Abigail Jane. Tk child quickly learned that her home wa in some way different from those of he small friends, and was puzzled thereat Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's ar rival at AndersonvUle as a bride and ho* ) astonished they all were at the sight o the dainty eighteen-year old girl whan t^e sedate professor had chosen for i CHAPTER II.?Continuing her story Nurse Sarah makes It plain why th household seemed a strange one to tin rhfM hnwhar fjathar and wiatha drifted apart through misunderstanding each too proud to In any way attempt 6 smooth over the situation. , CHAPTER m.?Mary tells of the tim spent "out west" where the "perfects ail right and genteel and respectable divorce was being arranged for, and he mother's (to her) unacountable behavior By the court's decree the child is to spen< six months of the year with her mothe and six months with her father. Bostoi is Mother's home, and she and Mar: leave Andersonville for that city to spent the first six months. CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary be comes "Marie." She is delighted with he new home, so different from the gloom: house at Andersonville. The number o gentlemen who call on her mother lead her to speculate on the possibility of J new father. She classes the callers a "prospective suitors," finally deciding th choice is to be between "the violinist' and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation sh< . overhears between her mother and Mr Harlow convinces her that it will not b that gentleman, and "to violinist" seem to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson re ceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Ander son, her former husband's sister, whl 1 keeping house for him, reminding her tha "Mary is expected at Andersonville foi the six months she is to spend with he: father. Her mother is distressed, bu has no alternative, and "Marie" depart for Andersonville. \ - CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a Jum] of twelve years, during which Marl* (always Marie then) has the usual harm less love affairs inseparable rrom girl hood. Then she meets THE man?Gerak Weston, young, wealthy, and already i successful portrait painter. They &r< deeply In love and the wedding follow) quickly. With the coming of the baby Eunice, things seem to change with Marii and Gerald, and they in a manner drlf apart. ween jvuniue is nve ywia uiu Marie decides to part from Gerald. In tending to break the news to her mother j she is reminded of her own frequently unhappy childhood and how her aetioz in parting from her husband will sublec Eunice te the same humiliations. Hei eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea ol a separation, and returns to her husband her duty, and her love. I Went Into the Library. Father Stood With His Back to the Fireplace and His Hands in His Pockets. Jane said 1 had. "That would be just like saying Aunt Jane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And 1 said so. "But she says you refused to go hack to school, Mary," said Father then. "Yes, sir." "Then you did refuse?" "Yes, sir.? "Well, you may go and tell her bow, please, that you are sorry, and that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." And he turned to the table and picked up his book. I didn't go. of course. I just stood there twisting my handkerchief in my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me. H-? had sat down then. "Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded. "Yes, s'r. but?Father, I can't go back to that school," I choked. And I began to cry. "But I tell' you that you must" I shook my head. "I ecn't." "Do you mean that you defy me as iou did your Aunt Jane this morn RiifP H. PORTER U10NS BY INGSTONE. EANOR H. PORTER) ing??that you refuse to go back to school?" r "Yes, sir." For a minutt he sat and stared at f me just as Aunt Jane had done; then he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as If he was throwing off a heavy weight ? "Come, come, Mary," he said sterni ly. "I am not a patient man, and ray 5 temper has reached the breaking r point You will go back to school and 1 you will go now. I mean that, Mary." r "But, Father, I can't," I choked; and : I guess there was something In my r face this time that made even him see. \ For again he just stared for a minute, i and then said: "Mary, what In the world does this J mean? Why can't you go back? Have ? you been?expelled?" [ "Oh, no, sir." > "Then vou mean yon won't go back." / * "I v mean I can't?on account of * Mother." F I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't i had to. I didn't want to tell him, but [ I knew from the very first that I'd r have to tell him before I got through. 1 I could see It in his face. And so, now, with his eyes blazing as he jumped al most out of his chair and exclaimed: r "Your mother!" I let it out and got J it over as soon as possible. * "I mean, on account of Mother? J that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or " anybody will I go back to that school J and associate with folks that won't * associate with me?on account of ! Mother." * And then I told it?all about the t girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and f how they acted, and what they said t about my being Dr. Jekyil and Mr. 3 Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, and the ice-cream, and the I parties they had to give up if they - went with me. And I know I was cryl ing so I could hardly speak, before I i finlahel; and Father was on his feet I tramping up and down the room mut> tering something under his breath, and t looking?oh, I can't begin to tell how . he looked. But it was awfuL i "Anrt en thnt'e whv T wish." I fin r ished chokingly, "that it would hurry i up and be a year, so Mother could get f married." f "Married!" Like a flash he turned and stopped short, staring at me. "Why, yes," I explained; "for if she did get married, she wouldn't be divorced any longer, would she?" But he wouldn't answer. With a queer little noise in his throat he turned again and began to walk Jup and down, up and down, until I thought for a minute he'd forgotten I was there. But he hadn't For after a while he stopped again right in front of me. "So your mother is thinking of getting married," he said in a voice so r queer it sounded as if it had come & from away off somewhere. But I shook my head and said no," ? of course; and that I was very sure she wouldn't till her year was up, and even then I didn't know which she'd take, so I couldnt tell for sure anything about it. But I hpped she'd take one of them, so she wouldn't be divorced any longer. Father turned, and began to walk up and down again, with his hands in his pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and I suppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared In the library doorway. "Charles, if Mary is going to school at all today it is high time she was starting," she said. But Father didn't seem to hear. He was still tramping up and down the room, his hands in I his pockets. I "Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her roice and spoke again. "I said if Mary is going to school at all today it is ; high time she was starting." "Eh? What?" If you'll believe it, that man looked as dazed as if he'd never even heard of my going to ' school. Then suddenly his face' changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er? Mary Is not going to school today," he said. Then he looked at his watch, and without another - word strode into the hall, got his hat, and left the house, leaving Aunt Jane and me staring into each other's faces. But I didn't stay much longer than Father did. I strode in to the hall, too, by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the ' house. I came up here to my own room; and ever since I've been writ! lng it all down in my book. Of course, I don't know now what's going to happen next. But I wish you could have seen Aunt Jane's face when ' Father said I wasn't going to school today! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heard aright?though she didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I left and came upstairs. But I Just know she's keeping up a powerful thinking. For that matter, so am L What is ' going to happen next? Have I got to go to school tomorrow? But then, of course, I shan't do that Besides, I don't believe Fafher'U ask me to, after what I said about Mother. He didn't like that?what those girls said?anybetter than I did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. But there isn't any other school here that I can be sent to, and? But what's the use? I might surmise and speculate all day and not come anywhere near the truth. I must await?what the night will bring forth, as thev kav In reallv tmlv novels FOUR DAYS LATER And what did the night bring forth? Ye% what did it bring! Verily it brought forth one thing I thought nothing ever could have brought forth. It was like this. That night at the supper table Aunt Jane cleared her throat in the I-amdetermined-I-will-speak kind of a way that she always uses when she speaks to Father. (Aunt Jane doesn't talk to Father much more than Mother used to.) "Charles," she began. Father had an astronomy paper beside his plate, and he was so busy reading he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane had to speak again?a little louder this time. "Charles, I have something to say n w yw. "EJh? What? Oh?er?yes. Well, Jane, what is it?" Father was looking up with his m-be-patient-if-it-kill?-me air, and with his forefinger down on his paper to keep his place. As if anybody could talk to a person who's simply tolerating you for a minute like that, with his forefinger lading on to what he wants to tend to! Why, I actually found myself being sorry for Aunt Jane. She cleared her throat again. "It is understood, of course, that Mary is to go to school tomorrow morning, I suppose," she said. "Why, of course, of course," negan Father impatiently, looking down at his paper. "Of course she'll go to?" he stopped suddenly. A complete change came to his\ face. He grew red,, then white. His eyes sort of flashed. "School?" he said then, in a hard, decided voice. "Oh, no; Mary is not going to school tomorrow morning." He looked down to his paper and began to read again. For him the subject was very evidently closed. But ivsr aiuii juuc 11 v??s iiul tiuacu. "Ton don't mean, Charles, that she Is not to go to school at all, any more," she gasped. "Exactly." Father read on in his paper without looking up. Aunt Jane's lips (time together hard. "Charles, I'm amazed at you?yielding to that child's whims like this? that she doesn't want to go to school! It's the principle of the thing that I'm objecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to?what it?" "Jane I" with a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some things that perhaps you do not But that is neither here nor there. I do not wish Mary to go to school any more this spring. That is all; and I think?it is sufficient" "Certainly." Aunt Jane's lips came togetner again grim ana nara. "\rerhaps you will be good enough to say what she shall do with her time." "Time? Do? Why?er?what she always does; read, sew, study?" "Study?" Aunt Jane asked the question with a hateful little smile that Father would have been blind not to have understood. And he was equal to it?but I 'mosjt fell over backward when I found how equal to it he was. "Certainly," he says, "study. I?I'll hear her lessons myself?in the library, after I come home in the afternoon. Now let us hear no more about it." With that he pushed back his plate and left the table without waiting for dessert. And Aunt Jane and I were left alone. I didn't say anything. Victors shouldn't boast?and I was a victor, of course, about the school. But when I thought of what Father had said about my reciting my lessons to him every day in the library?I wasn't so sure whether I'd won out or not. Recite lessons to my father? Why, I couldn't even imagine such a thing! Aunt Jane didn't say anything either. I guess she didn't know what to say. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down to it. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to school any more, and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt Jane didn't know why. (Of course I had not told Aunt Jane about Mother and Mrs. Mayhew.) It would be a funny world, wouldn't it, if wo all knew what each other was thinking all the time? Why, we'd get so we wouldn't any of us speak to each other, 'I'm afraid, we'd be so angry at what the other was thinking. Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak that night at the supper table. We finished in stern silence then; Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room and I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life i.iary is living! And when I think of how full of good times Mother wanted every minute to be. But that was for Marie, of course.) The next morning after breakfast Aunt Jane said: "You will spend your forenoon studying, Mary.; See that you learn well your lessons, so as not to auuvj- youi father." I "Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairs obediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study those lessons. Carrie had brought me all my books from school. I had asked her to when I knew that 1 was not goirij back. There were the lessons tha had been assigned for the next day of course, and I suppoeed probabl; Father would want rae to study those But I couldn't Imagine Father teachini me all alone. I couldn't imagine my self reciting lessons to Father! But I needn't have worried. If could only have known. Little did think?But, there, this is no way t< tell a story. I read in a book, "Hov to Write a Novel," that you mustn' "anticipate." (I thought folks alwayi anticipated novels. I do. I though you wanted them to.) Well, to go on. Father got home at four o'clock. ! saw him come up the walk, and 1 waited till I was sure he'd got settlee in the library, then I went down. He wasn't there. A minute later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory. Well what to do I didn't know. Mary sale to go after him; but Marie said nay nay. And in spite of being Mary Jusl now, I let Marie have h$r way. Rush after him and tell him he'e forgotten to hear my lessons? Fa ther? Well, I guess not! Besides, il wasn't my fault. I was there al ready. It wasn't my blame that h( wasn't there to hear me. But he might remember and come back. Well If he did, I'd be there. So I went tc one of tfiose bookcases and pulled ou1 a touch-me-not book from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till the supper bell rang. Father was five minutes late to sup per. I don't know whether he looked at me or not. I didn't dare to look al him?until Aunt Jane said, la hei chilliest manner: 'T trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles." I had to look at him then. 1 Jusl couldn't look anywhere else. So 1 was looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startled glance into my eyes. And Into his eyes then fhara f?rc?nt the fnnnfpfit rtPflrPQf- Httlc tAAV* V v?-v understanding twinkle?and I suddenly realized that Father, Father, was laughing with me at a little secret between us. But't was only for a second. The next moment his eyes were very grave and looking at Aunt Jane. "I have no cause to complain?oi my daughter's lessons today," he said very quietly. Then he glanced over at me again. But I had to look away quick, or I would have laughed right out. When he got up from the table he said to me: '1 shall expect to see you tomorrow in the library at four, Mary.*1 And Mary answered: "Yes, Father,4 polite and proper, as she should; bu? Marie inside was Just chuckling with the joke of it all. The next day I watched again al four for Father to come up the walk; and when he had come in I went down to the library. He was there in his pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before the fireplace, whether there's a fire there or not And sometimes he looks so funny sitting there, staring into those gray ashes just as if it was the liveliest kind of a fire he was watching.) As I said, he was there, but I had fn cnoob ftrfno hpfnrp hp looked UD. Then, for a minute, he stared vaguely. "I Have No Cause to Complain?of My Daughter's Lessons Today," He Said Ve*y Quietly. "Eh? Oh! Ah?er?yes, to be sure," he muttered then. "You have come with your books. Yes, I remember." o?tT fu'inlrla in hifl JZ>U L IUC1C VYUSU I ail J L >> tHK.it UX uui eyes, nor the least little bit of an understanding smile; and I was disappointed. I had been looking for it. I knew then, when I felt so suddenly lost and heart-achey, that I had been expecting and planning all day on that twinkly understanding smile. You know you feel worse when you've just found a father and then lost him! And I had lost him. 1 knew it the minute he sighed and frowned and got up from his seat and said. "Oh, yes, to be sure." He was just Doctor Anderson then?the man who knew all about the stars, and who had l>een unmarried to Mother, and who called me "Mary" in an of-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice. Well, he took my books ana neara my lessons, and told me what I was to study next day. He's done that two days now. Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary! And I've got more than four whole months of It left. I didD't get Mother's letter today. Maybe that's why I'm specially lonesome tonight * JULY FIRST. r, School is done, both the regular y school and my school. Not that my school has amounted to much. Really g It hasn't. Oh, for three or four days he asked questions quite like Just a teacher. Then he got to talking. I Sometimes it would be about someI things in the lessons: sometimes it I d would be about a star, or the moon. 7 And he'd get so interested that I'd t think for a minute that maybe the uns derstanding twinkle would come into t his eyes again. But it never did. Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, that he talked about. It was I Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He 1 talked a lot about Mother. As I look 1 back at it now, I can see that he did. He asked me all over again what she did, and about the parties, and the I folks that came to see her. He asked ? again about Mr. Harlow, and about I the concert, and the young man who , played the violin, and what was his t name, and how old was he, and did I like him. And then, right in the mid1 die of some question, ?r rather, right In the middle of some answer I was t rivinc him. he would suddenly remem I ber he was hearing my lessons, and * he would say, "Come, come, Mary, J what has this to do with your les. sons?" > Just as If I was to blame! (Bat, t then, we women always get the blame, 5 I notice.) And then he'd attend strict' ly to the books for maybe five whole minutes?before he asked another question about that party, or the vloI linist. Naturally the lessons haven't amounted to much, as you can imagine. But the term was nearly finished, any! way; and my real school Is In Boston, of course. It's vacation now. I do hope th%t [ will amount to something I j i AUGUST FIRST. s k It hasn't, so far?I mean vacation. Really, what a world of disappoinfcment this is! How on earth I'm going to stand being Mary for three months more I don't know. But I've k got to, I suppose. I've been here May, June, and July; and that leaves Au| gust, September, and October yet to : come. And when I think of Mother and Boston and Marie, and the darling good times down there where you're really* wanted, I am simply crazy. If Father wanted me, really wanted k me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be willing to be Mary six whole months. Yes, ' A W- - -3 4A OM4 T'm I 1 U ue |IBU IV> UUV UC u?su W. 1IM Just here by ordef of the court. And t what can you do when you're nothi ing but a daughter by order of the court? I Since the lessons have stopped, ; Father's gone back to his "Good-morni lng, Mary," and "Good-night," and i nothing else, day in and day out ' Lately he's got so he hangs around , the house an awful lot, too, so I can't even do the things I did the first of the month. I mean that I'd been play' ing some on the piano, along at the : first, after school closed. Aunt Jaiie was out in the garden a lot and 1 Father out to the- observatory, so I . Just reveled in piano-playing till I found almost every time I did it that he had come back, and was in the library with the door open. ISO I don't dare to play now. . j And there isn't a blessed thing to do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and now I have to weed an hour, too; and -Aunt Jane triea to have me learn to cook; but Susie (In the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messing around," so Aunt Jane had to give that up. Susie's the one person Aunt Jane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave if anything goes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has *- - ?--? r 1 +/*11 \TT-Q CO DO caroiui. x ueaxu uci ?,?* Small next door that good hired girls were awfully scarce in Andersonville. As I said before, If only there was somebody here that wanted me. But there isn't. Of course Father doesn't That goes without saying. And Aunt Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without saying. Carrie Heywood has gone away for all summer, so I can't have even her, and of course, I wouldn't associate with any of the other girls, even if they would associate with me ?which they won't That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. I don't know what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybe they're worse than if I didn't have them. They make me so homesick, ? - A. and I always cry so aiter 1 get mem. Still, I know I just couldn't live a minute If 't wasn't for Mother's letters. Besides being so lonesome there's another thing that worries me, too; and that is, this?what I'm writing, I mean. The novel. It's getting awfully stupid. Nothing happens. Nothing! Of course, if 'twas just a story I could make up things?lots of them ?exciting, Interesting things, like having Mother elope with the violinist, and Father shoot him and fgll in i^tta ti7<+.h Afnthor all ncnlll. OT iWC VTAU1 AIAVCMV* V*.* v T v* ? J else with somebody else, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd try to shoot Father, and I'd get there just in time to save him. Oh, I'd love that f But this Is a real story, so, of course, I can't put In anything only Just what happens; and nothing happens. And that's another thing. About the love story?I'm afraid there Isn't going to be one. Anyway, there Isn't a bit of a s[gn of one, yet, unless It's Mother, ^nd of course, I haven't seen her for three months, so I can't say anything about that. (To be continued next week.) Piles Cured in 6 to 14 Days Druggists refund money if PAZO OINTMENT fails to cure Itching, Blind, Bleeding or Protruding Piles. Instantly relieves Itchmg Piles, and you can get restful sleep after the first application. Price 60c. * To Stop a Cough Quick take HAYES' HEALING HONEY,f a cough medicine which stops the cough by healing the inflamed and irritated tissues. A box of GROVE'S 0-PEN-T7 YTE SALVE for Chest Colds, Head Colds and Croup is enclosed with every bottle of HAYES' HEALING HONEY. The salve should be rubbed on the chest and throat of children suffering from a Cold or Croup. The healing effect of Hayes' Healing Honey inside the throat combined with the healing effect of Grove's O-Pen-Trate Salve through the pores of .1 ? K U1C 3&.U1 DUUU otuyo O Both remedies are packed in one carton and the cost of the combined treatment is 35c. Just ask your druggist for HAYES' HEALING HONEY. ORDER OF NOTICE. UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT EASTERN DISTRICT OF SOUTH CAROLINA. IN BANKRUPTCY.1 In the Matter of L. Morris, Bankrupt. On this 18th day of April, A. D. 1922, on reading the foregoing petition, it is Ordered by the Court that a hearing be had upon the same on the 1st day of June, A. D., 1922, before said Court at Charleston, S. C., in said District, at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, and that notice thereof be puDiisnea in rne isamoerg ineraia, a newspaper printed in said District, and that all creditors and other persons interested may appear at said time and place and show cause if any they have why the prayer of the said petitioner should not be granted. And it is further Ordered by the Court that the Clerk shall send by mail to all known creditors copies of said petition and this order addressed to them at their places of residence as stated. Witness the Honorable Henry A. M. Smith, Judge of the said Court, and the seal thereof, at Charleston, S.C., in sadi District, on the 18th da"y of April, A. D. 1922. RICHARD W. HUTSON, 5-18 Clerk. S. Q. MAYFIELD ATTORNEY-AT-LAW Practice in all courts, State and Federal. Office Opposite Southern Depot. BAMBERG, S. C. NOTICE CONCERNING PLOWING IN PUBLIC ROOADS. Pursuant to recommendation of the Bamberg County Grand Jury, the landowners of the county cultivating lands adjacent and adjoining public roads are hereby urgently requested nr>t tn nlnur intn nr alTnw thftfr hands to plow into the roads. Landowners are requested to plant two or three rows of crops adjacent to roads parallel with the road, so that there may be proper turning space without the necessity of turning plows in the roads. It is against the law to allow plows to damage the roads, and it is an unnecessary practice. The county spends large sums of money in road building, and the roads belong to the people. I have no desire to prosecute anybody, hut I must insist that this practice be stopped immediately. The farmers * and tenants can cooperate in this respect, and there should be no necessity to bring action against anybody. Full notice is being given before I take such action. j W. B. SMOAK, Supervisor. January 31, 1922. tf A 1UIXIW drove's Tasteless chill Took restores Energy and Vitality by Purifying and Enriching the Blood. When yon feel its . strengthening, invigorating effect, see how ! Knndo /w>l/w ?a /<h??lra anil hnur 11 WIV4 WAV VMWMV mwtt it improves the appetite, you will then appreciate its true tonic value. . (Move's Tasteless chill Tonic is simply Iron and Quinine suspended in syrup. Se pleasant even children like it The blood needs QUININE to Purify it and IRON to Enrich it Destroys Malarial germs and Grip germs by its Strengthening, Invigorating Effect 60c. ' ORDER OF NOTICE. UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT. EASTERN DISTRICT OF SOUTH j CAROLINA. IN BANKRUPTCY. In the matter of Rosa M. Krawchek, ^ Bankrupt. On the 14 day of April, 1922, on reading the foregoing petitfon, it is, . Ordered by the Court that a hear- v ing be had upon the same on the 26 day of May, A. D. 1922, before said Court at Charleston, in said District, at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, and ' - it.. * ID.EI nouc? liiereuj. uo puuiiauou iu The Bamberg Herald, a newspaper printed in said district, and that all > creditors and other persons interest- n lj ed may appear at said time and place and show cause if any they have why j the prayer of the said petitioner should not be granted. And it is further Ordered by the J Court that the Clerk shall send by j mail to all known creditors copies of said petition and this order addressed to them at their places of residence as stated. * I Witness the Honorable Henry A. i M. Smith, Judge of the said Court ' w and the seal thereof, at Charleston, in said District, on the 14 day of April, A. D. 1922. RICHARD W. HUTSON, 5-11-n Clerk. XOTICE OF DISCHARGE. 4 On the 19th day of May, 1922, I will file with the Judge of Probate -m for Bamberg county my final report, I as administratrix of the estate of Mrs. S. M. Brown, deceased", and at said time ask for letters of discharge as such administratrix. MRS. MARY A. KIRKLAND, Administratrix of the Estate of I Mrs. S. M. Brown. J April 20, 1922. 5-18