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I YORKYILLE ENQUIRER. ; ISSUED SEMI-WEEKLY. l. x. grists sons, Pobu.h.r., | % 4amilS Swapper,: Jjor the jpromotion of the political, foeial, Agricultural and (Tommercial Interests of th? $eopt<. j TE""^" .JJ"*.1* """" ' BSTABLISHKD 185S. " YORKVILLE, S. C., FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1913. JsTO. 92. f IrU PRODIGALJ TheFamousNove VAUGHAN KEJ Copyright, 1911, The Bobi??-Mer CHAPTER I. L The Boy At the Barony. The Quintards had not prospered on the barren lands of the pine woods 'whither they had emigrated to escape the malaria of the low coast, but this no longer mattered, for the last of his name and race, old General Quintard, was dead in tne great nouse ma miner had built almost a century before and the thin acres of the Barony, where he had made his last stand against age and poverty, were to claim him, now that he had given up the struggle in their midst. The two or three old slaves about the place, stricken with a sense of the futility of the fight their master had made, mourned for him and for themselves, but of his own blood and class none were present. Shy dwellers of the pine woods, lanky jeans-clad men and sunbonneted women, who were gathering for the huri&l of the famous man of their neighborhood, grouped themselves about the lawn which had long since sunk to the uses of a pasture lot. Singly or by twos and threes they stole up the steps and across the wide open porch to the open door. On the right of the long hall another door stood open, and who wished could enter the drawing-room, with its splendid green and gold paper, and the wonderful fireplace with the Dutch tiles that graphically depicted the story of Jonah and the whale. Here the general lay in state. The slaves had dressed their old master in the uniform he had worn as a colonel of the continental line, but the thin shoulders of the wasted figure no longer filled the buff and blue coat. The high-bred face, once proud and masterful no doubt, as became the face of a Quintard, spoke of more than age h and poverty?it was infinitely sorrow" ful. Yet there was something harsh and unforgiving in the lines death had fixed there, which might have been taken as the visible impress of that mystery, the bitterness of which had misshaped the dead man's nature; but the resolute lips had closed for ever on their secret, and the broken spirit had gone perhaps to learn how poor) a thing its pride had been. Though he had lived continuously tha Rornnv for almost a Quarter of a century, there was none among his neighbors who could say he had looked on that thin, aquiline face in all that time. Yet they had known much of him, for the gossip of the slaves, who had been his only friends in those years, had gone far and wide over the country. That notable man of business, Jonathan Crenshaw?and his superiority was especially evident when the business chanced to be his own?was closeted in the library with a stranger to whom rumor fixed the name of Bladen, supposing him to be the legal representative of certain remote connections of the old general's. Crenshaw sat before the flat-topped mahogany desk in the center of the room with several well-thumbed acr count-books open before him. ?Bladen, In riding dress, stood by the window. "I suppose you will buy in the property when it comes up for sale?" the latter was saying. Mr. Crenshaw had already made it plain that General Quintard's creditors would have lean pickings at the Barony, intimating that he himself was the chiefest of these and the one to suffer most grievously in pocket. Further than this, Mr. Bladen sawthat the old house was a ruin, scarcely habitable, and that the thin acres, though they were many and a royal grant, were of the slightest value. k Crenshaw nodded acquiescence to the lawyer's conjecture touching the ultimate fate of the Barony. "I reckon, sir, I'll want to protect myself, hut if there are any of his own kin who have a fancy fo* the place I'll put no obstacle in their way." "Who are the other creditors?" asked Bladen. "There ain't none, sir; they just got tired waiting on him, and when they began to sue and get Judgment the old general would send me word to settle with them, and their claims passed into my hands. I was in too deep to draw out. But for the last ten years his dealings were with me; I furnished the supplies for the place here. It didn't amount to much, as there was only him and the darkies, and the account ran on from year to year." "He lived entirely alone, saw no one, I understand," said Bladen. "Alone with his two or three old slaves?yes, sir. He wouldn't even see me; Joe, his old nigger, would fetch orders for this or that. Once or twice I rode out to see him, but I wa'n't even allowed inside that door; the message I got was that he couldn't be disturbed; and the last time I come he sent me word that if I annoyed him again he would be forced to terminate our business relations. That was pretty strong talk, wa'n't it, when you consider that I could have sold the roof from over his head and the land from under his feet? Oh, well, I just put it down to childishness." There was a brief pause, then Crenshaw spoke again. "I reckon, sir, if you know anything about the old general's private affairs you don't feel no call to speak on that point?" he observed, and with evident regret. He had hoped that Bladen would clear up the mystery, for certainly it must have l>een some sinister tragedy that had cost the general his grip on life and for twenty years and more had made him a recluse, so that the faces of his friends had become as the faces ol ^ strangers. "My dear sir, I know nothing ol General Quintard's private history. ] am even unacquainted with my clients, who are distant cousins, hut hi? nearest kin?they live in South Car* olina. I was merely Instructed to represent them in the event of his death and to look after their interests." "That's business," said Crenshaw, nodding. "All I know is this: General Quintard was a conspicuous man in these parts fifty years ago; that was before my time, Mr. crensnaw, ana 1 iaae it, too, it was before yours; he married a Beaufort." "So he did," said Crenshaw, "and there was one child, a daughter; she married a South. Carolinian by the name of Tuberville. I remember that, fo* they were married under the gallery in the hall. Great folks, those Tubervllles, rolling rich. My father was manager then fo' the general? that was nearly forty years ago. There was life here then, sir; the place was alive with niggers and the house was full of guests from one month's end to another." He drummed on the desk top. "Who'd a thought it wa'n't to last for ever?" "And what became of the daughter who married Tuberville?" "Died years ago," said Crenshaw. "She was here the last time about thirty years back. It wa'n't so easy to get about in those days, no roads to speak of and no stages, and besides, the old general wa'n't much here nohow: her going away had sort of broken up his home, I reckon. Then the place stood empty fo' a few years, most of the slaves were sold off, and the fields began to grow up. No one rightly knew, but the general was supposed to be traveling up yonder In the no'th, sir. As I say, things ran along this way quite a while, and then one morning when I went to my store my clerk says, 'There's an old-whiteheaded nigger been waiting round here fo' a word with you, Mr. Crenshaw.' It was Joe, the general's body servant, and when I'd shook hands with him I said, 'When's the master expected back? You see, I thought Joe had been sent on ahead to open the house, but he says, 'General Qulntard's at the Barony now,' and then he says, 'The general's compliments, sir, and will you see that this order is filled?' Well, Mr. Bladen, I and my father had factored the Barony to' fifteen years and upward, but that was the first time the supplies to' the gen: eral's table had ever been toted here in a meal sack! "I rode out that very afternoon, but Joe, who was one of your mannerly niggers, met me at the door and says, 'Mr. Crenshaw, the general appreciates this courtesy, but regrets that he is unable to see you, sir.' After that it wa'n't long in getting about that the general was a changed man. Other folks came here to welcome him back and he refused to see them, but the reason of it wo never learned. Joe, who probably knew, was one of your close niggers: there was no getting anything out of him: you could talk with that darky by the hour, sir, and he left you feeling emptier than if he'd kept his mouth shut." Thev were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," said Crenshaw, a trifle impatiently, and in response to his bidding the door opened and a small boy entered the room dragging after him a long rifle. Suddenly overcome by a speechless shyness, he paused on the threshold to stare with round, wondering eyes at the two men. "Well, sonny, what do you want?" asked Mr. Crenshaw, indulgently. The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his courage went the words he would have spoken. "Who is this?" asked Bladen. "I'll tell you presently," said Crenshaw. "Come, speak up, sonny, what do you want?" "Please, sir. I want this here old spo'tln' rifle," said the child. "Please, sir, I want to keep it." he added. "Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!" said Crenshaw, good-naturedly. "Please, sir, am I to keep it?" "Yes, I reckon you may keep it? least I've no objection." Crenshaw glanced at Bladen. "Oh, by all means," said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room, closing the door. Bladen glanced inquiringly at Crenshaw. "You want to know about him, sir? Well, that's Hannibal Wayne Hazard." "Hannibal Wayne Hazard?" repeated Bladen. "Yes, sir; the general was the authority on that point, but who Hannibal Wayne Hazard is and how he hm>nen? to be at the Barony is an other mystery?just wait a minute, sir?" and quitting his ehair Mr. Crenshaw hurried from the room to return almost immediately with a tall countryman. "Mr. Bladen, this is Bob Yancy. Bob, the gentleman wants to hear ahout the woman and the child; that's your story." "Howdy, sir," said Mr. Yancy. He appeared to meditate on the mental effort that was required of him, then he took a long breath. "It was this a-ways?" he began with a soft drawl, and then paused. "You give me the dates, Mr. John, fo* I disremember." "It was four year ago next Christmas," said Crenshaw. "Old Christmas," corrected Mr. Yancey. "Our folks always kept the old Christmas like it was befo' they done mussed up the calendar. I'm agin all changes," added Mr. Yancy. "He means the fo'teenth of December." explained Mr. Crenshaw. "Not wishln' to dispute your word Mr. John. I mean Christmas." objected Yancy. 1 "Oh, very well, he means Christmas then!" said Crenshaw. "The eveninR hefts*. it was. and I'c Rone to Fayetteville to Ret my ChristI mas flxin's; there was riRht mucl rain and some snow fallinR." Mr 1 Yancy's RuidinR liRht was clearly ac curacy. "Just at sundown I hooket up that blind mule of mine to the carl 1 and started for home. As 1 Rot shul of the town the stage come in atid ! seen one passenger, a woman. Now that mule is slow, Mr. John; I'm free to say there are faster mules, but a set of harness never went acrost the hack of a slower critter than that one of mine." Yancy, who thus far had addressed himself to Mr. Crenshaw, now turned to Bladen. "That mule, sir, sees good with his right eye, but it's got a gait like it was looking fo* the left-hand side of the road and wondering what in thunderation had got into it that it was acrost the way; mules are gifted with some sense, but mighty little Judgment." "Never mind the mule, Bob," said Crenshaw. "If I can't make the gentleman believe in the everlasting slowness of that mule of mine, my story ain't worth a hill of beans." said Yancy. "The extraordinary slowness of the mule is accepted without question, Mr. Yancy." said Bladen. "I'm obliged to you," rejoined Yancy, and for a brief moment he appearl I THE BOY AT ed to commune with himself, then he continued. "A mile out of town I heard some one sloshing: througrh the' rain after me; it was dark by that time, and I couldn't see who it was, so I pulled up and waited, and then I made out It was a woman. She spoke when she was alongside the cart and says, 'Can you drive me on to the Barony?' and it came to me it was the same woman I'd seen leave the stage. When I got down to help her into the cart I saw she was toting a child in her arms." "What did the woman look like. Bob?" said Crenshaw. "She wa'n't exactly old and she wa'n't young by no manner of means; I remember saying to myself, that child ain't yo's, whose ever it is. Well, - - ?? ? U AA ll? sir, I was wining enuugu iu mm, uui she wa'n't, she hardly spoke until we came to the red gate, when she says, 'Stop, if you please, I'll walk the rest of the way.' Mind you, she'd known without a word from me we were at the Barony. She give me a dollar, and the last I seen of her she was hurrying through the rain toting the child in her arms." Mr. Crenshaw took up the narrative. "The niggers say the old general almost had a fit when he saw.her. Aunt Alsidia let her into the house; I reckon If Joe had been alive she wouldn't have got inside that door, spite of the night!" "Well?" said -Bladen. "When morning come she was gone, but the child done stayed behind;. we always reckoned the lady walked back to Fayetteville sometime befo' day and took the stage. I've heard Aunt Alsidia tell us how the old general said that morning, pale and shaking like, 'You'll find a boy asleep in the red room; he's to be fed and cared fo', but keep him out of my sight. His name is Hannibal Wayne Hazard.' That is all the general ever said on the matter. He never would see the boy, never asked after him even, and the boy lived in the back of the house, with the niggers to look after him. Now, sir, you know as much as we know, which is just next door to nothing." The old general was borne across what had once been the west lawn to his resting place in the neglected acre where the dead and gone of his race lay, and the record of the family was complete, as far as any man knew. Crenshaw watched the grave take shape with a melancholy for which he found no words, yet if the words could have come from the mist of 1 ideas in which his mind groped vague' ly he would have said that for themselves the deeds of the Qulntards had 1 been given the touch of finality, and that whether for good fir for evil, the consequences, like the ripple which rises from the surface of placid waters when a stone is dropped, still anmou-hero In the world. The curious and the idle drifted ' hack to the great house; then the memory of their own affairs, not ur' Kent, generally speaking, hut still of some casual interest, took them down the disused carriage way to the red gate, and so off into the heat of the ' summer day. Crenshaw's wagon, driven by Crenshaw's man, vanished in a cloud of gray dust with the two 5 old slaves. Aunt Alsldla and Uncle Ben, who were being taken to the ' I Crenshaw place to he cared for pend " ing the settlement of the Qulntard 1! estate. Bladen parted from Crenshaw with expressions of pleasure at hav ing had the opportunity of making; his J acquaintance, and further delivered t himself of the civil wish that they t might soon meet again. Then CrenI shaw, assisted by Bob Yancey, pro ceeded to secure the great house against intrusion. "I make it a p'int to always stay and see the plumb finish of a thing," explained Yancy. "Otherwise you're frequently put out by hearing of what happened after you left; I can stand anything but disapp'intment of that kind." They passed from room to room, securing doors and windows, and at last stepped out upon the back porch. "Hullo!" said Yancy, pointing. There on a bench by the kitchen door was a small figure. It was Han, nibal Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tlrl' rifle across his knees. His ' very existence had been forgotten. "Well. I declare to goodness!" said Crenshaw. "What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?" This question nettled Crenshaw. "I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine," he said. Now, Mr. Crenshaw, though an excellent SB /. f iffir* K THE BARONY man of business, with an unblinking: eye on number one, was kindly on the whole, but there was a Mrs. Crenshaw, to whom he rendered a strict account of all his deeds, and that sacred institution, the home, was only a tolerable haven when these deeds were nicely calculated to fit with the lady's exactions. Especially was he aware that Mrs. Crenshaw was averse to children as being: inimical to cleanliness and order, oppressive virtues that drove Crenshaw himself in his hours of leisure to the woodshed, where he might spit freely. "I reckon you'd rather drop a word with yo' missus before you toted him home?" suggested Yancy, who knew something of the nature of his friend's domestic thraldom. "A woman ought to be boss in her own house," said Crenshaw. "Feelin' the truth of that, I've never married, Mr. John; I do as I please, and don't nave to listen to a passei 01 opinion. But I was going to say, what's to hinder me from toting that boy to my home? There are no calico petticoats hanging up in my qlosets.' "And no closets to hang 'em in, I'll be bound!" rejoined Crenshaw. "But If you'll take the boy, Bob, you shan't lose by it." Yancy rested a big knotted hand on the boy's shoulder. "Come, wake up, sonny! Yo' Uncle Bob is ready fo' to strike out home," he said. The child roused with a start and stared into the strange bearded face that was bent toward him. "It's yo' Uncle Bob," continued Yancy in a wheedling tone. "Are you the little nevvy what will help him to hook up that old blind mule of hisn? Here, give us the spo'tln rifle ito tote!" "Please, sir, where is Aunt Alsidia?" ask the child. Yancy balanced the rifle on his great palm and his eyes assumed a speculative cast. "I wonder what's to hinder us from loading this old gun, and firing this old gun, and hearing this old gun go? bang! Eh?" The child's eyes grew wide. "Like the guns off in the woods?" he asked, in a breathless whisper. "Like the guns a body hears off in the woods, only louder?heaps loudj er," said Yancy. "You fetch out his plunder, Mr. John," he added in a lower tone. "Do it now, please," the child cried, slipping off the bench. "I was expectin' fo' to hear you name me Uncle Bob, sonny; my little nevvies Ret almost anything they want out of me when they call me that-aways." "Please, Uncle Boh, make it go bang!" "You come along, then," and Mr. Yancy moved off in the direction of his mule, the child following. "Powder's what we want fo' to make this old spo'tin' rifle talk up, and I reckon we'll find some in a horn flask in the bottom of my cart." His expectations in this particular were realized, and he loaded the rifle with a small blank charge. "Now," he said, shaking the - *' - " oii/>/>oaqlnn powder mio me pun i>.? ? of smart taps on the breech, "some these old nieces go off and some times they don't; it depends on the flint, but you stand back of your Uncle Bob, sonny, and keep yo' Angers out of your ears, and when you say? bang!?off she goes." There was a moment of delightful expectancy, and then? "Bang!" cried the child, and on the instant the rifle cracked. "Do it again! Please, Uncle Bob!" be cried, wild with delight. "Now if you was to help yo' Uncle j Bob hook up that old mule of hisn and ride home with him, fo' he's going pretty shortly, you and Uncle Bob could do right much shootln' with this old rifle." Mr. Crenshaw had appeared with a bundle, which he tossed into the cart. Yancy turned to him. "If you meet any inquiring friends, Mr. John, I reckon you may say that my nevvy's gone fo' to pay me a visit. Most of his time will be agreeably spent Bhootin' with this rifle at a mark, and me holdin* him so he won't get kicked clean off his feet." Thereafter beguiling speech flowed steadily from Mr. Yancy's bearded lips, in the midst of which relations were established between the mule and cart, and the boy quitted the Barony for a new world. "Do you reckon if Uncle Bob was to let you, you could drive, sonny?" "Can she gallop?" asked the boy. Mr. Yancy gave him a hurt glance. I "She's too much of a lady to do that," he said. "No, I 'low this ain't so fast as running or walking, but it's a heap quicker than standing stock I still." The afternoon sun waned as they Et deeper and deeper Into the pine ds, but at last they came to their ney's end, a widely scattered settlement on a hill above a branch. "This," said Mr. Yancy, "are Scratch Jflll. sonny. Why Scratch Hill? Some say its the fleas; others agin hold it's the eternal bother of making a living Uama K.i* AO a Ar Ht'lncr V'All liri r, uui wucfcuri uvua w? * ?nn ^ UM cratch fo' both." (To Be Continued.) HOW MUCH IS A BUSHEL? Legal Waighta Are Not Uniform and Vary In Different Statea. The principal work of the bureau of standards In Washington l? to establish scientifically accurate standards for the weights and measures used in the United States. Recently the bureau has been engaged in gathering statistics to show the legal weight of a bushel of different commodities, as fixed either by national legislation for the purposes of the customs or by state legislatures for the purposes of trade within the states. I In the case of a few commodities only, such as wheat, oats and peas, are the legal weights uniform throughout the country, and In many cases they differ widely. Neither do the legal weights which the bureau has listed represent a volume equal to the bushel of 2,150.40 cubic Inches?the United States bushel, so-called. On account of the variation In the densities of commodities In different localities and in different seasons, It Is impossible to fix with any degree of certainty the weight of a given volume of any commodity such as potatoes, apples, coal or corn. Since, 1 * - M ? * *- ? ~ 1 ?tf ?1 rrk non Ka inereiore, uic miutu ncigiK v<u> xc fixed only approximately, It Is Important that In the'transactions In which the bushel measure is used it b? distinctly understood which bushel Is meant; that Is, whether a volume of 2,150.42 cubic inches or a certain number of pounds. Since these two definitions of the bushels are contradictory', the bureau recommends that all sales be made by weight, as is now the practice in all transactions In wheat. There are 84 commodities for which legal weights in pounds to the bushel have been generally adopted by the states. The list begins with alfalfa seed and ends with wheat, both of which run 60 pounds to the bushel. Apples range between 45 and 50 pounds to the bushel; dried apples, 24 to 28; barley, 47 and 48, and so on. The list includes vegetables, fresh and dried, seeds of many kinds, charcoal, coal, berries, meats, nuts, lime, fruits, salt and popcorn In some cases the United States standard has been adopted; In other cases where there is no United States standard the states have had to fix their own. In some Instances there is a considerable difference in the standards. For example, malt ranges from 30 to 38 pounds to a bushel, and popcorn from 42 In the ear In Ohio to 70 shelled in Iowa. When such great differences occur, however, there is usually a reason, such as the presence or absence of the cobs. Knowing this, traders make proper allowances. It Is interesting to notice that peas, clover seed and wheat are all rated at 60 pounds to the bushel, and that In these commodities such states as have a standard make it conform to that of the Federal government. Here Is a list of the United States standard weights for all the commodities for which it has been established: Farley, 50; buckwheat, 42; bituminous coal, 80; corn. 56; corn meal. 48; flaxseed (linseed), 56; malt. 34; oats, 32; peas, 60; potatoes, 60; rye, 56; wheat. 60. The table published by tho bureau of standards Is valuable to the midman who deals with producers in various parts of the country. It is also valuable to the statistician who may want to ascertain, for example, the difference in the cost of living between certain localities. Without knowing accurately how much or a given product there is in a bushel the ordinary man would be wholly at a loss to know whether or not he was getting like quantity for like money. If the time arrives when goods are sold by a universal standard throughout the union such a table as the one just described will become unnecessary. Until then it Is useful both to the producer of crops and the consumer?Youth's Companion. ANCESTRY. Some Famous Personages to Whom It Meant Nothing. The making famous of the expression. "I am my own ancestor," is usually credited to Andoche Junot, for a time marshal of France. Junot had risen from the ranks, and became the Duke of Abrantes and an important figure at Napoleon's newly-ft rmed court. One day a nobleman of the old regime asked him what was his ancestry. "Ah, sir," replied the spirited soldier, "I know nothing about It. I am my own ancestor." Proba wiy ne nau never nearu ui mr nimmi remark made by Tiberius about Curtlus Rufus. "He seems to me to be descended from himself." Napoleon's reply to the emperor of Austria was in a kindred vein. The Austrian when Napoleon became his prospective son-in-law would fain have traced the Bonaparte lineage to some petty prince of Trevlso. "I am my own Rudolph of Hapsburg," said Napoleon. Under similar circumstances Napoleon silenced a genealogist. "Friend, my patent of nobility dates from Montenotte." his first great victory. When Iplchrates, the Athenian general, had it cast up In his face by a descendant of Harmodious that he was a shoemaker's son he calmly replied: "The nobility of my family begins with me; yours ends with you." Almost the same words were used by Alexander Dumas when asked If he were not descended from an ape (covert sneer at his negro grandmother), "Very likely my ancestry begins where yours ends." Voltaire in his "Merope" says: "The first to become king was a successful soldier. He who serves well) his country has no need of ancestry." A DARK DEED By ETTA W. PIERCE. CHAPTER XXIX?Continued. "Who are you and what do you want here?" she snarled, looking from mt to the baronet, and from the haronel hack to me. Sir Gervase advanced briskly. "We have business of Importance with you, madam," he answered "Who we are is of no consequence Just now. What we want," dashing recklessly Into the heart of the matter "Is Information concerning two children who once lived In this place wltli you?two little girls, named Nan and Polly. You called them your grand* daughter*." The wretched old creature dropped upon a broken chair. I could not bul pity her In her destitution, her forsaken and wicked old age. She clutched at the ragged shawl crossed on hei bosom. "So!" she answered, shaking elthei with age or agitation; "them brats! What do ye want to know about 'em?' with a gleam of cunning in her sunken eyes. I had told him her weak point. H? drew a roll of banknotes from hl? pocket. "Many things?yes, all that you car tell," he replied. "Do you see thli money? It shall be yours. If you will answer my questions regarding those children." She eyed the notes greedily. "Oh, that I will, sir!" she whined "It Is little money I ever see nowadays. * Times Is hard, and begglr.j ain't what It used to be. Seems as II people's hearts got harder everv year I'm poor, sir, and I'm old, and I'm alone In the world, and It all comes ol them two young 'una! I ought," resentfully?"ought to have had mon for Nan. A hundred dollars wasn't worth taking, and she as pretty as a plctur. It ruined me, that bargain did!" I could keep silent no longer. I cried out in spite of myself. "Tell the truth, now granny?you must tell the truth! Were those children your own flesh and blood?had you any right to have and to hold them, to call yourself their grandmother? It is Nan that we most cart to know about, the child you sold to a strange woman In this very attic. Sht was no more like you than day Is like night. She could not have been ol your blood?It is monstrous to bellevt It! Tell the truth, the truth! Whal was her real name? How did you gel possession of her?" She turned, as if startled by something in my voice, and gave me a piercing look. I think she recognized me at that very moment. "How did I git possession of Nanl ?I don't mind telling you the story. ] had a daughter-in-law once, the widow of my one only son, who was a sailor, and was lost at sea the flrsl v'yage arter his marriage. Judith lived with me?she was a good girl, kind and dutiful. Well, by-and-by she married again, being but young and her second choice was a wild blade of a fellow?a clog-dancer in a variety theatre. He came to a sudden end in some kind of a drunken frolic, and when her baby was born, Judith died, too, and left the child to my care. That brat was Nan. She was like her father, Jack Harkness? he was called Handsome Jack and Lightfoot Jack, among sporting folks ?he had a comely face, as well as a pair or wonderrui neeis. inow i ask ye, was Nan mine or not? Had I any claim to her or not. And," with sharp suspicion, "what's all this to ye anyway, and how'd ye ever know there was a Nan and Poll here?" "Thank God!" I hurst out; "she was not of your blood, then?she was In no way related to you!" "I'm thinking: Jack Harkness's blood was no better than mine," sneered Granny Scrag. "Nan was the child of my daughter-In-law's second marriage. There wasn't one of her own kin left on earth when her mother died ?I was her nearest, so I say again, Nan belonged to me." From poverty and obscurity?from common, not to say disreputable, people, Nan, the queenly, the beautiful, had sprung! I could think of nothing but a lily growing out of turbid waters. The baronet spoke not a word. His face was like carven stone. "Many's the time," whined the old woman, "I've been sorry I parted with STan. The price I got was too little? too little, and I need her now to work for me, and take care of me, like as Judith, her mother, would do this day, if she were a-living. Ye two must be friends of hers, or ye wouldn't be here asking about, her. Where is she?" starting suddenly up on her shaky old legs. "I'm going to have her back. She must be a fine grown woman by this time." The baronet made a gesture. "Sit down, Mrs . Pardon, you have not mentioned your own name." "It's Black, young gentleman, but I haven't been called it for twenty vt-ui. "Sit down .again, Mrs. Black. At present. Nan's friends do not know where she is?she has left them under peculiar circumstances. Let me remind you that you have told but half of your story. There were two children. Only one belonged to your son's widow. Now, what of the other ?who was she?" Granny Scrag looked at him askance. "You mean black Poll??oh, that's another matter!" "Explain. The chPdren could not have been sisters?" She turned sharply to me. "No, they wasn't sisters. Perhaps ye'd like to hear something about Polly, miss?" she grinned. Not till that moment had I thought of myself. Now my dormant curiosity awoke. "Yes," I answered, eagerly; "Indeed I would!" "I'm a poor, forsaken old woman," whined Granny Scrag, "that begs her bread from door to door, and hasn't a decent rag to her back. Don't ye see I'm a-shaklng with the cold In this garret? Throw that fine wrap or yours over my poor old shoulders, miss." 1 obeyed. It was Hopkins's mantle, but I did not think of that. She {fathered her new garment around her with lively satisfaction. "There was something queer about ' Polly," she began, "and the way I had her left to me. I don't rightly know who she was?I've never knowed. Afore Judith up and married Handsome Jack, she and I?both decent widows?lived at the west end of the city, and got our living by doing fine laundry work and boarding babies of l the poor sort. One winter night? 'twas years and years and years ago! 1 ?a man, handsome and young, and with the air of a gentleman, came to our door, bringing In his arms a sick 5 baby. 'Twas a miserable little atom, with the skin Jest drawn over Its > bones, and the look of death on its flface. Both Judith and I thought It . wnnlHn'l Innf fill mnnilnir Th? vnnnir ' man was In trouble of some kind?we 1 didn't make out what. He give no acI count of hlsself, but said he'd got to leave the city that night, and could not take the baby with him, and he I asked to leave it till the next day. He t said 'twas his own daughter, and he ' gave us her name and his own, hon est and prompt enough. Judith prom" ised to take care of the brat, and he left a banknote, and a ring, marked ' with some letters, and then went away and neither of us ever laid eyes on ' him afterward. "Judith took the sick baby in hand, and nursed and tended It, as if 'twas ' her own, and all of a sudden it began 1 to pick up and mend, and Anally it got weH. When we found the father 1 wasn't coming back, I told Judith to 1 ding it into the street, but she would' n't, and she didn't. She held on to It, i always vowing the father was honest, and would come some time and pay us for our trouble. The young 'un's unit* was inurKcu on an lis nine clothes, and Judith took great care of > the duds, and put them by, as if they r were gold, because, she said, they ' might help the child to claim her own 1 father, if so be she should grow too ' big to be known of him when he put in his appearance. 5 "From the first I hated the young 'un as much as Judith liked it. 'Twas 1 a thin, brown little scrap, with black 1 eyes, like beads, and an ugly red patch, like a hand, covering one of its skinny I shoulders?a sort of birthmark; but Judith petted it, and declared she'd > keep it always, pay or no pay. "When we'd had the castaway a I year or so, Judith married Jack HarkI ness, and grive up the baby boarders, but not black Poll?her she wouldn't > part with; and when we'd kept her l another year, and not a cent for It, ' Judith died, and left her own young 'un to me, and, about the last ' thing she made me do was to swear * I'd never part with Poll till her own t kin claimed her, but take care of her ? with little Nan, and let no harm come to the baby-clothes and the ring; and to ease her mind I swore it, for she t seemed to feel as bad to leave one I child as the other; and that's how I got myself saddled with Poll." She had probably never told the t story before In her life, and suddenly 1 throwing the end of Hopkins's mantle i over her head, she began to rock back and forth, and to groan dismally. ' "I was heart-broken after Judith i died," she said, "and what with trou' ble and the bother of finding bread < for two brats that wasn't worth the 1 raising, I took to gin, and things went i wrong, and I drifted down here to the alley, and sent the young 'una on the i streets to beg." i The baronet cried out. quickly, 1 sharply: "Where are the things of i which you speak??the clothing?the ring? Did you keep them, as you promised " 1 Granny Scrag nodded. "Yes; I kept 'em. I've wanted to sell 'em often enough, sometimes for bread, sometimes for gin; then I'd think the man might turn up unexpected like, and ask for 'em?so I held on." "Bring them to me!" commanded Sir Gerva8e. She arose with difficulty, and hobbled to a corner of the attic?to the cupboard which I remembered as a receptacle for broken victuals, and the never-failing bottle. There she fumbled about for a long time, while the baronet and I watched her silently. After awhile she raised a broken board, and drew out a parcel, wrapped in moldly brown paper, and tied about with common twine. This she opened. and a little roll of clothing, yellow with age, dropped out, also a man's ring, set with a big stone?a ruby. The baronet picked up the latter. I ran and snatched the tiny, tlme-stalned garments. They were fine and delicate In texture, and on their discolored bands a name, still legible, was written. I spelled it out slowly?the light was waning in the room?then stared, then spelled It again, then turned and looked wildly at Sir Gervase. He was holding out to me the ruby ring. On its inner surface I saw a crest and two letters, "R. G." cut In the tarnished gold. I pointed to the mark on the clothing. "Read!" I gasped, "and tell me If I am going mad?" Sir Gervase read the name aloud In that miserable attic?"Ethel Greylock!" "Yes." said Granny Scrag, "that's what the young man called his baby, but 'twas too grand for Judith and me, so we Just christened her Polly. His own name, he said, was Robert Greylock." In spite of the look on the baronet's face, I could not, at first, grasp the truth. "This is astounding!" he cried. "Can you understand it?can you believe it?" I muttered feebly, as, clutching the bits of worn and yellow linen, I gazed helplessly from him to Granny Sorag. "Yes, I understand it, and I believe It!" answered Sir Gervase. "This very day, on her way from the church, Mrs. Iris confessed to me that her husband carried away the sick child when she abandoned It?that he stole It rrom a sleeping servant who had it In charge. She also acknowledged that positive proof of its death had been lacking from the first, as nobody living knew where Robert left the infant." I held my breath. "Here is the Greylock crest engraved on this ring," continued the baronet. "Robert never came for his daughter, because death overtook him on the night when he consigned her to the Black woman. Polly, It is all so plain that he who runs can read. , The position which Nan left vacant I today, you are called at once to fill. It Is yours by divine right, for"?very solemnly?"as sure as we two stand In this attic together, you are Robert Grey lock's daughter!" (To Be Continued.) A GALLANT MAJOR. Anothsr Echo of tho War With tho Spaniards. "Scarcely had land faded from view," writes James F. Smith, formerly governor-general of the Philippines, describing the first expedition to the Islands following the victory of Manilla bay. "when Capt. Glass opened I his scaled orders, and with fine Irony, enjoining secrecy, published the welcome Information that the expedition was to 'stop by' on the way and cap ture Guam. Whether Guam was a city, island or man of war waa a subject of much debate. All were agreed, however, that the Intention to benevolently assimilate It was a good thing which should be withheld from the press and regarded as strtctiy confidential. A dot upon the charts supported by the Ipse dixit of a quartette of master marines. Anally convinced the doubting that Guam was a bit of land entirely surrounded by water. And so on June 20, at daybreak, cruiser and transports, by virtue of a sacred compact and a 'ack of wireless. steal upon It unheralded and unannounced. With rigging and every vantage point "Crowded with men whose pulse beat time to their excitement. the transports take their place Ave or six miles off shore and await the coming conAlct. In plain view, the Charleston is creeping along the outer line of reefs, and there, from a hidden cove, with a bone in her teeth, a great Spanish cruiser, ghostly In the haze, comes out to meet her. And then Just when everybody is on the tiptoe of expectation the haze lifts and a whooping fighting craft of high degree melts Into a poor lltttle Japanese fishing schooner gently bobbing to her anchor. Surely there will be something doing when the Charleston seeks to enter there. And now the cruiser, dull as a misty morning in her clothes of sombre gray, swings to port and slips Into the narrow channel directly under where the bold faced type has said the fort Is sure to be?and?not a shot Is fired! The garrison must be asleep, or maybe It Is permitting the entrance of the vessel to make her destruction certain, or maybe this or maybe that?anything to keep alive the hope that the colosseum of half circled transports may not be denied the nerve tingling spectacle of battling men. Bang! Bang! Nine times bang go the guns of the Charleston. A hush of expectation and then a great stillness. What has happened? Why, nothing, except that a dinky little rowboat has put off from the shore with the Spanish colors gayly flying from the stern. Not a bit of white Is fluttering from It anywhere and every gunner is eager to potshot it as it meanders through the coral reefs. CapL Glass won't have it that way, however, and ? permits the flagship of Guam to come alongside without objection. With great deliberation a boy In size but a man in dignity and years, glittering with the gold lace of a Spanish major, mounts the ladder Inu-orori for his receotion. gravely touches his cap to the commanding officer, and then, through an interpreter, presents his thanks for the salute just tendered and expresses regret that he couldn't return it?for lack of powder. Now. what do you think of that? A silly grin broadens the faces of the circumjacent sailor men. This is too much for the big, kind heart of Capt. Glass, who takes the good major to the seclusion of his quarters and there very gently explains that .Spain and the United States have been at war for more than sixty days. The major, who receives his daily paper as often as twice a year, is properly sorry that such a thing should be and, rising, solemnly announces that under the circumstances he must retire and prepare him for the fray. "Why, my dear man," says the captain, "you can't do that Don't you see you are my prisoner, and that I must ask you to surrender at once the Island and all your forces?" The major argues earnestly that he is a victim of deceit, and that he has been induced to come on board by false pretenses. Of course, the deceit and false pretenses have not been planned, prepared and perpetrated by an abandoned and malignant heart with malice aforethought, but none the less deceived and fooled he has been, and of that fact no caballero?that is, no worthy caballero, such as was the captain?might, could* would or should advantage take. That word "caballero" did the business. The major was permitted to depart with warning that surrender must be made by 5 o'clock of that day or the island would be surrounded by one of the transports, besieged, bombarded, undermined, sunk, carried by assault and otherwise wasted, demolished and destroyed, with all that was In. around, over or under It. Would you believe it?that little old major said he'd think It over, and left the ship with the full intention of putting up a tight? And from that intention not a budge did he budge until the pleadings of his doctor that he give a chance for life to u nllinc u'nmmi touched his tough old Spanish heart and persuaded him that he might yield with honor to a force which, excluding the cruiser, was more than forty' times his own. So at 5 o'clock. Just as the boats were putting ofT from ''fo the transports to make a landing, the major, as governor of the Marianas. ? representative at Guam of her majesty the queen regent, commander-in-chief of all the forces, captain of the port, collector of customs and sundry other things, surrendered at discretion and reported on board the Charleston with an army corps of sixty men. Guam was captured, and when the circumstances of its taking became known, all the world, except the poor major, laughed long and Imid. To him what had occurred was a serious matter, which was not at all provocative of mirth. Contrary to the military traditions of Spain and the rules, regulations and ordinances prescribed, he had surrendered without resistance, and awaiting his action in that behalf was a court-martial with consequent dismissal from the service and possibly something more. To him the situation "was devoid of humor, and indeed well might It cease to be funny to all who have come to know that the taking of Gu.-.m ruined the career of a valiant Spaniard who died an exile rather than face the disgrace of condemnation In his native land.? Sunset Magazine. ? Chester. November 12: Mr. B. E. Pool of Columbia, has been given the contract to build a sand-clay road from the overhead bridge on the Saluda road to Uriel church, and will enter upon his Job immediately. Rightsof-way have been secured that will permit of all bridges being removed. It being the intention to grade so as to make bridges unnecessary. Saluda road, or rather that portion between Chester and the York county line, Is being given a thorough working. It being the plan of Chester and Rock Hill citizens to have an up-to-date automobile highway between the two cities. Just how the portion of road between Chester and the overhead bridge will be worked Is not known yet. but this will probably be let out by contract also.