? ^ SKMI-WEEHL^ ____ l. m. orist'S sons, Pabiuher.. ( % #mits lletcsja jei;: ,^or th< promotion o| th$ political, fotial, ggrii;a!tui;at and The groaning began anew. She fol- _ lowed it to the window. After much t) listening. Mercy decided that the un- h earthly sound rose solely from a long, gaunt flr-bough, which swung back and forth in the night wind, and scrap- w ed the old clap-boards fitfully. Just as the blood began to grow warm again in her veins, a ray of can- w die-light crept in under her door?she heard steps, the thud of a crutch on the stair, and then the voices of her two jailors. "Drat the house! His danged ghost is a-walking here yet!" said Joseph. "Groans in the chimney, raps on the v door, feet a-shuffling overhead! Hold up the light, woman! You're shaking t] fit to drop." "Oh, Lord!" quavered the voice of t( 4 Sally; "hear him! A hundred dollars a night woudn't pay one to stay in ^ sucft a place, it's worse man any reg Jar graveyard under the sun." b "Murdered folks will have queer 1( ways woman," returned Joseph; "they make it a point never to keep to their graves. See for yourself?nobody's a here. The girl is safe enough. Who 11 could get into the house through our n locks and bars? Try her door, simple- s' ton." t] The door was tried. Then Mercy w heard the two retreat down the stairs, Sally muttering as she went: "If we lose her we lose the money! a Oh, drat it! There goes the groaning a again?he's a-coming after us!" and ? the noise of a rush and a tumble con- 1 vinced Mercy that her keepers also had their ghostly fears, and that her own a simple explanations regarding the * strange sounds in the old house had 11 not yet occurred to their superstitious " souls. J A sudden composure came over her. " She sat down at her lonely window in c the gloom and silence, and lifted up " her glorious young voice, clear and a sweet as a silver bell, in that most a pathetic of hymns: " "Abide with me! fast falls the even- J tide, I The darkness deepens?Lord, with me 1 abide; c When other helpers fail, and comforts b flee, c Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!" * She sat there, sleepless, all the night. On the woody hill under which the {[ house stood, and which was the only J1 . - > ' ?? - ...!_ b ining VISlUie irum lucre; o wuiuun, mc wan dawn appeared at last. She found 0 a rickety washstand In a corner, and a F ^ jug: of water, and bathered her white 1 * face, and smoothed out the masses of F her golden hair. By-and-by old Sally u unlocked the door and entered, bearing a wooden tray on which were placed a two or three slices of bread, an egg and v a cup of tea. r ^ "Here's your breakfast," leered the o hag. "I hope you slept well, dearie, a Betwixt the ghosts and your psalm- e tunes I never passed such a pight since s the Lord made me. I'll choke you if v you don't stop them dratted hymns! If li you must sing, give us something live- v ly; but religion I can't and won't abide a here." a Mercy gazed steadily at the speak- I; er. Afterward In the kitchen old Sally a confessed to her husband that the girl g gave her a turn, so cold and white and t spirit-like she looked. r "So Dlscordo has put you here to t ^ guard me," said Mercy. s "Yes; Joseph and I, my pretty. Per- s haps you think you might knock me r over and run off. Aha! old as I am, s I've the strength of half a dozen like you; and down at the foot of the stairs 1 Joseph Is waiting, and he'd kill you s dead afore you could get out of the 1 door. We mean to keep you safe dearie, f so don't try to play any tricks." 1 Instinctively Mercy felt that it would be worse than useless to appeal to this woman for pity or help. "Where am I?" she cried at last; "where is this place?" "Miles and miles from Boston?that is all you need to know," grinned Sally, ji "Now, take my advice, and be kind to 9 Mr. Discordo, and drop your high and mighty ways. You're a proud one, stiff-necked; and holding yourself as dainty as a lady?ta ta! Moll Dill's daughter! He's a fine gentleman, and generous as a prince. It's my opinion he means to marry you." ' Mercy answered not a word. "Lor, he came to Joseph in a dreadful state of mind," went on Sally, glibly, "and said how you was a-going to throw yourself away on another man, and he wanted to find a nice, quiet place where he could take you for a few weeks; and Joseph remembered this house?he used to work on the K farm years ago, afore the old man was murdered. And so you're to have country board here for awhile. Mr. Discordo will be back in a few days, and you'd better treat him civil; for he might kill and bury you in the house, and nobody would be the wiser. As for your other lover, you'll never set eyes on him again?make up your mind to that!" NCOUNTESS J-' * P? ? di * th f U> : PIERCE. I ? ? n? f S KMyKiiyr eard with new violence. A high wind to 'as blowing, and the shrieks in the n0 hlmney, the rapping and scratching Mi n the roof, became appalling. The 001 aunt fir-tree outside Mercy's window ?e irust its arms against the pane like ome black ghost. A dozen demons cHKhorlnc In thp walls and at if? le door. Below stairs, old Joseph and bo; Is wife were shivering and shaking in dr< lortal terror. Cowardly and supersti- ro< ous, both believed In the murdered he irmer's ghost, and expected to see it alk at any moment into the kitchen, wl lainly, life at the haunted house was of kely to be as unpleasant to them as > their prisoner. Sa "The foreigner will have to pay for he 11 this, old woman," quavered Joseph 'n s the importunate sounds made the ha wo draw nearer together over the ST? re; "that's how I console myself. When wi hears a groan, I nays, 'Five dollars < jr that strain on my nerves!' and tei rhen I gets a big scare and trembles, wc sets it down at ten. Mr. Discordo rill have a fine bill to settle afore he's he one with me. Oh, Lord! what's that?" Kr' Far up the rickety stair the tumult bu f knocks and groans?loose shingles hrl apping on the roof and dead boughs 801 ounding the clapboards?grew deafen- lg. en "Take the candle and come with me, lan," cried old Sally, starting up; "ten ba > one the girl's escaping! If we lose we er, what'll your fine gallant say?" we Hanging fast to each other, the two we tumped up to Mercy's door, upon bri rhich Sally rapped loudly, calling out: tot "Are vnu here Mercy?" ' S8-' "I am here," answered the girl from ev rlthin. coi "Do you see any danged spirits?" i ried Sally. th< "I hear them," answered the grirl dry- m? r. thi "Do you want anything?" do "No; go away. I would rather be ro< rlth ghosts than with you." ly The two retreated, muttering, down I tie stairs. ca As for Mercy, she had enough real ' ?rrors to think about, without coniirlng up imaginary ones. She groped er way to the corner, where stood the he Dur-poster on which murder had once 1 een done, and flung herself down upon be . th< "Val, Val," she sot bed, softly, In the no, arkness, clasping her slight hands as ' In prayer, "wherever you are to- vo ight have faith in me! Let no one et you against me. I will escape from p" tils place, I will return to you, or I , rill die." Then she fell at once Into the deep, m' reamless sleep of utter exhaustion, nd, while the lean rats scampered bout the floor, and the noises went a? n In chimney and roof, slept undis- ed urbed till morning light. . The second day brought no change In ln| lercy's situation. While Val Black 011 -as searching stubbornly for his miss- dr ng betrothed, and listening, silent and lorose, to the dark hints thrown out ed ' - - -- - . _ o-h y Miss Affry and tne L?onaon lawyer, lercy sat in the dusty, rat-infested !n. hamber of the haunted house, think- J*1 igr over impractical plans of escape, Jja nd singing her brave gospel hymns, no mid the maledictions of Joseph and jf? Is wife, to whom this sort of music J*8 ras particularly offensive. She was tn' orced to abandon all hope of exit by ye, he window. It was nailed with great are, and as every unusual noise Pa rought the alert Sally instantly to her , hamber, she felt that any attempt to orce the sash would at once attract nt he attention of her keepers. ca On the third day Mercy proceeded to investigate the chimney, and found, to ler dismay, that two stout, horizontal ars of iron had been placed across the J0 pening, and wedged so firmly that no Cl1 tower of hers could move them. Alas! co Mscordo had Indeed made fast his trison before he brought thither the inhappy victim. ja Another day passed?another and jQ, .nother. The fear of Discordo's return 8U weighed upon Mercy like a terrible ou lightmare. Sally's step upon the stair bl) ften made her heart stand still; not w . moment was she free from this ov- ru r-whelming terror. And by night, flc trange dreams of Val assailed her. He )vi rns no longer her fond and faithful _! over; a broad gulf parted them. He cv ^as drifting away from her. He had * .bandoned her to Discordo. One night, s she lay asleep on the bed of murder n the corner, while the rats raced .bout the floor and the wind blew the ;aunt fir-tree noisily against the claploards. Mercy dreamed of a great ship noving on the sea. She heard the ratling of Its cordage the voices of the yo ailors; and on its deck, looking like fn ome prince who had just found his doninions (oh, strange vagary of sleep!) he he saw her lover, Val Black. She call- wj 'd to him, but he turned his face from les ler, and would not answer; and when ro ihe, with love's persistency, repeated he ler cry with bitter tears, she heard his ns amiliar voice, answer, in proud dis- be jleasure: "I am done with you; you wi ire nothing now to me." Whereupon ja Vlercy awoke with a cry of anguish, sh ind such sudden heaviness of spirit as tit janlshed sleep from her eyes for the H est of the night. st And at that very moment, far away ri< )n the restless Atlantic, Sir Valentine th \xbuckle moody and sleepless, was ooking from his stateroom window up of it the great stars that kept watch over st he sea, thinking?thinking, not of he Deepmoor Hall and his new wealth and th irrandeur, not of anything which lay ur jefore him, but of his low-born love? si< ;he girl who had, as he supposed, deceived him so basely, whose beautiful er 'ace, wan with some mysterious re- ds jroach. seemed ever at his shoulder? a ;ver before his shuddering eyes. He ar ,vould never see that face again, he th ?aid to himself; neither would he for- th jet it on this side of the grave. so For eight long days Mercy pined in lo he haunted chamber, consumed with Iread of Discordo's coming; never mowing that the latter was pursuing of ligher game far away at Newport, satsfled the while that his captive was fie lulte safe in the place he had provided he 'or her. On the ninth day something th tappened. "You may expect Mr. Discordo, to- sp light" grinned old Sally, as she he irought the girl her dinner of bread, st >ld meat and tea. "Drat it! you're as hite as a spirit" "Tonight!" murmured Mercy, clinchg her small hands at her side. "So he told me when he went away," ild Sally.. Mercy did not taste her dinner. She iced up and down her prison like one stracted, mutely praying for help to ie Power that had befriended and ipt her through all her short, dark !e. Presently her eyes fell upon the cup>ard above the bed. She opened It, oked at the rubbish crowded into its irrow space, and a thought, an indration, flashed like lightning across >r mind. Could she do it? At least ie would try. In a fever of apprehension she waitI for night to fall. Should Dlscordo >pear before she had time to make >r experiment, all would indeed be Bt Fortunately, the twilight gather! dark and threatening. A wild wind Shed round the old, black house; rain II at intervals?Mercy could hear it i the roof and against the pane. Just before the last of the daylight i Bappearea, sne iuuk huiii uie vuy ard the box of red ochre, the pot of 4nt, red also, and, with a little water >m her jug, mixed the two together, len she drew a sheet from the bed, leared It In a frightful manner, foldIt carefully, put It, with the paint t into the cupboard, and flung herIf down upon her miserable pillow as In utter despondency and pain. A foot on the stair! Her heart gave great, suffocating bound. But no! it is only Sally with her supper. "You look mighty cast down," said e old woman. "Here's a sausage that e fried for you?eat It. Maybe 'twill Ise your spirits. Oh! that dratted ost has begun again, has he?" with frightened glance around the room, a great commotion sounded suddenIn the chimney. 'Yes" shivered Mercy; "the way he es on is dreadful. Oh, Sally, take me wnstairs with you?I shall die here!" lly grinned. 'Do you think me a fool? Mr. Dlsrdo told me expressly that you wasn't leave this chamber. So, ghosts or ghosts, here you'll have to stay, lybe, If you ask it as a favor, Disrdo'll take us from this place altother. We'd be glad enough If he . >uld both Joseph and I." rhe flr-tree at this moment dragged boughs along the dilapidated clapard with a hoarse shriek. Sally opped her tray and fled from the )m as fast as her old legs would carry r. Downstairs she went, to the kitchen, lere Joseph sat quaking over a fire green apple-tree boughs. 'The old man's walking!" announced lly, her gray hair bristling upon her ad; "there'll be no rest for anybody T **rlaVt vAit'il Kaon IIIC Iiuuoe iviueiu. a moil j wu v? MWM ? nged afore you ever told your fine 1 ntleman of this place, which Is nose fit for living folks to abide In." Joseph was too far overcome with ] Tor himself to take umbrage at the >rds of his spouse. 'The ghosts have got into the fire," < muttered; "it's sputtering and waning and fizzling, but it won't rn. Shut the door, woman, and 1 Ing out the brandy bottle?let's take i methlng hot." 1 A gust of wind tearing through the 1 izy old hall at that moment, wrench- i the latch from Sally's hand, and nged the door violently against the ill. The pair yelled in chorus. Sally 1 is the first to regain composure. She 1 >nt to a closet, produced a bottle of < andy, and poured a strong draught r herself and her lord. Then the two t t down at the dull fire, to quake at l ery fresh noise and listen for Dis- 1 rdo's arrival. i Suddenly an appalling sound broke i 9 silence of the kitchen?a long, lamtable human shriek, somewhere in < a upper portion of the house. It ated down the stair and filled the 1 )m?a terrible, agonized cry. Directafter, both heard a fall. ? Sally started to her feet and seized a i ndle. I "Come with me!" she cried. f "Oh, Lord! where?" quavered Joseph. 1 "To her room, you fool! Did you i ar that scream?" The two mounted to Mercy's cham- 1 r. Her door was fast, and though < ey listened intently they could hear 1 thing Inside. "Mercy!" called Sally in a trembling ] ice. i A deep groan answered. The woman 1 t her mouth to the keyhole and call- < again: < "What ails you. girl? What's the 1 utter in there?" Another appalling groan. She took 1 key from her pocket, unlocked the or and looked in, while Joseph peer- i warily over her shoulder. ' For a moment they could see noth- > Then from the bed in the corner, i t of the intense darkness and silence ose a shape, tall, terrible; shrouded ' white from head to foot, and smeardown all its grim length with the astly sign of murder?a shape which f the flaring, uncertain light of the i How candle, was enough to make the Ir rise and the blood grow cold with 1 rror. He had come back from his ave?the victim of murder?he was i ling bodily from the bed on which i e foul deed had been done, twenty ars before! < The apparition moved toward the l ir at the door. A wild flutter of 1 >od-8tained garments, a shriek of nd in the chimney, and with a ye!l < to raise the roof, Sally dropped her I ndle and retreating backward, miss- l her footing and fell Headlong down < e stairs. At the same instant, the < sperate hand of the ghost wrenched seph's crutch from his hold, and pre- 1 jitated the wretched cripple after his 1 mpanion. Dashing off the smeared sheet which i apped her, Mercy leaped over the ] lien bodies of her jailers and gained one breathless rush the entry bear. By a gleam of firelight, which is- 1 ed from the kitchen, she found the ? ter door leading: to freedom and the issed protecting night. It was fast, ith all her might she pulled at the sty bolt, drew it back with much difulty, and with one look at the bodies Ing in a heap at the foot of the stair were they senseless or dead??Mersprang like a deer across that acrsed threshold, and wildly away from 1 e haunted house under the hill. CHAPTER XXV. A Blow in the Dark. i Her little strategy had succeeded be?nd her wildest expectation?she was ee! i She fled acioss the field in which the >use stiod, till she came to a stone : ill. Over this she climbed breath- i ssly, and found herself in an open ad. She was entirely Ignorant of r bearings, knowing not even the tme of the place to which she had en abducted: but she dared not aste a moment in deliberation?her . ilers might already be in pursuit. Fly e must, somewhere, in some direc- ; >n, and trust the rest to Heaven, eaven guided her and turned her face i raight toward the town. Mercy scur?d off like a hunted wild creature i rough the wind and rain. She had not gone far when the sound approaching wheels arrested her eps. A carriage was coming toward >r along the unfamiliar road. Instinc /ely, Mercy cast herself down in an ldlstinguishable heap by the wayile, holding her very breath. It advanced rapidly?plainly the drivwas in great haste. In spite of the irkness, Mercy could see that it was close vehicle, with a man on the box, id two reeking horses at the pole. As e swift wheels neared the spot where e girl lay prostrate on the damp earth me one inside the carriage called out, udly and impatiently: "Drive faster!" Merciful heaven! It was the voice Discordo! The horses turned into the lonely Id and dashed across it toward the lunted house. In a few moments at e furthest he would know all. With her heart in her throat, Mercy irang to her feet and fled. Fear lent ;r wings, desperation gave her rength. He would pursue her, over take her if possible. Away she went ' through the merciful darkness, follow- ing the winding road which would ere ' long, as she rightly Judged, lead her in- ? to reach of human help. Never did frightened bird fly faster. By the time Discordo alighted from his carriage at the door of the haunted house, Mercy Dl had reached a bend in the murky way and espied at a little distance before her a light?the beacon of safety and salvation. She ran toward it It shone from the window of a cottage standing cl< in a trim garden beside the high-road cu to the town. The gate was open. Mer- tjc cy ran through, sprang into a porch covered with sweet-smelling vines, and no crouched down there, half mad witn of terror and excitement. It She was free?rshe was safe?she was t close to human succor and companionship. Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!" 'n With a wild ringing in her ears, with of her heart thumping like a trip-ham- -D: mer against her side, she waited. Not ? long. Far off on the wet road she soon heard it coming?the carriage driven at en " " **-J f>_< 1? , lunous apeeu. nuu i/iauuiuu ku< hv*. wr coward at last? Finding1 that hla vie- t, tlm had escaped, was he hastening to secure his own safety before she could expose his outrageous villainy? At any caj rate the vehicle tore past Mercy's place ^ of concealment as if upon an errand of life and death. It vanished In the night >e< the noise of the swift wheels died away ws on the wind; and then all was still. jg( For a while Mercy remained In her :overt, listening, fearing; then as It became certain that her danger was over?that she was indeed delivered Tl( from her persecutor, she arose with a wj, great burst of silent thanksgiving, stole out Into the road again, and walked off ini In the track of Dlscordo's carriage. She loc must make her way back at once to >f his farm horse. Made bold by the be< urgency of her case, Mercy stepped up to to the wheel of the wagon and Into ^ the lantern light and quavered. "Please, sir, Is this the road to Bos- crc ton ?" Du Her appearance was decent enough, fjc for she had secured both her hat ^nd shawl in her flight; but her face, shin- p Ing through her drifting golden hair, sor was like the face of the dead. The man rot Irew up his horse at once, looking cu- at rlously at the figure by the side of his . wheel. b* "Yes," he answered. th? "Oh, please, sir, is it far away?" said Mercy, Jn an uncertain voice. "Well a few miles, miss." ^ "Would you kindly tell me the name jf this place, sir?" er "Medford." h#l Oho horV Wa flnnko to his lorse and moved on, but at the end of the i few yards stopped again, as If struck 1 with a sudden thought, and called to |g Mercy through the darkness: "Here, t. miss are you traveling to the city?" * "Yes, sir," faltered Mercy. ft "It's a long walk for you, at this pa fiour of night," Bald the man, good na- bu1 furedly; "you're welcome to a seat here _ in the load with me, if you like." Fr< She hesitated only for a moment; in :hen, full of gratitude for this unez- asc pected help, climbed up to a place by lis side. Mercy had keen instincts, * ind she knew at once that she was safe with 'his man. - 1 iri "Got business in the city?" he ask- ^ id. _ "Yes," she answered: "I am going to ?a find some friends there." hal Thank Heaven! this reply seemed to caJ satisfy him. He Jogged on, calling out low and then to his stout horse, but giving her no further attention. She to loon found that he was casting up some Ba perplexing mathematical account in his 8e^ mind; calculating the worth of his oad perhaps?and the occupation kept occ Us thoughts entirely averted from his Ga companion for which she was devoutly Cu thankful. The wagon being heavily laden, progress was necessarily slow. Mercy *or sat motionless, voiceless, staring out Or: into the night before her, and thinking raj only of Val and Miss Affry. Nine long f Jays she had been missing! No doubt they thought her dead. Every moment ter that kept her from them now seemed ma like a century. jjn They rumbled on, slowly but surely, and finally saw a great many lights 151,1 shining far off?myriad sparks of fire 1 against the gloom. Then they crossed qg a bridge, and entered the city. f "Whereabouts are your friends, miss?" said the driver. cei Mercy told him. op] "I'll drop you close by; or, seeing It's tjj( so late. I'll drive Into the court, If you're . afraid." wtl She declined this offer with thanks, ter She was not afraid. In a moment she th< would be with her dear ones. She scrambled down from the wagon, bade a grateful farewell to this stranger ,er who had befriended her in her need Th and, turning the corner of a street, ae^ found herself once more In Seedy Court. c One eager rush along the pavement rui and Mercy was at the door of No. 10. to She looked up at the grimy, wooden 0 4 face of the old house. It was as dark ' as the grave. Everybody was in bed, ed of course?landlady and lodgers alike, brl Timidly she rang the bell. No an- g\x swer. Again, louder than before. No light, no sound anywhere. No. 10 was wrapped in profound silence and dark- chl ness. She waited, listened; but no one gr< came to open the familiar door to her. _r< Miss Affry was wont to leave It un - - - . vol locked for the convenience or ner ioagrera, but tonight It was as fast as bolt fef and key could make It. ' Oh, how could Val, how could Miss . t AfTry sleep, while she stood there, houseless and trembling at their th< threshold? Once more Mercy pulled bu the bell, but with the same result. Be- ca, wlldered and disappointed, she sat down in the darkest corner of the rec steps, under the shelter of the dusty of old grapevine. ac? "I will make no more noise; T will h try not to disturb them," she said to herself, "but just wait here till morn- me ing. It will not be long." tal She drew her old shawl about her shoulders, and tried to feel that every- . thing was right. After all, she had in< been gone but nine days. Surely no Ga misfortune could have overtaken the Lii Blacks In that little time. Neverthe less, a great sadness began to creep over Mercy?a foreboding of evil. ?* How silent and dark was the court! In Every rustle of the dry graperleaves 5 5 made her start and tremble. Was It ' Discordo's step that she heard ad- in vancing along the pavement? No?only ba a, rush of wind. Suppose he should ba come back to the court to look for her. fln/1 Vinw tisely resembles a bent linger, has ocpied a large amount of public atten- a >n. Since the days of Grecian glory t* such patch of land as the Isthmus S Panama has gained equal distinction c< has been the scene of stirring adven- P( re and the site of the wealthiest city *1 the world. It has been the subject tl epoch-making diplomacy and a t* here of political disturbance. It is I" t seat of the greatest engineering t? terprlse In history?an enterprise ot ilch Is destined to?. But that is an- w rer story. w \s the construction of the Panama ial progressed it became necessary n< m time to time to abandon small ct :tlons of the original Panama rail- el y line, which was constructed in hi >0-65 by three Americans?Aapln- Ti .11, Stephens and Chauncey. In w 18 the section between Mlndl and th ?er Hill was lifted and placed else- ee lere, as the old line passed right er ough the site of Oatun Dam and b< ks. In 1910 the section between Pe- th > Miguel and Corozal was shifted, m abllshlng a line permanently at an A vatlon sufficiently high to be above bi ?level of the Mlraflores lake; and on It bruary 16, 1912, the new line between A tun and Matachln was put into aer- w e, as the rising water of the Oatun fo ;e, due to the closing up of the Cha- th is river at Oatun, would soon have Jded the old line between these A Ints. m finally, with the completion of the "W nama canal, a new railway will have re sn constructed, running from Colon th Panama, entirely on the east side of tr i waterway, instead of continually or >8Sing the track, as It did previously, la ring the whole of the changes traf- re across the isthmus was not sus- n< ided at all although passengers for st ne considerable time traveled In a ae indabout way between the two cities ej each side of the republic. Engines of 3 to be changed at one point and w > train taken back almost whence It c< A come, so as to enable It to negotl- te ! the newly made line, which extendIn a different direction. Here anoth- i0 locomotive attached Itself at the pr id of the train, and It proceeded to jf > end of the Journey. ca fhe new line of the Panama railway jn 47.1 miles long, or slightly shorter w in the old one. From Colon to Mln- 8a 4.17 miles, and from Corozal to pt - ? ? - -1A 1?~ ? la ,,aas ... nama, z.bs mue?, me uiu uuc ? UI t the remaining forty miles are new. am Mlndi to Oatun the railway ru?.j ? < general parallel to the canal and p| :ends from a few feet above the tide- b( ter elevation to nearly ninety-flve w it above that, level. At Gatun the M e- leaves the vicinity of the canal ^ A runs east along the valley of the gh tun river to a point about four and a If miles from the center line of the gt ial, where It turns southward again cj. a skirts the east shore of Gatun lake ar the beginning of the Culebra cut at 8 Obispo. In this section there are cc feral huge "fills" of rock and earth, b{ :urrlng where the line crosses the gl tun valley and near the north end of w lebra cut, where the line was taken 0j ind so as to furnish waste-dumps a? the dirt excavated from the canal. p? Iglnally It was Intended to carry the lway through the Culebra cut on a tl( ty-foot beam ten feet above the wa- a( level, but the numerous landslides ^ ide this plan impracticable, and the ^ e was taken around the cut, and Is nj own locally as the Gold Hill Line. aj >aving the canal at Bas Obispo, the Sl Id Hill Line gradually works Into the b( thills, reaching a distance from the ~ iter line of the canal of two miles b( poslte Culebra; thence It runs down ^ i Pedro Miguel valley to Paralso. p] lere It Is only 800 feet from the con- g( ' line of the canal. This section of n( ; road la laid down on a maximum o( ide of 1.25 per cent, and has a total bl igth of nine and three-eights miles. gl le sharpest curve on the whole line is ja ren degrees. From the south end of b( lebra cut at Paraiso, the railway c, us practically parallel with the canal p) Panama, with a maximum grade of w 5 per cent Where the railway cross- jj. the Gatun river, a bascule steel a( idge has been erected; and a steel der bridge, a quarter of a mile long, Q] ih a two hundred-foot through-truss ^ annel span. Is in use across the Cha- R| js river at Gamboa. Small streams CJ 3 crossed on reinforced concrete culrts. Near Miraflores a tunnel 736 it long has been built through a hill ? The relocated line was made absoely necessary by the new plans of i Isthmian Canal commission for ilding an eighty-flve foot level lock ^ nal. Some serious landslides occur- c< 1 on the new line during the process j construction, when several peculiar :ldents happened to various kinds of ivv machinery and to the railway 'tals. The greater part of the time jj' cen and expense was necessitated by ? crossing of the Gatun valley. From T i point where the road leaves the ^ tun ridge to the hills near Monte p( rlo, a distance of three and a half p les, the line crosses the main valley ^ the Gatun river and Its tributaries. c< this section there have been placed 00 000 cubic yards of embankment. tj. e foundation of a part of this em- ^ nkment was very poor, causing Its 8( se to be spread over a much wider q, ia. In order to reduce the pressure r square foot on the natural ground. n) d prevent upheaval beyond the foot the slope. The total cost of the new p( e Is estimated at $9,000 000, Amerl- a) a money. The first line cost $7,000,- tr ) which was considered an enormous (j] m. \s late as sixty years ago the city of nama was more difficult to reach ^ in Is Tibet today. The only means t}. communication after the rule of 8j aln had ended ana tne pavea roau ^ ross the Isthmus from Portobello on A i Atlantic, had become a ruin, was ^ her by sea or by the Chagrea river, a canoes or small vessels as far as tr her Gorgona or Cruces (Venta Cruz) tr d thence by mule-road through the nsest of Jungle to Panama. The lsth- jr js was a complete wilderness from gl ore to shore, when all at once it heme a center of attraction for inter- C( ean transit. The first concession for 7( railway across the Isthmus was j; anted to a Frenchman in 1847, but he a< illed to raise the money necessary to ulld the line. In December. 1848, a oncesslon was granted by the Colomlan government to Aspinwall, Stephns and Ch&uncey. and this was raodled to the advantage of the company In .prll, 1860. The concessionaires had i view the handling of the Immigrant -ade bound to California and Oregon, len recently opened to settlement, nd Aspinwall had already, In 1848, esibllshed a steamship service between an Francisco and Panama. The dls ivery of gold In California made It osslble to raise the money to begin le undertaking. The promoters took le first steps on general principles; ley believed that a road across the thmus would pay; but it did not en>r their minds, or the mind of any :her living mortal, that their scheme ould prove the dazzling bonanza hlch it did. As Mr. Asplnwall had been proml;nt in everything relating to the sue>ss of the undertaking, it was proposI to name the Atlantic terminus after m. It had been called Navy Bay, or he Bay. The suggestion was adopted ith enthusiasm, and It was supposed lat the name would be permanently itabllshed. But the Columbian gov-nment decided that the place should > called Colon, arguing, no doubt tat Christopher Columbus was a uch greater man than William H. splnwall. The former had visited the ly In November, 1502, and had named Bahla de los Navlos; and although plnwall was used very generally the orld over, especially by Americans, r a good many years, Colon became le legal name. Even when the commission of an merlcan consul for Asplnwall was ade out at the state department In rashington the Bogota government fused an ezequater on the ground that lere was no such place in the couny. It was perhaps an ungracious act ? au a . s?j Jf.. -s-A-. ---1 I* i uie pari ui a lncuui/ outie, anu 11 probable that Secretary Fisher so garded it, since he would not have a iw commission made out for the conil, preferring to send the official out i a commercial agent, for whom an :equatur would not be required. But, ' course, all subsequent commissions ere made for Colon, as the right of alombla to label all towns within her rritory had to be conceded. For a time Colon-Aspinwall and Con (Aspinwall) were written and 'lnted; and a funny thing happened, a wreck can be called humorous. A .ptaln, strange to the port, came sailg in one day before the strong trade lnds, and, to the surprise of all who .w him, held his course straight away ist the lighthouse and the wharves, ider full sail. People looked and wonsred, and said hmeath their breath. Tls our belief f.iat you will soon be led up on the reef!" And, sure enough s was! The vessel became a total reck, and the cargo was lost The iptaln and crew were saved with 'eat difficulty. It was thought that the ;lpper must be Insane; but after he id been questioned the cause of his range conduct was made plain. On his lart was marked "Colon-Aspinwall," id was not Aspinwall. after Colon? fat Ish der madder?" he said; and he ?uld not be convinced of his error. He id found Colon all right and was mply steering for the other place hen he struck! He was an honest d chap; the disaster was put down i a peril of the sea, and nis insurance Lid. Later the Colombian postal authorise gave notice that all correspondence Idressed to Aspinwall would not be ilivered, but would be sent back to ie places whence it came. Thus, flilly, the present name was adopted; though for a long time, In the United tates especially, the old name was itter known. Curiously enough both olumbus and Aspinwall will shortly > honored in another way in Colon, he statue of the former, a beautiful 'oduction in bronze, is shortly to be it up in the garden in front of the >w Washington hotel, now in course construction on Colon Beach, and a jst of Aspinwall is to be placed in the rounds at the back of the hotel. The .tter is just as ugly as the former is sautiful, and since they were landed i the isthmus both monuments have issed through many vlcisltudes, hich almost eclipse the adventurous ves of the notable men they repre?nt. Like the Tivoli hotel at Ancon, ie Washington hotel is being erected fi behalf of the United States governient, and will cater for tourists as well 3 accommodate official visitors to the inal zone. At the time of the building of the riginal line, railways were In their inmcy. and the project of a line fifty ilies across a notoriously unhealthy )untry was regarded as a distinct azard. Money was scarce In 1861, and ie progress of the work was not en)uraglng, as the,llne had been comleted only to Gatun seven miles ln,nd. In November of that year a ship nable to land Its passengers at the touth of the Chagres river, as somemes happened, landed them at Colon, ad at once the railway came Into use. he rates charged were exceedingly Igh, but the service was prompt comared with the canoes on the river, rom 1852 to the present time the line as paid a dividend of from 3 to 61 per snt annually. Clearing was begun In May, 1850, and ie first train crossed the isthmus on inuary 28, 1855. As originally conructed the line was 47 miles and 3 50 feet long, and the summit was 263 tet above sea level. From the begin Ing the traffic In passengers and goods as heavy, as the route was used by sople all over the west coast of North nd South America. Until an arblary decision of the management rove them from the trade, there was a' ne of steamers which carried EuroBan freight from Panama to Welling, . Z., and Sydney, N. S. W., and up to lat period?1868?no regular steamllp route lay through the Strait of [agellan to the west coast of South merica. In 1869 the railway across the nlted States was completed and thus considerable amount of the goods afflc and almost all the passenger afflc for California and Oregon were Iverted. Notwithstanding these losses i traffic, the line continued to pay Bod dividends. In August, 1881, the French Canal >mpany purchased 68,887 of the the ),000 shares of the railway stock at 191 per share. The railway was ab>lutely necessary for the construction of the canal. When the United States completed its purchase of the French rights on May 4, 1904, it come into pos- ( session of the 68,887 shares of the railway stock, and by private purchase acquired the balance. c The heavy equipment purchased for " the canal work made it necessary to c relay the road?a double track forty 1 miles long?with 80-pound rails, and s otherwise improve the property. Since r 1904 the equipment has been renewed, and there are now 100-ton oil-burning j locomotives large and comfortable day, fl parlor and hospital carriages, as well d i as forty-ton freight cars. They are fit- o ted with comfortable banks, loose beds a and easy chairs, to accommodate men n who are Injured or fall ill while engag- g ed at any part of the canal works. Thence they are taken by train, ordi- o nary or special, as the case may be, to g Colon or Ancon, where well-equipped * hospitals are maintained by the United * States government. v The commercial usefulness of the c Panama railway has been somewhit a handicapped by the canal work, be- c cause all considerations are made sec- n St Stephen's Day was caught In the furse. "hough his body's small, his family's great ome out, Mrs. , and give us a tratel And there are very few who do not ive a copper toward keeping alive tils old, old custom. Another Christian custom?but this i a custom of religious sentiment? i that of placing a lighted candle In very window on the night of Christies Eve, the. Idea having originally een to show that If the holy family ad to come to that house they would ave found a welcome, Instead of the spulse of the householders of Bethleem. "To light In the birth of the Reeemer of the world," so It was exlalned by an old woman, who still oseessed one of the triple holders >r rushlights that in the old days very one kept safely for use at hrlstmas time. Now that manufaciired candles have taken the place of illow dips those who keep up the ustom are satisfied with setting 5metlmea one, sometimes three canlestlcks in each window. The Custom of keeping a goat with ows and a bantam with hen* may De aced to an Idea of luck, though it i also maintained that goats eagerly jek out a pasture and soon clear It f all herbs that would be Injurious > cows If they were left for them to &t when the grass began to fall. The most Interesting as well as the Idest and still most cherished cua>ms are those that have gathered aund deaths and funerals. The aoine or "keen." so often mentioned y Irish writers, Is now to be met rith only in the west, where the soft lalntlve voices seem to lend themslves peculiarly to It. No one who has not heard a real een can Imagine the wild melanholy of the call that brings an unought-for lump to the throat of the asser-by. As soon as a person dies lie women raise their voices in a high llnor key, letting them fall away nd die in most heartrending wall. This keening Is undoubtedly a relic rom pagan days, and indeed the 11 J ??WAV In which so 11I1U, UUIlUOOUVuiiig < ? lany customs are clung to makes it asy to believe that they date back a remote times. The Question i? rhether in these material days the act of their having been clung to so jnaciously, without any reason havig been assigned for them, will not jad to their being abandoned alDgether. For instance, lately going into a ouse where a child lay dead, we ound the furniture all turned upside own, chairs and tables alike standing rith their legs in the air. ? "Is that to make more room for eople coming to the wake?" we inulred of a woman standing near. "Sorra room, daughter!" was the eply. " 'Tie Just a fashion we have." "But why?" we insisted. "What i the reason?" "Not a know do I know," she conessed. "Maybe the corpse's father ould be tellin.'" 141 'Snrnan'u i5ut neuner uvui u? w> k?v ~ ather" nor from anyone else have we een able to discover any explanation f a singular custom that is not conned to Connemara alone. Of late years wakes had been made uch excuses for drinking that they ave been much discountenanced, and 1 certain dioceses they have gone ack to being ^hat they originally rere, the watching of a dead person's imily around the coffin. In some laces the rule against the lndlscrllinate distribution of drink at wakes ave been somewhat hard to enforce. "Thank God, then, that my man tick is dead and buried dacent!" ras the exclamation of a certain old rtdow on hearing the bishop's reglations. When a person is near death a rown habit that has been previously lessed with the blessing of the scaputr of Mount Carmel is put upon him o that he may die wearing Our Lady's very. No house is without a habit lessed and laid by in case of sudden eed. Formerly two saucers were always placed on the dead man's chest r on his coffin, one containing snuff, he other earth that had been blessed. it Is only within late years that adantage has been taken of the tacit evocation of the law which forbade ny act of Catholic worship to take lace In public graveyard. It Is the xceptlon now for the priest not to ccompany the funeral and bless the rave, therefore the blessed earth rhlch used to be thrown Into the open rave before the coffin was lowered Is ow seldom needed. The snufT, however, Is still there, nd In some parts each man Is preented with a pipeful of tobacco, rhlch he smokes as he follows the iineral and then throws down the lpe on the newly-filled grave. In ne churchyard which Is washed by tie Atlantic we counted the bowls of everal hundred such pipes lying round the newlymade graves. The reason for the snuff and probbly for the pipes was hard to find, tnly one out of many persons quesioned could offer any explanation, 'his one was a woman who said that tie custom came from a belief that rhen the Lord's tomb was cut In the ock of the garden the tobacco plant ras the one that grew over It.