Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, February 18, 1913, Image 1
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ESTABLISHED 1855. YORKVILLE, S. C., TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1913. N"0. 14.
Pi ? THE AMERICA
I
r |
By ETTA W
%
CHAPTER XXIV.
A Ghost. {
It was one to be remembered, Mercy v
Dill's first night In the haunted Medford
house, where treachery and vio- *
lence had made her an unwilling prisoner.
The unhappy girl, plunged in the a
depths of misery and despair, bereft of c
* help and hope alike, paced the dreadful
chamber back and forth, wringing ?
her hands like one distracted, trying to ?
think out some plan by which she could
acquaint Val and Miss Affry *
with her situation. Val! The thought t
of him was like a dagger in her heart i
Through all her confusion of mind, one *
?- -1- 1 rlanlalva ohnnp a
purpose [ook uieeu auu uv,vi?.. ^ ,?
before her. She must escape from this
place?from Discordo's power?or die!
She tried the door; it was fast and
strong. She looked the chamber care- *
fully over; it contained no outlet save .
the window and chimney. The former
was two stories from the ground, nar
row, set with small panes and nailed
up with great care. Above the bed, she ?
\ discovered a cupboard in the wall, and
I climbing up to it found it full of rub- r
blsh?old newspapers, a pot of paint, J:
dried solid, a box of red ochre, two or h
three stumpy brushes, some rusty nails
but nothing of the smallest value. In
an agony of despair, the girl sank
down on the dusty floor of her prison j:
and wept as if her heart would break.
Hour after hour dragged by. The
chamber was dark as death. A deep silence
fell upon the house?her precious
pair of jailors had retired for the f,
night, evidently. And now new terrors
overwhelmed Mercy. Discordo's story
of the man who had been murdered in t]
that very chamber twenty years be- h
fore rushed back upon her memory. "
She began to hear strange sounds all t]
about her in the darkness?groans, f
faint, smothered cries, loud knocking. w
^ Wild with nervous terror and excite- p
ment, Mercy sprang upon the miser- j,
able bed. and crouched down there in t
a heap, shaking from head to foot.
Knook, knock went the ghostly hand,
somewhere overhead. A long-drawn
srroan. ending: in an unearthly screech, f,
k came from the window. Did the soul ^
of the murdered man indeed haunt the t
scene of his death? Suddenly Mercy
became aware that something: living: M
was in the room, moving1 over the dirty j
floor. There was a vein of true cour- ^
age in the girl's nature. She arose to d
the occasion, sprang up from her
crouching posture, and presently de- 0
scried two or three gray shapes, long ^
and lean, scampering away into the
corners. Rats! She drew a great },
breath of relief.
'> 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?
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* th
f U>
: PIERCE. I ?
? n?
f S
KMyKiiyr<jivaocy^?xy? 3*
A faint spasm crossed Mercy's color- ^
ess fare. but still she did not SDeak.
)f what use could it be to bandy words 114
*ith this hag? 101
Sally waited a moment, and finding e(*
hat the prisoner was not Inclined to JJ
:onverse with her, she said curtly: 'e
Rap on the wall if you want anything,
ind I'll come," and then she retired,
arefully locking the door behind her. ff'1
Mercy had no appetite, yet she fore- bo
d herself to eat a lttle of the food, P?
mowing well that she would need all
ler strength. What was to be done? Tl
low could she send word to Val of the 8n
lie durance she was in, and warn him
o have faith in her, and believe no P?
alsehood of Discordo'n making? It was 8e
question not easy to answer. Escape "
he must; but how?
Wearily, hopelessly the day dragged a i
n. At noon Sally appeared again, with wt
tolerable dinner for the prisoner. She
ast her ferret eyes about the chamber th(
o make sure that al' was right there, Iv
nd silently departed as she had come. **
The afternoon waned. Darkness &h
athered on the wooded hill behind the a
aunted house, and in Mercy's forlorn as
rlson. Despairing, worn out with per- 'y(
lexity, fear and sorrow, she saw the
ight fall again. No lamp was allowed so
er in her den, and presently the gray d?
its began to scamper about the floor, Sa
nd all the obnoxious noises of the
receeding night made themselves c?>
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 <jr(
Seedy Court?to Miss Affry and Val, ^ .
md tell them her story.
But where was she? How many ?!e
miles lay before her? Was her face set th?
In the right direction or not? Present- pe
ly she heard a heavy vehicle in the
road behind her and a cheery whistle, 0ra
followed by the words: vie
"Get up, old horse!" lah
It was a heavy market wagon, pack3d
with boxes and barrels the whole *
;overed with a piece of sailcloth. A
antern burned upon the seat, where, pol
ilso, she discerned the figure of a ]
middle-aged, honest-faced countryman p
lerking the reins over the broad back ra>
>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 ti<nU!nrr t h Dro n lntlD 9 TVtO
thought made her flesh creep. How- Pe:
ever, her fears were groundless. Nelth- an
er her arch-enemy nor any other per- 0f
son appeared to alarm her. She fell .
asleep, at last with her head resting lln
against the fast-closed door, and, un- cai
disturbed in her dark corner, slept on 00<
till morning.
When she awoke, the sun was rising
over the roofs of the great city. She arose
to her feet, cramped, confused, Pa
frightened. Where was she? One glance
around the place answered her. She .
was safe in Seedy Court, close to Miss 01
Affry and her lover. Sp
Surely the Blacks were awake by aci
this time. She rang the bell, confident ^
of an immediate answer; but none
came. Glancing up at the house, Mer- e,t
cy, with a thrill of sudden, nameless In
fear, saw that all its shutters were ej^
closed. She reached and opened one
belonging to Miss Affry's sitting-room, an
and, raising herself on tiptoe, looked de
Into that familiar place. It was emp- mi
ty. A bare floor and four bare walls h
alone met her sight. With a great shock
of astonishment and terror, Mercy saw, ca
felt, that No. 10 was deserted?that 00
Val and Miss Affry were gone! But a
where?
(To be Continued.) ^
piswllaurouis #faditip. "
? c<
THE PANAMA RAILROAD. b
ei
gging Big Ditoh Has C*us?d Recon- fl
atruction of Lins. A
During recent years a strip of land b
rvlng about 470 miles, so that It 11
>sely 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- <j
ondary to this. At present it cannot
handle all the freight between the east e
and west coasts of the United States e
that could be procured, but it does car- b
ry an average of 35,000 tons of com- b
mercial freight a month. This is about o
half of the total freight carried, the v
balance being for the construction of ?
the canal and for railway purposes.? tl
Chambers Journal. h
tl
PER8I8TENCE.
h
A Quality That Counts for Muoh In tl
th# Work-day World. h
In the calendad of every life there tl
nnma Hov? when it Is not amusing to n
be In the land of the living?when, a
perhaps as the unpalatable fruit of our li
own actions, we are Isolated and T
estranged from light and Joy, and our
portion seems to be with those who
have succumbed when they were t
beaten down. It is then to be sean
and known what manner of man or c
woman we may be. No chain of circumstances
is concelveable that gives
any of us the moral right to do less *
than our best, or to visit any private
and personal grief upon those who j
have a sufficient burden of their own ^
to carry. We are bound to go on living
with all our might, and whatever sort 6
of muddle we have made of the bust- b
ness thus far, we must summon our h
falling and faltering strength to re- h
trieve it The firing-line cannot spare r
one of us; if we must perforce of our ^
wounds, be relegated to the field-hospital
for a while, even there we can d
help others who are maimed and enfeebled
even as we, to win their way
back to a complete recovery. ?
It Is an outworn notion that we were e
set on earth to have a good time and c
tn And all as we would have It When ,
mankind first came upon this trivial ^
Inhabitable speck of star-dust, though
the whirling nebula and the geologic ^
aeons had performed their part, there d
was a deal to be done to "this goodly
frame, the earth," to make it thor- C(
oughly suitable as a place of human ^
| residence. It was a discouraglngly big la
problem, and to many of an inferior w
order among mankind it has proved 0
' appalling. They became so scared they t(
ran away from the big, brave things e(
| there were to do, just as in the dawn
of history they fled in terror from the 0
roaming mammoth and behemoth t(
awfully towering above them. It was r(
all left to a few btout-hearted leaders a
to carry on the work of making the b
world ready for the century we live in w
now. Never were any citizens so blest p
as we are. Never were any given so S(
much for which to be everlastingly
grateful. Instead of a paean of gratl- k
tude, however, many of us elect to
whine a Jeremiad. We look for the c
impossible underside of anything s<
whose uppermost phase seems to por- P
tend a triumph. There is no make- t]
believe left in us; the willingness to
incur the unexpected is atrophied far
within our natures. We have no illusions,
no power of make-believe. The
world is a sordid, brutal demesne of b
"blind mouths" gaping upon us and ~
famished for our ruin. What a morbid,
perverted and even wicked way to look t<
at the human cyclorama! To live by w
such a creed Is to live upon a He. The ^
world is what we make It, and every t)
one has a part, not to be shirked nor t]
shifted, In the making. Nobody's role 1(
Is unimportant We think If we slunk t)
out by the back way, If we sauntered
off and lay down somewhere, that b
things would go on Just the same. But ^
they wouldn't.
There Is too much to be done to let w
any one of us "loaf on the Job." If
there's anything that stands in the way p
of our serving the commanding gen- q
eral with the whole of our vital efficacy,
it Is our duty to get rid of that r
obstructing circumstance. The admirable
man Is he who leaves himself b
completely out of It when there Is
work to be put through. He is to be ^
the one factor negligible In the fac- c
tory. The life of the civil engineer, for
example, Is filled with enterprises that
require a man to put his personal b
ease and convenlece quite out of his 0
thought. That is what stamps this one fl
of the greatest of the professions. At
the end of an active career a man has 81
more than a pile of money to show for b
It. There stands the visible monument j,
of laborious application and unweary- b
lng patience, of fine contempt for In- w
dolence and the line of least resist- f,
ance, of real ability that follows un- p
swervingly the plan that It has made, n
sparing no pains In the ultimate fulfil- b
ment Such work as that is of no interest
to the man who hasen't It In him y
to persist. He Is ready to cry "halt" w
before the word "go" is given. He pre- w
fers to sit and twiddle his thumbs and u
dream of what a fine thing it would be
to do, If It could only be done. To the b
unperslstent man, action Is always b
premature and the actor is fatally j{
ahead of his time. To the persistent w
one, who means to begin, continue and u
end the work, there Is nothing like b
making the start that Is half the bat- n
tie. He has no time to consult the n
veering weather-cock and fidgety ba- 0
rometer of his own moods. He does t]
not ask himself whether he likes the
Idea of the deed or not. He goes ahead v
and leaves the others gasping and r
guessing. It takes a deal of scalding a
with hot water to Induce him to loosen n
his hold. e:
"To endure and endure and to be a
withstood," without losing nerve or g
temper, this Is the acid test of the w
strong man. To await the desired con- g
summation without losing heart of n
grace and skill keeping faith where we
have pledged It?this Is the persistence a
that must count In the long run. For 8l
the "happy warrior," Intrepid and un- w
perturbed, there must be always some- f
thing more than a fighting chance to p
tip the scale beam the way he wants It o
In the delicate balance between victory tl
and defeat.?Philadelphia Ledger. s.
, 9 a
? 1/ - tUfinff
&-H jsvery man owes inmscu a. n?n.0.
and it's up to him to discard his coat ?
and display the busy signal. ^
' T
*?"lf a man is old and ugly and his tl
wife is young and beautiful, It may be w
a sign that he has more dollars than r
sense. w
OLD IRISH CU8TOMS.
furious Rites at Funerals, Waddings,
Etc.
Of wedding customs the most oeullarly
Irish Is the coming of the
'straw boys." This, with the custom
if killing a wren on SL Stephen's
)ay, is merely a pastime, and as
uch Is eagerly kept up by the young
nen and boys.
Although a great number of people
can be happily dancing on a mud
loor, says the Ave Maria, still space
!oes curtail the possible hospitality
f a newly-married pair and there
re always some neighbors who caniot
be Included among the wedding
nests.
Any young men who have been
mltted dress themselves up In white
arments and on their heads they
rear masks plaited elaborately In
traw. Thus disguised they join the
redding party and each one In turn
(alms the bride for a dance. To take
ny refreshments would be quite lnorrect;
the "straw boys" merely
ance and go away.
The custom belonging to SL Steph-y.
n's Day is still observed In the eastrn
counties of Ireland, where "straw
oys" are no longer known. It must
e a very old custom, for the killing
f a wren dates back to the times
rhen Ireland was invaded by the
tones, and a wren by dropping onto
tie Danish sentinel's drum Is said to
ave given warning to the Invaders
tiat the Irish army was at hand.
Now the wren Is killed by boys who
ave never even heard the origin of
tie custom, and It It carried from
ouse to house, tied to a furse bush,
tie bearers being disguised In any old
igs they can lay hands upon, and
t each door the sing the doggerel
nes:
he wren, the wren, the king of all
birds,
>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.