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;j * j^fs^EMI-WXEKL^ l.*ORIST'8 sons, pnbii.h.r., [ % #mitg Sticsjapti;: 4or (k^f romotiow of ?h< gslitiijal,go#, jgri^llunl and Commercial Interests of lh< g(oj!<. , . { '"'LwHnot'Z"' kdtliB'C^iB^TsW "~ YORKVILLE, 8. C., TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 1913. , 23. I THE AMERICA I I By ETTA V ?i?u i im t mj ? mit-inCHAPTER XXXII?Continued. Another night fell. Darkness gathered in the little garden. Finette lighted a Sevres lamp, smoothed the satin coverlet. wadded with eider-down, over the countess, who had fallen into an uneasy slumber, and then retired behind the voluminous curtains of the bed. Scarcely had she done so when the door opened softly and Count Otto entered. With noiseless steps he crossed the rich carpet and, pausing beside the unconscious countess looked down upon her with suspended breath. She lay among her be-laced pillows like some marble image, her dark eyes closed, her drifting bronze hair shining in the light Certainly her peerless beauty was as perfect now as it had been three years before. Did it soften his heart or did he see in her only the woman ; who had disappointed his expectations of a fortune, and who now intervened betwixt him and a marriage with Mademoiselle Nicole? A cruel look i came into his heavy face; his sleepy eyes narrowed. She seemed to feel h' presence, for she moved uneasily ant. thrust out her hands as if to put i something unpleasant from her. He drew back a step and waited. 1 Presently the restless arms sank again upon the lace-covered counterpane, i Ethel slept on. < rwn,?inna1v ?ha cftnnt Advanced to : a buhl tabie on which some medicines : stood. As he took up the nearest vial, < lo! from the shadow of the satin curtains darted a threatening figure, a 1 hand snatched the medicine from his ! hold. Flnette confronted him with i wrathful eyes. "Don't touch It, on your peril, monsieur!" He gave a great start, and an unwholesome pallor swept his heavy face. "What are you doing here, woman?" he demanded. Finette's blood was up. Anger made her bold. "I am guarding madame. God forbid that she should suffer the fate of your i first countess, monsieur!" The look in his eyes might have made a braver woman tremble. Each spoke In a voice subdued, for the benefit of the sleep. "Are you beside yourself, creature?" he hissed. "My first countess died by her own hand!" Flnette put herself adroitly betwixt the count and his sleeping wife. "Pardon, monsieur, that is a lie! Your valet, Adolphe, who is now across the sea In America, calling himself Baron Strozzl, could tell a different story if he would. Ah, you must have given him much money to stop that glib tongue of his. Countess Olga did not die by ner own nana. i/o x not remember the night when she returned from the Tuilerles ball? Do I not j remember the wine in the little closet behind the hangings of her boudoir?" i "What do you know of Adolphe?of Baron Strozzi?" he demanded, "who j told you that?" "Monsieur, I decline to answer." i He transfixed her with his threat- i enlng eyes. "You are mad?you are dreaming! It is not safe to know too much! Whisper these vile insinuations of yours abroad and I will crush you without mercy! Now leave the chamber; I wish to be alone with madame, my wife. Finette stretched out one hand, like a hovering bird, over the table of medicines, the other clutched the wadded curtains of the bed. She felt a mortal terror of the man, yet all the same she determined to defy him. "Never, monsieur! You shall not come near her! She is helpless?she cannot defend herself. I will defend her. Ah, heaven! I know your black, cruel heart!" 1 He looked as If he would strike her dead; but he only repeated his com IIIO.IIU III OL J/CI ICCHJ vaiiu TVIVV. i/va.v the chamber at once!" "I will not?I will not! Or, If I do, it will be to summon help to make a scene here which you will not like." Ke angrily pushed back her hand, took up the vials from the table and examined them critically?even tasted their contents. Flnette watched him with terrible earnestness. He stepped back, at last, with a satisfied air. "I approve of madame's medicines," he said, carelessly; "but I greatly disapprove of madame's attendant. See! she moves. I fear we are disturbing; her. Sooner than do that I will withdraw. Listen. You are an ill-natured cat. Marie, but I warn you again?do not attempt to unsheath your claws upon me." He retreated step by step, from the bed?from the brown woman self-stationed beside it, and vanished in the countess's salon. Two or three days passed. The count did not venture again into his wife's apartments. That faithful servant, Finette, was left undisturbed at her post. To her great Joy the countess began to mend. On the fourth day she arose from bed. walked into the adjoining salon and read some American letters which had just arrived for her. With wistful, melancholy eyes, she watched the white and purple doves that flitted through the green trees of the little garden. "Oh, for their wings!" she sighed to herself, "that I might fly away across the sea!" The glass door opening into the leafy shadows swung .back suddenly, and Count Otto entered the salon. He was fresh from a late breakfast, and the odor of a perfumed narghille still clung to the velvet dressing-gown which he wore. He went up to his wife's sofa, and, with an air of tender courtesy, kissed her listless, white hand. Then he cast one glance at Finette, who was arranging roses in a buhl vase near by, and reluctantly that handmaid retreated from the room. "Madame, I rejoice to find you convalescent," said Count Otto, giving no heed to the terror and aversion in Ethel's pale face, "for I have matters of importance to discuss with you. Our resources are cut off, our creditors are pressing in their demands. The bills for your last ball dress and your last grand reception are stlH unpaid. Alas! you will be missed in Parisian society; but we must bow to the inevitable. It's necessary to give up these elegant rooms at once, to satisfy the rapacity of the shopkeepers. Ill tidings fly fast. Everybody knows of our misfortunes, and I am pressed for money upon every side. I find that we shall not be allowed to remain here longer than another night." She began to tremble, partly with weakness, partly with fr!ght. "What do you mean? Whither shall we go?" she said faintly. "Ah. madame, do not think that I have no thought or care for you. My Vioart m?itn at tho aicht of vour beau ty. youth and desolation. The summer is advancing Paris will soon be a furnace?you would die here. In view of this fact, I have secured a charming' chateau at Verrieres, within a two hours' drive of Paris; and tomorrow, I trust, you will be strong enough to retire to it, and there remain until this storm of misfortune is past!" "Verrieres!" echoed the countess, wHdly. "What scheme is this? Why do you take me there? I will not go!" "Ethel, I entreat you to be calm, to be sensible," said the count, as if coaxing a willful child. "I take you there because it is the only refuge possible for us in our present embarrassed condition. Pardon, you must go. It UV COUNTESS { _ i ? V. PIERCE. is a matter of necessity. Be reasonable." She looked at him, half in appeal, half in despair. His countenance was serene, his manner almost tender. Was he the monrter which Flnettehad depictured him to be?" "Our servants?will they go with us?" she demanded. He smiled sadly, indulgently. "My poor wife, you are a true child of luxury. You find yourself unable, all at once, to comprehend our present strait It will be Impossible to keep our present retinue of servants at Verrleres. Firstly, there Is not room in the chateau; secondly, we cannot afford it?we are beggars, madame." "I cannot go, I will not go without Flnette!" He frowned, then answered airily: "Flnette?always Flnette! Very well, you are 111, and must be humored. She shall go with you. Let us take courage?let us look misfortune bravely In the face, madame. You will find the chateau a delightful place in which to pass your term of mourning. I en'eat you, by your marriage vows, madame, to give me your help in our common trouble." By her marriage vows! Ethel shivered, but spoke not a word. "You will hold yourself In readiness to leave Paris tomorrow," said the count "We will remain at Verrleres till the autumn, by which time, I trust 1 shall have secured a position at the court of my own country." Then he carried her cold, reluctant hand again to his Hps, turned on his heel, and left her, as if the matter was settled. The countess rang for Flnette, and told her of the intended departure. "We must go!" she said In despair, "it Is useless to resist." "Madame, that Is plain." "You will pack my wardrobe and make ready at once." "Yes, madame. Ah, what can It mean? Monsieur's valet told me but this morning that Mademoiselle Nicole had sent money to monsieur to relieve his present embarrassments. Verrleres! That is where my brother Gustave lives. Well, heaven alone knows what will happen to us there." "It does not matter," answered the nmintaan rirearilv "T hAVG lived mv life." On the following day Ethel departed from Paris, with Finette her maid, and Count Otto her husband. She was ill, and out of spirits, and the moment she had passed the barrlere, she would have given worlds, had they been hers, to return. The weather was omnious. The murky sky threatened storm, the air was hot and oppressive. Count Otto aJone preserved his cheerfulness. He lavished delicate attentions upon his wife, and expressed great solicitude regarding her health and comfort. His mood Beemed unaccountable. By the time they reached Verrieres, and the chateau which was their destination, rain began to fall. Ethel peered anxiously from the carriage, and Baw a square, stone country house, dilapidated from age, with a large paved courtyard In front, and a garden overgrown with trees in the rear. 'rne count liriea nis wne in uia amis and carried her across the gloomy portal, across a hall of polished, ageblackened wood, and deposited her upon a faded sofa of a small salon, where a wood fire was biasing in a cavernous chimney. Finette followed with her mistress's wraps. Both saw that the place was moldy and mildewed, as if from long misuse. Mirrors in tarnished frames hung on the walls, also, a few ancient pictures. Straight, high-backed chairs, covered with dingy damask frayed about the edges, stood against the wainscot. Brass candlesticks ornamented the high mantel; brass andirons supported the log on the hearth. In spite of the cheerful blaze in the chimney, the effect was gloomy and cold. Ethel felt a great chill creep over her from head to foot. "Madame, welcome to our hermitage!" said Count Otto, almost gayly. "We have reached it in good time, for the rain is coming down like a second deluge. I regret to see you looking so ill. Your maid should pour you a glass of wine." ' Finette flung him a defiant glance, took off her mistress's outer garments, wheeled her sofa to the fire, and found a wine glass, which, after careful examination, she filled with cordial and held to Ethel's pale lips. "Take courage, made.- le," she whispered, softly. The storm had now broken with great violence. The wind raved through the trees of the courtyard; the rain beat on the narrow, smallpaned windows. Count Otto sent away the carriage which had brought them to Verrieres. and an old, deaf man, in blouse and sabots, hobbled out from some unknown quarter of the place, and locked the gate of the courtyard, thus closing "'s it seemed to Ethel, who watch ed iim from the old, dirk salon, all communication betwixt herself and the outer world. Presently Finette slipped away on a tour of discovery, leaving her disconsolate young mistress staring from the window at Count Otto, who had gone out into the court, in spite of all the storm, to speak with the old man in the blouse. Darting down a stone passage, the waiting maid came to the chateau kitchen, where she found an old woman preparing dinner. She was the only living thing in that quarter of the house. She wore a starched cap, and her face was as withered and dry as a mummy's. Finette went up to her with a friendly air. "Do you live at the chateau?" said she. "Oui," answered the ancient creature ahreddina' some herbs into a copper saucepan. "Who is that old man in the courtyard?your husband?" "Oui." "I see. You two take care of the place?" "Oui." Not another syllable could Finette extract from her. She turned from the kitchen to inspect the bedrooms?t'ark. paneled apartments, dusty, faded, badly lighted. Unpleasant, tomb-like odors pervaded them all. Madame would die of gloom in this place before a week was out. "If the count has made up his mind to destroy his wife this is the very spot in which to do it," thought Finette. Already the day was waning. Round the stone angles of the chateau the storm shrieked like a lost soul. In the salon Ethel lay curled up on her sofa, miserable, cold and depressed. Not r vestige of color was left in her face. Against the dull velvet of her sofa she looked like a piece of wax. The dark circles under her lower lids made her lustrous eyes seem larger and deeper than ever. Count Otto, entering from the courtyard, never once glanced at her, but stooped down and nervously poked together the brands on the hearth. "How still the house is?like a grave!" shivered Ethel. "Are we entirely alone here?" "No," he answered, carelessly; "an old man and woman are in the servant's quarters?ancient parasites of the house. They will attend to all your wants. In your present state of health, you need quiet. Verrieres, believe me, is better for you than Paris." She was too weary to answer. He drew a high-backed chair to the Are and began to talk flippantly and incoherently about their future life at Verrieres, waiting for no reply from his wife, caring for none, evidently till the summons came for dinner. They sat down to the meal, attended by Finette. The countess ate nothing. The count drank a bottle of wine, and listened cheerfufly to the rain, which poured in floods against the high windows. Night had now set in, and clusters of wax lights spread a little brilliancy through the dull, damp room. The dreary meal went on. Only by a superhuman effort could the exhausted countess keep herself from falling to the floor. "You are fatigued, madame," said the count at last; "I advise you to retire to your chamber." She arose from her tall chair, and, with one white hand, clutching its carving for support, she turned to take leave of him. It was the last time that those two, i husband and wife, were ever to look in : each other's faces. "Good-night," she said, listlessly. "Good-night, madame. May you 1 sieep weu." He watched her go out through the heavy door, Into the darkness of the passage beyond, feeling no throb of compassion, no change in his relentless purpose. Her beauty, her helplessness, moved him not a whit CHAPTER XXXIII. That Night. The countess' bedchamber was a lonely, dark room in the second story of the chateau, with a bare, slippery floor, spread here and there with pieces of old tapestry, and furniture of motheaten plush. From it opened a square closet in which stood a small couch for Finette. Dismal brown curtains draped the high bed; tall candles burned feebly on the mantel. "A dreary den?eh, madame?" said Finette, In disgust "The whole place is like a tomb. Do not remove my clothing. I have letters to write to ray friends In America. At last I am determined to tell them everything. They may be able to advise, If not help, me; and I?I need advice, for I know not what to do." Finette removed the candles to the toilet table, and saw her mistress seatft f Hop to air Qho than xvant tn IapW before her last word was penned, sne was nervous, depressed and full of dark forebodings. She would not allow Flnette to remove any article of her dress, but wrapped simply In a shawl, she lay down upon the bed under the dismal, brown curtains and { fell quickly into an exhausted and uneasy sleep. Leaving the candles burning on the mantel, Flnette retired to her closet. Heavy hangings of moreen draped its walls. Being of an inquisitive turn of mind, Flnette pulled these aside, and discovered a small, square window, hidden behind their secretive folds. She examined it curiously. The diamond panes were set in lead, and it opened from within; but the fastenings were so rusty from long disuse that she found it impossible to move them. After repeated efforts, however, her strong Angers triumphed. The lattice yielded. She thrust her head out into the pitch-black night, and saw? nothing. She listened. A heavy, gurgling sound saluted her ears. She extended her arm, and, groping about for a moment or two, suddenly grasped a water-spout, which fell from the steep roof above into some neighboring angle of the wall. The rain was pouring through it violently. No other investigation being possi ble in that darkness, Finette closed the ~ window, drew the hangings over it , again, and betook herself to her pillow. In spite of great uneasiness of ^ mind, she soon fell asleep, even as the . countess had done. The wind screamed through the courtyard of the chateau, the storm beat on the stone gables: but in thq chamber of the countess al)?was as silent as the grave. Was she dreaming of her home across the sea? of her dead, bankrupt father? of the American lover, who had begged her so vainly not to marry the count? Suddenly the door unclosed, and a figure, stealthy as a cat, crept across the threshold. It drew near to the bed, and glanced once at the white, unconscious face upon the pillow, once toward the adjoining closet?a furtive, apprehensive look; but Finette was sleeping, the countess was sleeping ?only the candles were wide awake. Moving noiselessly to the mantel, the figure seized the nearest one in its antique brasB candlestick, crept a few paces across the floor, then bent quickly. and held its red flame to the edge of the moth-eaten hangings. A spurt of hot crimson flashed out on the faded brown cloth. The candle was borne rorwara, ana appueu a second and third spot, then silently dropped. The figure retreated to the door, and there, like an evil phantom, vanished. Finette, wandering in a maze of troubled dreams, turned uneasily on her couch in the closet. A heavy hand seemed clinched on her throat; a roar, as of many waters, filled her ears. She struggled?with a great effort she awoke, and opened her eyes. Upon what? A sea of puffing, gray smoke pierced and reddened everywhere by tongues of hot flame. She sprang into the countess' chamber. i "Awake, madame, in God's name! , The chateau Is on fire!" she cried. Instantly Ethel was upon her feet, . gasping for breath in that smothering smoke, and clinging helplessly to Finette, who dragged her forward across the hot, cracking floor. -* -u ?1?4 . <i?kA ?ine aoor: one uicu. me uuui, madame!" They reached it with much difflcul- , ty. Finette shook it in her frantic , hands?it was fast! Who had locked it while maid and mistress slept? Some one, surely, who knew where the lost key was to be found. j "Oh, saints of heaven!" groaned Finette, "it is the count's work, and we ' are lost!" She ran to the closet. Ethel followed. It was full of hot, suffocating , smoke. Fortunately, Finette remembered the window?thank 6od that she had discovered it before sleeping! She tugged at the rusty fastenings, and it ' opened, and the rain and fresh air rushed in. Finette grasped her mistress' hand. "Must we die?" said Ethel, in quiet despair. 1 "No, no! Speak not above your breath, madame. You see this window. It is possible that your husband did not know of it when he locked us in here, to burn like rats in a hole, for it was concealed behind the hangings. Thank heaven, you are slender?so, too, am I. Outside, to the right, is a water-spout; crawl over the edge and grasp it?it must lead to the groundwe can escape in no other way. Mon Dieu! be quick. Now think of the words which I said to you, madame, three years ago In the park, at New York!" Bthel leaned out Into the dark, but she had neither strength nor courage. The wall below seemed to go down, down into some endless pit of blackness. Her weak, wavering hand touched nothing but wet stone. The heat and smoke made her faint, the flashes of swift-pursuing Are blinded her. "I cannot And the spout," she said. "Save yourself, Finette, and let me die!" For answer, Finette, seized the shawl which clung to the countess' shoulders, and very securely knotted it about her waist. "By this," she said, "I wfll hold you fast Lean further over the sill. You must not die. Take courage. There i not a single instant to lose." "Perhaps he is waiting below the window?he will murder us there." "Madame, I have a knife in my bosom," answered Finette, with grim significance. "Go on; I am scorching, I am dying here." That instinct of self-preservation which is so powerful in the most miserable of creatures gave Bthel the door for the night, and straight- ^ way discovered that the key was missing. Who but the old woman in charge f of the house ought to know about the t keys? 8 She ran to the kitchen and found it ( dark and deserted. She called; but c the old creature was gone. The sound . of her voice in the stone passage B brought the count to the door of the c salon. t "What do you want?" he demanded 8 tornlv _ She had never seen him look so c cruel and sinister. The red firelight In the room beyond made a lurid back- t ground for his tall figure and bald, } blond head. j The woman In the kitchen has gone x home with her husband," said the ^ count "She lives in a neighboring r cottage. It Is scarcely the night to j pursue her upon such an errand. The e chateau is securely locked. Assure madame that she need have no fears , when I am near. And as for you, creature, be careful that you do not die turb me again." Finette returned to the countess's r chamber. The latter sat at her toilet table, pouring out her full heart in two * letters?one to Bee, one to her mother. t A clock somewhere at hand struck ten strength. She flung herself over the stone ledge; her alight handa found ind grasped the spout. It was smooth ind slippery, but She held to it with the tenacity of despair. Flnette reeased the shawl. With the wind and 'ain dashing upon her, she hung for an nstant on the verge of an abyss of larkness, and then slipped and went lown, as if shot from a mortar, and 'ell, stunned and unconscious, somewhere In the depths below. It was Flnette's voice that aroused ler at last?Flnette who, strong of imb and nerve alike, had made the lescent with far more ease than her nlstress. She stooped and lifted the wuntess. "Are any of your bones broken, nadame ?" "I hope not?I think not," gasped Sthel. "We must not stay here, even for in instant, madame. Let him think hat his plot has succeeded. Let him jelieve us burned with the burning chateau." For a breathing space, Ethel leaned telplessly on the shoulder of herfalthul waiting woman; . then she grew mddenly strong. Tes, she must fly? ihe must hide herself forever from the lusband who sought her life, who had leliberately attempted her cruel murler. Never on this side of the grave would she willingly see his face again. The Are was now breaking through he window by which she had escaped, ts red glare lighted the darkness ixound, and showed Flnette a gate tear at hand In the high wall of the chateau garden. It was unlocked?she >u8hed It back, and the two women ilipped through, ran across a little enclosure In which stood the cottage of he deaf serving man and bis old wife, ind gained an open road, flooded with ain, and black as night and tempest could make it. "Thank Clod!" said Flnette, stopping 0 take breath, "we are safe! Ah, you lave the shawl still about your waist. >t me fasten It over your head; you will be drenched to the skin. I know ferrieres; my brother Gustave lives lot far away. He will give us shelter; le is kind and discreet. Come, madime." The chateau how began to make a Teat light against the gloomy sky. "But It will not burn long," muttered Flnette, "for It Is all of stone, and he night Is very wet and help is lear." They fled from the spot at a rapid >ace. Flnette led the way, the counees followed. They turned away from the broad oad, along which the dark figures of nen now appeared, scurrying in the llrectlon of the old country house, into mother way, hedged by tall trees, and eadlng toward the woods of Verrieres. fhe storm in the thick branches made 1 melancholy sound over their heads. Not a sound escaped Ethel. She was iruised and shaken by her fall from he spout. She was drenched, dlsteveled, exhausted, but It was no time o think of trifles like these. On and ?n they went, for weary miles, as It leemed. The light upon the sky beilnd them was already fading?Flnette tad spoken truly when she said the hateau would not burn long. At last a great red star twinkled hrough the distant trees. It was a lnti? ttrin^nnr Thon tha etnuir ill nuilic IU? vrmuvn. a??vu % %* larking of a dog was heard. "Thank heaven! we have reached a helter, madame," cried Finette, Joyully, and she ran up to a wooden ;ate, and drawing the countess after ler, hurried along a walk bordered vith sweet-smelling herbs, and uneremonlously opened the door of a mall, low cottage. "Gustave, my brother!" she called. Late as the hour was, the owner of he dwellng was still up and smoking lis pipe In Its principal room. He was i sturdy fellow, in a workman's blouse md his bronbe face bore a strong relemblance to Flnette's. "Saints of heaven!" he cried, start ng to his feet, and dropping: his pipe it sight of the two women. Finette vas black with smoke and singed with ire. Ethel's face could never be colder >r whiter under the coffin-lid. The ihawl had fallen from her disordered iair; she was dripping with wet, and ihe looked as strange and wild as a iplrit "Gustave, it is thy sister," exclaimed dinette, turning to make fast the cotAge door, "and this lady is my misress?she deigns to ask the shelter of rour roof for the night. Behold our Might, and call upon thy excellent vife?Celeste. I will explain all to thy latlsfaction, by-and-by." Gustave vanished Immediately Into tome unknown quarter of the cottage, md a few moments after his wife ap>eared?a large, fair woman; a veriable tower of strength?pinning a jrlght kerchief over her bosom, and Ldjusting her white cap as she came. "Merci!" she cried, "is it thou, my lister?" and she embraced Finette, vho had placed the countess in the learest seat, and was bending: over ler, breathlessly. "Is she dying?" asked Cefleste. "Heaven forbid! But she Is hurt? ihe Is ill. Light a Are quickly, and lelp me to change her wet clothes, and irepare her some nourishment," Celeste obeyed in admirable silence, rhe two women drew off Ethel's soaked garments, and substituted others, :oarse in texture, but dry and warm, rhen they brought her a cup of chocdate, and Analy laid her to rest in a dean white bed in a litle lavendericented sleeping room, after which Celeste vanished, and Flneite was left done with her mistress. "Thank God, madame, that your ihoKqhrrtiio-ht vnn tn VprriprAH thp lome of Gustave!" said the maid. "Look out, and tell me If you see :he light of the chateau upon the sky," shuddered Ethel, "No; the fire is out by this time, madame?by this time, also the count, without doubt, thinks you dead." "He will soon discover that we escaped from the chamber. Merciful tieaven! Perhaps he will pursue us to this spot." "Be calm, madame, he is a coward it heart?he will not dare. It is more probable that he is already flying from Verrieres, for he will think, first of all, of his own safety. Go to sleep now. I Bhall watch till morning, and if any one aproaches the cottage you shall be aroused. God forbid that you should Tall again into his hands." Then sleep overtook Ethel, and for a few hours, at least, she knew no more of the world and its woes. (To be continued.) Illustrate It, Pa.?A little boy was advised by his father to use illustrations in his conversation whenever they occurred to him. "For," continued the parent, "there is no more forcible way of conveying or impressing your meaning." Shortly after, the boy was being lectuied on generosity. "It's far better to give than to receive. Johnny?far better." "Illustrate it, papa, I think I shall understand it better."?Cleveland Plain Dealer. ?li8ttHantou9 gkaditifl. BLIND 8ENAT0R QORE. Wonderful Reeord of His Strugglsi Against Difficulties. About thlrty-flve years ago a little blind boy of eight used to Bit In a bumble cottage in the tiny lllage ol Walthall, Miss., and listen with the es* pecial intentness of the Mind to the reading of his mother and sister. A few months previous an accident had transformed him from a sturdy gray-eyed chap to a helpless youngstei doomed to darkness. The boy was Thomas Pryor Oore and now he is United States senatoi from Oklahoma, and one of the foremost mnmhon of that hndv. For several winters after the loss ol his sight, the little fellow used to make his way to and from school, which waa three quarters of a mile away from hit home. He had set his mind resolutely upon an education, his ambition to rise in the world had become a burning obsession with him; he became a child of introspection, and the gravity ofhia thoughts reflected In his sightless face earned for him the sobriquet of "the governor." At high school Senator Oore's closest companion was a boy named Charles H. Pittman, who used to read to him. One day they found an old volume of the Congressional Record. The boys repaired to the stable, where the blind student would stand for hours while his friend read to him the Bpeeches of the legislators at Washington, Senator Gore can recall the moment when the ambition to be a United States senator entered his breast, never to leave it On one occasion Gore, a struggling young lawyer, debated with Senator Money, whose tongue was a thing of terror to all Mississippi and who smiled contemptuously when told that his opponent in debate was a poor blind school boy. The senator declared that had it not been for his antagKlst's blindness he would have held n personally responsible for his Words. To this Gore promptly replied: "Let him then blindfold himself and I will meet him." One day, when the fortunes of the young man were at their lowest, it seemed as though he had come to star vation. At tniB juncture an oia negro woman paid $2 which she owed him. That saved the situation. His fortunes began to mend. v He came to Oklahoma with his father in 1901, driving 46 miles. Bret Harte never wrote a stranger tale than his life in the new territory. His father became a notary public in the tented city. The blind son, attired in an alpaca coat, colored shirt and slouch hat, used to walk up and down through the motley crowd waving his hand and shouting: "Here's where you get your papers out! Here's where you get your papers out!" - At night he slept on the ground., Thing-s moved fast in the new community. Soon Gore was campaigning for the senatorshlp, though he was moneyless, or practically so. One day he was walking the street with his head bowed, wondering whether after gll his terrible struggle he must be starved out of the political race. Somebody touched him on the arm. It was a friend, Thomas Dunn, a banker. He felt something s'inped into his hand as Mr. Dunn whispered into his ear, "Pay this back when you can." It was $60, and it made him a senator. for it turned the corner.?New York Evening Sun. "GOVERNMENT BY PUBLICITY." That Is What Wo Now Have, Bays Doctor Crans. The history of secrecy makes a long black smudge down the page of time. Nothing is truer than the saying that "the wicked love darkness rather than the light." And this proverb has a bearing we do not usually suspect. We assume It to have reference to robbers, footpads, sneak thieves, mutinous seamen and home breakers. It does. It also refers, however, to any other group of people who work in the shade. You can set it down in your books that any business for which the claim is made that it is better to transact It under cover, that it is unwise to have it Investigated and that the public has no right to meddle In it is crooked. Of course I do not include the affairs of a purely personal nature, but only such matters as have to do with the public. The whole history of government before the day of newspapers is a record of tyranny and unjust privilege. So long as the common herd was ruled by a select few, who presumed to do better by the people than the people could do for themselves, the result invariably was luxury and fine feathers for the elect and starvation and rage for the many. Vested rights thrive in darkness. It is only in the light of publicity that human rights grow. The story of the old world, of China, ancient Japan, Egypt, Greece and Rome, is the story of secrecy and outrage. The story of liberty and the new world is the story of the uncensored press. Whenever you find secret councils of kings, diplomats whispering behind their hands, senators gumshoeing around and trust magnates mumbling in a back room you may be sure that the public is about to be looted. The petty criminal is afraid of the policeman. The big criminal is afraid of the reporter. The man who cracks the belated citizen over the head with a lead pipe fears the law. The man who sandbags the whole community and steals $20,000,000 in manipulating industry does not fear the law. He hires the law. The thing he fears is the light, public opinion, and the man who works the spot light Is the newspaper reporter. Naturally publicity la often overdone. Newspapers now and then descend to the level of vicious gossips, but not often enough to offset the immense advantage of their open utterances. There never was a bribe taking Judge ousted from the bench, a corrupt politician retired to private life, a governor or mayor who sold out to corporations and was exposed that did not hate newspaper reporters above rattlesnakes. This is not a government by law. Law does not govern. It is merely the rear guard of government. It is a government by publicity. It Is newspapers and magazines, the publishing of facts, that govern. The hopeful element in this case is that any attempt on the part of secret cabals to own the press defeats itself. The public is sure to find it out, and, down goes the circulation. Many a speak-lightly, side-stepping publication has been supported by criminal capital, but never with conspicuous success. Absolute independence, truth telling and honesty are the foundation stones of a successful publication of any kind. Even party organs and publications backed by the sect or union are accounted. We could manage to rub along without the distinguished gentlemen who run our finances, make our laws and regulate our morals perhaps, but suppress the newspaper reporter and we should be tempted to say: Be kind, then, to the reporter. Take him In and tell him the truth. And If you feel you must lie be careful to make a mighty good Job at it. Not Ended, Says Governer.?Upon being advised by Mayor Pro Tern Keeman of Columbia, that the city attorney was of opinion that the fine of Harrison Neeley should not be refunded on account of the governor's pardon, and furthermore stating that the governor could have a hearing if he so desired, Governor Blease replied as follows, signing the letter as an indi vtdual, instead of as governor of South Carolina: "Dear Sir: Your communication of - March 12 received. At the end of year 1913 we will see which paid dearest? ' ie city of Columbia, when it fined Harrison Neeley on Saturday morning 1 unfairly and unjustly, or Harrison Neeley when he paid the $3.76. If you , find that you lost in dollars and cents [ by the transaction, I presume you will j not complain. If Harrison Neeley finds . he has lost I will guarantee you he > will not complain. "'He who laughs last laughs best.' t "As to the opinion of the attorney you inclose, I presume-he learned at the state campaign meeting in Columbia last summer, when I pushed him out of the way on the stage and took - charge of his meeting, that I neither . receive political nor other instructions from him. ! "As to the last sentence in your let. ter. 'We will be arled to rive- vou a i hearing at any time upon any grlevi ance you may have,' you have not been aaked for any hearing, and when you i are I presume it will be time enough > for you to grant it. When I do aak It | I am sure you will grant It/ i "I presume this Is plain enough that the members of your council, to whom it is directed, save Sumter Earle, may understand It It Is not Intended for him." ; LEGEND8 ABOUT FL0WER8 Human Blood or Tsars Often tho Fabled 8ource of Plants. Human blood and tears are frequently lengendary sources of plants. As a general rule red flowers spring from the former and white from the latter. Thus, Greek tradition says that the anemone sprang from the passionate tears Venus shed over the dead body of Adonis. Among the Virginian tribes, too, red clover was supposed to have sprung from and to ha colored bv the blood of the red men slain in battle with the white Invaders. In a similar manner the red poppies which followed the plowing of the field of Waterloo, were said to have sprung from the blood of the killed and wounded In that battle. According to tradition, the Danish invasion is the cause of the Dane weed, a coarse aster&ceaus plant common hi Endland, as It sprang, from the blood of Danes slain in battle, and If cut on a certain ddy In the year it bleeda The dwarf elder, for the same reason, Is called Danewort and Dane's blood. The clustered bellflower Is also associated with this historical event In the village of Bartlow there are four remarkable hills supposed to have been thrown up by the Danes as monumental memorials of the battle fought In 1006 between Canute and Edmund Ironside. The clustered bellflower Is largely scattered over these mounds and the cottagers about, attribute Its presence there to its having originated In Danish blood. In Sussex the lily of the valley Is said to be a memorial of the battle St. Leonard fought with a dragon. The holy man encountered a mighty worm or fire drake In the tyrest and battled with It for three days. At* last the saint was victorious, though wounded seriously, and wherever His blood dropped there sprang up lilies of the valley In profusion. In Prance the Illy of the valley is said to spring from the virgin's tears. There is an amusing story told of the origin of the bramble. There was once three partners engaged in the wool trade. They loaded a ship with a in ...A Aa,#n Hit* I* ti.'Q arranlrnH anil the Arm became bankrupt. All retorted to metamorphosis for protection. One partner became the bat, and so skulks about till midnight to avoid his creditors; the second became the cormorant, and is forever diving into the deep to discover the foundered vessel; while the third became the bramble bush, that sits by the roadtide and seizes hold of every passing sheep to make up his loss by theft. A rather humorous pedigree is assigned to the violet These flowers fere once girls who, having defeated Venus In a dispute she had with Cupid as to whether she or they excelled In sweetness, were beaten blue by the angry goddess and changed to violets. Ttiow la a aiiltahln lannd tnld in Germany of the plantain, or waybread, which haunta so persistently the track of man. The plant was formerly a maiden who, while watching by the wayside for her lover, was transformed into this plant. But once in seven years it becomes a bird, either a cuckoo or a hoopoe, and goes flying off In search of the lost lover. The story Is duplicated in another German legend regarding the succoiy. A patient girl, after waiting day by day for her betrothed for many a month, at last, worn out with watchin e. sank exhausted by the wayside and expired. Only her pretty blue eyes remained alive and watchful, and so, before many days had passed, this little plant with its starlike blossom sprang up all about the spot where the broken-hearted maiden had sighed away her life. Hence the common name of the plant "Wegewarter," or ''watcher of the road."?Suburban Life. ODD FACT8 ABOUT CITIE8 Collected by a Professor at the University of Wisconsin. Some little known facts about American cities have been collected by Prof. R. H. Whltbeck of the geology department of the University of Wisconsin. That Massachusetts, one of the smallest states, has more large cities than any other, state in the Union, is one of the odd facts brought out It has twenty-five cities with a population of 25,OdO or over. The state of New York has twenty-one cities of this size, while Pennsylvania has twenty. Texas, the largest state in the Union, has no city of 100,000 or over. There is only one city In Arkansas, Little Rock, that has over 25,000, while New Jersey, only a fraction of its size, has fourteen cities of 25,000. The peculiar fact that four states have one very large city, while the city of second size is almost unknown, is also pointed out. For Instance, every one knows that Chicago Ik the first city of Illinois and has a population of over 2,000,000, but few know that the second city in Illinois is Peoria, only one-thirtieth the size of Chicago. While Baltimore has half a million population, Cumberland, the next city of Maryland, has only 23,000. New Orleans is twelve times the size of Shreveport, the next city of Louisiana. Milwaukee is nearly ten times the size of Superior, the second city of Wisconsin. There are now nineteen cities in the United States with a population of a quarter of a million each. Only one of these. New Orleans, is in the south. Truth may also be a Joy forever, but it is seldom a thing of beauty. OUR YOUTHFUL CABINET c Younger Men Being CHoeen to Quide " Affair* of Nation. tl In Europe kings and ministers have t< shown such longevity that-It has been said the world was governed by old 8I men. In striking contrast lb the av- 6 erage age of about 50 of the new cab- ej (net at Washington, the president him- 1 self being close to the year which Is e, sometimes spoken of as being the e prime of Intellectual life, although old a for athletes, says the New Yprk Times. Cl When the present British cabinet Was jt reconstructed at the death or Camp- ? bell Bannerman five members retired A at the average of 06, and five succeed- A ed at the average of about 40, making d the average under 52 for the cabinet A as reconstructed. This compares with y the average for the Canadian cabinet of 61. 'There were only ten British ;t) ministers unaer ou ana oniy inree u.?nadians. There was no Canadian un- te der 40, whereas there were two in the , British cabinet in the thirties. Although Mr. Roosevelt was younger than Mr. Wilson, being the young- 0, est of all presidents, his cabinet was C( older, averaging 54. It is odd that tc when it is so often remarked that scl- tj. ence is prolonging human life our ^ statesmen are growing younger. In the ln days of "the Fathers" the age of pree- (, ident was nearer 60 than 60. J. Q. ra Adams at 67 being the youngest of the ^ first half dozen, and 56 being the average for twenty elected presidents. This v( does not include presidents succeeding to the office from the vice presidency, as did Mr. Roosevelt at 4S. It was only b, our earlier presidents who were elder- i_ ly. Washington himself was a colonel m at 22. Jefferson wrote the Declaration * at SS, Patrick Henry made his famous th "treason" speech at 29, Alexander 0j Hamilton made himself immortal as a aT financier at 24 with his conception of h a national debt as a national blessing. ( On the other hand it is but a few years u since A. FL Thayer analysed the ages of 630 prominent men of the 19th century and found the average of 112 _ statesmen was 71. If there is one deduction clearer than another from these fects it is h that work is the best preservation of youth. Thus it was heard with regret within the past few days that a leading railway president was attacked by heart disease snortly arter nis retire- ment It probably was the accumulatlve effect of overwork, but the change of habit precipitated rather than averted It. Just as runners get their "sec- ro ond wind," so many men renew their th strength after passing the age which th |s crlticaA for moat This may be only another way of saying that passing hi that age is proof of unusual stamina, tr There are two recipes for growing old. pi One is to have a weak heart and a gi good indigestion. The other is to get at a pension or a government clerkship, to Not long ago there were" living several in widows of revolutionary veterans, and to there were 1,687 clerks at Washington til ranging from 66 years up to several en over 90, and many over 80. to ?a ? , Jei THE HAWAIIAN ISLANDS ' ar First Impressions of a Wonderfully wi Interesting Country. be Let it be assumed that your steam- j. er arrives in Honolulu in the after- f noon. While awaiting your turn with . the customs inspector and other pre- w< Hmlnaries to disembarkation you have e_ been watching the screaming wharf th fats splashing in the water for nickels that passengers throw over the side R( In response to the Invitation, "Money. rj, money, I dive, I dive." During this * period the initial energies of the rush- b ing tourist abate, writes George Cyrus w Thorpe in Travel Then. Just as you Q are going over the gangplank, a know- " ing one has persuaded you to jump i"t? r\t tha valtlnv antnmnbtl?l Y. marked "For Hire." He says some- "i thing: about Waikiki Beach and lntlmates in ai careless way that in this manner you may quickly iron out the wrinkles of the day's fatigue and annlhllate the impression of tropical Tl heat. , ? It is an excellent roadbed?the four r" miles out to the beach. Off to the left j" a cloud hangs a little over the flat top **: of the Punch Bown?a mountain rock ^2 In the rear of the city. The declining fcf sun bursts through this heavy sky veil J: and beside the mountain you see two big rainbows. They are there every 'V afternoon, but never carry your rain dlothes. Farther out you pass a rice fv paddy, where a few Chinamen are wallowing with their carabaos and rude implements. Then, too soon, your car gives a lurch and you turn in at a Vj/ driveway and are before the steps of b the big white hotel on the side away from the sea. The big open doorway :} of the generous lobby frames a picture of sapphirine blue sea, and, deep in the picture, you see tiny specks of well defined pink-skinned men skimming ?: over the tops of waves like fairies. You refocus your mental vision as If in b transit from illusion to realism, but not z: until you have walked through the fr lobby to the great veranda facing the sea are you able to get the proper r!' point of view to explain this seeming ^ walklng-upon-the-water. The pink f: specks, approaching rapidly, quickly assume the proportions belonging to near vision and the mystery is solv- ? ed; they are surf riders. This is the ry| most picturesque form of aquatics in the world. It is neither child's play nor a landlubber's game, for the performer must fight his way with polish- Jv ed plank out through the surf little by *" little; he must be a clever and daring p, swimmer to hold each advance he **[ gains until he is far enough out to *v turn his plank shoreward. The surf ~ ride -in reminds you of running torn- ri ahawinklng Indians, or whatever you rf like that you have not seen in reality, b, but have visualized as fleeting, grace- j" ful, hair-streaming human speed. It is a fascinating diversion to watch these surfers; but imagine doing it your- in self! A trial is absolutely fatal . If ... you are not drowned the first time you '. will at least be badly spilled, but quick- j" ly up again with a single ambition?\o - * - i-U* 0 /vno stick to tne piana upngm iui juai wu? ride. If you are clever and persistent, ex and If your stay at Walkiki is a long one, you may succeed. ' Of course, the broad veranda is well filled with jolly tea parties, men in flannels resting from tennis, others in long motor coats, riding suits, or t^e Tl mere pongee that announces no pursuit in particular. Not for a moment are you allowed to forget that this is . a land of pleasure, or, at least, of happlness; that, whether or not there are JR1 ?in an outlying district, for example H ?reasonably sufficient facilities for pleasure, there is always unalloyed good cheer. mi ' * ' Tl GETTING M08T OUT OF LIFE cb pa wl Cut Out Things That are Useless and m Mean Nothing. Ralph Waldo Trine, known the th world over as the author of "In Tune ea With the Infinite," sends forth a new wi book of his cheery philosophy, "The co Winning of the Best," says Edwin an Markham in the New oYrk American, dli Here is a fragment with a lesson for ne all nf iia "Among: the most thoroughly self- "I deluded people In the world are those ca who think that In the multiplication he of things and possessions, happiness or to contentment lies. ab "It Is that matchless contemporary an writer and clear thinker, Edward Car- th penter, who has said: 'Life Is an art. and a very fine art. One of Its th very first necessities is that you no should not have more material in It? th more chairs, and tables, servants, be houses, lands, bank shares, friends, co acquaintances, and so forth?than you fa can really handle. It Is no good pre- an tending that you are~ohllged to have be them. Tou must cut that nonsense Its short If one's life Is to be al< expressive, one does not want lumber lal In it; It must not be full of things that It mean nothing or that mean the wrong of thing.' Tt "Life Is so much more interestlrig lai than boards and bricks, than lands and gl: business blocks, and even bank ac- Ei ounts; and the men who are thorughly Interested in life are always of tore account, and are always of greatr value to the world, as well as to lemaelvea, than the men who are Invested only In these. . iTOiat is why a very eminent cororation lawyer, In a notable address ome time ago, said: 'It is because I elleve so strongly in' the sav**f powr of the intellectual life upon the lntltutlons of society, and upon the welire of individuals, that I plead so arnestly for it The fortunes of sclnce, art, literature and government re indl8solubly linked with it The entres and sKMhes of the most potent tfluences,,ard not the seats of comlerce and capital. The village of oncord, where Emerson, Hawthotne. Icott and Thoreail lived, was, in their ay, and will long continue to be, a reater force ih this nation than New ork and Chicago added to each oth- ' ' r. ' We "may rest In the assured faith tat, whoever may Seem to rule, the linker is and always will be the masir. "It is little khort of marvellous to iImIt tirKa* a #anf WviSk IIU? nruai a ion mcu n uu lUCVv julpments,scattered throughout varils communities and cities and states, >uld do for the civic, for community, >r human advancement, were they to irow these energies as actively along lese lines as they have thrown them ito their various lines of business. "No greater joy can come to any an than to use his means and his liilties while he still lives in connecon with human needs and the admclng of human welfare. "There is no deep and abiding satfaction for a man on account of big isiness; on account of large accumutlons, on account of large achieveents along these lines. Said Jane ddams recently: 'Nothing so deadens ie sympathies and shrivels the power ' enjoyment as the persistent keeping .vay from the great opportunities for sinfulness and a continual Ignoring ' the starvation struggle which makes 0 the life of at least half the race.' "Mankind Is advancing. It Is at.inlng to an even higher standing round, and it Is placing those who. e Incapable of the things of.the mind id spirit, the imagination, and the iuri, ou a very uruinary pitiiie. . * LONG BEARM. Ft*n Regarded ?e Outward Mark of Great Learning.- ti The longest beard referred to In Eupean history la that \*hioh adorned e person ot John Mayo, painter of e Emperor Charles V. It is said, though he was very tall, a beard waa so long that he could ead upon It Naturally he was very oud of his possession and took such eat care of It that he usually went tout with It carefully gathered np Intest oons, the points ot the hair be* g looped up and tied with a ribbon a-buttonhole of his coat. But somene, by the express desire of thenperor, Mayo would untie his beard its full length, whereupon his tnasty would command the windows to i opened - so that the beard might ive full play. "The emperor," we e informed, "took great sport in uchlng. the wind blow this long ard In the face of his courtiers." If we may believe this historian, the ard on one occasion was the means staying a terrible conflict between o desperate foes, for we read that len the Oauls under Brennus were igaged in sacking the city of Rome ey were so struck with reverential tre at the sight 6f the long-bearded oman senators that they "suspended Air ftirv nnrf slmichtflr In order to memplate the respectable prospect ifore them." Beards, of course, are held in high veneration by the reeks and Romans. Homer never entions the famous beards of Priam Nestor without refpeot, and In ose days a well-covered ohin was ten regarded as the outward mark a man of . great learning and- wlsim. ... f The reign of Henry IV. of France, as the golden age of beards, for at at time quite as much attention was Lid to them as to the dressing of the iir of both sezea Beards were dipid in all manner of fashion?round, uare, pointed, fan-shaped and even ter the fashion of an artichoke leaf, ^fortunately, when the erase for tards of all shapes and sties was at i height, Louis X1L, who was then a illd, came to the throne, and the isrd had to go in honor of the hairas chin of the new monarch. Soon afterward the tuft, or toupees, blch still is so fashionable across the tannei, came into vogue.: But no uropean nation has ever held the lard in greater veneration than the >anlards, wno at one ume nau m. overb which declared the absence the beard to signify the loss of a an's soul. Spain must have been te of the last of European countries tolerate the rasor. In the reign of Francis I. of (France, tarda formed the excuse for an or.nized system of persecution among e prebendaries of the church. The ergy were very punctilious in the atter of beards, and it occurred to uprat, Lord High Chancellor at that me, that a very handsome revenue lght be raised In this connection, zcordlngly, the pope was persuaded r Francis to publish a bull by which e clergy were enjoined to shave their tins, falling which the king was to i entitled to levy a tax on all who sobeyed the order. As a result, all ose who could afford it paid the tax. hile the rest shaved off their bearda it the wickedness of Duprat met 1th its Just reward in the end. Frans* successor, Henry IL, appointed uprat to the bishopric of Clermont, id the latter was proceeding thither take up his duties when he fdund mself waylaid by the chapter, who slated that before he took office he lould shave off the very fine b?rd at he still had the effrontery to wetr. The new bishop refused, and flod eral.'y before the brandishing rasoi* his chapter. Soon afterward Duat, whose health appeared to have ffered u severe shock from this unpected contretemps, fell ill and died. London Tit Bits. MILLIONS OF MUMMIE8 tousands of 8p?cimsns Now in 8how Cases in Many Lands. It has been estimated that someIng like 20,000,000 Egyptian mumles have been discovered, says the irlstian Herald. Thousands of those at preserved are now in the showeea of the various museums of the >rld. In the tombs with the mumles were cpuntless other objects. tere were paintings on me wans, airs and tables, Jars containing the ,rts of the body which were removed ien the mummy was prepared, ummy cases gaudily covered with neral scenes and hieroglyphic inriptions, and in the cases along with e mummies were papyri. Beneath ch mummy's head, like a cusheon, is a Httle disk of clay or papyrus, vered with mythological pict&res id with a stereotyped hymn. The sks. found in great numbers, are arly alike, varying only slightly with e period from which they come, lypocephali" they are called, beuse they were placed beneath the iad. Like the mummies, the objects und with them have been scattered roaa, ana in m? niascum ai vauu ly tourist may purchase as many of em as he will. The Inscriptions on the disks and e mummy cases, of course, could if at first be read, nor could the myologlcal pictures accompanying them understood until the Inscription uld be read. However, In 1799. the mous Rosetta Stone was discovered, id Champolllon, a French scholar, gan the slow process of deciphering i hlerogryphlc inscription with the 1 of the accompanying Qreek transtlon. The process was so slow that was not until 1841 that a grammar the Egyptian language appeared, ten the prbgress in the study of the tiguage was rapid; the strange hleroKphlcs became as Intelligible as an lgllsh newspaper.