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p First Installment Palermo is like a night blossom which opens only with the first breath of evening. By day, it is parched and sleepy and stupid; by night, it is ^Uye and joyous—the place itself be comes an al fresco paradise. By day, those who can, sleep; by night, they awake and don their daintiest clothing, and Palermo.is gay. The terrace^ of the Hotel de 1’Europe extends 'to the very verge of the promenade, and, night by night, is crowded with men of all conditions and nations, who sit before little marble tables facing the sea. At one of these, so close * to the promenade that the dresses of the passers-by almost touched them, two men were seated. One was of an order and race easily across the dark blue waters of the bay, and the soft dazzling light gently touched her hair, and gleamed in her dark, sweet eyes. She was tall, and clad in white flowing draperies cling ing softly around her slim, girlish figure, and giving to her appearance an inexpressible daintiness, as though they were indeed emblematic of the spotless purity of that fair young being. Was it the chastened light, or was there indeed something spiritual, something more than humanly beauti ful in the delicate oval face—perfect in its outline, perfect in its faint color ing and stately poise? She was walk ing slowly, her every moment full of a distinctive and deliberate grace, and her head a little upturned, as though her thoughts were far away among the softly burning stars, rather than con cerned with the fashionable and pic turesque crowd which thronged around The Englishman looked into the eyes of the moat beautiful woman he had to be distinguished in any quarter of the globe—an English country gentle-^ a girl of somewhat slighter stature .•tnd darker complexion, caused her to lower her eyes, and in doing so they fell upon the eager, impassioned gaze of the young Englishman. . Afterwards he was never ashamed to confess that that moment brought with it a peculiar lingering sweetness which never altogether died away. It was the birth of a new sensation, the of all sensations, al her. A remark from her companion, man. He was tall and handvmie, and young enough not to have outlived enthusiasm, for he was looking out upon the gay scene with keen interest. His features were well cut, his eyes were blub, and his bronze face was •month, save for a slight, well-formed moustache. * He wore a brown tweed (oat and waistcoat, flannel trousers, a straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he | most poignant was smoking a briar pipe. His companion was of a different type. He was of medium height only, and thin; his complexion was sallow, and his eyes and hair were black. His features, though not altogether pleasing, were regular, and almost classical in outline. *His clothes dis played him to the worst possible advantage. He wore black trousers and a dark frock coat, tightly fitting, which accentuated the narrowness of his shoulders. The only relief to the sombreness of his attire consisted in a white flower carefully fastened in his buttonhole. They were only acquaintances, these two men; chance had brought them together for some evil purpose of her own. They had become for a while companions, albeit silent ones. I The Englishman was in far too good a humor with himself, the place, and his surroundings, to hold his peace for long. He exchanged his pipe for a Havana, and commenced to talk. “It’s very stupid of me, but, do you know, I've quite forgotten your name for the moment. I remember my cousin, Cis Davenport, introducing us at Rome, and 1 knew you again directly I saw you. But I’m hanged if I can think of your name 1 I always had a precious bad memory.” The Sicilian looked none too well pleased at the implied request. *T do not object to telling you my name," he said in a low tone, sunk almost to a whisper, ‘‘but you will pardon me if I make a request which may appear somewhat singular to you. I do not wish you to address me by it here, or to mention it. To be frank, there are reasons for wishing my presence in this neighborhood not to be known. You are a gentleman, and you will understand." ( ‘‘Oh, perfectly,” the Englishman answered him, in a tone of blank bewilderment. ^ ‘‘My name is Leonardo di MarioniP ‘‘By Jovel of course it is!” the Englishman exclaimed. M I should have thought of it in a moment.” ‘‘You will not forget my request, and if you have occasion to address me, perhaps you will be so good as to do so hy the name of ‘CortegiV It is the ndme by which I am known here, and to which I have some right.” The Englishman nodded. “AJf right. I'll remember. By the bye,” he went on, “I had the pleasure of meeting your sister in Naples, I believe She is engaged to marry Martin Briscoe, isn’t she?” The Sicilian’s face darkened into a scowl; the thin lips were tightly com pressed, and his eyes flashed with was not aware of it,” he answered haughtily. There was a brief lull in the stream of promenaders. The Englishman looked into die eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. A flood of silver moonlight lay upon the Marina, glancing away singer “Ah!” The Englishman turned toward the wide, open window, and gazed stead fastly at the place in the crowd where she had vanished. On the brow of the Hill Fiolesse, at a sharp angle in the white dusty road, a man and woman stood talking. On one side of them was a grove of flowering magnolias, and on die other a high, closely-trimmed hedge skirted the grounds of the Villa Fiolesse. There was not another soul in sight, but, as though the place were not secure enough from interruption, the girl, every now and then, glanced half fearfully around her, and more than once paused in the middle of a sen tence to listen. At last her fears escajied from her lips. ‘‘Leonardo, I wish that you had not come 1" she cried. “What is the good of it ? I shall have no rest till I know that you are beyond the sea again." ‘‘Beyond the seas, while my heart is diainMf forever here, Margharita P he answered. “Ah! I have tried, and I know the bitterness of it. You can not tell what exile has been like to me. I could bear it no longer. Tell me, child! I watched you climb this hill together. You looked back and saw me, and waited. Did she see me, too? Quick! answer me! I will know! She saw me on the Marina. Did she know that I was following her?” “I think she saw you. She said nothing when I lingered behind. It was as though she knew." The Sicilian clasped his hands, and looked away over the sea. The moon light fell upon his weary pallid face, and glisten^] in his dark sad eyes. He <poke more to himself than her. “She knew! And yet she would not wait to speak a single word to me! Aht it is cruel! If only she could know how night by night, * in those far-distant countries. I have lain on the mountain tops, and wandered through the valleys, thinking and tfreaming of her—always of her! It has been an evil time with me, my sister, a time of dreary days and sleep- though philosophers deny and mate rialists scofl at it. After all, there is something more than refined sensuality | less nights. And this is the end of it 1 in love which has so sudden a dawn- My heart is faint and sick with long ing; there is a certain innate spiritual- tng, and I hastened here before it ity which sublimates and purifies it, should break. I must see her, so that the flame burns softly but | Margharita! Let us hasten on to the >rightly still through joy and grief, mocking at satiety, surviving the sor row of gray hairs, triumphing over the desolation of old age, and sweet ening the passage to the grave. He was a headstrong, chivalrous young man, passionate, loyal, and faithful, among al! his faults. That first love of his never grew cold, never lessened. It lasted forever. For some men it is not possible to give the better part of themselves up to the worship of a pure woman; selfishness forbids it. Rut this young Englishman who sat there spellbound, absorbed in the con sciousness of this new and sweet emo tion, was not one of these. Suddenly she withdrew her eye* with a faint, conscious blush, and a* she did so she saw for the first time the Sicilian. Her whole aspect swiftly changed. A terrified shudder swept across her features, and her lips parted with fear. Who is she?” the Englishman asked abruptly. “I fear that I do not quite under stand you,” he said quietly, although his voice and limbs were trembling with passion; “to whom do you allude?" ... * “The gijl in white who passed just now. You knew her! Tell me her name!" .“Why should I?” “I wish to know it” “Possibly. But that is no reason why I should tell it to you. That lady is a friend of mine, certainly, but it is not the custom in my country, how ever it may be in yours, to bandy a lady’s name about a public place.” At the door of the hotel the Englishman paused for a moment, and then, ipstead of joining the stream of menaders, he entered and slowly ascended the broad marble staircase toward his room. Just as he reached the first landing, however, he "felt a light touch on his arm, and a guttural voice in his ear. He turned sharply round, and found before him one of the waiters—the one who had served him with his coffee outside. “Well! what do you want?” he asked. The man answered in a low tone, with his eyes glancing suspiciously around all die time. “The Signor was inquiring the name of the lady who passed by,” be said • “I can tell it Jo the Signor/* “Look sharp then!” “The Signor is generous,” fie re marked, with a cunning look. “I have risked my place by leaving the terrace without permission to bring him this news, and I am poor-—very, very poorl” he added, with a sudden drop villa!" • She laid her hand upon his arm. Her eyes were soft with coming tear#. “Leonardo, listen," she cried. “It is lest to tell you. She will not see you. She is quite firm. She is angry with you for coming.” “Angry with me! Angry because I ore her, so that I risk my life just to see her, to hear her speak! Ah! xit that is cruel I Let me go in and speak to her! Let me plead with her in my own fashion!” She shook her head. “Leonardo, the truth is best," she said softly. “Adrienne does not love you. She is quite determined not to sec you again. Even I, pleading with tears in my eyes, could not persuade her. She has locked hersclt in her om while she prepares for the con cert. You could not see her unless you forced yourself upon her, and that would not do." “No, I would not do that," he answered wearilv. “Margharita, there is a question; 1 must ask it, though the answer kill me. Is there—any one else?" She shookjicr head. “There is no one else, Leonardo, yet. But what matter is that, since it can not be you? Some day it will come. All that a sister could do 1 have done. She pities you, Leonardo, but she does not love you. She never will!” He moved from the open space, where the moonlight fell upon his marble face, to the shadow of the magnolia grove. l\t stood there quite silent for a moment. Then he spoke in a strained, hard voice, which she scarcely recognized. “Margharita, you have done yogr best for me. You do not know what a man’s love is, or you would not wonder that I suffer so much. Yet, if k must be, it must. 1 will give her up. f will go back to my exile and forget her. Yet since I am here, grant me a last favor. Let me see her to say farewell.” She looked up at him in distress. “Leonardo, how can I? She has given orders that under no circum stances whatever are you to be admitted.” * “But to say farewell!” * “She would not believe it It has been so before, Leonardo, and then you have been passionate, and pleaded your cause all over again. I have promised thpt I will never ask her to seeyou again.” i “Then let me see her without ask ing. You can find an opportunity, if you will. For my sake, Margharita!” Continued Next Week 9 “THE DESPERATE LOVER” by E. P. Oppen- heim, our new serial story commences in this issue. Don’t fail to read it each week. "... Sale in Your Hands A MARK OF CONFIDENCE—a responsibility cheerfully assumed by the Southern trainman when an aged person or young child is entrusted to bis cars for the journey. For the Southern train crew is part of a friendly and familiar institution—the railroad that serves the town, the railroad that lor decades has served the South. An institution whose activities cover such a wide ares, and which has suc ceeded in inspiring confidence in all parts of it, must have served well through Its history. The Southern is proud of this confi dence and of the good will which the Southern people hold for the Southern— their railroed OUT RAILWAY E RN SYSTEM From lh« North#rn Gateway* •« Washington, Cincinnati and LoaiaviUa ... from tbs Was tarn Oataway* at St. Louis and Mam- phis ... to tha Ocaan Porta of Norfolk, Charftaston, Savannah, Brunswick and Jacksonvilla . . • and tha Outf Ports of Mobil# and Maana ... tha Boutham tha Sooth. TM ••ITTMEMN BBBVBS Tl ‘ /. Kbout your Health Things You Should Know H»ir-Cr««*h. Hercules, January 22.—A surprise marriage of cordial interest to their many friends wms that of Miss Lula Hair and C. F. Creech, the ceremony being performed by Probate Judge John K. Snelling at hia home in Barn well. The bride ia a daughter of Mn and Mrs. H. L. Hair, of the Double Ponds section, and the groom is s son of C. S. Creech, of this section. Their friends wish for them a long life of happiness and prosperity. ibf John Joseph Caines, M. D# Hints On Cooking The lower animals in natural state, live on food that is un-cooked, and do so, unless they become domesticated. With highly organized man, it is dif ferent; for the most part, his nourish ment is more perfect with cooked foods. Cooking serves two principal pur poses; tough fibers are made tender— and, heat sterilizes. In these days of many microbes, the latter is a very important item. Infected food is one of the most common causes of disease. A very common fault is in the over cooking of vegetables; die humble turnip and the plebeian cabbage are frequently blamed for causing digestive disturbances, when the fault is entirely in their being over-cooked. Both of these useful vegetables contain vit amins that are destroyed if kept too long in the kettle ; neither should be cooked over fifteen minutes. Old or tough specimens, that will not > sur render in less than an hour’s boiling, are unfit for use—just so much bulk, of no nutritive value. Cabbage and turnips should be steamed. Enough water in your kettle to almost cover the vegetable and seasoning, should make enough steam to thoroughly tender them in the quarter of an hour devoted to that purpose. Frying is a make-shift, a time-saver. Fried foods are at the other extreme— they are cooked too fast; the vital principles are driven out by the fierce heat, the hard and indigestible parts bring left Meats should be cooked in a vessel nearly air-tight and in their own juices. 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