Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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$i>*^0i'5340^K>(K5#0^C>v0^0^OVC)0^0^C , (i>O<KH>040»O40yv^04h>.^^ ^i- '•.'' c* ^o ( • ♦6 o> ?:i it ««« || Copyright, 1901, by Charles W. Hooke. g) Ey HOWARD FIELDING CHAPTER XVII. T1!K RUNAWAY. ‘^'“'itENDA sat down by the bed. and she look- Cv| ed very beautiful, a cir cumstance upon which Elsie did not fail to comment with great satisfaction. “You will be very happy.” she said. And then she heaved a little sigh, presumably for herself. “My dear child.” replied Brenda, “this Is altogether too sudden and incom prehensible to suit a conventional per son like myself. This weird flirtation of the madhouse which Dr. Kendall and 1 seem to have begun in a manner shamelessly public may be only the temporary aberration of our minds and have nothing to do with our hearts. I hope it will strike in; I do most de voutly. Then you and Clarence could arrange your agreeable romance with out remorse”— “That Is ended.” said Elsie. “In fact. It never began. Brenda, you opened your heart io me: let me open mine to you I want some one In the world, softie one whom I care for, to know the whole truth.” “Are yon sure you really wish to trust me with this confidence?” asked Brenda earnestly. “You do not really know me. Your mother may soon be with you." “I would never tell my mother,” said Elsie sadly “She has had trouble enough. As for trusting you. knowing you—why. it seems to me that we have been here together since the dawn of recorded history and you were my friend the first minute. I’m afraid you may not care to be after you have beard the story, but I don't want to bold you by false pretenses. So hear me. Brenda." “It will not excite you? It will not make yon ill again?" “It would excite and worry me If I should stop now-after I have made up my mind.” said Elsie. “Listen. You shall know everything but a name. I can’t tell you that." Brenda was silent She was saying to herself: “I am afraid. My heart is trembling for this girl.” “It doesn’t matter when. It doesn’t matter where.” continued Elsie, “but when and where fate pleased I met a man who took a great liking to me. I know little now, and 1 knew far less then, though it wasn’t so long ago. He was an educated man. and 1 was not an educated girl, but I wished that I was. We met in a merry party, and I expected him to talk frivolity. He didn’t. His conversation was very im proving. Oh. he took a deep interest in my mind. “What idiots girls are! Why, tills man read me like a book. He saw that I was full of yellow covered ambitions and ten cent aspirations. He had prob ably seen a great many girls equally deserving of encouragement I thought tie was splendid. I put my hand in his fcud prepared to ascend the hill of learning. “It was a supper after the theater, and we rode to my house together In a hansom afterward at 2 o'clock in the morning, and the cha|>eron of our supper party rode In another direction in another hansom with another man. My escort talked about the ‘Rubaiyat’ of Omar Khayyam, ami I then first appreciated the beauties of that sub lime composition. Afterward he spoke ©f my work In a very earnest and en couraging way. He let me know that he had been quite a student of the drama and that bis criticism and ad vice would be of the greatest assist ance. That, at least, was the Infer ence. Finally he bade me good night on the doorsteps, with a gentle sadness Id his manner which let me know that there was a romance in his life. That made me feel safe, for at that time 1 surely did not want him to fall in love with me, ami I still retained the delu sion of my earlier years that romances In a person’s life acted like vaccina tion. “The gentleman called upon me the next afternoon, and he was very enter taining ns well as Instructive. He brought life a large book. I forget what it was about. The next day lie took me out to dinner, and l remember that he gave me some very shrewd and belpful criticism about my work. Then I didn’t see him for two whole days, and 1 began to miss him very much. At that time I was lonely. My jflrl friends in the profession were all out of town, and some of the men in the company who wished to be kind to me were rough In their ways—not at all like the cultured gentleman whose acquaintance 1 had been so fortunate as to make.” “But didn’t you ask about him?” said Sreuda. “Didn’t you find out how he stood socially?” Elsie laughed. “How was I lo find out any of those things?” she said. “The world is a bi" place. In tbe midst of which is society an you know it, a little inutt-al insur ance company for the purpose of pro tecting its members, especially the .younger ones, against accidents. I only knew that I liked this man and that he seemed to Ik* a true friend to me. What other g :!de was I to have except my sown bi-antifiil Ignorance?” “1 don't know,” said Brenda aloud, t>ut_ to herself she wag. saying: “The I more wrong she has suffered the more ! 1 want to help her. 1 won’t let any- ! thing take her away from me.” “Presently I heard the story of the romance in his life.” continued Elsie. “It appeared that the gentleman was married—most unhappily. Where was j his wife? lie had permitted her to ob- | tain a divorce. This was pure generos- i Ity on his part. He would rather suf fer an injustice than attack in the courts the woman he had sworn to love and cherish. He mentioned several high society precedents for this con duct. In fact, he convinced me that divorce was. upon the whole, a mark of distinction in these days. It ap peared that his was a sort of limited divorce which did not permit him to remarry, but after this aspect of it had been presented to me on several occasions he discovered that be could marry under certain conditions with the full sanction of the law and heav en. “Well. Brenda, let’s be fair. 1 want ed to marry the man. I persuaded my self that 1 was in love with him. 1 wasn’t. I can see that now. I wasn't within a million miles of loving him. but I was ready to be loved, Brenda; that’s the truth about It. My heart was full of tenderness, and 1 saw the whole world rose tinted In the light of the dawn of love. That’s poetical. But wait a minute. I am coming to some thing very unromantic. I wrote this story. Breuda—wrote it all down for a great heart thrilling novel—and then had sense enough to burn it. But that helps me to tell it straight, and you’ll catch fine phrases now and then, but you won’t laugh at me. “Well, we were engaged, of course. My fiance presented me with a dia mond ring, and diamonds are my soul’s delight. After I got this une l used to keep a little light burning in my room at night so that I might see it sparkle if I happened to be waMeful. I sub sequently learned that there was a financial Irregularity involved in the obtaining of the glittering gem, but 1 did not learn that until after It had passed out of my possession.” “Where did fate find this precious rascal?” whispered Brenda. “And why did fate send him to you?” "Why did fate send a good man after ward?” said Elsie. “Why not before? Well, ’the moving finger writes and. having writ, moves on’— It was to be. Finally the gentleman announced that a marriage under the laws of the state of Pennsylvania would meet the re quirements of the situation. I was a good deal startled by this definite sug gestion. and I wrote to my mother on the subject for the first time. The gen tleman took the letter to post, and it lias not been delivered yet. thank heav en! “Before it was time to get an answer sudden business of great Importance called my fiance to Philadelphia. How opportune! Well. Brenda. 1 packed a little hand bag and went. What must you think of me?” Brenda beut down gently and kissed Elsie's hand and held It against her face. "1 don’t know the story yet.” she said, “but you have portrayed a thorough scoundrel. And you have also shown me a trusting and truehearted girl who went to be married with an Innocent heart. Blessed heaven! Think of a man for whom a young and pure girl will go out into the world like that, as if to walk in the fields! Should not ev ery fiber of hla soul be thrilled to loyal ty for all hts life?” “The gentleman In question had oo soul.” said Elsie. ”1 think he will be spared all punishment hereafter, as tbe brutes are. Let us proceed. Brenda, dear. The remainder of the story Is not long. We took the 11 o’clock train and reached Philadelphia In time for luncheon. Our marriage was to be kept secret for awhile, and there seem ed to be some slight objection to the public dining room of the hotel where our hansom set us down. However, we luuched there quite hastily, for I had no appetite. Then we re-entered the hansom and went to look for a min ister. We had remarkable diiliculty in finding one. considering that Philadel phia is a large city full of churches, but we finally succeeded. Then it appeared that we had neglected to comply with certain formalities, but the clergyman was able to rectify the matter, and so we were married pitifully, as l see It now,’ with stupid old servants and a chance laborer who happened to be nt work in the house as our witnesses. | “When we got back to the hotel, it ; was G o’clock, and I was, nearly fam ished. We hurried right into the din ing room, and my husband ordered a great spread, with champagne, for our miserable celebration, and now I will tell you the unromaiitic part. In the midst of that dinner, and while I fan cied that I was eating with a splendid appetite, I was suddenly seized with tin* most awful pain that ever devas tated my poor little stomach. Yes. Brenda, it was a regular, terrible stomach ache—Just pain, without a bit of nausea. 1 felt ns if some one had my stomach in his hand—a hand about the size of Captain Neale’s—and was crushing it to pieces. “My husband said lie guessed It would soon pass away, but It didn't, and so he left ids dinner and ran out to a drug store to get me something to take. When he came buck, 1 took it, and I didn t feel any worse, because that wasn't possible, but I certainly felt no better. !u a few minutes 1 be gan to realize that I was going out of my wits. 1 talked insanely and saw things that weren’t tin re. The next tiling 1 know we wore riding up In an elevator, and It seemeu to go up for a week. Then there was a woman lea-l ing me along a hall and into a room, and she began to take off my clothes in the bedroom of a little soil. 1 stared at her ami asked her who she was. “ T’m the assistant housekeeper,’ she said. ‘I belong to the hotel.' “As if she had been a piece of furni ture. Then I asked where my hus band was, and she said he had gone out for a doctor. So she made me lie down. Probably I seemed to be there on that bed. but in reality—my own reality—I was playing in that old barn storming company and studying, studying, studying on long parts that were always changing, but sometimes I was a little girl again in a town way out in Michigan, running through the streets, with my long legs flying and my heels touching the back of my head, as my mother used to say. 1 stole the neighbors’ flowers in the scented June evenings and staid out under the little whispering stars till my mother came, weeping with anx iety. to bring me home. And, strange ly enough, right in the midst of It all there stood the doctor, a tall, gaunt young man, asking me how 1 felt. But where was my husband? “ Tie has not got back.’ said the wo man. T was afraid to wait any lon ger. so I got this gentleman, who is a New York doctor stopping in tbe hotel.’ “Then I felt something sharp prick ing my arm and afterward the pain was easier, and my mind suddenly be came as clear as it is now. I heard the doctor say that I would he all right.when I had had some sleep, and then my husband appeared, looking in between tbe curtains that hung by the bedroom door. It seems that he had not brought a doctor, but had left word for one to come. “My husband remained there, be tween the curtains, perfectly rigid, staring, pale as a ghost. He was look- “ You!” said the doctor. Ing at the doctor beside my bed. and glancing up 1 saw that the doctor was staring at him. “‘You!’ said the doctor, and he took three strides out of the room, my hus band backing away as the other ad vanced. “They whispered together; they thought 1 could not hear. But, Brenda. I would have ,heard them if they had been in New York. “ ‘She says you were married this afternoon,’ s^id the doctor. ‘How is that?’ “ ‘Who In the devil’s name called you In?’ demanded ray husband. ‘Where did you come from?’ “ This is state prison business,’ said the doctor, without minding the questions. ‘You are living legally separated from your wife, but you are not divorced, and you never will be by your own consent, for her father la paying you to behave yourself/ “ ‘There has been no marriage here,’ said my husband. ‘Don’t say any thing. This is a mere freak of mine. I’ll make It right with you If you’ll keep quiet/ “ ‘You He,’ said the doctor, and then. ’Am I too late to save her?’ “My husband answered‘Yes.’ Brenda, how is It possible for a human being to utter a falsehood like that? I was no more to him than you are except that I had promised before God to be his wife. And the doctor looked him lu the eyes a moment and then struck him across the face with the back of his open hand and went out of the room. “My husband came to the curtains and looked In; then he approached the bed, and I groaned ns loud as I could. At that he seemed to lose his wits. lie ran around the room aimlessly and at last snatched his hat from the floor and rushed out. I suppose he was go ing for another doctor. “When he was gone, 1 Invented an errand and sent the woman away. Then I got up and dressed. I don’t know how It was possible for me to do it, but I seemed to be as light as a feath er. I got out of the hotel easily enough and took a cab to the railroad station. I bad not money enough for a sleeper, so I rode in a day coach all the way to New York, but my mind was In a thousand places, and some of them were beautiful, and I was happy there, and again 1 was in terror and pain. “When I left the train at Jersey city, ray head was bursting upon my shoul ders and the air was fire. I^oncstly. Brenda, when the ferryboat ran Into the slip on this side. 1 thought It was the mouth of the Infernal regions. It looked like a great cave full of flames and it seemed that 1 was being crushed and thrust into it. Yet I must have had some part of my senses, for I found a cab and gave the driver my address. And so 1 came home from tny wedding Journey, Brenda. I let myself In with my key, and the people lii the house never knew that 1 had been away that night. They found me ill and got a doctor for me. and be fore the day was over 1 was nearly well. The doctor said 1 must have eat en some sort of a thing—what do they call it I always think of tomatoes." “Ptomaines.” said Brenda. “Oh. you poor child; you poor, wretched, lucky little Klsje! I am so glad, so glad!" “Would you believe.” said Elsie, “that that man tried to get my heart hack again, to plead his cause with me? Well, he did, and, though I had peace for quite a long time, of late I have been much annoyed by him. You can understand now why Clarence Alden's love was torture to me, why — well, why 1 bought the picture of Tantalus to look at, Brenda. Oh, I love him. 1 love him so much! The feast of the heart that I can never have! lie is everything 1 want. Breuda." “But why In the name of all martyr dom should you hesitate to tell this sto ry to him?" exclaimed Brenda. “What bar can it be to your marriage?” “Oue day," said Elsie slowly, "when I was beginning to love Clarence so that my heart sang of him all the time. 1 was walking on Broadway and had stopped to look in at a Jeweler’s win dow. And I glanced up, and Clarence was coming down the street with that doctor!” “The oue who attended you in Phil adelphia?” “Yes,” said Elsie. “They were laugh ing and talking together, and I shrank into a doorway and died of shame as they passed. Suppose they had seen me?” “I think uo harm would have come of it,” said Brenda. “Suppose I married Clarence and we should meet him then?" “But, my dear,” exclaimed Brenda, “take the wildest possible supposition. Say that this doctor believed the worst and told it to Clarence and lived to finish the story, which unless he is Samson reincarnated is not possible, it would make no difference. Unless Clar ence can believe you absolutely against every other -voice in the world, you don’t want to marry him anyway.” “You don't know men,” said Elsie, shaking her head. “One little doubt, and there is misery for a lifetime. I heard Clarence speak once of a woman who had gone wrong. It frightened my bones until they turned to dust in my body.” “But. Elsie, you haven’t done any wrong,” pleaded Breuda. “You were cruelly deceived”— “I no more than the others/’ replied Elsie. “Every woman who goes wrong Is deceived, or there would be no wrong. The point Is, Breuda, that that is not the way to get married. No really good girl ever does such a thing. I should have had my mother and my friends to see me make my vow. That Is the only right way; your way, Brenda, tbe way of your world. And. besides, I haven’t told you all. I am really bis wife.” “What do you mean?” "His wife from whom he was sepa rated was abroad at the time,” said Elsie. “She died two days before my marriage. That’s why 1 called him my husband all the way through the story.” Brenda was speechless for some sec onds before the spectacle of this fatal ity. “I don’t see that that makes it any worse," she said at last. “Better, 1 should say. Such a marriage cau be easily annulled. It does not even re quire a divorce.” "It requires legal proceedings,” said Elsie. "It means publicity and brand ing. It means that Clarence Alden’s wife will be marked as a woman with a past, with a romantic scandal attach ed to her name. It would be bad enough. Breuda, for him to marry me anyway, but an actress, with that story fastened to her! Well, you know what all the world would say. No; I would rather die. I would rather he should uever know. I’d lie to him. Brenda, If necessary—I have lied to him, ns you are aware—rather than he should thluk me tbe sort of girl who, on a hasty acquaintance with a man about whom she knows uotbing, would run away to a strauge city, trusting to luck to be married there.” Breuda kissed Elsie’s hand again very tenderly. •T’H tell you what, my dear,” said she; “the fact is that you have brooded over this matter until you are not quite sane about it I really mean what I say. Now, this is my advice to you: Tell Mr. Aldeu this story Just as soon as you’re strong enough to do It and”— Elsie gripped her baud hard. “1 have told you this in confidence,” she said. “Give me your solemn word that you will never breathe one sylla ble of it; that you will help me lu ev ery way to conceal it! Promise!” “The word and honor of one who loves you, Elsie,” Brenda answered. “Whatever you wish I will do.” “You are so good to me!” said Elsie, letting her head sink back luto the pil lows. “There is one thing more,” said Bren da. “Did he, your husband, strike this blow?” “Don’t ask me that,” cried Elsie. “I can never tell you how I got this wound. Think what a frightful bur den that knowledge would be to you If I should die.” Thi« story will be continned ii next Friday’s i«sue of The Ledger. The scripture says that money the root of all evil. W( may add thi it is also the root a good many farmi trees It may not be true that all men sprung from »he monkey, but it is a fact that all women spring from mice. Stop* tli«! ©miRli Work* Oft the und fold. Laxative Bromo-tjuinine Tablets cure a cold In one day. No Cure, no P*)’. Price 2.*) cents. t a MISSISSIPPI VESSELS. Queer ('rnff Tlmt IMj- the I'pper Reached at the i,; . ei. “‘St. Paul Is at the head of naviga tion on '.he Mississippi.' "i hat sentence from the old geogra phy stands out vividly in my memory.” says John Swain in Ainslee’s. “In boy hood I pictured throngs of smoking steamers plowing up to the wharfs ol tliis Minnesota city. Of course in the winter they would be frozen out. but in summer and through tin* autumn, when the grain crop was moving. I imagined barges of wheat and corn, steamers loaded with fiour and all the incidentals of the commerce of the northwest. “But there are limitations to that navigation on the upper Mississippi which the geography failed to mention. This young man Mississippi spreads out valiantly to fill a big channel, lit receives the floods of the St. Croix and lower down of the Wisconsin, but still he is. after all. only a young fellow, and when he aspires to spread he becomes, as other young men. very shallow. Sc it is that at many times in the year the visitor to St. Paul and to the river be low it. especially at that time of the vear when the crops are moving, will wait in vain for a steamer for St. Louis and will find ledges of rock and big sand bars obstructing the channel sc that a raft would have ditllculty in moving down stream. For months of the year no steamers come to St. Paul, and only when there is a fairly good stage can the steamers of the Diamond Jo line work their slow way up from Davenport as a connection with the world below. “Such steamers as they are too. There have been Jokes without number about these shallow river steamers that ear run on heavy dews and that are said to be built of iron, unpuinted. because on damp days the iron will sweat enough to allow them to run. It has been said that at times the pilot sends a man ahead with a sprinkling can tc wet down sand bars and that a tub of water and a hose are kept uii deck for use in emergencies. Of c .r.rse thesi are wild exaggerations, hr - ., as a mat ter of fact, the steamer that cannot run on eighteen inches or. m best, on tvvc feet of water must stay on the lower river. Even there she will have her troubles. Far below Cairo l have seen a steamer loaded with GOO bales of cot ton and 300 sacks of seed run into a landing over a bar on which there was but four feet of water. There are long stretches of deep water near St. Paul to be sure, where boats /.-onId draw many feet, but the river steamer has to be able to go over reefs and bars and of these there are many. For the rest, they are the same old flimsy noisy, cheap, sternwheelers that were run in Mark Twain’s time before tbf civil war.” Co-operative Fnnerala. Joseph Chalifoux, P. Chalifoux and Tbeophile Bonier of Chicago have formed a co-operative funeral expense society, have had it incorporated ai Springfield with a capital stock of $10. 000 and will soon send agents about tbf city to solicit subscribers. Tbe Cbali foux brothers are funeral directors of thirty-five years’ experience and have come to the conclusion, they say. that many families in humble circumstance* and unable to stand tbe'expense of u funeral will be glad lo join the new society. The schedule arranged by Josept Chalifoux. who has made a study of the question both in this country anti in Canada, where he is interested It an undertaking establishment, follows infants up to five years of age. $1 per annum. Children and adults from five to thir ty years old. 75 cents per annum. Adults from thirty to forty-five year? old. $1 per auuum. Persons from forty-five to fifty-five years old. $1.50 per annum. Persons from fifty-five to sixty-five years old, $2.50 per annum. Declined Both Offers. The Rev. Baker P. Lee of Lexington Ky., received a call to Grace (Episcopal church of Chicago, one of the richest churches of its denomination in the West, and the salary offered him wae thrice that he now receives, while tbe fees from marriage services average $10,000 a year. But he declined the call, saying simply that he had beguc a work in Lexington and felt that he ought to complete it. And when sev eral Lexington citizens offered to sup plement his Lexington salary and make it equivalent to the salary offered by Grace church he declined their offei and declared that the question of sal ary could not enter into his decision. Polities and Trade. A merchant of Havre, France, has is sued the following circular: “To every person who buys of me a parcel con taining one kilogram of coffee and one- quarter of n kilogram of tea—all of the best quality and costing 8 francs, which is much below the ordinary trade price—I will forward gratis 1: francs’ worth of books, pamphlets, drawings, etc., which he will be able to distribute or keep himself for his own library. From this day's date any one in sipping his tea or eoffee may be able to si y of himself that he is help ing. without opening his purse, without spending a penny, in the work of dis semlnating anticlerical ideas.” Oar Discontent. A contented mind is a continual feast, but content is scorned by the go ahead American. I have learned, said the apostle, In whatsoever state 1 am therewith to be content. But, says (lie eager exponent of Americanism, the Americans succeed because they art never contented. Divine discontent I* very well, but there is such a thing a* undiviuR discontent, and there is a good «b*al of the latter In the United Slates today.—“AineiJenulzutlon of Eu rope,” by \V. T. Stead. _Or So yi STOPS PAIN Athena, Tenn., Jan. 27,1901. Ever since tho first appearance of mv menses they were very irregular and 1 suffered with great pain in my hips, back, stomach and legs, with terrible bearing down pains in the abdomen. During the past month 1 have been taking Wine of Cardui and Thedford’s Black-Draught, and I passed the month ly period without pain for the first time in years. Nannib Davis. What Is life worth to a woman suffer ing like Nannie Davis suffered? Yet there are women in thousands of homes to-day who are bearing those terrible menstrual pains in silence. It you are one of these we want to sa/ that this same WINE or CARDUI will bring you permanent relief. Con sole yourself with (he knowledge that 1,000,000 women have ueen completely cured by Wine of Cardui. These wom en suffered from leucorrhoea, irregular tenses, headache, backache, and bearing down pains. Wine of Cardui will stop all these aches and pains tor you. Purchase a $1.00 bottle of Wine of Cardui to-day and taka it in the privacy of your heme. Kor ftilvlce and literature, aiklreu, giving symp tom*. ‘•The Louie*’ Aar)»ory bepsrtment," The Chattanooga Medicine Co., Chattanooga. Tenn. ( Ill It' 11 DIRECTORY. First Baptist Church, corner Limestone ;in<i Smith streets—Kev. Arch ".Free, pastor. Services. Sunday morning at 11 and evening at T::vi; Sunday school at 9:45 a. m.; prayer meeting Wednesday evening at 7::iR; Chris tian culture course at 7diOThursday evening. Ciierokkk Avenue Baptist Church. Be tween < 'herokee avenue and Limestone street —Kev. .1. B. Bo/.emun, pastor. Services, Sun day morning at 11, and evening at 7; prayer- meeting Thursday evening at 7:45; Sunday school at !»:45 a. m., every Nabbath. Limestone Presbyterian church, cor ner Limestone and Jefferies streets—Kev. Win. K Potter, pastor. Set vices, Sunday morning at 11, and evening at 7:W; Sunday school at in a. tn.. every Sunday; prayer- meeting at 7:.9i Wednesday evening. Buford street Method bt Church, cor ner Buford and Petty streets—Kev. VV. H. Hodges, pastor. Services. Sunday morning at 11 and evening at 7:30: Sunday school at 10 a. m.; prayer-meeting Wednesday evening at 7::#). Limestone Street Methodist Church Limestone Street—Rev. W. D. Patrick, pas tor. Services, every second Sunday at 11 a. m. and 7 p. m.; Sunday school, every Sunday at 9:30 a. m.: prayer-meeting, Wednesday evening at 7:30. Episcopal Church, north Buford street— Kev. O. Croft Williams, pastor. Services, Suuday afternoon at 4 O’clock. Limestone Baptist Church (colored), Race street—Kev. E. L. Beatty, pastor. Services, Sunday 11 a. m. and M p. m.; Sunday school, 2 p. m.; prayer-meeting Wednesday K p. m.; teachers meeting Tuesday S:30 p m. Dunton Chapel M. E. Church (colored). South Buford street—Kev. K. C. Campbell, pastor. Services. Sunday 11 a, m. and 7:30 p. m.; Sunday school 3 p. m.; prayer-meeting Thursday < :3o p. m.; Epworth League, Friday 7:30 d. tn. Bethel Baptist Church (colored). Brown and Meadow streets—Kev. A. S. Sanders, pas tor. Services.first and third Sundays at 11 a.m and 7:30 p. m ; Sunday scliool, every Sunday at 10 a. m.; prayer-meeting. Thursday 7:M p. m. If anybody has a message for the people of this community he cannot deliver it to them so effectually, so cheaply, so quick ly in any other way as through the columns of this paper. It is the business of this pa per to carry messages of one 0 *kind and another into homes. i , The message will be delivered, too, under favorable conditions, for few persons take up their local paper except in a pleasant * and receptive frame of mind. The sign upon the fence board may be good, but it can be seen only by travelers who go that particular road. The message in the local paper carries itself to thousands, no matter by which road they travel. Select your space and put 1 your message where it will do the most good. < * We, perhap*, can help you if you will but ask us.