Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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TUB?VMTBR W ATC HMA??, established April, IS50. 'Be Just and Fear not-LfSt all the Ends thoa Aims't at, be thy Country's, thy God's and Truth's " ?otwolidate<l Ap^^ 1881?] ?? SUMTER, 8. M WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 27, 1892. THJC TRUE SO?TBKON, Established Jane, lc?? New Series-Yoi. XL So. 26. BT N. Gk OSTEEN, SUMTER, S. C. TSKMS: Two Dollar? per annum -ia advance^ . AOTIK?KIKSaT8. 0&e Square, first insertion.$100 Jvery tubseqtren t insertion.50 Contracts for three months, or longer will be ?ade at reduced rates. ; ? . ?. AH.communication which subserve private lUetetU will he charged for. as ad ver tisemen ts. Obituaries and tributes of respect will be "charged for. ?g? Bigges . . -u . . . MADE EASY ! MOTHERS* EUEND " is a scientific- * (Sent of rS^rnr^^u^ aruTin constant use by the medical pro ftssion. Tbese.i^redientsalcorn-;- ^ binedman^naeiJnLbeitoiiida?\\Ti "MOTHERS' WILL DO^SfeS? c&irned for it AND MORE?ffS?&??i ?sa?oipi- - . Lessens Palo, Diminishes Danger to life of Mother and Child. Book r Jo " JJOTBERS *mafledfREE,< conr Jtaxmng Va?ua?-^ m&rma?on and? ; * voluntary test. ials. Scntby express oin recci^i>Cjric? $1^0 per bottle 4 ?SACHELO RBBOLATOR CO., Atlanta, Ga. SOLD BY ALL DRUGGISTS. Are You Interested? Are jo? suffering with any of t befell ow mp -symptoms: Loss of, or ?cpu^: ^r^tite,: kn of flesh, a feeling of ftSfess or weffehHfr *b* stomach, acidity, flato len Jie, a dull pain ?with a sensation of heaviness in the he?d, giddiness, constipation, d?rangement of kid-; oaya>#hiNrt rroqfcle, ?ervo****?, *s>epjes*? Besa, etc. Dr. Holt's Dyspeptic Elixir will care yon. fr. A. "Wright, the Comptroller General of Georgia, says, tbrte bottles cured him after baring tried almost ever;thing, else. *?f|ge ay>;lS?Hr,.*la?o?,"Ga., says. Holt's wicir accomplished what all other remedies ? failed- to do j a perfect cure. J. B. P*nllin, Pt. Gaines. Ga., writes : ?I ba** no hesitancy in recommending v] as ii ' eftrod me of dyspepsia. For any fm thee information inquire of your druggist. For sale by ail druggists. War Tnjfwnt? and Children. Cl-twila proaaetoa Digestion, and overcomes Fhtttttancy, Constipation, Soor Stomach, Diarrhoea, and Feverishness. Thu? tb? child is tendered healthy and its j sleep w* Castoria. contains no Morphine or other narcotic property. y:h. Ttasiortn lg nn irrTl adapted <o children that ? <XW1m ft^aawyertorto sar pr?emption - known to noe." H. A. ARCHER, H. D., t til Sonta Oxford St, Brooklyn, N. Y. find A A effect open then* children." DB, G. a OSGOOD, Lowell, Mass. ?n Ccmxx COMPANY, 773^pra^areet^ X. Ti TIB SBWKDS ???mkL BASK, OF SUMTER. STATE, CITY AND COUNTY DEPOSI? TORY, SUMTER, S. C. ???~~ Paid ap Capital.$75,000 00 Surpias Fund. 10,000 00 Transacts a General Banking Business. Careful attention given to collections; ?AYINGS DT?gPAKTMEKT.: Deposits of $1 and upwards received. To? terest allowed at the rate of 4 per cent, per aanutn. Payable quarterly, on first days of Jan airy, April, July and October. B. M. WALLACE, Vice President. SUMTER, S C. CITY ANDfCOUNTY DEPOSITORY. T^o^JJ^^al Banking business. Also hrs A Savings Bank Department Deposits of $1.00 and upwards received Interest calculated at the rate of 4 per cent, per aaaom, payable quarterly. W. F. B. HAYNSWORTH, A. WHIM, JR., President. Cashier. Aug 21. DR."I ALTA DENTIST. Office OY SR BROWNS & PURDY'S STORE. Eotraoce on Main Street, Between Browns k Purdy and Durant & Soo. OFFICE HOURS: 9 to 1.30; 2 to 5 o'clock. Sumter, S. C , April 29. Qt. W. BICK, D. D. S. Office Jsver Bogia'sV?ew Store, . MgTlp.SW?C'OJI MA? STRUT SUMTER, S. C. Office Hours.-9 to 1;30 ; 2:30 to 5. >gJL <_ Ur. T. V?. BOOKHAKT* DENTAL SURGEON Office;o*er Buitrean & Bro.'s Shoe Store wWSA?lbr ON MAIN STREET. SUMTER, S. C. Office Hours-9 to 1:30 ; 2-^0 to 5. April 17-o GLENN SPRINGS WmM WATER A Safe, Pleas*n and Effective Remedy for al diseases of lb?! IT A "* ' * 'HE BOWELS, *3ES THE .SYSTEM, '-*AK i BEOCfLATES THE LIVER, ?And 4s % specific for roo t FEM ALK DISORDERS. ?^psf^ofsr^psoN, Proprietors, G lents Springs, S C. For sale by all leading Druggists. 'By MAEY KYLE DALLAS. ? tCcpyrigbt, ISSI, by American Press Associa . tioh.] ; L "No, I do notate ^h^.said. "Why? i Well, it seems la me yon ought to know. Say Tm pr?jucucea?-.but Lido not liles it foryou." They were waterirrg^Aue garden to? gether. He drew the great buckets ^pmctlie w.e.11. and.tilled, the watering, pots, and she took the little one and he the big oue and they went uown the long, brick paved paths between the bor?era..and the grass plots giving the ^flowers- a ge?eBous? showering,* for the weather was dry, and roses, and tiger lilies, fiox and gladiolas, coreopsis and ^rtulaca, sweet peas, poppies, lady slip? pers and njiarigoMswere ail athirst. Frank had com(f over specially to help Doris. He had said to his grandmother one.afternoon, "It seems wrong to see a woman dragging yip those great bnck? ets." And his grandmother had replied, "That's right, Franklin, I like to see that spirit in a boy; help her every evening." From that time Franklin Fairfax had -regularly jumped the dividing fence be? tween tile gardens when Doris Morton j&ad appeared at the kitchen door with her watering pots, and the old lady felt that she had commanded the perform? ance of this neighborly deed and was quite satisfied. Though his grandmother considered him a - boy,. Franklin was. quite old enough ho use his own discretion in such: matters. But this innocent little ma? neuver of his had made it easy to make the first breach in a barrier built be tween the houses-of Morton-.and Fairfax by a neighbors' quarrel of some years' standing.. The Fairfax pigs and piglets had once upon a time broken their bonds and got into the Morton kitchen garden, and .JSfattbias Morton-Mean Morton they called him in the village-had locked them np and presea ted tba Widow Fair? fax with a bill for damages. This she had mildly aud obstinately refused to pay, and the pigs were sold and the money went into Mean Morton's pocket. On the day that the final deed was done his Grandma Fairfax had said to Franklin: "Franklin, my child, thee will not hoid any conversation with Doris Mor? ton from this time forth. Thee will have no more to do with these people, ?norwill L Thee can see the impossi ^m#th}-self.?v- * ; Even then franklin hadthpught Doris [ the sweetest Stile girl alive* bat he was very young and she not grOwn up, and he had been wrathful ^witrrMean Mor? ton and thought his gra^mother very badly used, l?e literally "obeyed her until a year later. Meeting Doris in the village streets she had spoken to him cf her own accord: - * > ? * **I should likeyou to-'' know that I feel j that uncle was unneighborly," she said. "1 want your grandma to know I feel that way. -I tried to drive the pigs : back, and of course 1 knew that it was I an accident, for your people are always particulate and careful not to do any ; thing^fhat^ is not righi. I think it was Uncle *H?rton~s 'great" love for money that made him do what he did. I'm I sorry, for he is my father's brother, and 'dear pa .was so-'different, but he is so close that everything is uncomfortable. . Lam sure he worried Aunt Sarah into tile lunatic asylum, where, she will end l&r days, I suppose, aad .1" have a hard xe of it, Fro^^haxdsr ithan anyone] knows." As she talked. Franklin noticed how soft her eyes were and how darle, and '$?&t a pretty month she-had, and yet". &qw tired she iooked.--. "Fm very glad you told me how yon feel, Doris," he said. "I never supposed -you had anything to do with what hap? pened, and ? have often wished to have some of our oTd talks, only ont of regard gto.-^pnmd mother's fedULngs, I"--: "1 know," said Doris, "and you'll tell her how 1 feel?" That day they walked together until the roofs of the neighboring houses were visible, and when they parted Doris of? fered her?is:d to Franklin. Sweet little thrills ran up his arm to his heartas he took it, and he was already in love with the girl, though he did not know it. He told his grandmother what had passed-nnd the old Quakeress replied: "I am glad that the child takes a proper view of the matter. But still, it Srfl? be best to have no more to do with Neighbor Morton's folks. Thee will see the wisdom of such a course thyself." Franklin was wise enough never to let his grandmother know how often he met Doris after that; how they walked to? gether in the chestnut woods on Sunday afternoons: how he rowed her about in j his little flat bottomed fishing boat on the river in the moonlight; how, day by day and hour by hour, he grew fonder of her. And now that he had caused the old lady to command him to help Dori.> water her flowers, ail would be smooth and easy. Ho said to himself it was not as if Doris were Morton's own daughter. She was his niece and he male ber his drudge. He had driven his poor wife mad with constant little torments. He had banished his son from home by such usage as a boy of any spirit must resent, and knew not whether he were dead or alive, prosperous or in poverty. When his brother s little girl had been left an orphan he had taken her to his house, saving thereby the expense of a -servant and making her a drudge. Franklin, a new fledged civil engineer with a prospect of a good appointment, knew what poor Doris had to bear, and his one great hope was to take her from all this one day and place her in a home of her own, a home he would make beau? tiful for her, and where she should reign a queen. Meanwhile they had become engaged. Oh, happy moment, indelibly written on Frank's memory, stamped on the heart of little Doris in characters never to be obliterated, when there in the chestnut woods he asked aud she re? plied, and yet you might call it a very commonplace picture if I were to paint it for you. Only a girl in a little fade 1 blue calico dress, and a youngman i i the unpicturesque costume of our time and-countrj\ She blushed. He looked as though ho caught a glimpse of heaven, and from the unpainted porch of Mean Morton's jmestead came the shrill voice of the old man: "Do-ris! Do-ris! where air you, Do-ris? That gal is never round when a body wants her." "No matter, Doris," said Franklin. "Some day, my pet, some day." And he kissed her thrice before she raj: away. II. ! They had been engaged three months j now, those two whom we left watering J the flowers, without telling the read what Franklin did not like "for Doris After he had said that the)* went bac to the well, and the watering pots we: filled before either spoke a word. The Doris said: "1 should think you'd like it better f< me thf.n washing dishes, Frank.. It better thau the drudgery 1 have been i for years, and if I have talent, as M Groldmark says I have" '*I suppose he knows," said Frank, . suppose they know their business, tho: men; and I must say that, though I ai no judge, I think you did splendid! the night of the fair. But priva: theatricals are one thing, and public ai other, I couldn't bear the thought of i Doris. How did he come to think < proposing such a thing to you?" They had come to.t&e great .snowba bushes at- the^f arther end-of the garde Grandma Fairfax could not see thei from the porch, and every evening i this time-iM'-.tthias Morton went to tl: ; store;; o?fcjMb^ f?rj his mail, but a< coally tb gossip!/ V There was a bench here, with a empty.beehive of the.old fashioned, com topped sort on.one end, and on the othc end they sat down together. He put h arm around her . waist, and she let he head drop on his shoulder, and so the talked. ''Miss Chandler managed tl: little play they had one af temo .>n at th rooms where they held the fair for th orphan asylum," 'Boris said, "and sh teaches the district school, and long ag I was her scholar for a little while am 1 jspoke my pieces very well, she said and she wanted somebody for a part it the play and asked me." "Uncle said I might, only I mustn' ask him tor money for any thing. I di not. Wev made my costume out of som old furniture chintz and old lace cu: tains I found in the garret. And, oh! never was so. happy as while I was o the stage playing that part and every bo?!y applauding!" "Ah!" sighed Franklin, "I suppose i is fascinating, but it is dangerous." "Why, Frank, yon clapped too," sal' .Doris. "1 wouldn't have been happy i yon hadn't.''* Franklin cheered np a little. "And after the audience all wen home I staid to help Miss Chandler giv the orphans tbeir, feast-cakes and crear and candies." "Yes, I remember that, too," saic Frank, "because I wanted to walk hom' with you, and waited -for you and yo; did not come.'* - "What a shanie," saixl Doris. "But must hurry, because we have no time t< spare. 1 cannot drag my story on lik this-and I haven't any time to-well just one-there." ?Where w,as JP** . -'Stuffing the orphans," said' Franklin "For sham A! 1 was handing the cake! to the poo- dear little things^" Dori when on, t:wiienastoat gentleman cam? into the roo?v. and" began talking to litt!< Tom Bell. " It seems Tom's father hat been an ae*or?and this gentleman, whx was a manager, had known him, and he came to see Tom and inade him presents, and bought lots of things at the fair anc: gave them all to the children. Ant Tom had taken a little part and he tole him he had talent and would play ai well as his father one day, and then be said, 'And the young lady, bless me, the young lady. Miss Morton, Miss Morton. I must speak to her. She was wonder? ful! wonderful! wonderful f He said everything over twice, you know, some? times three times. " "Yes." said Franklin, "he must have liked to hear himself talk and hadn't enough ideas tb fill, out with." . ~. "Well, he had one idea, anyhow;" said Doris, pouting. .' i ' g "When Miss Candler,brought him up to me and "sa?c?," *Mis? I&orfcon, Mr. Xxold jnark desires an introduction.' He be? gan right away, 'My dear young lady.'" "Like his impudence! Dear, indeed," jisaid Franklin. " ?. "Why, yon always say my dear Miss So-and-So in a lett&r, don't you?" said Doris. "It was like^hat." Franklin kicked the' smaller-watering pot over and said no more. "He said it. anyhow," pursued Doris. *My dear young lady.'" "Say that ?wice?" asked Franklin. "Yes," said Doris, "he did. 'I never in all my life saw an amateur do $'?? well, never, never, never, fe Wish I had you in -my compi?y; wish liad. With a little training, just a little training, and all that freshness and sweetness you'd make the loveliest ingenue- on the stage.' " "Doris, if I had been there 'I'd have kicked him ont," said. Franklin, sending the other watering pot spinning over the gravel and making a face. "You'll have a hole in that nest," said Doris, "and Fm glad to see you've hurt your toe. What is an ingenue on the sta.-ie?" "I don't know." said Franklin. "Aid did you listen to all that?" "Why, yes," said Doris. "And I asked him if he really meant it; and he said come and see him next season and he'd give me a part. He was just as nice! Oh, he was as old as Uncle Matthias, Frank. And he gave me his card. And, Frank, if you should go away why couldn't I go and act. Jnst while you were gone. I should get paid for it. And I am so tired of housework and my miserable life with Uncle Matthias." "Frank, would it not be better for me to act nice parts in a nice theater while you are away? Unless yon go. of course I'd rather stay here -and get a salary, and"-. Suddenly Frank hurst into a loud laugh, throwing his head back as if the best joke of the season had been whis? pered in Iiis ear. " What an idiot I am!" he cried. " Why, Doris, lie was ouly giving you taffy!" "That is slang of some sort 1 pre? sume." said Dori-; with dignity. "You'll have to interpret it into English, such as I understand." "Well, what I mean, my dear Doris," said Frank, trying to put his arm about her waist, only to have it pushed away with great decision, "what I mean is just this. ? suppose acting is a trade like anything else people earn money by, and it is not likely you could step on the stage at once and play. An experienced person, a manager, would know that. You were a pretty girl who did well enough-ver}' well for an amateur show, gotten up for charity's sake, and he said what would please you. lie would never dream of giving you a part to play when there are hundreds of actresses horn and bred to th?; stage, as one may say. You may have talent, i don't deny that." "Oh, yon don't!"' cried Doris. "1 an) j much obliged to you, Frank, for admit- | ting that I may have talent. Mr. Gold- ! mar!: said J had." "Well, if you had," said Franklin, "you'd have to choose between the stage and me. I don't-want my promise ! wife j tried in the furnace, even if she stands ! the test." "Oli, what do you mean, Frank?" j crieo Doris. "i'm very urlad you don't know, dar- ! ling," said Franklin. i "Of course I should never think of doing what you disapproved of, Frank," the girl sighed; "only I shall be so ?wretched if you f?o away. I thought of it as my only resort, for no one ever taught we to sew7 well. I cannot make dresses or bonnets, except after a fashion for myself." "You will have a husband to take care of you some day," said Frank. "I mean to grow rich for your sake, and ;f I leave you for awhile, it will be only that we may have the right to be al? ways together the sooner." After this Doris permitted Franklin to steal just one kiss, and they finished watering the plants in great haste. As it was, the young man barely jumped the fence that divided the Fairfax from the Morton garden in time to hear the boots of old Matthias creak upon the gravel path, and to hear his habitual cry of: "Do-risl Do-ris! Where is that gal? Always missin when a lxxiy wants her." This time he had brought home some salt pork and potatoes to cook, and aa Doris prepared food so tmtempting to the palate on a warm summer evening, she sighed more than once. She could have lived on crusts with some one she loved who was good to her, but th]3 miserly uncle of hers was only a hard taskmaster. Her thoughts wandered from the fry? ing* pan to Shakespeare, and the fat flew up and bumed her pretty brown fingers and the potatoes were scorched. "ll m A "f'-nc got my appointment." "It is not desirable to prolong thy stay in Matthias 1 orton's premises," the old Quakeress s~id as Franklin entered. "Laudable as it is to desire to help women folk, thee will always remember that he made me endure more mortifica? tion in regar" to the sow and pigs which he confiscated unrighteously than I ever felt in m}T li fa before, save when friends read me out of meeting for marrying thy grandfather, who was one of the world's people, and for that I had much compensation. In this later mat? ter none. I am not angry. I forgive all my enemies freely, brit I should not. wish to renew the old intimacy with the family." "Matthias Morton is aa old brute, bat Doris'is not to blame," said Franklin, as he walked to the mantelpiece and tock up a letter that had been placed there a letter of unusual size, sealed with brown wax. Ile read it through twice. When he had finished, his good old grandmother was . still talking iu her slow, measrred, sing song way. ' _. "I do not deem it desirable that thee should linger in Friend Morton's garden after thee has finished th}* task," she was saying, and he answered.: "I'm not likely to do so, grandmother. I've got my appointment*. I'll be m Jes away before the week is over. I shall not be at home again for three 3*ears." Then silence fell upon the old "keep? ing room" where they sat. The voice of the tall clock in the corner made itself audible-tick-tack-tock, tick-tack-tock. Both listened to it. It seenied to be say? ing something cruel. "Peradventure I may lie beside thy grandfather before thee returns," said the Widow Fairfax. '"I have passed the allotted threescore aud ten." "It is the sort of thing a.civil engineer expects," the young man said. "I am lucky to have so good an appointment so early in life." But the tears were in his eyes. For the first time he realized what exile from home would be to him. How dear this quaint old Quaker grandmoth? er was to his heart! How sweet the stolen meetings with Doris. He had half a mind to decline this position for which he had worked with all his might and ask for the vacant clerkship at the store, and stay at home with these two beloved women. Only it was too absurd, and he would reproach himself all his life for missing that tide in his affairs which might have led on to fortune. "You would not be so lonely, grand? mother," he said, "if you would let Do? ris come to you now and then. She is your nearest neighbor." But the old lady's only answer was: "I do not deem it desirable that there should bo intimacy between Matthias Morton's people and our own. Thee knows that. Franklin." They conversed very little that even? ing. The old clock did most of the talk? ing and said man}* things to both of them, and its mind seemed to be full of Doris, poor Doris, who by the light ut a smoky kerosene lamp was reading aloud the political article in last week's paper whicli old Matthias had appropriated at the store, while the moonlight and the flowers made out of doors sr> pleasant, and only the rail-fence and the fragrant little box hedgerow lay between Frank? lin Fairfax and herself. If Frank got his appointment she must lead this life for three long years. And she made up her mind to it. Who shall say there are no martyrs in this century? Doris did not know of the big letter with tlie waxen seal that evening, but it was no surprise to her. when before breakfast Frank caine to the fence and whistled. "For heaven's sake go into the or? chard," he said. "I will come to you there. The letter came last'.night. I shall have no other time to talk to you." Her heart quailed and her very lips grew pale as sin; heard the news, and how slie sobbed, down' there under the apple trees. Three. ye::rs! Three eternities! "I don't se? how I can live through it," j sh" said. "I have nothing but you." j Ar:d then she felt, perhaps, he too uti' ' derstood how much there is for a mau besides his love, however true. How little for women. ?rling, letters," he said, be together i:i ln-art. ami .r, wo will almost forget ;ver been parted." over! Ah. me!"' was ;i"l And neither of th-;:i "Letters, tl "And we will when ir is oV( that we have : "When ii i: s??e answered ypoke of her little dream of ^oinir on the stage. To Franklin it was too absurd to be regarded .seriously. To Doris, a beauti? ful tiling forbidden, for she was sure that Mr. Goldmark meant every word he uttered. m. Franklin was going to South America with a party who were to survey the route ol a new railroad. The scheme promised finely; the salary was good. There was no attempt at concealing that the task would be arduous, and even dangerous. It was the sort of thing to fire a young man's imagination. It would establish his reputation in his profession. He told her all this. She listened, feel? ing that three years of separation bal? anced it all. Tuen a horrible thought arose-South America was a land of volcanoes and earthquakes, wild beasts and desperadoes. "You may die there!" she gasped. "You may be killed!*' "I may, and a brick may drop on my head from au old chimney, or lightning strike me; or I may bo stricken with typhoid fever bef.;re I go," he said. "Doesn't the minister tell us every Sun? day that in the midst of life we are in death?" He felt it hard that his grandmother and Doris should both insist on being miserable when he needed to be cheered himself, and there was no longer any thought in his mind of declining the ap? pointment and asking the storekeeper to take him ;is clerk. He hated to leave home, but the spirit of adventure which smolders in the heart of every youth who is worth anything had blazed up at last, and he looked forward with de? light. So at last he caught Doris in his arms, kissed her twenty times, said, "Don't forget me, darling," and ran away. And shortly a pale, tearstained little face, so startled even Uncle Matthias, who had a dread of sick women and doc? tor's bills, that he gave Doris a half holi? day. She spent it watching the railway de? pot, her face hidden by a blue veil, and BO saw Franklin's final parting with his grandmother. . "Remember, always put on thy woolen socks if it r.-nns, Franklin," the old lady called shrilly from the platform after the train had stated, "boys are so careless." And the young civil engineer periled his neck to answer, "All right, grand? mother." And nobody laughed but one idiot. Oh, the uneventful, lonely days. Oh, the weary waiting. Old Mrs. Fairfax had her servant, a girl from the Orphans' home, and some? times invited tea company, but old Mat? thias had driven everybody from his house by his queer ways, and it was only now and then that JQpris managed to see Miss Chandler, and w"hen at last a cer? tain erudite professor, who had been paying cautious "attentions" for five years, really off ered himself and led that amiable lady to the matrimonial altar and afterward- to New York, Doris had nobody whatever. Oh, if the stately old Quakeress on the other side of the fence would have but nodded and smiled as she went by, would now and then have talked to her. But the cameolike profile in the border? less cap was always presented to her, and no consciousness of the presence of "Matthias Morton's folks" was visib'? in the blue eye that so resembled Frank? lin's. The old lady had a comfortable in? come, the interest of moue}' in the bank, and her house. She had been very liberal to Franklin, and had spent a good deal on him while be Wits at school and col? lege. He had left her very well off for a lone woman. But it is that which we least expect that oftenest happens. The Courtland bank was snpposed to be as substantial as the Pyramids until the day it closed its doors. Then the people found that it had been as hollow as a last year's chestnut for a long while. Among tho depositors was Grandma Fail-fax. She had lost eventhing. Matthias Morton chuckled over his su? perior wisdom in having nothing in the bank to lose. "Widder Fairfax thinks she knows all creation," he said. "1 could have told her a thing or two." "Then you should, uncle," Doris said. "Mebbe I might ef she'd done the cor? rect thing about them pigs," Matthias said. As for the Quakeress, her placid face showed no disturbance. "/ will not cat thc ?tread of Oe j tc tu lc ncc.'" She sold her hind, retaining the house and front garden, and put the three ? thousand dollars she thus gained into i the closet with her silver. "I do not deem it advisable to trust j banks," she said. "The cash in hand I will last me until thc return of my grandson." Then the village prophets prophesied evil, sitting on the barrels of the village store; and Matthias Morton spoke of Mrs. Fairfax as a willful woman who j would live to repent her folly. And one j morning, behold it was all proven true! i Mrs. Fairfax was found bound to her i old fashioned, high post bedstead, the ! orphan locked into her garrot with a I pillow case over her head and her hands j tied behind her: money and silver and j all the small valuables in the house gone. I "It was the tramp to whom I gave supper yesterday.** s;.id Mrs. Fairfax, ; when they released Ix r. "It did not seem right that an unfortunate fellow creature should need food while I had plenty. I told him to sit at th?; kitchen table and eat decently. He must have gone up the back stairs and hidden in the garret until nightfall." The men of the neighborhood scoured the country for the tramp, but he had escaped and was never found. Misfortune followed misfortune. A week later the young servant in lighting a fire hastened irby applying the spout ol a kerosene can. Sile escaued with few barns, but (ira-ftdraa Fairfax sa upon a log on the farther side of th road and watched the home to which eh had been brought a bride burn to ashes Ever}' now and then she breathed ; quiet sigh. She had caught from th wall of her bedroom a black silhouette o her late husband, which she folded ii her handkerchief and held tightly Every one was beseeching her to com to them; invitations were plenty, but sh continually answered: "I am obliged to thee, friend, but i: times when we had overmuch company Thomas and I have taken a hammock i; the bani and 1 shall try it once more. ?hall no doubt be comfortable there unti my grandson Franklin returns." And so the few odd things that wer saved-a chair or two, a table, a H ttl charcoal stove-were arranged in th barn, an excellent one, it is true, an? people at last ceased to come and beg th old lady to go home with them. Th warmest neighbors must chill at last be fore such cold decision, and people hav the right to h ve in their own barn if the; prefer that place of residence. Doris, however, was nearly beside her self with grief over the matter. Sb braved the lioness in her den with ; bowl of soup in her hand, and begged t< be allowed to be of use. But the classi profile only was presented to her, th* bowl of soup was declined. The oh lady looked at the rafters instead of int< the great, brown, velvet eyes of Doris and replied to everything, "Thank thee I have no occasion." Doris used to sit at the window nearh all night watching the barn. She di< not know where to address Franklin, fo but one letter had yet come from him and that bade her wait until she hean next. Another came which said th. same thing, then silence, strange, tear breeding silence. At last news! News came too terribli to believe! Franklin Fairfax had disap peared! They were approaching a certain plao in South America at which letters couK be posted, and in his impatience th young man had Idi the larger party au< riddeu on before them. When the} reached the town he was not there They had not seen him since. But hi hat had been found, also the packet o letters he intended to mail. All his in terests were bound up in rejoining hi: party. That he did not do so or sen< some message proved they thought tba he was dead. They waited hard by foi many days, scouring the country. Ther< were precipices over which the hors? might have fallen. Ravines, impetuous waters that could have swept botl horse and rider away. There wer* I people who would murder for a handfu of coin to be met on every road. The? had given up all hope of finding evei his dead body at last. When this news came, Doris, sicl with anguish as she .was, found her waj to the barn. "Oh, let mc come to you now," sh< pleaded. "Now you must need som? one?" But a white hand was lifted tc i ward her away. "The Lord hath afflicted me," sai-: Hannah Fairfax. "He will console, have no occasion for the company ci friends." Doris went home and flung herse?i upon the floor of her room. When Uncle Matthias came to her, in quiring as to dinner, she lifted piteous eyes to him and moaned: "1 cannot think, cannot do anything. I hope I am dying." "What is it? Chills?" the cid mux, asked. After awhile, finding that his niece lay still and would not answer him, he sent for the doctor. One day, some weeks after, Doris was able to sit up, to put on a dress and hei slippers and creep to the window. Peep? ing through the panes she saw that snow was on the ground, and rhrongh the bare branches espied a crowd gath? ered about the barn where the Widow Fairfax had taken lier abode when lier house was burned down. " What is the matter, Uncle Matthias?" she asked. "Ohl Mrs. Fairfax seems to be starvin herself to death," he said; "and they've been try in to take her to the poorhouse for three days. She's resistin the authori? ties persistent. Folks is kinder worked up." "Doris, what are you doini You'll ketch your death." For Doris, throwing over her head a shawl that lay near her, had opened the door and walked ont into the snow. Ex? citement lent her strength. She was at the door of the bani in a few moments. The old woman stood at the door, erect as a soldier on duty. "Friends, I re? quest thy departure," she was saying. "Tlie place is mine; I prefer it to any other habitation." "You are starving to death in there." said one of the men. "You won't accept invitations made in kindness. You've got nobody to cars for you. It would be criminal of us to see this go on." "I wiil not eat the bread of depend? ence, nor will I become a pauper," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Thee will please leave my premises." Suddenly Doris stood beside her. her dark eyes flashing. She spoke, and all listened to her clear, low voice. "I was the t>errothed wife of Franklin Fairfax." she said. "I will care for his grandmother. It is my right and my duty. I am young. I can work. She is not an object of charity. She cannot be while I live." And *then she drew the old woman into the barn and shut the door ia the faces of the others, and knelt down at her feet. "Let me stay," she said, "we loved him. I would have been his wife. See. I wear his mother's wedding ring. You might have been angry once, you will not be now: his memory will hind us together. Let me stay here for Frank's sake." A moment more and the two women were sobbing in each other's anns. A little later there was .an interview with Uncle Matthias. "I ain't a-goru io keep her. Doris," he said. "She would not- let you keep her," tkj girl replied. "Ef you stay out of my house ons night* you never need come in no more," Uncle Matthias declared. "1 kin hire Black Jim to ?lo the chores, what I can't take ami do myself, for next to nothin. A mean sly critter you've been anyway, to be engaged to Franklin Fairfax with? out teilin me. I dunno as I want such a female round. You kiu have your trun ':, that is .-ill yon kin have." "I'll pack it now." Doris said. "AT. I Jim can bring it over." And tins wa3 done. Doris had a few dollars in her trunk. Slie had once won a prize for the hues: artemesias at. the state fail, and the priz'3 was pai<? in hat.] cash. She had kept it for her \ve<Idirig outfit. But now tic-re would be no wedding, rind it kept the wolf from tiie barn door while she wai getting her srrem,rrh. What she wr.s to do afterward? che tried to think. At the worst she could i go out by the day to wash or house- j clean, she supposed. Meanwhile there was no squalor in the barn. It was an odd place to live in, but very neat. IV. i One day Doris walked down into the village to buy some little household | necessity, and passing the orphanage | Kaw ?c portly gentleman emerge from the ? gat.*, whom she recognized at once. It | was Mr. Goldmark. I "Ah!" he cried, waving his hat and ! cane in salutation. "Ah! My charming ? genius again-bless me! my charming ! genius. Can it be possible! And never came to me or a part-never!*' "Did you really mean it, Mr. Gold- ! mark?" cried Doris. . "You were not ' laughing at me?" '.Certainly not-certainly not,*1 sail Mr. Goldmark. "1 claim to know gen? ius when I see it-when I see it.** "Then give me a part now," said Do? ris. "I need it. I must earn my bread, and bread for another as well." Mr. Goldmark was startled. "* ? had not expected this sort of thin*,. His manner had altered when he spoke again. "I am forming a company,'' he said, "and there is a little part you could have if you can manage it. With rehearsal I think you can. In the first scene you have four words. In the last. ten. Wait a bit-you scream in the second act and seem about to faint." Ile gave hera card. "Run down to New York tomor? row and be lhere at eleven-or before and we'll see. if you weren't such a very pretty girl I could think of it; but that makes all the difference on the stage-all the difference." As Dorl* ceased sh)(/ing. A month from that day. Doris bad been saying lier four words in the first scene and her ten in the last, and screaming and appearing about to faint in the third, for more than two weeks. And she said them so well that more words were to bc added, and as she natl a good ear and a pretty little voice, they had trained her in a pretty little song which she was to sing-a song about a sailor, every verse of which ended: For my love is Lome awaiti, My love is home again; After all tho weary waiting My love is home again. And it was a decided hit. Every Saturday night she went home to the barn and slept in that quaint little shelter. There was a good stove there now and the table was amply supplied, and tho old lady's caps and kerchiefs were as tidy as ever. They were very sad" it is true, but very fond of each other, and Doris felt glad of the duty that had fallen to her share; it was something to live for. And she did like acting, too, and the applause that followed her little song pleased her. And she hoped to go on and make moro money, perhaps a little fattie in a better ' part, and always care for ' -auk's grand? mother-her grandmoth .low. And with such inuocent hopes as these, she played her innocent little! part, until one night as she came out to sing her song, she was aware of a mau who sat in the front row, whose eyes were fixed upon her face, whose owu face was stern and angry. Her heart stood still, or seemed to do so. Then it beat furiously. The audience had begun to applaud, giving her what is called a '"reception" on her entrance. Eut she knew nothing for the moment but that the man sitting there before her was her bcthrothed husband, whom she had believed dead was Franklin Fairfax in the flesh re? turned to her. Her joy was so great that she nearly died of it, but even her brief experience on the stage had taught her that at that moment she belonged to the public, not to herself. She made one mighty effort and burst into the song: My love is home .'gain. My love is home again; Af tor all thc wear}- waiting My love is homo again. All that she felt in meeting Frank, she put into that song. Her voice, her face, were full of feeling. She held out hf? arms to him involuntarily; The listeners thought it the art of the actress and the thea ter rang with their applause. Only Frank sat stern and immovable, and as Doris ceased singing, arose, cold? ly turning his back to her, and walked down the aisle and out of the door. it was only that 'te feared to make a scene before btra:igers, Doris thought. "Surely he will come behind the scenes to speak to me." She answered her en? core, thinking that snre'y she should find him waiting for her when she came back, but inst ad there was a note. Sh? went away by herself t.> read it, trem? bling now in every limb, and this is what she found written in pencil on a sheet of paper: Dows -After experiences which probably won Ul IH>( interest voa 1 return homo impa? tient to meet voa, believing y<>u would rejoice to see mo. I' ring you had had news that might alarm yon, and finding thal I could not reach home tonight.] camelo this place to pasa away aa hour. Fancy my emotioss when I find that yos have tak< a advantage of my absence to break your promise to ?ac. Fancy*"what 1 felt when I saw you ?:: the stage, singing in that wiltl arni frenzied ;'a>hio >.. painted, bedizened, all that I most detest. Von., my pure little daisy! My pearl, my snowdrop, :is I u o.l to call you. Well, it ?SM!! over. Goodby, Doris. I shall po to s<>e grandmother and bc off again. I think there can IK* no sorrow greater than that I feel at i hi* moment. FKANKUN MOUTON. Again and again Doris burst into tears in the cruel silence of the night in her lonely city boarding house. Could s!u- have dreamed that anything but joy could have come to her with tho Knowledge that Frank still lived. And now, a ?as! he seemed far: lier from her than when she thought bim dead. Even the love of the old grandmother would be lost, for she had never told her.-that she acted on the stage, but had led the old lady to believe that she taught at a vc bool. What wits disgraceful in Frank's eyes would be ten tintes more so in hers. How could she go home on Sunday? in? deed, she was not ueeded. Frank would care- for his g- 'ldiBotber, and slie shoul-i never even know wliat had happened when Frank was missing. She h;ul loved him so well. She worrie* only have done wbatshehad, knowingthat hesoserious ly disapproval of it, for the sake of the dear old lady. And now while they, were happy together she was th; t ont into the outer darkness as a wie' <1 thing, unworthy of tlteir remembrance. Poor Little Doris. How long was tV night m coming'. How sadly she at i ired herself and went upon the stage when her eaJ? came. Her first lines were Tittered. "Bless me, nobody here,** with very little spirit;. When a voice from the audience fell clearly npon her. "Yes, daughter, thee j did not look in the right direction. lara here, and Fran ?clin also/* And there in an orchestra chair sat Mrs. Fairfax in her Quaker bonnet and drab shawl, anil Inside her Franklin, with a very differ? ent look upon his face than that it ha?! worn the night before. And the aston? ished audience, all repressing smiles, af? fected neither of them in the least de? gree. Ah! how all things changed at once! Doris saw everything through golden glass, and when she sang her little son./ she made of it so sweet a thing that some among the audience wept. Han? nah Fairfax was one. All Frank said when he came for her after the play was over was: "Om you forgive me, darling? I never can forgive myself.** And Doris was too happy lo be cruel. But Mrs. Fairfax was more voluble than her grandson. '.Franklin is to blame, Doris.** she said. "It is the way of the world's peo? ple to speak hastily and without con? sideration, but iie is much concerned in consequence now that he knows the facts of the case, which are so creditable to thee. Ant1 that meeting which I at? tended seemM to rae agreeable, and the Friends who ..ad a call to speak uttered excellent sentiments, and the music was melodious. I can see no harm in it." So they went horne together and Doris heard the story Frank had to tell. Of how, attacked by desperadoes who stole his horse and his money and left him for dead, he was succored hy natives, who carried him with them in thc? opposite direction from that in which his party was going. How, penniless as he was, he could not rejoin them for a lour? while, and how. when at last he found them, everything had gone wrong. Dif? ficulties undreamed of had arisen and the whole party had returned. "But still he has excellent prospects,'* Grandmother Fairfax remarked. "An I I deem it advisable that thou shouldst marry him. Marriage is a holy stat?, and it is excellent to have a congenial life partner."* And so it came to pass that no public audience ever heard Doris sing her little song again, though she sings it often to her babies: My love is homo a;ra!n. My luve is home a<caiu; After all the weary waiting, My love is borne again. THE END. Sanitary Value of Potash. "I consider potash a sanitary meansof grace,'" remarked a good housekeeper, as she emptied the remains of a can of potash into the garden sprinkler and filled it up with water, preparatory to sprinkling the back door step and paths. "I can kill more disease germs with ono can of this stuff than, with almost any? thing I know of," she continued. "In- ' deed, between potash and sulphur, I managed to keep my family in pretty comfortable health. At all events, wc* have very few complaints that are tracea? ble to ordinary bacteria and microbes. If the kitchen sink gets musty and stuffy smelling it gets a dose of potash applied the last thing at night. 1 take about ono tablespoonful cf the clear potash to two quarts of war m water. After the potas?t is dissolved I pour ii into the pipes and nia kc a stopper of a large potato cut in I half and placed over the drainage holes. In the morning a pailful of hot water will clear the pipes perfectly and remove all disagreeable odors. "My bathroom and closets are treated in a similar fashion, except that great care is necessary in keeping the potaba from contact with tin or zinc All very greasy dishes are put into a kettle wita water, in which are dissolved a few grains of potash, and the grease is al? most immediately removed. "Soiled bense cloths and brushes aro i rinsed in water of this sort and grease i spots on the floor are scrubbed with it.* j -New York Ledger. VT.nucii Their Own Enemies. It is very grievous to notice how great and valions are the difficulties in the way of making new employments for women successful. The first and really important difficulty, of men objecting to admit women to new spheres of work, is almost entirely overcome, but there is more fear of women injuring their cause hy their own p^tty hecklings and wran? gling* than there ever was from the op? position of men. Here, for instance, are the la<ly market gardeners. A mon; excellent scheme than that which Miss Grace Harriman started u little more t". an a year ago was never devised for driving gentlewomen who had not the abilities or the chance of making a living by what is called brain work a chance of congenial work and fair re? muneration. But no sooner had the practical work begun than the lady gardeners became a house divided against itself. Some of the novices had to be dismissed because they would not help to sell tirings when they were ready for the market; there were faultfindings and backbitings concerning minor matters, and the result of it all was not only much annoyance t<? all concerned, but also in? evitable pecuniary losses. When will women learn thar it is absolutely no good to enter upon any serious work so long as they cannot be conten teil to sink their fads, fancies and prejudices, and look ?t their work from a broader point of view? -Pall Mall Gazette. Tlie thinnest tissue paper measnres 1-1200 of an i.ieh in thickness. Iron h?s been rolled so thin as to measure only 1-1S0:) of an inch in thickness. Backten*? Arnica Salve. Tho Brat Salve in the world for Cut?, BrntV* Sore?. Ulcer?, Salt Rheum. Fever Sore*. Tette--, Chapped Hands Chilblains, Corns and a.I Skin Kruptions. and positively core* Piles, -f no pay required It is Kuarar.teel to give pei? feet satisfactinn, or money refunded. Pri e 25eents per box. For sale by J. F. W. De Lorine o - - ~ The First Step? PIM h ip* y??u are run down, can't ear. rat? t slerp, can't iliink. can't 'i<> atiy*hir?g to ymir satisfaction, jun! y?u wonder wh.if ail* you. You sholl <\ heed the warning, YOU are taking the ST nt stop ii? o XiTV'-ti* Pr-'.-'raf ion. Y rt ni-, i :i Nerve T?: iv and in Klectric Hitter* you will find th* exa?t reaiedy for n st?.ring ymir nervitus ?v*tem io ir.? normal healthy condl* .i o Sur?ui-i?i?? resu?is f"l'ow thc u~?* of thia pr?-:i? NVrv? Tiinii' and Alrerarive Y?-nr np ; i-M <- reuirn*. c d digestion is re>t?ri*d ?tn 1 tUc Live and K n?*vs? rvn i rt 1M?*I?KT actio ? Tr a .hw i lo. \*t- ?t*c. at J F. W. I'eLonii .'*} i . . iViC ?