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I I FRAN John Lr*CKENJUt>GE IHustrstkma by O. Irwin Myers (v>p. CHAPTER XIV. Fighting for Her Lifo. The next day found Fran the blueit of the blue. No laughing now, aa she eat alone, half-way up the ladder lead? ing to Gregory'! barn-loft. She meant to be Juat at miserable at the pleated, tlnee there wat no obeenrer to be de? ceived by towing cheat-teed of merri? ment. "The battle's on now, to a finish," muttered Fran detpondently, "yet here I alt, and here I tcrooch." Fran's thoughta were at the abysmal stage of discouragement For a time, there ?earned in her heart not the Ualest taper alight, and in this blachuess, both hope and failure were alike Indis? tinguishable. ' But well see," the cried, at last coming down the lsdder, "we'll tee!" end the clenched her flstt, flung open the barn door and marched upon the house with battle in her eyes. Gird? ing up hsr loins?that It, smoothing her hstr?and tharpenlng her weap? ons for instant use, the opened the library door. She knew Grace Noir had gone to the city with Robert Clinton, and yet her feeling on teeing Hamilton 1 Gregory alone, was akin to surprise. How qoeerly lonesome he looked, with? out his secretary! She found the phil? anthropist Immersed In day dreams The thought of the gool hit money and influence were accomplishing thrilled his soul, while through the re **l Want to Be Your Secretary." fined ether of this pious joy appeared the loveliness of Grace Noir, lending something like spiritual santuoutness to bin vision of duty. He did sot want the applause of the general public any more than he wanted bis past unearthed. It waa enough If his philanthropy was known to God and Grace Noir. She ttood. to hit mind, as a symbol of religion? there'can be no barm In reverencing symbols. Fran's eyes drew blm abruptly from hie reverie. "Fran." be said, at If the had ap? peared In answer to a tummont, "1 unhappy sbout you. Your deter mlnatlon to have nothing to do with the church not only distresses but em barrasset me. You have Intltted on oomlng Into my life. Then why do you dlsgrsce It? You pretend that you *aai to be liked by ut, yet you play cardt with ttrsngers st night?it's out rsgeout. You even threw a card in mr ysrd where a card ?vae never seen before." "Do you think cards are so very wicked" stked Fran, looking at him curiously. ' You know what I think. I look on gambling at Immoral. But it ought to be enough for me limply to forbid It." She closed the door, and placed hsr back sgainst It. She looked him la the eyes, snd tsld abruptly? "I want to be your aecretary." Hamilton gripped his cbslr. "I have a secretsry.'' be retorted. looking st her resentfully. He checked words he would have liked to utter, on reflecting that his secret was in Fran's keeping. How Grace would shrink from him, if the knew the truth?bow that mag nlflcent flrur.? would turn Its back upon him?and those scornful, Imperi? ous, ner^r .'altering eyea. . . . Fran drew nearer Hhe seated her? self upon ths srm of a chair, one foot on the floor, snd spoke with restrained 1nteu.Mty "I'm w.?il enough educated. I can take dictation aud mako good copy ' He allowed his tone to sound defi? ance? 1 already have a secretary." Fran continued with an effort, ' Motfur didn't like ttr'dying. very well, but she vat determined to get me out of the condition I was born In, she taught get all the knew. Wasn't the ipw?n i!.r Ho patient-" Fran fanned at.d star ad s'rnlgh' bifOfl her, straight |B|g list gftsasjaffl <?f bof mother's tyee Gregory reS* ted?"M this child h id not co r. -. Bad ii ?t Intruded herself aeon ray Hfe1 Haven't 1 su?eied enoufh Tor gjj tot line?" ? V\h?-u tootbsi dud." rtjtyms^ "she thought maybe Uncle Ephraim had mellowed, so 1 went to him, be? cause I thought I couldn't get alorg without love." She shook her head, with a pathetic little smile. "But I could! Uncle Ephraim didn't mellow, j he dried up. He blamed me for being j born?I think, myself, it was a mis? take. He turned me out, but I was so tough I just couldn't be winter? killed. After that I went back to tbe show and stocked up In experience I mention It to point out that a mild job like being your private secretary wouldn't strain a muscle." | Gregory's voice cut across hers. "My secretary must be in sympathy with my work. To exercise such talents as I have, Is my religion, and I need a helper whose eyes are fixed upon the higher life. This is final, and the sub? ject must never be reopened. I find it very painful." I Fran's discovery that he had not heard her plea, crimsoned her face. She jumped from the arm-chair, breathing rapidly. "Then," she cried, "If you won't have me, get another. The one you have must go." "She shall do nothing of the sort," he coldly responded. "Yes," Fran retorted violently, "I tell you she must go!" He struck the table with his palm. "Never!" "Shall I use my last resource?" Fran's eyes gleamed ominously. The hand upon the table became a flat That was his only reply. "I would entreat you," said Fran, faltering, "and with tears?but what good would It do? None. There's no use for one woman to weep if another woman is smiling. Dismiss your sec? retary." He leaned toward her from over the table, and spoke in a low, level tone: "I am going to appeal to your better nature. Think of the girls of the street who need rescue, and the wom? en of the cities who are dying from neglect and vice. If you hinder my work, let the souls of these outcasts be upon your soul! You can ruin me, but not without ruining my good works. I don't ask you to keep silent on my account?what am 1 but an in? strument in the hands of Providence? ?but for the sake of the homeless thousands. I have atoned for my past, but the world, always ready to crucify the divine, would rejoice to rolrt the Anger of acorn at me, as if I >ro still the fool of twenty years ago." "but your secretary?" "She <s a vital factor in my work. It would bft impossible to replace her." Fran mad?i a step toward him?"My mother was replaced." He started up. "You shall not speak of that. She lived hor life, and 1 demand the right to live mine. I tell you, the past is ended." "But I am here," returned Fran. "1 have not ended. Can't you look into my face and see my mother liv? ing? She paid for her secret mar* riage, wandering over the face of the earth with her baby, trying to find you. I don't deny that you've paid for all?y?s, even for your desertion and your living a hidden life In this town. Maybe you've suffered enough. But that isn't the question. Look at me. 1 am here. 1 have come as truly out of your past as out of the past of my darling, uncomplaining?what did you call her??'friend.' And being here i ask. 'What will you do with me?' All I want is?just a little love." The long loneliness of her life found expression In the eager voice, in the yearning eyes, as he atarod at her, half-stupefied, he Imagined she was holding out her arms to him in plead? ing Fran thought his covered face a to? ken of weakening. "You must have loved my mother once. Is it all bo ; dead and forgotten that there is none left for your child?" But she was seeking to play upon strings that had long since ceased to vibrate. He could not bring back, nven la retrospect, the emotions in? spired by Josephine Derry. Those Mf Am Going to Appesl to Your Better Nature." strings had been tnned to Other love harmonies. To remember Fran's moth er was to bring back not the rapture of a first passion but the, garish days of disillusionment. He could not tell Fran that he had never loved hnr mother. The dead must not. be re? proached; the living could net be de niei- so he was silent. His silence Inspired Fran with hope. "! am so lonely, so lonely!" she mur? mured plaintively, "so very lonely! There seems a reation for everybody but me-~I can't be explained 'I bat's why I am disliked. If there could he one heart for me In claim?whose heart should It he? Does no sort of feeling; tell you whose heart It should be 1 ' Of course you are lonely, child, but tjksj Is >ouj iuuU. -uu in -j iu Iki* house on a rooting or equality, and all seem to like you, except Miss Grace? and I must say, her disapproval dis? turbs you very little. But you won't adopt our ways. You make everybody talk by your indiscreet behavior?then wonder that the town shuns your so? ciety, and complain because you feel lonesome!" Fran's eyes filled with tears. "If you ' believe in me?if you try to like me? that's all I ask. The whole town can talk, if I have you. I don't care for the world and its street corners?there , are no street corners in my world." "But, child?" "You never call me Fran if you can help it," she interposed passionately. "Even the dogs have names. Call me by mine; it's Fran. Say it, say it Call me?oh, father, father. I want your love." "Hush!" he gasped, ashen pale. "You will be overheard." She extended her arms wildly: "What do you know about God, except that He's Father. That's all?Father ?and you worship Him as His son. Yet you want me to care for your re? ligion. Then why don't you show me the way to God? Can you love Him ( and deny your own child? Am I to pray to him as my Father in Heaven, but not dare acknowledge my father on earth? No! I don't know how oth? ers feel, but I'll have to reach heav? enly things through human things. And I tell you that you are standing between me and God." "Hush, hush!" cried Gregory. "Child! this la sacrilege!" "No, it is not I tell yon, I can't see God, because you're In the way. You pray 'Our Father who art in Heaven . . . give us thin day oar daily bread.' And I pray to you, and I say. My father here on earth, give give me?your love. That'll what I want?nothing else?I want It so bad. . . . I'm dying for it, fattier, can't you understand? Look?I'm praying! for it?" She threw herself wildly at his feet. Deeply moved, he tried to lift her from the ground. I "No," cried Fran, scarcely knowing what she said, "I will not gst up till you grant my prayer. I'm not asking for the full, rich love a child has the right to expect?but give m? a crust, i to keep me alive?father, give me my daily bread. You needn't think God in going to answer your prayers, if you refuse mine." Hamilton Gregory took her In his armr and held her to hiti breast "Fran," he said brokenly, "my unfor? tunate child . . . my daugiter?oh, why were you born?" "Yes," aobbed Fran, resting her head upon his bosom, "yes, why was I born r "You break my heart," he sobbed with bcr. "Fran, say the word, and I will tell everything; I will acknowl? edge you as my daughter, and if my wife?" ? Fran shook her head. "You owe no more to my mother than to her," she | said, catching her breath. ' No, the secret must be kept?always. Father ; ?I must never call you that, e'xcept I when we are alone?I must always whisper It, like a prayer?father, let me be your secretary." It was strenge that this request should surround Fran with the chill atmosphere of a tomb. Hia embrace relaxed insensibly. He looked at hla daughter in frightened bewilderment, as if afraid she had drawn bim too far fron hia security for further hid- i lng. During the silence, Ehe iwaited hla decision. It wae because of her tumultuous emotions that she failed to hear ad- 1 vanclng footsteps. i "Some one 1b coming," he f.Tclalmed, with ill-concealed relief. "We mustn't be aeen thus?we would oe misunder? stood." He strode to the window, and pretended to look out His faco cleared momentarily. The door opened, and Grace Nolr started in, then paused significantly. "Am I interrupting?" Bho asked, In quiescent accent. "Certainly not," Gregory breathed freedom. His surprise was so joyfui that he was carried beyond himself. "Grace! It's Grace! Then you didn't I go to the city with Bob. There wasn't i any train?" "I am here?-" began Grace easily? "Yes, of con ran, that's the main thing," his delight could not be held in check. "You are here, indeed! And you are looking?I mean you look well?I mean you are not 111?your re? turn is bo unexpected." "I am here," she steadily persisted, "becauBa I learned something that affects my Interests. I went part of the way with Mr. Clinton, but after thinking over what had been told me, I decided to leave the train at the next station. I have been driven back in a carriage. I may as well tell you, Mr. Gregory, that I am urged to accf pt a responsible position in Chicago." He understood that she referred to marriage with Robert Clinton. "But?" ho began, very pale. She repeated, "A responsible posi? tion in Chicago. And I was told, this morning, that while I wa?. away. Fran meant to apply for the secretaryship, thus taking advantage of my absence." Fran's face looked oddly white and old, in its oval of black hair. "Who told you thin truth?" she demanded, with a menacing gleam of teeth. "Who knew of your Intentions?" the other gracefully said. "But this Is no matter. The point is that I have this Chicago opportunity. So If Mr. flreg ory wants to employ you, I must know It at once, to make my arrangements accordingly." "Can you Imagine," Hamilton cried repioachfully, "that without any earn? ing, i would make a change? Certain* ly not I have no intention of employ? ing Krau. The Idea is Impossible. More than that, it is -er it is abso? lute^- pruuvaieiuuM. Would 1 cttluuv tear down what you and I have been building up bo carefully?" "Then you had already refused Fran before I came?" "I bad?hadn't I, Fran?" Fran gave her father a look such as had never before come Into her dark eyes?a look of reproach, a look that said, "I cannot fight back because of the agony in my heart." She went away silent and with downcast head. CHAPTER XV. In Sure-Enough Country. One morning, more than a month after the closing days of school, Ab? bott Ashton chanced to look from his bedroom window as Hamilton Greg? ory's buggy, with Fran in it, passed. Long fishing-poles projected from the back of the buggy. By Fran's side, Abbott discovered a man. True it was "only" Simon Jef? ferson; still, for all his fifty years and his weak heart, it was not as if It were some pleasant, respectable woman?say Simon's mother. How? ever, old ladies do not sit upon creek- i banks. The thought of sitting upon the bank of a stream suggested to Abbott that it would be agreeable to pursue Ills studies in the open air. He snatched up some books and went below. On the green veranda he paused to Inhale the fragrance of the roses. "I'm glad you've left your room," said Miss Sapphira, all innocence, all kindness. "You'll study yourself to death. It won't make any more of life to take it hard?there's just so much for every man." Huge and serious, Miss Sapphira sat In the shadow of the bay-window. \ Against the wall were arranged sturdy round-backed wooden chairs, each of which could have received the landlady's person without a quiver of a spindle. Everything about Abbott seemed too carefully ordered?be pined for the woods?some mossy bank sloping to a purling stream. Suddenly Miss Sapphira grew pon? derously significant. Her massive head trembled from a weight of meaning not to be lifted lightly in mere words, her double chins consolidated, and her mouth Kecame as the granite door of a ** re sealed against the too-curious. .bbott paused uneasily before his meditated flight?"Have you heard any news?" She answered almost tragically, "Board meeting, tonight." Ordinarily, teachers for the next year were selected before the close of the spring term; only those "on the inside" knew that the fateful board meeting had been delayed week after week because of disagreement over the superintendency. There was so much dissatisfaction over Abbott Ash? ton?because of "so much talk"?that even Robert Clinton had thought it best to wait, that the you. g man might virtually be put upon good be? havior. "Ton ght," the young man repeated with a thrill. He realized how impor? tant this meeting would prove in shap? ing his future. "Yes," she said warnlngly. "And Bob is determined to do his duty. He never went very far in his own educa? tion because he didn't expect to be a school-teacher?but ever since he's been chairman of the school-board, he's aimed to have the best teachers, so the children can be taught right; most of 'em are poor and may want to teach, too, when they're grown. I think all the board'U be for you to? night, Abbott, and I've been glad to notice that for the last month, there's been less talk. And by the way," she ' added, "that Fran-girl went by with Simon Jefferson Just now, the two of them In Brother Gregory's buggy. They're going to Blubb's Riffle?he with his weak heart, and her with that sly smile of hers, and it's a full three mile!" Abbott did not volunteer that he had 1 seen them pass, but his face showed the ostensible Integrity of a jam-thlef, j who for once finds himself innocent when missing Jam is mentioned. She was not convinced by his look of gullelessness. "You seem to be carrying away your books." "I want to breathe In this June; morning without taking it strained through window-screens," he ex j plained. I Miss Sapphira gave something like a choked cough, and compressed her Hps. "Abbott," she said, looking at him sidewise, "please step to the tele-1 phone, and call up Bob?he's at the! store. Tell him to leave the clerk in charge and hitch up and take me for a little drive. I want some of this I June morning myself." j Abbott obeyed with alacrity. On his , return, Miss Sapphira said, "Bob's go? ing to fight for you at the board meet? ing, Abbott. We'll do what we can, I and I hope you'll help yourself." As Abbott went down the fragrant street with its cool hose-refreshed pavements, its languorous shadows athwart roae-bush and picket fence, its hopeful weeds already peering through crevices where plank sidewalks main? tained their worm-eaten right of way, he was in no dewy-morning mood. Ho understood what those wise nods had meant, and he was in no frame of mind for such wisdom. He meant to go far, far away from the boarding house, from the environment of schools and school-hoards, from Little burg with its atmosphere cf ridiculous gossip. Of course be could have gone Just as far, if he had not chosen the direc? tion of Blubb's Riffle?but he had to tako some direction He halted before he came In sight of the stream; if Fran had a mind to fish with Simon Jefferson, he would uot spoil her sport. lie found a comfortable log whero he might study under the gracious sky. He did uot learn much?there neeme.? faJHiAJtt tv.nry.i Uns? jm\? When he closed his books, scarcely > knowing why, and decided to ramble, j It was with no intention of seeking Fran. Miss Sapphira might have guessed what would happen, but in perfect innocence, the young man strolled, seeking a grassy by-road, sei dorn used, redolent of brush, tree, vine, dusMaden weed. It was a road where the sun seemed almost a stranger; a road gone to sleep and dreaming of the feet of stealthy Indians, of noisy settlers, and skillful trappers. All such fretful bits of life had the old road drained into oblivion, and now it seemed to call on Abbott to share their fate, the fate of the forgotten. But the road lost its mystic mean? ing when Abbott discovered Fran.! Suddenly it became only a road!?nay, it became nothing. It seemed that the sight of Fran always made wreckage of the world about her. She was sitting in the Gregory bug? gy, but, most surprising of all, there was no horse between the shafts?no horse was to be seen, anywhere. Best of all, no Simon Jefferson was visible. Fran in the buggy?that was all. Slow traveling, indeed, even for this sleepy old road! "Not in a hurry, aro you?" "I've arrived," Fran said, in un? friendly tone. "Are you tired of fishing, Fran?" "Yes, and of being fished." She had closed the door in his face, but he said?as through the keyhole? j "Does that mean for me to &o away?'* "You are a pretty good friend, Mr.1 Ashton," she said with a curl of her Hp, "I mean?when we are alone." "'While we're together, md after we part,'" he quoted. "Fran, surely you don't feel toward me the way you are looking." "Exactl y as I'm looking at you, that's the way I feel. Stand there as long as you pleaae?" "I don't want to stand a moment longer. t want to sit with you in the buggy. Please don't be so?so old!" Fran lav?hed out musically, but im* "My Unfortunate Child?My Daughter ?Oh, Why Were You Born." mediately declared: "I laughed be? cause you are unexpected; It doesnt mean I like you any better. I bate friendship that shows Itself only in private. Mr. Chameleon, I like people to show their true colors." "I am not Mr. Chameleon, and I want to sit in your buggy." "Well, then get in the very farthest corner. Now look me in the eyes." "And, oh, Fran, you have auch eyes! They sre so marvsiously?er?oa friendly." "I'm glad you ended up that way. Now look me in the eyes. Suppose you should see the school-board sail? ing down the road, Miss Sapphira thrown in. What would you do?" "What should I do?" "Hide, I suppose." said Fran, sud? denly rippling. "Then you look me in the eyes aud listen to me." he said Impressively. "Weigh my words?have you scales strong enough?" "Put 'em on slow and careful." "I am nor. Mr. Chameleon for I show my true col Dr. And I am a real friend, no matter what kind of tree I am?" He paused, groping for a word. "Up?" 8h<3 suggested, with a sudden chuckle. "All right?let the school board come. But you don't seem sur? prised to see me here in the buggy without Mr Simon." "When Nr. Simon comes he'll find me right here," Abbott declared. "Fran, pleaiie don't be always showing your worst side to the town; when you laugh it people's standards, they think you queer?and you can't Imag? ine just how much you are to me." "Hull!" Bran sniffed. "I'd hate to be anybody's friend and have my friendship as little use aa yours has been to me." (TO BE CONTINUED.) schedules Southern Hallway?Premier Oarrtee < f The South. N. B.?Schedule figures published as information only and are not guar? anteed. Effective Nov. 2, 1*11. Departure from Humter: (Except Sunday): No. 140?5.20 A. If. for Columbia Charleston and way stations. x?. i42?;:.'.?:, p. m . for Columbia, Charleston a ad way Btatlons. Arrival: (Except Sunday ): No, 141?10.20 A. M. f?om Char? leston, Columbia and way statlona. No. 14:t?I 4T? P. ai. from Charles ton, Columbia and \mi.V stations, w. h. Caffey, d. p. a. Charleston. W. W. McCee, A. m. P. A. Coluiublu, C? Lloyd-George or Wales. Lloyd-George is a Welshman through and through, with all the candor, sympathetic vitality, direct? ness, and tenacity that characterize his people. His father failed as a schoolmaster and died an unsuccess? ful farmer. His mother was left per,^ niless; but an uncle made a legal career possible for little Pavid. At sixteen he was "duly articled to a firm of solicitors." At twenty-one he was admitted to the bar. Before he was twenty-eight he had built up one of the largest practices in Wales. But he loved politics and public debate. He stumped the country on behalf of land reform and temperance, and was elected to the Council of Carriarvon shire. He typified Wales and the Welsh question, advocated Welsh patriotism and the common people of Wales and, in 1890, was elected to the House of Commons. For ten years little was known of him except as an adroit parliamentary strategist and a clever speaker. Ho incurred a good deal of b.tter enmity from many Englishmen because of his opposition to the Boer War, but all the while he was mastering de? tails of administration and embody? ing to the Empire the qualities of his native Wales. Never since the days of Owen Glendower has Wales found a leader more absolutely after her own b?art. "You ought to know Lloyd-George," a British statesman la said to have remarked to the pres? ent King, while he was still Prince of Wales; "if there were such a thing as the presidency of Wales, he would poll more votes than you would." The fighting quality, the brilliant ?'rulent sarcasm, the unsparing rid? icule, and the lack of reverence of tradition that have always marked Lloyd-George's public speeches have i made him many enemies. But no j scandal has touched him. "Polities'* tried to smirch him in the "Marcon ? I?8" affair, yet it left him unscathed. Democracy is the note ot his per? sonality as well as of his career. He la cherry and approachable, hearty genuine, and frank, typical, indeed, of the rather wholesome revolution that is now passing over English life and politics, and opening careers to men who are judged by what they are and by what they do, and not by their rank or wealth. Whatever his faults, it cannot be denied that David Lloyd George has rehabilitated British liber? alism by making a new application of j Liberal principles, and by enlarging the sphere of the state to cove areas and questions heretofore secluded and dominated by the rights of prop ? erty against manhood. Lloyd-George is a boyish, human man of fifty. He is preeminently what is known aa a family man.. He loves to retire for a vacation rest to the Welsh mountains. The Lloyd ! George camp is on the slopes of the i Moel Hebog in the Snowdon range in North Wales. In the neighborhood is the beautiful Lake Cwmatrallyn, fa? mous for its trout fishing. The IJoyd Georges, father, mother, and children, live out of doors for **eks In the beautiful Welsh autumn.?American Review of Reviews. Boys to Pigs. Secretary Houston has inaugurated a new activity of his department in the organizaton of "Boys* Pig Clubs," the purpose, of course, being the in? crease oi rork. Econrmically sound, but hereditar? ily questionable. - "Pigs is Pigs," but so is boys. Ought the government to lend artificial stimulus to a natural perversity of being? It may be argued that the boy, having the viewpoint of the pig, can do more with swine than anyone else. Here we have the saturate solution of the conservation of natural forces. Jut do we not follow the line of least resistance? Do we not "take the easiest way " Whatever his breeding, his antecdents, his hope, the average healthy boy has much in common with the pig. He has his appetite, and his impartiality. He has his greediness, and his laziness. He has his ability to grow and his power to assimilate anything and everything. If it were not for the little girl that, about such ar.d such a time, gives the average boy a case of spiritual IndjL geetion, the difference between beys and pigs would not get very far awky from the fundamental variance be? tween bfpeda and quadrupeds. We admit heartily the necessity of pork culture. We indorse spareriba for breakfast, Dr. Wiley and all his cult to the contrary ntowithstandint;. We realise the importance of the cry of no miscegenation in the sausage. But, look at the matter from the point of view of youth as our most important product, would it not be si>cially better to vary education fron* inclination? Why not form Bovu* Clung in Parma Violet Culture? Or establish prize competitions in enamel? ing bathtubs? Or even associations In that business necessity, the manner of the "approach?" The boy hae so much farther to go than the pig, and he la so easily a pig to start with, tbftt a little poetry in government would pot he nmtsn in endowing his philoso? phy.