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the sunny south.
LOST MAN’S LANE
Second Spisode in the aCife of Jtmelia Lutterworth
BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.
Author of “The Leavenworth Case,” “Behind Closed Doors,” “That Affair
Next Door,” Etc.—Copyrighted 1897 by the Author, and Printed in
“The Sunny South” by Special Arrangement.
Chapter Xi.—Men, Women and
Ghosts.
Mr. Simsbury gave me quite an ami
able bow as I entered the coach. This
made it easy for me to say:
“You are on hand early this morn
ing? Do you sleep in the Knollys’
house?”
The stare ho gave me had tho least
bit of suspicion in it.
“I live over yonder,” he said, point
ing with liis whip across the interven
ing woods to tho main road. “I come
through the marshes to my breakfast;
my old woman says they owes mo three
meals, and three meals I shall have.”
It was tho longest sentenco with
which he had honored me. Finding ho
could talk, I prepared to make myself
agreeable, a proceeding which ho seem
ed to appreciate, for lie began to sniff
and pay great attention to his horse,
which ho was elaborately turning about.
“Why do you go that way?” I cried.
“Isn’t it the longest way to the vil
lage?”
“It’s the way I am most accustomed
to,” said he. “But we can go the other
way if you like. Perhaps wo will get
a glimpse of Deacon Spear. He's a wid
ower, you know.”
The leer with which he said this was
intolerable. I bridled up—but- no, I will
not admit that 1 so much as manifested
by my manner that I understood him. I
merely expressed my wish to go the old
way.
He whipped up the horse at once, al
most laughing outright. I began to
think this man also capable of most any
wicked deed. He was forced, liowe\er,
to pull up suddenly. Directly in our
road was the stooping figure of a wom
en. She did not move as we advanced,
and so we had no alternative but to
stop. Not till tho horse’s head touched
her shoulder did she move. Then she
rose up and looked at us somewhat in
dignantly.
“Didn't you hoar us?” I asked, will- j
ing to open conversation with the old i
crone, whom I hud no difficulty in rccog- !
nizing as Mother Jane.
“She’s deaf—deaf as a post,’’mut
tered Mr. Simsbury. “No use shouting !
at her. ” His tone was brusque, yet I j
noticed he waited with great patience j
,.:,r Vo b-oVL. ’o.tmt of the way'..*
Meanwhile I was - , watching the old j
creature with much interest She had j
not a common face or a common manner, j
She was gray, sho was toothless, she |
was haggard and she was bent, but she
was not ordinary or just one of tho |
crowd of old women to be seen on coun
try doorsteps. There was force in her
aged movements and a strong individu
ality in the glances sho shot at us as sho
backed slowly out of the roadway.
“Do they say sho is imbecile?” I asked.
“She looks far from foolish to me. ”
“Hearken a bit,” said he. “Don’t
you see she is muttering? Sho talks to
herself all the time. ” And in fact her
lijas wore moving.
“I cannot hear her, ” I said. “Make
her come nearer. Somehow the old crea
ture interests me. ”
Ho at once beckoned to the crone, but
he might as well have beckoned to the
tree against which she had pushed her
self. She neither answered him nor gave
any indication that sho understood tho
gesture he had made. Yet her eyes nev
er moved from our faces.
“Well, well,” said I, “sho seems
dull as well as deaf. You had better
drive on.” But before he could give the
necessary jerk to the reins 1 caught
sight of some pennyroyal growing about
the front of tho cottage a few steps be
yond, and pointing to it with some
eagerness I cried: “If there isn’t some
of the very herb I want to take home
with me! Do yon think she would give
me a handful of it if 1 paid her?” .
With an obliging grunt ho again
pulled up. “If you can make her un- j
derstand, ” said he.
I thought it worth the effort. Though i
Mr. Gryce had been at pains to tell mo ;
there was no harm in this woman and !
that I need not even consider her in my
inquiries I remembered that Mr. Gryce
had sometimes made mistakes in just
such matters as these and that Amelia i
Butterworth had felt herself called upon i
to set him right. If that could happen I
once, why not twice? At all events, I j
was not going to lose tho least chance
of making the acquaintance of tho peo
ple living in this lane. Had he not him
self said that only in this way could we ,
hope to come upon tho clew that had
eluded all open efforts to find it?
Knowing that tho sight of money was
the strongest appeal that could bo made j
to one living in such abject poverty as i
this woman, making the blind to see :
and the deaf to hear, I drew out my I
purse and held up before her a piece of j
silver. Rho bounded as if sho had been j
shot, and when 1 held it toward her j
she came greedily forward and stood j
close beside the wheels looking up.
“For you,” I indicated, after making j
a motion toward the plant which had
attracted my attention.
She looked from me to the herb and
nodded with quick appreciation. As in
a flash she seemed to take in tho fact
that I was a stranger, a city lady with
memories of the country and this hum
ble. plant, and going to it with the same
swiftness she had displayed in advanc
ing to the carriage, she tore off several
of the sprays and brought them back to
me, holding out her hand for the money.
1 had never seen greater eagerness
and I think even Mr. Simsbury was as
tonished at this proof of her poverty or
her greed. I was inclined to think it
the latter, for her portly figure was far
from looking either ill fed or poorly
cared for. Her dress was a decent calico
and her pipe had evidently been lately
tilled, for I could smell the odor of to
bacco about her. Indeed, as I afterward
heard, the good people of X. had never
allowed her to suffer. Yet her fingers
closed upon that coin as if in it she
grasped tho salvation of her life and in
to her eyes leaped a light that made her
look almost young, though sho must
have been fully 80, if not more.
“What do you suppose she will do
with that?” I asked Mr. Simsbury, as
she turned away in an evident fear I
might repent me of my bargain.
“Hark!” was his brief response.
“Sho is talking now.”
I did hark and heard these words fall
from her quickly moving lips:
“Seventy; 38, and now, 3 or 10,
which shall it be?”
Jargon; for 1 had given her 25 cents,
an amount quite different from any sho
had mentioned.
“Seventy!” Sho was repeating the
figures again, this time in a tone of al
most frenzied elation. “Seventy! Thirty-
eight, and now 3 or 10! Won’t Lizzio
be surprised! Seventyl Thirty”— 1
heard no more—she had bounded into
her cottage and shut tho door.
“Waal, what do you think of her
now?” chuckled Mr. Simsbury, touching
up his horse. “She’s always like that,
saying over numbers and muttering
about Lizzie. Lizzie was her daughter.
Forty years ago she ran off with a man
from Boston, and for 38 years she’s been
lying in a Massachusetts grave. But her
mother still thinks she is alive and is
coming back. Nothing will ever make
her think different. But she’s harmless,
perfectly harmless. You needn’t be
afeard of her. ”
This because I cast a look behind me
of more than ordinary curiosity, I sup
pose. Why were they all so sure she was
harmless? I had thought her expression
a- little alarming at times, especially
\» hen she took the money from my
band. If I had refused it or even held
it back a little, I think she would have
fallen uiv n me tooth apd'&ML J w ;, sh-':
ed I could have had a peep into her cot
tage. Mr. Gryce had described it as four
walls and nothing more, and indeed it
was not only of tho humblest propor
tions, but had the look of being a mere
Bhanty raised to protect her from the
weather. There was even no yard at
tached to it. onlj* a little open place in
front in which a few of the commonest
vegetables grew, such as turnips, car
rots and onions. Elsewhere grew the
forest—tho great pine forest through
which this portion of the road ran.
Mr. Simsbury had been so talkative tip
to now that I was in hope ho would en
ter into some details about the persons
and things we encountered which might
assist me in the acquaintanceship I was
anxious to make. But his loquacious
ness ended with this small adventure I
have just described. Not till we were
well quit of the pines and had entered
into the main thoroughfare did he deign
to respond to any of my suggestions,
and then it was in a manner totally un
satisfactory and quite noncommunica-
tive. The only thing he deigned to offer
a remark upon was the little crippled
child we saw looking from its window
as wo emerged from the forest.
“Why, how’s this?” said he. “That’s
Suo you see there, and her time isn’t
till arter noon. Bob allers sits there of
a mornin. I wonder if the lit-tlo chap’s
sick. S’pose I ask. ”
As this was just what I would have
suggested if he had given me time, I
nodded complacently, and we drove up
and stopped.
Tho piping voice of the child at once
spoke up:
“How d’ye do, Mr. Simsbury? Ala’s
iu the kitchen. Bob isn’t feelin good to
day. ”
I thought her tone had a touch of
mysteriousness in it. I greeted the pale
little thing and asked if Bob was often
6ick.
“Never,” she answered, “except, like
me, ho cannot walk. But I’m not to
talk about it, masavs. I’d like to, but”—
Ma’s face appearing at this moment
over her shoulder put an end to this in
nocent garrulity.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Simsbury?” came
a second time from the window, but
this time in very different tones.
“What’s the child been saying? She’s
so sot up at being allowed to rake her
brother's place in the winder that sho
don’t know .how to keep her tongue
still. Bob’s a little languid, that’s all.
You’ll 6ce him iu his old place tomor
row. ” And she drew hack as if in polite
intimation that we might drive on.
Mr. Simsbury responded to the sug
gestion, and in another moment wo were
trotting down the road. Had we staid a
minute longer, I think tho child would
have said something more or less inter
esting to hear. She looked bursting with
a desire for gossip, but then, goodness
me, who wouldn’t if obliged, like her,
to sit in one window the half of the life
yon did not spend in a little dark bed
room under the eaves of a cottage whose
whole dimensions could be embraced by
the walls of my parlor?
Tho horse which had brought us thus
far at a pretty sharp trot now began to
lag as we drew into town, taking up so
much of Mr. Simsbury’s attention that
ho forgot to answer even by a grunt
more than half of my questions. He
spent most of his time looking at the
nag’s hind feet, and finally, just as we
came in sight of the stores, ho found
his tongue sufficiently to announce that
the horse was casting a shoe and that
he would bo obliged to go to the black
smith’s with her.
“Humph, and how long will that
take?” I asked.
Ho hesitated so long, rubbing his
nose with his finger, that I gre\v sus
picious and cast a glance at tho horse’s
foot myself. The shoe was loose. I be
gan to hear it clang.
“Waal, it may be a matter of a cou
ple of hours,” he finally drawled. “We
have no blacksmith in town, and the
ride up there is two miles. Sorry it hap
pened, ma’am, but there’s shops here,
you see, and I’ve allers heard that a
woman can easily spend two hours hag
gling away in shops.”
I glanced at file two ill furnished
windows he pointed out, thought of Ar
nold & Constable’s, Tiffany’s and the
other New York establishments I had
been in the habit of visiting and sup
pressed mv disdain. Either the man
was a fool or he was acting a part in
tho interests of Lucetta and her family.
1 rather inclined to the latter supposi
tion. If the plan was to keep mo out
most of the morning, why could that
shoo not have been loosened before he
left the stable?
• ‘I made all necessary purchases while
in New York, ” said I, “but if you must
get the horse shod, why, take him off
and do it. I suppose there is a hotel par
lor near here where I can sit.”
“Oh, yes,” and lie made haste to
point out to me where the hotel stood.
“And it’s a very nice place, ma’am.
Mrs. Carter, the landlady, is the nicest
sort of person. Only you w r ou’t try to
go home, ma’am, on foot? You’ll wait
till I can come back for you. ”
“It isn’t likely I’ll go streaking
through Lost Alan’s lane alone, ” 1 ex
claimed indignantly. “I’d rather sit in
Airs. Carter’s parlor till night.”
I “And I would advise you to, ” he
; said. “No use making gossip for the
{ village folks. They have enough to talk
about as it is.”
Not exactly seeing the force of this
reasoning, but quite willing, seeing that
ho had no intention of taking me back
at once, that he should leave me to my
own devices as soon as possible, 1 point
ed to a locksmith’s shop I saw near by
and bade him put me down there.
With a,sniff I might have r.tepreted
m any ■»>} v he < rm < ot> to v- «.-•< J l
pointed out and awkwardly -tssis.yJ me
to alight.
' “Trunk key missing?” ho ventured
before getting back into bis seat.
1 did not think it necessary to answer
him, but walked immediately into the
shop I thought he looked dissatisfied
at this, but whatever were his feelings
he mounted presently to his place and
drove off. I was left confronting the do
cent man who represented the lock fit
ting interests in X.
I found some difficulty in broaching
my errand. Finally I said:
“Aliss Knollys, who lives up the road
over there, wishes a key fitted to one of
her doors. Will you come or send up
there today? She was too occupied to see
about it herself. ”
The man must have been struck by
my appearance, for he stared at me
quite curiously for a minute. Then ho
gave a hem and a haw and said:
“Certainly. What kind of a door
is it?” When I had answered, he
gave me another curious glance and
seemed uneasy to step back to where his
assistant was working with a file.
“ You will be sure to come in time to
have ihe lock fitted by night,” I said in
that peremptory manner of mine which
means simply, “I attend to things when
and where I promise and expect you to
do the same. ”
His “Certainly” struck me as a little
weaker this time, possibly because his
curiosity was excited. “Are you the
lady who is staying with them from
New York?” he asked, stepping back,
seemingly quite unawed by my positive
demeanor.
“Yes,” said I, thawing a trifle; “I
am Aliss Butterworth. ”
He looked at me almost as if 1 were a
curiosity.
“And did you sleep there,” he urged,
“last night?”
“I thought it best to thaw still more.
“Of course, ” I said. “Where do you
think I would sleep? The young ladies
are friends of mine.”
He rapped abstractedly on the counter
with a small key he was holding.
‘ ‘ Excuse me, ’ ’ said he, with some re
membrance of my position toward him
as a stranger, “but weren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid?” I echoed. “Afraid in Aliss
Knollys’ house?”
“Why, then, do you want a key to
your door?” he asked, with a slight ap-
pearancoof excitement. “Wedon’t lock
doors here in the village; at least we
didn’t. ”
“I did not say it was my door, ” I be
gan; but, feeling that this was a prevari
cation not only unworthy of me, but
one that he was entirely too sharp to
accept, 1 added stiffly: “It is for my
door. I am not accustomed even at
home to sleep with my room unlocked. ”
“Oh,” ho murmured, totally uncon
vinced, “I thought yon might havo got
a scare. Folks somehow are afraid cf
that old place, it’s so big and ghostlike.
I don’t think you would find any one in
this village that would sleep there all
night. ”
“A pleasing preparation for my rest
there tonight,” I grimly laughed.
“Dangers on tho road and ghosts in
the house. Happily I don’t believe iu
the latter. ”
The gesture he made showed incredu
lity. He had ceased rapping with tho
key or even to show any wish to join
his assistant. All his thoughts for the
moment seemed to be concentrated on
me.
“You don’t know little Rob,” he in
quired, “the crippled lad who lives at
the head of tho lane. ”
“No,” I said; “I haven’t been in
town a day yet, but I mean to kuow
Ilob and his sister too. Two cripples in
one family rouse my interest.”
He did not say why he had spokeu of
him, but began tapping with his key
again.
“And you are sure you saw nothing?”
• he whispered. “Lots of things can hap-
I pen in a lonely road like that.”
! “Not if everybody is as afraid to en-
! ter it as you eay your villagers are,” I
i retorted.
; But ho didn’t yield a jot.
I “Some folks dou’t mind present dan-
| gers,” said he. “Spirits”—
But he received no encouragement in
j his return to this topic. “You don’t be-
| lieve in spirits?” said he. “Well, they
j are doubtful sort of folks, but when
j honest and respectable peoplo such as
! live in this town, when children even,
| see what answers to nothing but phau-
| toms, then I remember what a wiser man
than any of us once said— But perhaps
| you don’t read Shakespeare, madam?”
| Nonplused for the moment, but in
terested iu tho man’s talk more than
i was consistent with my n< ed of haste, I
| said with some spirit, for it struck mo
as very ridiculous that this country me
chanic should question my knowledge
of the greatest dramatist of all time,
“Shakespeare and the Bible form tho
staplo of my reading.” At which he
gave me a little nod of apology and has
tened to remark:
“Then you know what I mean—Ham
let’s remark to Horatio, madam, ‘There
are more things, ’ etc. Your memory
will readily supply you with the words. ’ ’
I signified my satisfaction and perfect
comprehension of his meaning, and feel
ing that something more important lay
behind his words than had yet appeared
I endeavored to make him speak more
explicitly.
“The Alisses Knollys show no terror
of their home,” I observed. “They can
not believe in spirits either. ”
“Aliss Knollys is a woman of a great
deal of character,” said be. “But look
at Lucetta. There is a face for you, for
a girl not yet out of her twenties, and
such a round cheeked lass as she was
once! Now what has made the change?
The sights and sounds of that old house,
I say. Nothing else would give her that
scared look—nothing merely mortal, I
mean. ”
This was going a step too far. I could
not discuss Lucetta with this stranger,
much as I would like to have known
just what he had to say about her.
“I don't know,” I remonstrated, tak
ing up my black satin bag, without
which I never stir. “One would think
the;"*' the laq* «!>e ive- n ihisrht
[ account for some appearance of fear on
! her part. ’ ’
“Yes,” said he, but with no very
hearty admittance, “so it might. But
Lucetta has never spoken of those dan-
i gers. The people in the lane do not
j seem to fear them at all. It is we out-
I eiders who don’t know what to make of
the thing. Even Deacon Spear says that,
set aside the wickedness of tho thing,
• be rather enjoys the quiet which the ill
j repute of tho lane gives him. I don't
• understand this myself. I have no rel-
j ish for mysteries like that or for ghosts
| either. ’ ’
“You won’t forget the key,” I said,
preparing to walk out, in ray dread lest
be would introduce again the subject of
f Lucetta.
“No,” said he, “I won’t forget it.”
But there was something not quite
hearty in his voice which should have
warned me that I need not expect to
have a locked door that night.
Cat
Chapter XII.—The Phantom
riage.
Well, I am getting on famously,
thought I. Ghosts added to the other
complications, ^’bat could the fellow
have meant? If I had pressed him, he
would have told me, but it did not seem
quite a lady’s business to pick up in
formation this way, especially when it
seemed likely to involve Lucetta. Yet
did I think I would ever come to the
end of this without involving Lucetta?
My good sense said “No.” Why, then,
had my instinct triumphed for the
nonce? Let those who understand the
workings of tho human heart answer. I
am simply stating facts.
Ghosts! Somehow the word startled
me, as if in some way it gave a rather
unwelcome confirmation to my doubts.
Apparitions seen in the Knollys man
sion or in any of tho houses bordering
on this lane! That would be serious,
how serious seemed to be but half com
prehended by this man. But I compre
hended it and wondered if it was gossip
like this which had caused Mr. Gryce
to induce me to visit this house as a
guest.
I was crossing the street to the hotel
as I indulged in these conjectures, and
intent as my mind was upon them I
could not but note the curiosity and in
terest which my presence excited in the
simple country folk that are invariably
to be found lounging about a country
tavern. Indeed, the whole neighborhood
seemed agog, and though I would have
thought it derogatory to my dignity to
notice the fact I could not but see how
many faces were peering at me from
store doors and tho half closed blinds of
adjoining cottages. No young girl in
tho pride cf her beauty could have
awakened more interest, and I attribut
ed it, as was no doubt right, not to my
appearance, which would not perhaps
be apt to strike these simple villagers as
remarkable, or to ’my dress, which is
rather rich than fashionable, but to the
fact that I was a stranger in town and,
what was more extraordinary, a guest of
the Knollys.
. Aly intention in approaching the ho
tel was not to spend a couple of dreary
hours in the parlor with Airs. Carter, as
Air. Simsbury bad suggested, but to ob
tain if possible a conveyance to carry
me immediately back to the Knoltys
mansion. But this, which would have
been a simple matter in most towns,
seemed well nigh an impossibility in
X. The landlord was away, and Mrs.
Carter, who was very frank with me,
told me that sho not only did not dare,
but would find it perfectly useless, to
ask one of the men to drive me through
that lane. “It’s an unwholesome spot, ”
said she, “and only Air. Carter and the
police have the courage to bravo it.”
I suggested that I was willing to pay
well, but it seemed to mako very liftJo
difference with her. “Aloney won’t hire
them,” said she, and I had the satisfac
tion of knowing that Lucetta had tri
umphed in her plan and that I must sit
out the morning after all in the pre
cincts of the hotel parlor with Airs.
Carter.
It was my first signal defeat, but I
was determined to make the best of it,
and if possible glean such knowledge
from the talk of this woman as would
help me to pluck out victory from it.
She was only too ready to talk, and the
first topic was little Rob.
I saw the moment I mentioned his
name that I was introducing a subject
that had already been well talked over
by every eager gossip in the village.
Her attitude of importance, the air of
mystery she assumed, were preparations
I had long been accustomed to in wom
en of this kind, and I was not at all
surprised when sho announced in a way
that admitted of no dispute:
“Oh, there’s no wonder the child is
sick. We would be sick under the cir
cumstances. He has seen the phantom
carriage. ”
The phantom carriage! Fo that was
what the locksmith meant. A phantom
carriage! I had heard of every kind of
phantom but that. Somehow the idea
was a thrilling one or would have been
to a nature less practical than mine.
“I don’t know what you mean, ” said
I. “Some superstition of the place? I
never heard of a ghostly appearance of
that nature before.”
“No, I expect not. It belongs to ns.
I never heard of it beyond these moun
tains. Indeed, I have never known it to
have been seen but upon one road. I
need not mention it, madam. You can
guess perhaps what I mean.”
Y T es, I could guess, and the guessing
made me set my lips a little grimly.
“Tell me more about this thing, ” I
half laughed, half spoke. “It ought to
be of some interest to me. ”
Sho nodded, drew her chair a trifie
nearer, and impetuously began:
“You see this is a very old town. It
has its ancient country houses like the
one you are now living in, and it has
its early traditions. One is that a car
riage perfectly noiseless, drawn by
horses through which you can see the
moonlight, haunts tho high road at in
tervals and flies through tho gloomy for
est read we have christened of late years
I.o.' Man’s '.aim It n supe T Tt: 1 ion
possibly, hut you cannot, find many fam
ilies iu town but believe in it as a fact,
for there is not an old man or woman
in the place but has either seen it in
the past or has had some relative who
has seen it. It passes only at night and
is thought to presage some disaster to
the one who sees it. My husband’s un
cle died tho next morning after it flew
by him on the highway. Fortunately
years elapse sometimes between its go
ing and coining again. It is ten years,
I think they say, since it was seen last.
Poor little Rob! It has frightened him
almost out of his wits. ”
“I should think so, ” I cried with be
coming credulity. “But how came he
to sec ft? i thought you said it only
passed at night. ”
“At midnight,” she repeated. “Bui
Rob, you see, is a nervous lad, and night
before last he was so restless he could
not sleep, so he begged to be put in the
window to cool off. This his mother
did, and he sat there for a gc;od half
hour alone, looking out at the moon
light. As his mother is an economical
woman t,h( re was no candle lit in the
room, so ho got his pleasure cut of the
shadows which the great trees made on
the highroad till suddenly—you ought
to hear tho little fellow tell it—he felt
tho hair rise on his forehead and all his
body grow stiff with a terror that made
his tongue like lead in his month. A
something — a thing he would have
called a horse and carriage in the day
time. but which in this light and under
the influence of tho mortal terror he
was in took on a distorted shape which
made it unliko tiny team he was accus
tomed to—was going by, not as if being
driven over the earth and stones of the
road, though there was a driver in front,
a driver with an odd three cornered
hat on his head and a cloak about his
shoulders, such as he remembered as
having seen hanging in his grandmoth
er’s closet, but as if it floated along
without sound or stir—in fact, a specter
team which seemed to find its proper
destination when it turned in Lost Man’s
lano and was lost among the shadows of
that ill reputed road.”
“Pshaw,” was my spirited comment
as she paused to take her breath and see
how I was affected by this grewsomo
tale. “A dream of the poor little lad!
Ho had heard stories of this apparition
and his imagination supplied the rest.”
“No; excuse me, madam, but this is
the very point of the tale. He had been
carefully kept from hearing any such
stories, having enough to do to bear his
own troubles without that. You could
see this was true by the way he told
about it. He hardly believed what he
had seen himself. It was not till some
foolish neighbor blurted out, “Why,
that was the phantom carriage, ” that
he had any idea he was not relating any
thing tmt a dream.
Aly second pshaw was no less mark
ed than the first.
“He did know about it, notwithstand
ing,” I insisted. “Only he had forgot
ten the fact. Sleep supplies us with
these lost memories. We remember then
what may never recur to us in the day
time. ”
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
" One Swallow Does
Not Make a Spring.”
<5Yp, it is the myriads of
birds that announce the open-
ing of bright days. They bring
us promise of reneaved health
and strength. They teach us
a lesson, avhich is to set cur
human house in order by
thoroughly cleansing cur
blood, in fact, making it nc<w,
pure and bright.
There is only one real specific with
which to accomplish this, and that is
Hood’s Sarsaparilla, America’s Great
est Spring Aledicine, which never disap
points. As a purifier, its work is thor
ough. and good health is sure to follow.
ScfOfU?a-" My little daughter, at three
ni' uitiiR, hail terrible scrofula eruptions,
scratching till the blood came. Hood’s Sar
saparilla ettred a year ago. Skin is now
white, smooth and soft.” Mas. Wilbur
Wells, Warren, Conn.
Neuralgia —“I had dreadful neuralgia.
Was miserable for months. Neighbors
persuaded me to use Hood’s Sarsaparilla,
and it cured me perfectly.” Mbs. Fred
Turner, Barre, Vt.
Tired Feeling — “ r had that tired, dull
feeling, dyspepsia, headaches and sinking
spells, but Hood’s Sarsaparilla made me a
new man. I never was better than now.'
Jortx Mack, Oskaloesa, Jov/a.
Poor Appetite-” Spring finds me with
a weakness and iack of appetite. I recom
mend Hood’s Sarsaparilla highly as a
strength builder and creator of appetite.”
J. F. Ward, Labelle, Ohio.
Dyspepsia-“I know a positive relief
for dyspepsia and that is Hood’s Sarsapa
rilla. It cured me. My neuralgia also
stopped.” W. I!. Baldwin, lot Oak Street,
Binghamton, New York.
Running: Sores — “We feared our little
brother would be a cripple from a running
sore on his foot. He grew worse under
hospital treatment. Mother gave him
Hood’s Sarsaparilla and now he is entirely
cured.” Miss Mary Mascarie, Aurora, Ind.
Impure Blood—“My work was a
burden to me until I took Hood’s Sarsapa
rilla. Poor blood was the cause. Have
gained flesh and have color in my face.”
Mrs. A. A. Howard, Taunton, Mass.
jibodA SakAGjmbllfn
flood’s fills r-T, rr . iiv
only cathartic to t
.. ;ho non-irritating: and
virh Hood s Sarsaparilla.
“Very true, and you might be right,
Miss Butterworth, if ho had been the
only one to see this apparition. But
Widow Jenkins taw it, too, and she is
a woman to be believed.”
This was becoming serious.
“Saw it before or saw it after?” I
asked. “Does she live on the highway
or somewhere in Lost Alan’s lane?”
“She lives on the highway about a
half mile from the station. She was up
with her sick husband and saw it just
as it was goitftg down the hi?1 She said
it made no mere noise than a cloud slip
ping by. She expects to lose old Bruise.
No one could see such a thing as that,
she says, and not have some misfortune
follow. ”
I laid ail this up in my mind. Aly
(Continued on Next Page.)
sec, J i 1
' H sf®Ysiiyary>
DOUBLE DAiLY
SERVICE
ATLANTA
TO Tffis
EAST.
$3 SAVED
BY THE
SEABOARD AIR LINE.
Atlanta to Richmond $14.50
Atlajnta to Washington 14.ft
Atlanta to Baltimore via Washing
ton 15.70
Atlanta to Baltimore via Norfolk
and Bay Line steamer 15.25
Atlanta to Philadelphia via Wash
ington is. 50
Atlanta to Philadelphia via Nor-
fMk IS.03
Atlanta to New York via Richmond
and Washington 21.00
Atlanta to New York via Norfolk,
Va. and Cape Charles Route 20.53
Atlanta to New York via Norfolk.
Va., and Norfolk and Washington
Steamboat Company, via Washing-
ton 21.00
Atlanta to New York via Noi-folk,
Va.. Bay Lina steamer to Balti
more. and rati to New York 20.53
Atlanta to New York via Norfolk
and Old Dominion S. S. Co. (meals
and stateroom Included) ~ 20.23
Atlanta to Boston via Norfolk and
steamer (meals and stateroom in
cluded) 21 33
Atlanta to Boston via Washington
and New York 24 00
The rate mentioned above to Washing
ton, Baltimore Philadelphia. New Yo-k
and Boston are S3 less than by any other
al! rail line. The above rates apply from
Atlanta. Tickets to the east "are so’d
from moat all points in the territory of
the Southern States Passenger Associa
tion. via the Seaboard Air-Line, at $3 less
than by any other all rail line.
For tickets, sleeping car accommoda*
tlons, call on or address agents or
E. WALKER, C. P. & T. A.
W, B. CLEMEXTS, T. P. aI
B. A, NEWLAND, G, A. P. D.
ATLANTA. GA,
E ' S T a?o^*‘ v ’ Pres - and Gen. M‘gr,
it' w' h General Superintendent.
I ^ A t' f Tramc Manager.
L. b. ALLEN. Gen’l Pass. Agt.
PORTSMOUTH. VA.
for sale
M ithln twenty-three miles of Atlanta,
three hundred and twenty acres of good
farming land at $15 per acre. About
seventy-five acres are cleared. One hun
dred acres especially adapted for a stock
farm, balance heavily timbered
further information address W
Baker, Atlanta, Ga.
For
3(i West
4
i
Vi j