Newspaper Page Text
I
FOURTH PAGE
THE SUNNY SOUTH
MARCH 22, 1902
The Turnpike House
Author of “The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,’
(Copyright, 1902.)
SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAP
TERS: A poverty-strcken woman and
her son, a wan boy of 10, inhabit a miser
able hovel called Turnpike House. They
recall betters days, and the woman indi
cates than her husband has brought her
to her low condition. The man arrives
and quarrels with his wife. The hoy at
tempts to stab him with a table knife,
but is drawn off. Shortly afterwards
mother and son hurriedly leave, and the
dead body of the husband is found lying
there. It has transpired that the woman
was formerly governess to a rich mer
chant named Cass, and the man Jenner
was his clerk, but had been dismissed for
neglect, and after taking another situa
tion went to prison. Many years have
passed, and there is a Christmas party at
ITollyoaks Park, the residence of Mr.
Cass. The merchant’s mother was an An
dalusian, and his unmarried daughter,
Ruth, inherits her rare beauty. The
daughter welcomes Neil Webster, a bril
liant young violinist, who is the talk of
society. The two declare their love, but
Mr. Cass forbids the engagement.
CHAPTER. FIVE
A Shadow of the Past
EBPTER recovered from his
fainting fit, but he was
weak and ill. It seemed
extraordinary that the
sight of a pictured face
should have had such an
influence upon him. He
himself could give no ex
planation save, t'liait he had
hcen overcome by a feel
ing of nausea. So. after an
apology, bo went at once
to bed. The party broke
up. anil Ruth retired, won
dering greatly at her lover's strange in
disposition.
Half an hour biter she was seated be
fore her bed room fire in dressing gown
and slippers. Having dismissed h°r maid,
she indulged herself in a reverie wiith
which Neil Webster and her chances of
obtaining her father's consent to her
marriage with him were mainly con
cerned.
She was aroused liy a knock at 'the door,
and in reply to her invitation, Mrs. Mar
shall entered the room. At the first
glimpse of that iron face tile girl remem
ber'd a slip she had made in addressing
her lover by hi? Christian name.
"You are in love with that violinist,’’
said the elderly woman, sitting down and
fixing her niece with a piercing gaz“.
“How do you know that?” asked the
girl, coolly. She had been half prepared
for the question in spite of Mrs. Mar
shall’s abrupt entry. In fact, for that
very reason she kept on her guard.
"Pshaw!” ejaculated Aunt Inez, with
scorn. “Cannot one woman divine the
feelings of another? Your eyes were never
off the creature tonight.”
‘ Mr. Webster is no - a creature,” inter
rupted the girl, angrily.
"Mr. Webster.” sneer d the other. “Why
pot Neil? You called him so tonight.”
“Yes.” said Ruth, defiantly, throwing • ff
her mask. “And 1 shall call him so again.
Yon are right; J do love him. And he
loves me.”
”1 thought as much. And the end of
this mutual passion?”
,' 'Marriage.”
“Humph! 1 think ” c* - father will have
■something to say t v that
By FERGUS HUME
‘The Crimsom Cryptogram/’ ‘“The Golden Idol/’ “The Dwarf s Chamber,
etc
“At any rate it will be a shelter/’ he thought: “and Tvhen the storm clears I can get
home”
blooded and determined, took her way to
the library where she knew her brother
frquently remained long after the rest of
(he household had retired. He was 1 here,
sure enough, silting before the lire and
staring into it with an anxious expres
sion. At his sister’s entrance lie started
from his seat. For Inez was ihe stormy
petrel of the Cass family, and he guessed
that her appearance at lhis unwont d hour
indicated an approaching tempest.
"What is it?” he asked irritably. “Why
are you not in bed?"
“Because 1 have something to say
which must be said tonight."
“Well, what is it?” He dropped baek
into his chair with a look of resignation.
“Who is thait man Webster?"
Her brother’s face grew black. "Al-
I ways .he same woman,” he said angrily,
j “You never will leave well enough alone.
] Webster is a violinist, .and he comes here,
at mv request, because I admire his tal
ents."
“1 know all that. But who is he?"
| “l refuse to tell you.”
I “Will you refuse 1,. tell your daugh-
I ter?" sneered his sister.
1 Cass looked up quickly and something
’M i
father will deny me nothing that dismay came p\er
his
‘Ruth—
he thinks will conduce to my happiness."
•No doubt. But marriage with this
violinist creature hardly comes under
that heading. You know northing about
him.”
“I daresay my father does," retorted
Ruth.
"Very probable," said the* elder lady,
with venom. “In fact, he may know suffi
cient to forbid voiw entertaining the pre
posterous idea of becoming Mrs. Webst r.
You are a fool. Ruth! Because the man
is handsome and a great musician—1 deny
■neither his looks nor his talents—you
have developed a romantic passion for
him. T should noi be doing my duty did
1 fail tfi warn your father of this folly.
Tomorr nv Mr. Webster will leave this
house forever.”
“Oh!" oried Ruth wiih scorn. “And I
no doubt will marry Geoffrey Heron. I
know your plans. Aunt Inez. But I'm not
T r sale, thank you.”
“Don’t he insolent," cried Mrs. Mar
shall with cold fury. “Mr. Heron loves
you.”
“Very probably," rejoin
carelessly. “But. 'then, yu
Jove him.”
“Nevertheless >'• >u will become his wif e”
“I would die first.”
“We shall see." She arose and walked
to the door. “I am going to tell your
father of this infatuation.’’
The girl uttered an exclamation of dis
may and sprang forward. But Mrs. Mar
shall had already closed 'the door.
‘T don't care,” cried Ruth, clenching
her hands. "My love is strong enough
to stand against my father's anger. I
love Neil, and I Intend to worry him. All
the fathers and aunts in the world shall
not prevent me." And in this determined
frame of mind she went to lied. Her hot
Spanish blood was aflame at the idea of
contradiction and dictation. Nor for. noth
ing was Ruth Cass the granddaughted of
an Andalusian spit-fire, and as such was
h'r father's mother traditionally referred
to in the family.
Meanwhile Mrs. Marshall equally hot-
face,
him?"
y are in love with one
secretly engaged. Is
■use for my seeing you
Webster would
I Miss
see. I
Cass
i not
I Will Cure You of
Rheumatism
NO PAY UNTIL YOU KNOW IT.
After 2,000 experiments, I have learned
hew to cure Rheumatism. Not to turn
bony joints Into flesh again; that is im
possible. But I can cure the disease al
ways, at any stage, and forever.
I ask for no money. Simply write me
a postal and 1 will send you an order on
vour nearest druggist for six bottles of
Dr. Shoop's Rheumatic Cure, for every
diuggist Keeps it. Fse it for a month,
and TF it does what 1 claim, pay your
druggist $5.50 for it. If it doesn’t, 1 will
pay him myself.
1 have no samples. Any medicine that
can affect Rheumatism with but a few
doses must be drugged to the verge of
danger. I use no such drugs. It is folly
to take them. You must get the disease
out of the blood.
Mv remedy does that, even in the most
difficult, obstinate cases. No matter how
impossible this seems to you. I know It
and I take this risk. I have cured tens
of thousands cf cases in this wav, and
my records show that ’19 out of 40 who
get those six bottles pay, and gladly. T
have learned that people in general are
honest with a physician who cures them.
r lhat is all I ask. If I fall I don't expect
a penny from you.
Plmplv write me a postal card or letter.
Ret me send you an order for the medi
cine: also a nook. Take it for a month,
for it won't harm you anyway. If it
cures, pav $5.50. I leave that entirely to
you. Address Dr. Shoop, Box 901, Racine,
Wls.
MUd cases, not chronic, are often
cured by one or two bottles. At all drug
gist*.
whit hns Rirth
“This much. The
another: they are
that a sufficient ex
tonight?”
“I don’t believe it.
not—■”
“Oli, as o that. 1 don’t know what hold
you have over him.”
“Hold!" repeated Mr. Cass, rising and
beginning to pace the room in an agitated
manner. “What do you mean? 1 have
no hold."
| “In that case you should nit have
J thrown him into the society of an impres-
| sionable fool like Ruth. 1 got the truth
oil'! of her tonight, though J had long
susp cted it. She loves him; and what's
more she will defy you and marry him."
“That she shall never do!" he said,
vehemently.
"I tell you she will, and without your
consent, unless you can talk her out of
this infatuation and marry her to Heron.”
“There will be no need to talk her out
of fc,” Mr. C. -s said, coldly. “Webster
will not marry In i "
“Do you mean that he will refuse?”
“I mean that he will refuse,” he re
plied with decision.
“And under your influence?”
“1'nder my influence. Yes.”
"Ah!” Aunt Inez drew a long breath,
for her suspicions as to the identity of
Webster were now confirmed. “Then you
intend to us the knowledge of his fath
er’s murder to Influence 'this so-called
Webster?”
“What do you mean?" Mr. Cass asked,
angriiy.
“Exactly what I say,” retorted his sis
ter. “I am not a fool, if you are, Se
bastian. Webster is the son of Jenner,
who was murdered at the Turnpike House, j
I remember How his mother used to bring
him hero to beg for food. He Is jnsit the
same nervous creature now as he was
then. I could not recollect where 1 had
s?en him before until he recognized his
father in thait photograph—”
“He did not recognize his father.”
“Perhaps he did n t know that the
face, the si-glit of which made trim faint.
was that of his father," replied Mrs. Mar
shall. "But his fainting was quite enough
for me. 1 remember Mrs. Jenner; he re
sembles her in every way. He is her son.
Deny it If you can.”
“I do not deny it,” Cass said, sullenly.
“But. for heaven's sake, Inez, leave
things alone, or harm will come of it.”
“Why. in heaven’s name, did you bring
him down here?"
“I never thought he would fail in love
with Ruith. I brought him out of sheer
kindness, because I was sorry for the
poor, lonely young follow. I will ar
range the matter. Rest assured he will
never marry Ruth.”
“I hope not,” said Mrs. Marshall, pre
paring to go, “I have done my duty.”
“No doubt, but I wonder you dare speak
as you do.”
Her face grew hard as stone. “I am
never afraid to speak.” she said, haugh
tily. “or to act. I have set my heart on a
marriage between Ruth and Geoffirey
Heron. Webster—as you call him—must
go.”
“He shall go,” assented Mr. Cass; and,
satisfied that all was well, his sister left
him. Then he dropped back into his chair
with a sigh and gazed aigain into the fire.
He foresaw trouble, which there appeared
no means of averting. It was 3 o’clock
I before he got to bed. And by that time
] he had determined how to act.
“Webster shall refuse to marry her." he
said, “and he shall go a way. She will
! soon forget him, and end by becoming
Mrs. Heron. With Webster away all will
i be well.”
Having made his plans, Mr. Cass pro
ceeded to act upon them. He wished to
! see for himself if Ruth were really in
; love with Neil, and to learn, if possible,
tl • depth and extent of her feelings. With
1 this scheme In his mind, he was excess!ve-
■ ly genial to the young man, and at the
I breakfast table on the following morning
| he placed him nexit his daughter—a piece
| of folly which made Mrs. Marshall open
j heir eyes. Ruth saw her aunt's look, and,
' in sheer defiance, allowed herself to be-
i have toward Neil with a somewhat osten-
j tatious fri- ndliness. Naturally enough
Geoffrey Heron became sulky, while Miss
Brawn and Mr. Marshall kept up a con
tinuous chatter.
“Well?” Inez said to her brother as they
were preparing for church.
“You aire right.” he said. “I have no
doubt now of her feeling for him."
TAnd you will deal with the master?”
"You 'cair trust me.. 1 knov; what to
<fo™' **
She was satisfied with this assurance,
and set off in a devoij frame of mind,
and, taking Geoffrey with her, showed
him very clearly (hat she was on his
side. Indeed, as they returned to the
house after the Christmas service, he
opened his heart to her. Mrs. Marshall
told him that she had seen it all along,
and that nothing on her part should re
main undone that would aid in bringing
about the marriage.
“But she is in love with that fiddler-fel
low.” th< cTisronsolate yo»ng man said.
“Oh. my dear Mr. Henan.'* and Mrs.
Marshall smiled, “that is only a girl's
love for the arts. She admires his music,
as we all do. and perhaps she shows her
appreciation in rather a foolish way. But
1 annot believe she loves him.”
“At all events she does not care ifo-r
j me.”
i “Don't he too sure of that The more
J she cares for you uh? more likely she
i is to try and conceal her feelings.
i “Why. in heaven's name?" asked Geof-
j fre *'-
: Mrs. Marshall laughed. “Because it is
i tbe way of women," she said.
"Do you think, then, that T ougl# to
J speak to her?”
j "Not just now. Wait til’. Mr. Webster
■ and his too fascinating violin have 'taken
tin ir departure. Then she will forget this
—this Bohemian."
“Webster isn't a bad sort of fellow,"
Heron said, apologetically. "In spite of
his long hair, he is something of a sports
man. He has seen a good deal of the
world, too. and he is plucky ip his own
way. 1 like him well enough, but. of
course. I can't help feelihg jealous. You
see, I love Ruth—I may cal! her Ruth to
you—so much.”
“Th re is no need for jealousy. Ruth
will be your wife. T jiromise that; you
have me on your side.”
“I won't have her forced into the mar
riage.” he said sturdily.
Mrs. Marshall brushed Ihe suggestion
aside.
Neil’s unhappy stare of mind had taken
him int > the cold. The quiet thoughts
of the morning had given way to perfect
torture, and he could in no way account |
for the change. So far, indeed, as his
nerves tverc concerned, he never could ac
count for anything in connection with
’them any more chan could the physicians
whom 'he had consulted. He was the
prey of a highly neurotic temperament
which tortured his life, and he had a
vivid imagination which made him exagt
gerate the slightest worries into catas
trophes.
An hour's brisk walking over the crisp
snow brought him 'to a solitary place far
from every human habitation. The vil
lage had vanished anti Nell found himself
in the center—as it .seemed—of a lonely
white world arched over by a blue sky.
All around the landscape was buried in
drifts of snow, which, dazzling white in
(he sunlight, were painful to look upon.
He walked ailong some disused roads, guid
ing himself by the hedges which ran
along the sides. Shortly the sky began to
cloud over rapidly, to assume a bwden
aspect; and finally down came the snow.
He turned his face homeward, anxious
to get back before the night came on. But
as the snow fell thicker he grew bewil
dered, and began to take the situation
seriously. Suddenly, as he trudged along,
a building loomed up before him through
' the falling flakes; i't stood where four
roads met. and he guessed at once that it
was an old turnpike house. On a nearer
approach he saw that it was empty. The
windows were broken, the door half open
and it was fenced in by a jungle of
bushes like the palace of the Sleeping
Beauty.
“At any rate it will be a shelter,” he
thought; “and when the storm clears off
I can get home. Only 3 o’clock,” lie add
ed, looking at his waitch. “i'll rest for a
bit.”
He broke his way through the drifts
which were piled up before Ihe door, and
stumbled in. The moment his foot
touched the threshold a vague feeling of
fear seized upon him; 'the place was
quite empty, thick with dust and fes
tooned with cobwebs. There was not a
stick of furniture; yet it seemed to him
that there should have been a hare deal
table, two deal chairs, and a fire in 'Che
grate. “Had he ever been there before?”
he asked himself. But he could find no
answer to th? question. Finally, shaking
off the feeling of depression which the in
fluence of this house had brought upon
him. he lay down on the bare boards and
tried to sleep away ihe time. In tills
way. by the decree of some mysterious
power, ihe man was brought back to the
room where his father had been mur
dered twelve or thirteen years before.
And he was ignorant of th- terrible
truth.
The snow continued to fall steadily, but
there was no wind. The absolute quiet
was soothing to the tired man. and after
a time his eyes closed. For a while he
slept peacefully as a child; then his face
grew dark, his teeth and hands clenched
themselves, and lie groaned in agony. He
dreamt—and this was the manner of his
dream:
He was still in the bare room, but a tire
burn; in the grate. A table and two chairs
furnished the apartment and made appar
ent the frightful poverty. The dreamer
was no longer a man, but a child, playing
with a toy horse by the fire. Near the
table sat a woman sewing. Then a man
entered—the man whose face he had seen
In the photograph. A quarrel ensued be-
'tween him and the woman; the child—
the dreamer himself—became suddenly
possessed with blind rage against the
man. Then all faded in darkness. He
was in bed still a child—again darkness.
Then once more he was in the room. The
window was open; near it lay the dead
body of the man, the bload welling from
his heart. At the door stood the woman,
a knife in her hand, a look of terror on
her face. Then came rain, and mist, and
cold, and the dreamer felt that he was
falling into a gulf of darkness, never
again to emerge into the light of day. But
tile woman’s face, with blue eyes looking
from under a crown of fair hair, still
shone like a star in the gloom. It smiled
on the dreamer, then it vanished as he
awoke with a cry.
Neil Webster sprang to his feet with
the perspiration beading his forehead and
shaking in every limb. The dream had
been so vivid! Was it but a dream? Here
was the ro in, here the open window, and
here, where he had seen the dead body of
tiie man, black stains of blood marked
the floor. He started back with a cry
as he saw it all. and flung liimse-lf out
into the snow which still kept falling in
thick flakes. Away from that house he
iran, f>-e]ing that he had recovered the
memory of his childhood. His father had
been murdered. By whom? That was
tile question he asked himself as he sped
OiiVfurd bitrugii < At s.. w.
“Oh, heavens!" he kept murmuring.
"What does it all mean?" Why was 1 sent
to that house to learn this terrible truth?
Why? Why?"
But the snow fell ever more thickly and
the young man fled along the road. In
the same waj’ had his mother fled with
iiim in her arms, tied through the mists
to escape the horr r of the Turnpike
House.
£2 CHAPTER- SIX ^ ■
Mr Cass Speaks
Jennie Brawn sat in her bed room with
an agonizing look on her face, with
inky fingers and tumbled hair. Miss
Brawn was courting the muse. As yet
she had had but ill success, for the muse
was not in a kindly mood.
“If, dear, thou should'st unhappy be,
R member me, remember me!”
murmured <:he poetess. “ I think that will
do for a refrain. But how am I to begin?
Ah!” with a sudden inspiration. “Spring
in the first verse, summer and roses in
the second, then winter and dying for
an effective finish.” And she began to
thresh out the first lines.
“The spring is flowering all the world— '
“Hump!” she broke off. “That sounds
as though spring were a baker! 1 must
try again.”
But before she could think of an alter
native line the door burst open and Ruth
rushed in violently, all on tire with excite
ment. “Jennie! Jennie?' she cried,
plumping down on the bed. “I’ve had a
proposal!”
“Oh!" Jennie, quite phlegmatic, laid
down h-r pen. “Geoffrey Heron asked
you to be 'his wife?”
“That is 'the plain English of it, I sup
pose," Ruth said, impatiently. "Of course
I said ‘no.’'”
“Of course you did," remarked the pro-
said Miss Brawn. For prosaic she was in
ordinary matters, in spite of her poetic
gift. “You are in love with the Master?”
She put this in th? form of a query.
“Haven't 1 told you so a thousand
.times?” cried Miss Cass. “I love him as
dearly as he loves me.”
“That's a pity.”
“Why is it a pity?” asked the girl, her
face flushing.
"Oh, 1 know you don't like the truth,
Jennie went on, calmly. “But I always
tell it. even when it is disagreeable. 1
A BUSY WORKER.
Coffee Touches Up Different Spots.
Frequently coffee sets up rheumatism
when it is not busy with some other part
of the body. A St. Joe. Mo., man. p. V.
Wise, says: “About two years ago my
knees began to stiffen and my feet and
legs swell, so that I was scarcely able
to walk, and then only with the greatest
difficulty, for I was in constant pain.
I consulted Dr. Barnes, one of the
most prominent physicians here, and he
diagnosed the case and inquired, ‘Do you
drink coffee?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You must quit using
it at once,’ he replied. I did so and com
menced drinking Postum In its place.
The swelling in my feet and ankles and
the rheumatic pains subsided quickly,
and during the past eighteen months I
have enjoyed most excellent health, and,
although I have passed the sixty-eighth
mile post, I have never enjoyed life bet
ter.
Good health brings heaven to us here.
I know of many cases where wonderful
cures of stomach and heart trouble have
been made by simply throwing away cof
fee and using Postum.
don't think you are the kind of wife to
suit the Master. You are too impetuous,
too fond of admiration. You would never
be content to take a back seat."
“1 should think not!” cried Miss Cass,
indignantly. “Catch me taking a back
■seat! 1 want to be admired, to have an
ample income and a big position. 1 am
an individual, not a piece of furniture.
“Marry Mr. Heron, then," advised Jen
nie, “and you will have all you wish for.
He belongs to a good county family, and
can give you a position in society. He
lias a handsome income, and with your
own dowry a.s well you would l>e rich."
"But I love Nell,” persisted Ruth, pite
ously.
"Oh, no, you don’t. You think you love
him, but you are only attracted by ills
charm oT manner.”
“I believe you want to mairry him your
self,” cried Ruth, pettishly.
Jennie flushed, for, unknown to herself,
Ruth had touched upon Miss Brawn's
romance. She did love Webster, and she
would have given many years of her life
had 'that love been returned. But she
saw no chance of this, and, like a sensi
ble girl, crushed the passion in its birth.
"I never cry for the moon," she said,
quietly, “and there is no chance that the
Master, who loves beautiful things, will
ever fall in love with plain me. But if I
wore to marry him I should be prepared
to make myself his echo—the piece of fur
niture you so scornfully allude to. Be
lieve me, rny dear, it is better in every
way that you should reconsider your an
swer to Mr. Heron.”
"1 won't! I don't deny that 1 like
Geoffrey very much indeed, and lie took
his rejection so kindly, poor fellow, that I
did feel very like changing my mind. But
Neil—Neil!" Ruth clasped her hands and
raised h r expressive eyes. “Oh. I can't
give him up."
“Perhaps your father will make you.”
“No, my father can make me do noth
ing I have not sot my heart on. And
when it comes to the point, I'll defy my
father."
“That is wrong."
“No, it isn’t. I have to live with my
husband, whoever he may be, and i have
a right to choose him for myself. I choose
Neil."
“Humph!” murmured Jennie, shaking
her rough head. “You say that now while
ail is smooth; hut if trouble came, and the
Master was proved .to he an ineligible
parti, you would change your mind."
“You shall see. Besides, what trouble
could come?"
"I merely suggest it. Trouble might
come, you know. Rife is not entirely suTi-
shine: clouds will arise. Well. when they
do. we shall see if you really love the
Master. At present i't is merely a girl's
fancy.”
“Why do you talk 'to me as if you were
a grandmother?" cried Ruth, half-
offended.
“I am young in years, hut old in ex
perience," said Miss Brawn, with a sigh.
“We are nin*. in our family, and father,
as a civil service clerk, has only a
small income. I have a lot of trouble to
make both ends meet, with no mother to
help. They all rely on my brain and my
fingers, and the responsibility makes m?
sober.”
“Poor dear.” said Ruth, kissing the
freckled cheek. “I wonder you can write
poetry with all your anxieties.”
"1 have to, and when you have to you
do," replied Jennie, somewhat incoherent
ly. “I make a very good income out of
my verse, though what I get is not what
it ought to be. Why, some of my songs
have made thousands of pounds, hut of
course the publisher and composer share
that between them. I only g-t ten guineas
or so.”
“What a shame!”
“Yes, isn't it? However, f don't want
to talk about myself except to thank you
for giving me such a perfectly lovely
Christmas. As to your refusal of Mr.
Heron, r am sure you are wrong.”
“I don't think so. But if I were it would
he perfectly easy to whistle him back. At
present I intend to marry Neil, and he is
going to ask my father’s consent tonight
or tomorrow. If there is 'trouble you
shall see how T can stand up for him. You
write romances. Jennie; I act them." And
with a rustle of silken skirts Ruth van
ished.
Jennie sighed as she once more took
up her pen. Tt did stem hard that this
girl should have all the money, all the
looks, and the chance of becoming the
Master’s wife. Miss Brawn was not an
envious person, as we have said, but she
could not help grudging Ruth the favors
of fortune which she seemed to value so
little.
The Christmas dinner that night passed
off in th? orthodox fashion. Mr. Cass
made the usual speech; ‘the usual compli
ments were exchanged. and the usual
reminiscences Indulged in. It was quite
a family gathering, save that Mr. Cass’
eldest daughter was absent. She was
married, and had elected to stay with her
husband in Bondon. As a mater of fact.
Mrs. Chisel—such was her name—could
not approach her sister in the matter of
looks, and being of a jealous nature, did
not like—to use an expressive, if some
what vulgar phrase—to take a baek seat.
Ruth was always the recipient of all the
admiration and all the attention, so her
sister preferred to stay in a circle where
in her own looks could insure heir a cer
tain amount of queendom. Mr. Cass re
ferred to her absence, drank her health,
and considered that he had don-’ his duty.
But he had yet another duty to perform
toward his unmarried daughter. It was
his intention to speak to Neil Webster
that night, and. once and for all. to put
an end to any hopes that young man
might cherish with regard to Ruth. She
was the apple of his topmost bough
which he could not hope to gather; and it
would be well to inform him of this fact
at once. Mr. Cass was, in the main, a
kindly man, and, for reasons best known
to himself, was well disposed toward Neil.
He hated to make trouble at this season
of peace and goodwill. But the imminence
of the danger forced him on. Besides, he
had given a promise to his sister Inez,
and he knew very well she would allow
him no rest until he had done what she
desired.
"How dull you are tonight.” whispered
Ruth to Neil in the winter garden after
dinner. “What is the matter?”
“Nothing. I went out for a walk today
and I am rather tired."
“Were you caught in the snow?"
“Yes, but I managed to get home all
right, as you see. I sought shelter in the
old Turnpike House.”
Mrs. Marshall, who had seated herself
close at hand; started at the words. “The
Turnpike House?" she said, anxiously.
"Did you go in there?”
“Yes, Mrs. Marshall. It was my refuge
from the storm.”
“Strange!” she murmured, thinking of
the crime which had taken place there so
so many years before-the crime in which
the parents of this young man had irten
concerned. "It has not a good reputation,
that house,” she added.
“Webster fixed his eyes on her. “How
is that?” he said.
“Oh. don't you know?" cried Jennie,
who had come up to them. "A dreadful
murder was committed there! A man was
killed, and the house is said to be haunt
ed.”
“A man was killed?” repeated Neil, his
breath coming quickly. “And who killed
him?”
Before Jennie could make reply, Mr.
Cass, who had been listening uneasily, in
terposed shandy: “Don't talk of mur
ders, Miss Brawn. The subject is not tit
for Christmas. Come and play for Mr.
Webster.”
"Thank you.” the young man said. "I
do not think I can play this evening.
There was a murmur of disappointment,
but Noil was firm. "I am not very well, ’
he said, wearily. “My nerves again.”
“Ah!” remarked Mrs. Marshall, in a
Imw voice. "That comes of going to the
Turnpike House.”
“Hush!” rebuked her brother under his
breath. “Hold your tongue, Inez, and
leave me to deal with this."
As there was to he no music, Jennie and
Mr. Marshall set to work to amuse the
guests, and even Heron took part in the
games. But after a time Ruth declared
that she could play no longer and ab
ruptly we.mi away. Perhaps Geoffrey s re
proachful looks were too much for her
equanimity. At all events she sought the
empty drawing room and sat down at the
piano. In a few minutes she *A r as joined
by Neil.
“Oh! are you here?” she said, coldly
enough. ' ‘What is the, matter?”
“Nothing. I have come to have a few
words with you.”
"It is rather late in the day, Neil. You
were out all the afternoon, and 1 was left
to Mr. Heron.”
"I did not feel well," he said, “but I
daresay you were happy with him.”
“Indeed I was not. Oh, Nell," she mur
mured, looking up at him with eyes shin
ing like stars. “He proposed to me today
and I refused him."
"My darling!” he cried, and chen drew
back, lie was thinking of his dream and
wondering if he had the right to hold this
girl to her engagement. Ruth misunder
stood him and pouted.
"I thought you would be pleased.”
“1 am pleased. 1 want you all to my
self. All the same, perhaps, you would do
well to marry Heron.”
'Then you don’t love me?" she burst
out with wounded pride.
"Rove you!” he repeated, fiercely.
"Heaven knows I love you better than my
own soul. But 1 ‘am beginning to think
that I am not a fit husband for you. My
position is so insecure, my nerves are in
such a wretched state. Then again your
father may object. Indeed, I think he
will."
“Why not ask him before you make so
certain?" c'ried the girl eagerly.
"I will do so tonight, but I tel", you
frankly, I am prepared for a refusal."
“Oh. no, there will be no refusal. I am
sure he will not put any bar between
us. Dear Neil, do not look so sad.
1 am certain all will be well, and we shall
be married sooner than you think."
“Well, it ail depends upon your father."
“Indeed, it all depends upon me.” Then
she rose from the piano. “I f you were a
•tnu, lover. Nail, rtm wou'd not niako
all these objection?. Tf you do not care
for me I shall marry Mr. Heron.”
“Ah! you like him, then?” cried the
young man with a pang.
"T like him. but I—'love you!” whisper
’d Ruth, and dripping a kiss on his fore
head she fled away before he could stop
her.
But when alone again she began to
wonder whether she really did love him.
He was so cold and strange in manner
that he sometimes chilled her. and al
though he persisted in declaring that he
loved her. she could not help feeling that
something had come between them. What
if was she could not think, and his refusal
to explain piqued her. She. after all. had
a right to share his sec-rets. and he de
clined to trust her. She was a very good-
hearted igirt and affectionate, but she
thought a great deal of herself, for flat
tery and adulation had been her portion
all her life. Jennie had divined rightly.
What she felt for Webster was not so
much loye for the man as admiration for
the artist.
“Wait til' he speaks to my father.she
said to herself. “Tf he should consent.
Neil will he once more the affectionate
fellow he was."
That night came young Webster’s op
portunity of speaking to Air. Cass. They
found 'them’elveis a'lon? in the smoking
room somewhere after 11. Mrs. Marshall
had whisked her husband off. intimating
that shp wished to speak to him; and as
a matter of fact she desired to tell him of
her discovery as to Neil’s identity. The
communication, she knew, would not be
a pleasant one for him to hear from his
association with the young man's father.
Besides which, it is not always agreeable
to remember that you have been the
friend of a man who has been murdered.
Heron also left the smoking room early,
so ';he two who were so desirous of speak
ing to each other had their wishes grati
fied.
"You are not in spirits tonight, Neil.”
began the elder man. who always ad
dressed him thus when they were alone.
And why not, seeing that Webster was
his protege?
“No,*' was the gloomy reply. “I do not !
feel satisfied with my position."
fr!-d
Indirectly Caused tlie Death of
World’s Greatest General.
It is a matter of history that Napol
was a gormand, an inordinate
the good things of the table, and hr
further records that his favorite 'to
fried onions; his death from can..,
stomach it is claimed also, was pro "a
caused from hks excessive indulgerici
this fondness for th odorous veget ibi
The onion is undoubtedly a wholesome
article oT food;in fact, has m m / m ■;
qualities of value, j' L would ;•
cult to find a more indigestible artif • 1 n
fried onions, and to maio P* 1
arp simply poison, but the onion ..
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01 food that is not thorough!;
becomes a source "f dise.,>e
fort whether it be fri d onio-
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The reason why any wholesoi food
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others lack hydrochloric acid.
The one thing necessary to do
case of poor digestion i to supply tli
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Dr. Richardson in writing a th< 1
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"Anti why -not? You have found fame ! >ke that,” he said. “Does I;
and money, and—’’
“I know all that." interrupted Neil, "hut
I am thinking of my parents. 1 do not
know wTIo they were."
Mr. Cass was quite prepared for this.
Indeed It was not the first time the young
man had asked him: and his answer now
was the same as he had always made:
“I have told you a dozen times that your
parents were Americans and died in the
states. I knew them intimately, and so
was the means of bringing you to Eng
land. There Is nothing for you to worrv
about."
"Why cannot I recollect my childhood?"
persisted Neil.
“Because you had a severe illness which
affected your memory.”
Then there is nothing in my past that
I need be ashamed of?"
’Nothing, if you mean as regards vour
parents. As to yourself, my dear Nen
your life has been most exemplary 1
am proud of you.”
“Are you sufficiently praud of me to
let me be your son in law?”
tu * Ked at >°nir black mous
tache. I cannot truthfully say that 1
cried. "Thf
My father \\
care for you?”
“Yes; we want to marry—with your c- r.
sent.”
I hat you shall never have.”
“Why not?"
"I don't approve of the marriage. F
your own sake, don't ask the reason."
Nei! Webster started to his feet with i
look of horror. “Ah," he
the dream was true.
•murdered!"
^Mi. ( ass rise also, pale and agitat
“In heaven's name. whu t ..M you that
he cried.
'T dreamt it in the Turnpike House—'
The \eij place,' Mr. Cass said, line
his breath.
Tl was a dream, and yet not a dream
continued Neil. "Mys-rif I believe i- v. ,9
a recovery of the memories which you s
were destroyed by illness. Ah! Now 1
"now why you will not let me marry y ;r
daughter, it is because I am the so'r ff
a murdered man!”
“No," was the deliberate answer. “Y ■ -
may as well know the truth. Your moth- r
is now in prison for the murder of h T
husband—of your father ,..
tT° Be Continued.j