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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 .. stand alone in this respect. ,\- 01 food that is not thorough!; becomes a source "f dise.,>e fort whether it be fri d onio- steak. . , The reason why any wholesoi food liot promptly digested use tl stomach lacks some important m , nf < f digestion, some stomachs lack pepto; others are deficient in gastric julct . st others lack hydrochloric acid. 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C Parsons K 1Oi/s- Wevv Flcctrin MeMoi ■ I wiui^^L L L. cu . RE ' Gl1 ■ ,T home. 1 l -S. Elfrl rlc l « t 1 i»carl>ombicaj; li "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