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* \ HIE FLOWERS OOI! FCTiON \ V % \ v % f4-\ 0%: \r v.v. » ?T V jCifr HOT i) *9 p0reiS VOLUME XLW-NUMBER FORTY'SIX. Atlanta, Go., Week Ending January 26, 1907. SINGLE COPY 5c. • ••• • • ■•■••••••! • #••’#•••#•••( A Trade in Hearts; A »Story ojf the Mardi Gras !:' -: * . . 1 ' j; Hr •*'*£ By S. T. DALSHEJMER. Written for The SUNNY SOUTH. HOPE you have found this ball free from the monotony of which yon were complaining the last time f met you, for T had almost begun to fear you were growing cynical said Harold Armstrong as he finally succeeded in reaching the side of he beautiful Aliss Alaitlnnd, of New York, who was on - joying her first glimpse of a New Orleans carni- “Cynieal indeed." she exclaimed—"otie migi.: he tin; in New York, where all tilings are so much alike, hut. I can never again associate balls with ennui-this is so different from any one 7 have ever seen before that T am dazed by the glit ter of it. Tim exquisite tableaux, the gorgeous costumes of t he maskers, (lie tier on tier of brilliantly gowned women all combine to give me an impression of fairy land, rather than of actual social hie. If r ever thought a ball tiresome. I never wili again—at least not this sort or a. ball." "Hut do you know." said her com panion. "'this is brilliant but fatiguing, and T hav e come to make you rest a little—let us sit awhile In one of these quiet, boxes—where the real music lovers go to hear the operas, and not to l>e themselves a part of the show." and be fore the girl was able to reply Arm strong was deftly leading her to 'he se- elusiotl of the loge which hr had so well described. The giv! gave a little sign of comfort as she sank back into the low cushioned seat. "This is nice." sh< said, “and I believe 1 do need re :. T have dance 1 everything since 10 o’clock, and now it Is long after midnight. Have you just conic, Air. Armstrong?” 0—9--9:-9-—9:-9-*9:-9 9• "I have been iiere some little time, but have only just been able to find you. was tin reply, for such small prevarica tions as ibis arc n. part of the game at carnival balls, where the identity of the masked hosts is always shrouded in mystery. Of course, Aliss Maitland <iid not understand all this, at . she had fel a trifle chagrined, that during the en tire evening Harold Armstrong had no once appeared. Yei he had told her so much of these bails and bad promised her so much enjoyment at this particular one. that his apparent desertion of iter annoyed her mor> than she would con fess. Hut any New Orleans girl could have whispered o her that the quaint and anonoymous "call out" cards which had reached her at intervals during the past week, might have been attributed to Harold Armstrong's influence. "Might have he.-n, mind you. for nobody could be sure of these matters." Nothing loth to change the subject of his apparent defection. Armstrong now leaned toward the girl and remarked: “What a glorious collection of souve nirs you have surely your masked part ners were even more than usually gen erous:" "Indeed they won--too generous, and there were s<i many of them. I had only invitations in advance from four lie regular number of dances, you know. !>u>t once on the floor 1 had to divide each dance, and 1 have a glittering re minder of each partne r." “Suppose you call them trophies. for each one means a captured heart yon know," laughingly suggested her com panion. “Oh: no they don't—possibly just a captured fancy, but even that is pleas- aii't, I think. Sec this urious carved dead in (black- ft wits given me by a same prince. I wonder if I am to remember him by the color of Ills souvenir? Hut there are lots of others where that plan would not work. Here is a silver elephant, and here a cluster of enameled pansies, with lots of other pins and bracelets All of them are. of course, just sot with mock gems, except this one. T.ook at. it M r. Armstrong i : i a . k train you? I know real jewels are seldom given, and T have horn worried about this one ever since T took it. an Clarice held toward the v.-iing man a dainty moonstone heart set round with sparkling stones of suspicious bril liancy. ■9 — 9:-9-*-9-'-9:-9:‘9-.-9 If he handsome face bent down to take the pin flushed a little, the loge was too faintly lighted to make it no ne,.at,),.. and after a hasty glance Har old returned the pretty trifle to its own er with an air of assumed carelessness as ho said: "I am no judg ( , of such tilings, hut what does it matter any way? It is all right at a Alardi Gras null.” No. it isn’t—T do not like to take val uable jewels even anonymously, atifl l do wonder who gave me this? It is lovely. 1 confess, but " “Now, .Miss Maitland, surely you are not going to let tliis simil your pleasure—that would lie too bad, and you must enter into the spirit of (Ids give and take happy-go- lucky affair—every body does, you k now." "The girl- here have t.,1,1 me that real jewels ..re only given by real lovers, and I haven’t any idea who gave u o tills but lie was an interesting fellow. He said —and as she paused, Armstrong bent toward her o •< e u ore and inter rupted her "Well, what did he say—woo be different from the others in inj way?” A es, he was different—lie was less ready to say pretty meaningless things, and vet it.- seemed desperately in earn est—somehow, I cannot explain, but the whole atmisphere here was different with 1 in." said <'I n ice, in a meditative voice. "How ’different'—what did he say—do t<‘il me?" questioned Armstrong. “Oh: no l ifon't tell—under the mask nothing said ever means anything, and liow could much he said or meant Seri- 0, sly. in the glare of a thousand lights and in the blaze of twice is many eyes? Took, here comes the queen; isn't she lovely?” and both young people leaned over the box rail to watch tile stately procession wind its way up the broad aisle which bad speedily been made by the persons on the floor of the opeia house or ball room, as it was on this oc casion. A silence followed the appearance *f the queen, for I'larioo seemed realty tired and the young man hes'de her seemed struggling with some speech he foopr, t hard to make. At length the girl sighed as site murmured: "Well, this is the end of the season; Lent begins tomorrow and 1 mi going home the day after. This , sji has all been so pleasant—so charm ingly unique that New York will seem dull enough.” "Will you really he sorry to go? M ill m -T ACgiiv- St- pS.Sii? A Typical Scene at New Orleans During Carnival Time. v<*i: mis? your lirionds here as they v.ill T< 11 me Miss ^Iaitland, Clar- r-e, will you miss any one in particular?’* and Harold Armstrong 1 could scarcely nonreal the impatience with which he wailed for the gjiTs reply. At length she said: “Of course I will ad s you all. Aunt May lias been f*o £•» i t<> me, and- U i.- foolish, hut I shall hate to go without ever knowing more • <ut the masker who gave me the* love- oarM A man 1 am never to know, into • ' •. . lot hoi I. iny fancy, anyhow.” “Not exa tly that he and all those fel- Jov.> were men who have met and who know you, and whatever he said he meant. T am sure. Tie will say it again, too, and in his own proper person/* said Harold, with conviction. “I wonder if he will?’* the girl said soft ly. “Would you like, to hear him—have you really no idea who he is?” questioned her companion. “Of eourse not; have you?” and then a. light suddenly dawned on Tier— “Mr. Armstrong,” she said, “tell me who that masker was—you must know— do tell me/* “Why?” he demanded. “So that T may return the heart to him * T cannot take, it. much as 1 hate to part with ;i/‘ she inswa »;d s-tca HI • “Vm you know the man who gave it to me?” *‘J know one man who would give you 1 heart—who has been anxious to give you one ever since he first saw you—I can tell you who ho Is; shall T?” But this question was put so tenderly that the girl was eager to lead the talk into a safer channel. In her haste 5 hc said: “1 wish l could give something in ex change for the jewel—I'd feel better then." With a happy little laugh t;:* man ex claimed: “Oh! you can. t’laricc, my dar ling; you an give vour own—will you?** The light in the loge seemed 1 for n moment—the music sound away and the ball room flom most deserf- d when Miss Mcitla companion hid not noted t time, for on the faces of be look of complete forgetful! roundings which the experieiu at once; while mingled in th the girl’s fair neck glowed the jewels around a crystal heart. The l^ich Mans Answer C6 By ANNE ONNE. )I' see. ' said the black mailer decidedly. “I have you in my power." The rich man shifted tin- easily in bis seat, so that 1i;p fare was thrown into deeper shadow, but he made no reply. "Yes." continued the the blackmailer, "it just amounts to this. You come iiere. as if you had never seen .the place before, fig uring as Air. 'Robert W. Harrison, the great Americon million aire; you buy Irvingstonc park, and think you're a county gentleman, and your gild comes over from her Paris school and appears as Aliss Harrison, of tiio park, the great American million aire's daughter." "\\ ho says T am not a millionaire?" interposed the rich man. His face was still in he shade. "Oh. no. Mr.—er—Harrison: No one says you are not that. 1 took care to make sure of that before r came here.' “Then what do you want?” "Merely a little share of vour property Air. Hob Wilde." He who was known as Robert Harri son started violently; for a moment his face came into the bright glare of the reading lamp on his study table, and there was on it a look of unmitigate l astonishment. “You know that:" he cried. Then in another voice: “Well, what of It? T took Harrison for business purposes, and it is legally my own now.” “Well,” pursued the blackmailer in smooth tones, helping himself from a box of cigars on .the table as ho spoke, "call It business purposes if you like. For the present, we can drop Mr. Hob Wiide, but"—drawing his chair nearer and speaking in an Impressive whisper— “what about that robbery in the hank at Carberton, on November 15. some thirty years ago?” "You know that, 'too? Yon know— that?” "T know you are (he man who ab sconded with three hundred pounds of the hank funds that night, and that it's not too late now to tell the whole story ;o tiio police, or for you to be arrested for it.” "Don't—don’t be liar 7 on me." pleaded the rich man in a faltering voice. "Hard on you!”—with o confident laugh—"T like that. Now. T look upon you as my little bank, and X intend you to help me.” "And if I refuse?” "T’ben goodby to Mr. Robert Harrison, of the park, and enter Air. Bob Wilde, the bank thief.” "Have you no mercy?” pleaded Afr. Harrison pathetically. "Who are you? ITow d'T you find all this out? T have never seen you before.” “You’d have seen me dozens of times before If you had kcp‘ your «*'os open. You sec. T work at Williams' tlie sad dler’s in the Highstreeb Carberton. I've b< on there a good many years now. slav ing away at a miserable two pounds a week; but. naturally. I've always been °n the lookout for something he ter. Weil, in >the attic at tile top of the house there's a lot or old boxes, been there goodness knows how many years. I soon found keys to tit. and after going through a lot of musty old clothes and hooks, i came <>n a bundle of ancient letters from old Wiliiam's brother in Americ a. Well, of course. 1 sat down 'to rea l them.” "Of course," murmured the millionaire faintly. "In the very first letter T opened I lead, I do believe I saw Bob Wilde, who robbed Hie Carberton bank, in the streets iiere last week.’ Further on. in another letter—but iiere. 1 needn’t tell yon how I ferreted it all out; but in the end I made out that Hob Wilde and Robert Harrison are the same person, and you’ve owned it now.” "Well, if I give you five hundred pounds—” The man burst into a loud, rough laugh, which he instantly sniothere "Five hundred!" lie said scornfully, "I want five thousand.” "Impossible." “Oil. is it? Just think it over, Rob, my friend. What about your daughter?" “All!" burst from behind Robert Har rison's hands, in a sudden groan. "Ah: I thought ‘that would rouse you. Here's Aliss Molly, you see. engaged :o the son of Sir John Brandon. Whit about that engagement if 1 go and tell Sir John who Air. Robert Harrison is? “Enough!” cried the millionaire. “Enough: I give in. But I can’t give you the money now. Come tomorrow night, or stay—I've a dinner party, to morrow—say the night after." "No, I won't. I'll say tomorrow, it suits tno bet ter." IT. People were always willing to come to one of Air. Robert Harrison’s dinners. This evening’s party had been no excep tion to the rule. .No one was anxious to shorten the evening, but at last one or •two prepared to say goodby. "I want to lteg you all to stay a little longer.” said the host. "1 have a little surprise, a—a—kind of entertainment. Will you all follow me?" They all trooped after him to the mil lionaire’s study. Folding doors, covered on the study side by thick curtains, sep arated the room from another. These doors had been opened tonight, but the curtains still draped the opening, and opposite to them chairs had been placed. Smiling rather oddly, the host disap peared into the study, and carefully drew the curtains together behind him. Then the door into the study from the outside was heard to open, and a man's voice said jauntily, “Well, Bo >. Here T am, you see. Now then, where’s the tin ?” Was that Robert Harrison’s voice that answefTd ij a cringing, wheedling man ner. “Certainly. Mr. Gregson—of course —only, won't you reconsider it? Do—do let me off.” whined the rich man's voice, and the other took up the strains mock ingly. “Let you off? Oil. yes, T* 11 lc; you off—when I've done with you. Pay up or take the consequences." “Is your mind quite made up?" ATr. Harrison seemed *• > lie walking about the room as lie said this. "Quite, you thief, you miserable rob ber: Pay me my X!5,..uO or I'll tell the whole neighborhood that you are the man who robbed the Carberton bank t.nrty years ago." "Then tell them now!" rang' out in he millionaire's deepest tones as lie dashed the curtains back, revealing "ail iite neighborhood’’ in various attitudes of astonishment. The blackmailer stood holding to die hack of bis chair, the picture of bewil dered rage. "It's just this!" panted the blackmailer. “He's a thief! He left Carberton thirty years ago.” "Quite true!" said Air. Harrison smoothly, taking up the tale. “1 left Carberton thirty years ago—ran away, in l'cet. At .the same time £300 of tHe hank money disappeared. T did not know i* at the time. T heard of it more than a. year afterward The fellow clerk who was tlie tiiief knew himself to lie dying of consumption, and he wrote to me and confessed what lie had done and how e had always allowed me to lie blamed for tile theft. The money had been gam bled away almost at once. He told me :o show the letter, if I must, after lie was dead, hut begged me, if 1 could, to lie generous for the sake of the young wife lie was leaving. I destroyed the letter and simply adopted the name of Harrison. I had run away simply be cause 1 was tired of my life in tlie hank and longed for wider fields. This is my story. T can only ask you to believe it: I cannot prove it.” “Rut T can!” said a voice from the l.i a* ''ground. All turned in astonishment. It was Mrs. Cartwright. Deadly pale, and trembling very much, slio stood facing •them all. “The thief." she said slowly, "was my first husband, James Trevor!” ".Mrs. Trevor! Ts it possible? And 1 did not recognize you!” "1 did not recognize you. Robert, you have changed so much, or T should not have kept 11 ic secret as I have done. It lias weighed on my mind all these years; but you hod disappeared, and I thought it could not matter. Before James died Tie wrote on* a full confession and signed it 'before witnesses. 'Tf ever Robert iff in trouble for want of it you car; pro duce it then.' he told me. T have kept it ever since. Forgive me—I—" Every one began shaking hands at tills point, ox or tv. to the general surprise. Sir John Brandon. He stood immova ble all this time, with his eyes fixed on the features of Robert Harrison, and an unreadable, somewhat nu-zled expression on his own face. Albert Gregson. still holding to the back of a chair, had been almost forgotten, but he had one. more earl left. “Sir John!" lie cried in a high, sharp voice. "Sir John Brandon! You don’t know who this man is whose daugh’er your son is going to marry. You don’t know. T say. Why. you knew liim well as a boy—lie’s just Bob Wilde, the son of your father’s keeper!" The rich man turned and faced “the •proudest man in the county” with a Sanctuary 99 By EDITH BVEEE. T is not so very long since lloiyrond abbey precincts wore deprived of their an cient privilege of sanctuary. In the twentieth century people yet live who have themselves sought refuge from creditors withn the magic circle surrounding the grim old Scottish pai- Also, people yet remem ber the fuss caused by the death of the childless earl of Glen Luce. No less titan five claim ants contested the succession; public in terest ran high. More than one of the litigants was ruined. There was Sir John Rutherford, who claimed through the marriage of the. first, earl; Major Griffith, wiio de scended from the Lady Atargaret’s ill- advised match—both tiiese were reduced to their Inst penny. rt was sir John Rutherford whose chance seemed to be gaining as time passed on. An old Indian K, (?. B., he was too well used to ttie buffetings of fortune to talk much about the matter; but his daughter. Marcia, saw that lie snapped her up less viciously when he overheard her discussing the Glen Luce claim with her brother. He had played the game pluckly. Could he last out to the end? "It is either Glen Luce or Holyrood." his son Ned remarked, in a jocular tone. Marcia, whose sporting instinct was un developed, looked gravely at him, and then turned to Ids friend, Captain Chris topher Haig, who was spending a short leave in their home in Edinburgh. “I wish.” said she. “that the old earl had never died at all. We were quite happy before this terrible fuss burst over us!” "Nonsense!” her brother cried. “You’ll be as proud as punch when the pater takes his place among the bigwigs, and you go sweeping to the top of a room in the wake of the countess of Glen Luce!” Captain Haig, with a folly lie himself condemned, lingered long in Edinburgh— singeing liis wings, until lie was actually losing the power to fly away. He smile that lit tip his plain, strong face. “Master John?” he said softly. "Old Boh!" shouted Sir John, dashing at him and overturning two chairs, "it is! It is! Aly dear, dear old Bob!”—he was shaking both hands at onee now— “to 'think I never knew you all this time’ Oh, Bob! liow often I’ve wonder ed about, you! The times we had when we were boys!—and you never told your oldest friend! Here, where’s that black mailing scoundrel Gregson? I’m a mag istrate. I'll ileal with him: ’ “Why, lie’s gone!” said a chorus of voices. And he had. ltecer to be heard of again. thought Marcia adorable. Had it not been for that hideous earldom business lie would have proposed to her weeks ago. lie had pretty fair prospects- -a decent little place of his own in Berwickshire, an ancient name, and a clear record to lay at her feet. Enough, perhaps, for Sir John Rutherford, but ridiculous to mention to the earl of Glen Luce! Chris topher Haig grew more and more down hearted as the legal horizon seemed gradually to clear. Long before August came It seemed pretty certain who would have the right of shooting the Glen Luce moors. “You will be back with us for the twelfth old man?" Edward Rutherford said to his friend some time in June. “I think not—no!” Haig answered gloomily. “The fact is. Ned, I’ve stayed here too long!" "Marcia ?” Haig shrank from the rough touch on the raw wound. “Say rather my own laziness,” he said, lightly. "I've not had much of a home, as you know, Ned; and T’ve stayed in yours till it is a wrench to he off and away. Sure sign I've been here tno long. T must go on Monday!” Go lie did. But when he saw iti the papers the conclusion of the Glen Luce affair It startled him strangely. The Morning Post announced that the earl and countess of Glen Luce and Lady Marcia Rutherford had left Edinburgh for Uielr house In 'Hill street. The Times had a leading article on the great ease, in which it recalled the facts of many other ‘causes celebres.” Society rang with the story. Captain Haig’s congratulations went by the next post. An<L once more he said how sorry he w4s that lie was prevented from running down to Scotland'. Edward was piqued. “I can’t think what has happened to the fellow’!" lie said to his sister. “If he thinks the title and the few acres of country are are go ing to change us all—rot. I call it!" Marcia made no answer. But iter brother had quick eyes. "Marcia! You don’t mean to tell me he has said anything to you?" “No. no! What nonsense, Ned! Oh, Ned. he never will say anything—now!" The cry came from her heart. And Ed ward. though young and inexperienced as to the ways of women, could not but recognize the pain in it. “Tell me. dear—” “There is nothing to tell. Nothing! There never will he anything, it seems. Ned, his name Is In the Gazette today. He has exchanged to the Rifles and is off to the front!” Yes, here it was in black and white. Haig had exchanged into a regiment bound for the Indian frontier, where one of our “little wars” was then in full fury. The affair was beyond Edward’s wits to disentangle. He ran down to Aldershot to see his old comrade, but by tacit consent neither man mentioned Marcia. Lady Glen Luce ha«l written the kindliest of farewells. course, made I low Marcia, could she? And so Captain Ilni'-r and Edward part- el—the former to sail for Tndia in a week or so, the latter to return tm his new position. It was ail very delightful. The shoot ing parties were voted great successes— good sport, well-chosen company, and tlie added interest over the Glen Luce folk, who were celebrities in their way. All Britain had been interested in the claims, ail Britain was prepared to be gracious to the successful ones. It. was close on Christmas when the bolt fell from the blue. The- Lo.Y m house had been refurnished: its now own ers were planning for a season in town. The dear old Edinburgh home already seemed shrunk and shabby to eyes that had opened on the magnificence of Glen Luce. A vague rumor, too insignificant to cause serious concern, suddenly became fact. A Scotch marriagf—one of those elusive apparitions that still flit over the legal horizon—bad been proved. A raw lad 'front Australia arrive,i in London. He had been born and bred on a sheep- run; lie had the physique of a prize fighter and the education of a plowman. But he was the true and undoubted Earl of Glen Luce! Sir John Rutherford. K. C. B., was only Sir John then, after all! There was no countess, no Lady Alarcia; and as for Edward—could he afford to keep his commission. Debts, whole battalions of them, seemed to the Rutherfords the only abiding remains of the earldom of Glen Luce. There was Sir John’s pension; there were his savings, and the little invest ments he had made for his wife ami Alarcia. He totaled them up. and tried to balartce debts. Time—would they only- give him time! He would seek lodging In Holyrood. Liv ing there safe from fear of arrest, he would work, if work could he found, and save up every farthing to pay off those debts. Edward would find some post or other and back him up in the battle. No shilly-shally bankruptcy, and wriggling out of liabilities by raying so many shil ling's in tlie pound, ’rite debts were just debts, an,] .should be justly paid—every’ single penny. And so it came to pass that the Ruth erfords found themselves in rooms in the mean little streets that were the actual nineteenth century rendering of the pic turesque old right of sanctuary of the precincts of tlie Abbey of Holyrood. Ed ward sent in his papers and accepted a berth in a city counting house. Sir John had tried to retain a few favorite pos sessions for his wife and daughter, but they insisted on sharing his struggle and making sacrifice of all, even as he had done. Alarcia had determined to turn her talent for drawing to account. She had found a market Tor little water color Continued on Last Page. is ?i! a r/%