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denhtitst WTB»7- It WALTER' BLOOMFIELD Coprrirti m br Bonn Inm'i ion CHAPTER IV. Continued. In tills unprofitable occupation t wasted I know not bow long, until, doubting whether I thonld be awake In time to keep the promise I had made to conduct my aunt Gertrude over cur old house-no brief task, for It contained thirty or mote rooms and was a mass to the unlnltlatcd-I hur ried to bed, and was soon in the tor ments of the most chaotic' dream which has otrer disturbed my brain. I beheld gorgeous barbaric palaces set In delightful climes; processions of men magnificently apparelled, of which the principal figures displayed nn amusing profusion of Jewels; vast heaps of gold coins of strange mint age; quaint Jars filled with precious stones which gleamed and sparkled; Und, dimly lighted vaults In which fierce men, bearded and turbahned, were Indicting horrible Indignities on 'defenceless women, strangling some with bows and beheading others with scimitars. These scenes were pre sented to my mind at In a phantas magoria, the last appearing so Intense ly real In Its horror that I shrieked at beholding It, and rushing at a hideous old Turk, who was firmly grasping the hair of a kneeling girl while ho swung his seimltkr aronnd the bet ter to strike her heck, I awoke, bathed in perspiration, and was spared the sclomachlc encounter. The church clock struck four, and the glow In tho- Eastern sky was as yet hut feeble. I was Intensely re lieved to find myself ones more In my usual,framt of mind, amid my usual surroundings. My terror vanished on opening my eyes and discovering my situation; but tha dream bad made an Impression on my mind so deop that I could not dlsengsgo my thougbta from It; neither could I In any way account for It. I had never been subject to oneirodynia, nor bad I recently rend or talked of oriental magniflcenco and barbarity. I was powerless either to account for the dream or to dismiss It from my mind. After pondering the matter for three hours or moro I arose, and dressing myself with tho samo fastidious caro «» on the provlous day—a habit which 1 had resolved to henceforth cultivate —I descended Into the breakfast-room. My father and undo were standing by tho window engaged la earnest conversation, and old John was bnsy nt his sideboard. My nnole at once stepped towsrds me and seised my hand, which he squecscd rather hard er than I considered necessary or com fortable, and having wished me a good morning. Informed me that I bad beon tho subject of his conversation with my father. “I, am afraid you find Holderihurst a very dull pises when you can find nothing moro Interesting to . talk of." 1 remarked. "Not at all, not at all," said undo Bam. 'T will tell you all about It be fore X leave.” "breakfast la quits reedy,” said* my father, “and we may aa well have it at once, although It wants some min utes to eight Mrs. Truman will take 1 her breakfaat In her room.” At this we all three took our seats at tha table. "Why, Ernest, my boy, What baa become of your color?" aeked unde 8am. “Yeaterday yon wero a typical little EngUehmen, hut thle morning you appear as bloodless as a Now Sort dude." I related my dream. Uncle Bam laughed Immoderately et the recital, and pushing hts chair somewhat furth er from tho table, ewayed himself to and fro and roared. My father’s face, too, wore a broad amlle which merged Into a laugh as I proceeded. “Did you read the ‘Arabian Nights' Just before you went to bed}” my father Inquired. v ”‘Arabian Nights!"’ echoed uncle Bam, Interrupting me aa X was about to reply; “why, If he wero In London, X ahould have mid that ha hid been 'to the Alhambra, wltneeeed the ballot, got drunk, and been locked up tor the night Ha, hat I’d give a thousand dollars, tad aup on pork and cucum bers for a mouth, Jf only I might dream that dream." “It stems to please you, Sam,” said my father. - “Xt does. If I had not become an lAmarJcan, X would have exchanged my nationality for that of Turkey or Per sia, my Christianity for Mohammedan ism. Boundless liberty and absolute despotism both appeal to my taste. Besides, they are not so different as some people euppese; extremes meet, you know. The quasl-llberty enjoyed, or the quael-despotlem suffercd-ei- press It which way you wlU-by Eng- Hshmia In England, would be Intolcr- able to me. By-the-by, I'm not the : Truman who has renounced his > nationality, am I, Bob? Dlda’t t old am of an alchemist, who spent ' ra of hla life In trying to 1 from everything that did It, become a Turk?” old Boger,” mid my ~ "Tea, I believe mutt have reverted to Of hie fathers, It not , for be Used many yean in this house after his return from the East, end died here near the close of the seventeenth century.” “Who was Roger Truman?" I asked, looking up, “An ancestor of ours, who, died about two centuries ago. Ho was a younger brother, who left home when be was about your age. After travel ing for some time In the East, he en tered the service of the Bnltan of Tur key, who made him governor of a province. He returned to England, after an absence of many years, and took Up bis residence here, In bis brother’s house. Very little Is known about him. He survived hla brother, but continued to live hero with hla nephew. He lived the life of a recluse, spending all bis days and fomo of bis nights In the crypt underneath tho house, where he had established a la boratory. Ho Used to amuse himself with researches In chemistry. I be lieve some of hts old bottles and things are there now.” It cost me some pains to conceal the great Interest which this Information had for me, and I am not quite suro that tha earneatneta of my attention was unobserved by my ancle. Indeed, I always felt as If that astnte Individ ual had power to tend my thoughts, and was nover quits at my ease la hla presence. However, I adroitly changed the (object of conversation; bnt my thoughts were still of Boger Truman and of what my father bad said of him, and I resolved to open the cop per box which bore his name Immedi ately after breakfast Uncle Barn was a restless man, and would not alt at table for moro than half an hour If bo could Bmently avoid doing ao. He was, of couBe, quite un restrained by the presence of my fath er and me, nnd had therefore no soon er swallowed hla breakfaat than he roie and aaked his brother It he were ready to accompany him on a walk aronnd tho estate; which, be observed, would afford a good opportunity for discussing certain proposals he had to make. My father agreed, and I re tired to my room to open th<f copper box. I had no key to the box; nor would probably a key havo been of any use. for tho lock waa much corroded. By tho aid of a strong huntlng-knlfe and tho exertion of as much force as I could command, 1 prised open the lid, and the whole of the content* fell out oa the floor. To my great disappoint ment, an examination .proved these to consist of several neatly tied bun dle* of manuscript and a manuscript hook, discolored by age and of mouldy odor. Whllo I waa engaged In ex amining these papers with closer at tention than they appeared to be worth, old John entered my room to Inform me that my aunt was waiting In the drawing-room for mo to show her over the house. Carelessly throw ing the box and Its contents Into a drawer, I followed the Servant down stairs. CHAPTER V. BOLDSWHUBST HALL. As soon as I reached the corridor which led from my room to the stair case I perceived my nunt waiting for me on one of the spacious landings which mark each flight—really a room and partly furnished as such, being set out with settees and tho walls adorned with paintings, armor and ancient weapons. She was dressed for walking and wore a tightly fitting dress, which did not reach the ground by two or three Inchea, and a large Gainsborough hat Aa aho stood looking out of the open window, her small gloved hand grasp ing her umbrella while she thought fully tapped her boot with the ferrule, I noted her welt Undoubtedly my a nt Gertruda was very beautiful. It features and figure of classical pro portions, height somewhat exceeding the average, delicate complexion and large eyes,- capable of tender and va ried expression, entitle a woman to he so considered, then my opinion might not be dissented from. She waa regarding the green mead ows which lay at the back of our house—typical Suffolk meadows, inter sected by a shallow stream fringed with willows, and dotted hero and there with red cattle—and was quite unconscious of being observed. In ono particular only was my first Im pression of her changed. I had thought she was about thirty, but It now seemed Impossible that she could bo so old. My auat was too observant of the peaceful English scene before her to notice my approach, and I had to call her attention to my presence by wish ing her a good morning. "I am quite impatient to explore your wonderful old house.” she aald, after we had exchanged the usual for mal greetings, “but pray don't allow me to Interfere with your ordinary dally engagements. Tour uncle and I don't return to London till Monday, so there remain two more days for me at Holdenhurat. Another time will suit me nearly aa well. If you are busy now.” “I am never huay," I wiled, “and I rarely make engagements. I have very few friends, and no enemies—so far as 1 know. Nearly all my time since I left school kas been passed at Holdenhurst - walking and riding about the place and reading and play ing to father," “What la It that you play?” “The pianoforte. I am very fofid <d music, and so la my father.” "You must play for me this evening. I am a poor pianist, bnt some people think I can sing," said aunt Gertrude, I replied that I should be delighted to do so. While this conversation was In pro gress we had walked as far a* the en trance hall, which I thought waa the best place wherein to essay my skill as showman. This hall was a large square apartment with floor, walla and celling of dark oak. Opposite tho great door, and distant from it nbont twenty feet, waa an enormous fireplace with a chimney piece of white marble fantas tically carved, surmounted by a por trait In oils of a red-faced middle-aged man clad In a leather Jerkin, with col lar of prepoaterous width, and a flop bat of inch liberal proportions that an Italian peasant might bare envied It, supposed to represent the founder of my family. He looked little enough like a man who would ingratiate him self with bis king or anybody else, bnt ns I subsequently heard my uncle re mark, It Is probable that Henry VIII. waa a better jndgo of women than men. On the right and left of the fire place Were wide staircases which led up to coreldora. The walls were near ly covered with plcturee, chiefly fami ly portraits, relieved here and there by weapons and deers' antlers hung In various devices. Doors led ont of the hall Into the dining room, library and two parlors or reception rooms, and from these doors to the great entrance door were laid narrow strips of carpet —a highly necessary precaution, for, as some people have painfully learned, a frozen lake is not more slippery than a polished oak Hoot. Indeed, I well re member when I was a yonng boy the amusement I derived from peeping over tha banisters of the staircase to see my father receive hla gnest, the newly appointed Bishop of Norwich. The Bishop was a fat man, Intolerably ceremonious, and with an ever-present consciousness oj his newly acquired dignity, bnt he was unacquainted with the qualities of polished oak floors. Scarcely had this divine crossed our threshold ere he lay on hla back, bran dishing his legs rhythmically In tho air, until restored to perpendicularity by tho united efforts of my father and old John. My aunt wo* greatly Interested In tha pictures, and asked more questions about them than I waa able to answer. Nearly half an hour waa spent exam ining the entrance hall, and I had to state plainly that at this rate of pro gression a day would bo inadequate for the accomplishment of our task, and to suggest that we paid less at tention to each object of Interest. We then wandered Into the library, care lessly turned over the old parchments which atlll lay on the table, and looked at the callgrephy and seals; examined the covers of many books and the tltlo pages of a few—treasures, all of them, such as would excite tho admiration of tha meet phlegmatic of blb|Jograph- eri and move not a few of tho tribo to larceny, Including a perfect first copy of Grafton's Chronicle, copies of Shakespeare's plays printed when their author waa yet writing and acting In London, early copies of Spenser and of most of tho Ellaabcthan dramatists, as well aa many old Bibles, products of the early printing presses of conti nental Europe. Theae hooks, worth, as I afterward learned, nearly aa much money aa tho entire Holdenhurst estate, did not In terest my aunt a* much as I bad ex pected, and we quitted the library and went Into the drawing room. “What a beautiful face and how cleverly painted!” exclaimed my aunt, pausing In front of a portrait by Watts which had the place of honor In our drawing room. "I waa studying It Just before yon came down stairs. Of course It Is your mother. You arc very like her, Ernest." The obvious Inference from my aunt’s sentence, and her use et my baptismal name for tho first time dis concerted me greatly. On many occasions had I suffered from a natural proneness to blushing, but surely my self-consciousness had never been so acute as at this mol mont The blood mounted quickly to my face. I could feel its warmth and realize the absurdity of my aspoct, but was unable to think clearly, and not knowing what to (ay, remained si lent My aunt noticed my confusion and further remarked— Why, I declare, you resemble her more than ever!" > I think my aunt must have repented having caused me so much gonfuston, for she suddenly turned tho conversa tion. and Inquired if any of my moth er’s relations were living. I confessed my Inability to answer this question positively. “My grand-1 father was a very unfortunate man.” I said. “Ho had a large family,, but | lost bis wife and all his children cx- i eept ono before I:o was /' Dlsllk-! lng the home where he bad b./';red so much about live years ago be deter mined to settle In New Zealand, and we have bad the farm be used to oe-: enpy still waiting for a tenant. He wrote to my father to Inform us of bis safe arrival there, but ho has never I written since, and my father’s letters' to him have been returned by the post-, office as undcllvcrablc.” "And what about bis remaining child?" To be continued. Are Lower Animals Really Alive ? by Herbert N. Caaion 0 HE more that scientists study life the less difference do they find between what we call dead things and what we call live things. The latest book on this question Is called “The Compara tive Physiology of the Brain,” by Professor Jacques Loeb, of Chicago University. It Is like most scientific books—hard to read for those who want something exciting. ‘ There are two kinds of book*. Borne are like sandy beaches and some are like gold mines. The sandy beach books ate tor those who like play better than they like work. They amuse yon, and help you to forget your troubles; but after you have got through with them you have nothing left to keep that is valuable. The gold mine books are different Whenever you read one of them, yon have to work hard. You dig up the Ideas out of the long sentences. You break up the big words that stick ont here, and there like rocks. But when your work is over you have some gold left and your mind la stronger beeause of the vigorous exercise. In Professor Loeb’s book there la a chapter on ‘‘Instincta.” which upsets a great many of our Ideas on living things and dead thing*. He says that thou sands of the lower animals are nothing bnt machines. They are not con scious any more than a glam of soda water la conscious. In fact, they are nothing but little bundles of chemicals. Take a moth, for instance. Why does It always fly toward the light? Is it because It Is fond of the light? Does It have an Instinct in favor of bright objects? No, says Professor Loeb. Nothing of the kind. It tarns to the light for the same reason that a pine board will warp If yon leave It ont in the sunshine. It carves In its flight and files into the flame for the tame reason that a plant turns to the sunshine when It stands In the window. It la not true that either plants or moths are fond of light Their likes or dislikes have nothing to do with the matter. They are Just aa helpless as a photograph is when It bends and wrinkles from the beat of a stove. When a moth Is flying at the side of a lamp or electrid light the rays of light tighten up the muscles of the moth on the aide that is nearest to the light and warp It around until it files directly Into the blase. The plants that move toward the sun turn around for the same reaaon. The rays of light tighten up the side of the stem that la nearest to the sun, and slowly the plant swings around nntll It facet the light Its movement la caused by the chemical effect of light. You may have noticed. In the springtime, how the little caterpillars come out of the nest and climb np to the tips of the branches, where the soft yonng leaves are. How do they know that theae leave* are the beat food for caterpillars? And how do they know, wlthont being taught, that these leaves are always at the tips of the branches? They don’t know anything about It, says Professor Loeb. As soon as they come ont of the nest the rays of light from the'sun warp their bodies In snch a way that they cannot help climbing upwards. They are little machines, almost like the tin toys that the peddlers sell on the sidewalks. The instincts of these little moths and caterpillars can be changed. If a bright electric light were to be placed at the foot of every tree that haa caterpillar nests on It the young caterpillars would come marching down the tree to starvation and death. , a These curious Ideas, I hope you will remember, are not fancies or guesses Professor Loeb has examined dozens of moths and dozens of caterpillars and dozens of plants, to find ont why they act aa they do. If yqa think that hie Ideal are absurd, yon can find ont the facts by getting more moths and caterpillars and plants than he has, and j>y studying them more carefully than be did.—New York Journal. , w •‘>*i V ’V ' . The Complete Angler; or, How to Catch a Husband By Nlxoln Grceley-Smlth 0 HUS pse your frog: Put your hook—I mean the arming wire- through bis mouth and out of hla gills, and iu so doing use him as though yon loved him.” So Izaak Walton—dear old bachelor lover of the angler’s art—describe* hla manner of baiting fish. And thus the modern husband-hunter, If she were so In clined, might with equal aptness render an account of her methods of capture. I Of course, the application la not to the particular fish she wishes to make her own. Neither she' nor Walton could put the hook, the arm ing wire, through the fish’s mouth and out hla gills for the very good reaaon that the fish, being a lively and eluitve creature, will not atand for It. Only a slow-going, helpless frog can be thus maltreated. Bnt once the frog la on the wire the fish bites- Now, the complete angler of old time* angled with plain, ordinary, four legged garden frogs. But hla modern and feminine prototype baits her hook and often catches her fish with a two-legged variety—with ‘‘the frog that would a-woolng go”— In other words, the man who wants to marry her, as distinguished from the man she wants to marry. Every woman, no matter bow fine her abstract aense of Justice may be. knows that when a man actually want* to marry her—which does not mtjau the one that her fine art and delicate cajolery have sandbagged Into the passive willingness that leads many estimable citizens to the altar—she can treat him practically as she pleases. And. furthermore, she does It. As a result, when, following Mr. Walton’a recipe for baiting, she puts her hook through his mouth and out at hla gills, etc., be regards the rather painful proceeding aa, on the whole, a pleasing attention. For doea she not, according to the very tetter of the complete angler’s ad vice. “In so doing use him as through she loved him?” To be sure, her gentleness and consideration are due to the effect she know* they will have on the other man. But, then, how does the poor frog know that until, having served his pur pose of’halting, he Is cast aside and It la too late?-New York World. JZ? gr •I am glad,” said Willie’s mamma proudly, “to hear that my little hoy chose to apologize rather than to Oght" “Sure.” replied Willie. “Th*. other til low wu a good deal bigger than me.” I The Duty of Happiness By Helen Keller Helen Keller is the Girl Who Wm Born Demf, Dnrab nail Blind. 0 HE test of all beliefs Is their practical effects in life. If it bo true that optimism compels the world forward and pessimism retards it, tben it is dangerous to propagate a pessimistic philosophy. One who believes that the pain In life outweighs the Joy, and expresses that unhappy condition, only adds to the pain. Schopenhauer is air enemy to the race. Even if he earnestly believed that this Is the most wretched of all pos sible worlds, he should not promulgate a doctrine which robs men of the incentive to fight with circumstance. If life gave him ashes for bread it was his fault. Life is a fair field, and the right will ‘prosper if we stand by our guns. Let pessimism once take hold of the mind and life is all topsy-turvy, all vanity and vexation of spirit There is no cure for Individual or social disorder, except in forgetfulness and annihilation. “Let us eat. drink and be merry,” says the pessimist, “for to-morrow we die.” If I regarded my life from the point of view of the pessimist I should be undone. I should seek in vain for the light that does not visit my eyes and the music that does not ring in my ears. I should beg night and day and never be satisfied. I should sit apart in awful solitude, a prey to fear and dispair. But since I consider it a duty to myself and to others to be happy, I escape u misery' worse than any physical deprivation. The optimist cannot fail back, cannot falter, for he knows his neighbor trill be hindered by his failure to keep in line. He will therefore hold his place fearlessly and remember the duty of silence. Sufficient unto each heart is its own sorrow. He will take the iron claws of drcnmatance in his hand and use them as him alone depended the establishment of heaven on earth.—From “Optimism.” tools to break away tha obstacles that block hla path, Ha will work as if upon TO CLEAN OLD LACE. To clean lace lay It between two sheets of white or bine paper, aprin- kled with magnesia. Shonld this m clean it and washing is necessary, tak# a round bottle with water or rome- thing in to keep it under water. Wind the lace carefully aronnd it and cover with a piece of cheesecloth, plungr into boiling water and let It remain a few minutes, then rinse. Th ® n *f k * ** off the bottle and place right side down on a padded Ironing board- Over thle spread a damp cloth ana press with a. hot Iron. A Bttte wWto ■agar added to the water in which ”* over cloth is dampened will stiffen she lace better than atarcb. When tne lace haa become stained or greasy, put to a bottle of olive oil and let It remain for Several hours. This give* back the soft appearance of new lace. After this yon can proceed .with the boiling: If the lace le too Urge tor the bottle paste emoothly and exact ly on a piece of cheesecloth.—N«w York Evening Journal. * j A CHAPTER ON STAINS. Ink Stilns—Soak In sour milk. If * dark stain remains, rinse In a weak so lution of chloride of lime. Blood Stains—Soak In cold Wit wa ter, then wash In warm water jrith plenty of soap; afterward boll. Grass 8tains-Satnrate the spot thor oughly with kerosene, then pot In the wash tub. Iodine Stains—Wash with alcohol, then rinse In soapy water. Hot Tea and Coffee Stalns-Soak tha stained febric In cold water; wring, spread out and pour a few drops of glycerine on each spot. Let stand sev eral hours, then-wash with cold water and soap. Iron Rust—Soak the stain thoroughlr with lemon Jnice; sprinkle with salt and bleach for several hours In the sun. Mildew—Soak In a weak solution of chloride’ of lime for • several hours. Rinse In cold water. Sewing Machine Oil Stains—Rub with lard. "Let atand for several hour*, then wash with cold water and soap. Scorch Stains—Wet the scorched place; rnb with soap and bleach in the •an. Soot Stains—Rnb the spot with dry cornmeal before (ending to the wash. Fruit Stains—Stretch the fabric con taining the stains over a basin and pour boiling water on the stain. If tho stain hat been fixed by time, soak the article in a weak solution of oxalic add or bold over the fumea of sul phur. Pitch, Wheel Grease, Tar Stains— Soften the etalns with lard, then soak la turpentine. Scrape off the loose sur face dirt; sponge clean with turpentine and rub dry. Vaseline Stains—Saturate the spot with ether and turn a cup over tt to prevent evaporation until the (tain la removed. Use the ether with great care. Grease Spots—Hot water and soap generally remove these. If fixed by. long standing, use ether, chloroform or naphtha. All three of these must be need away from the fire or artificial light. Varnish and Paint—If the stain is, on a coarse'fabric, dissolve by satmr- jitlng with turpentine; use alcohol If on a fine fabric. Sponge with chloroform if a darkening Is left by the turpen tine. Be very cautious not to ose Cither the chloroform or turpentine where there Is a fire or artificial light 1 It la bard for even the housewife of large experience to remember exactly, the simpler agents for removing stains. Here Is a list which will be found use ful to hang In the laundry.—A. C. H. In Detroit Free Press. German Toast—Beat one egg a little; Add half a teaspoonful of salt two tablespoonfuls of sugar and three* fourths cupful of milk; dip pieces of bread in this and brown on both sides on a greased griddle. ‘Serve for lun cheon with a sweet sauce. Eggs and Rice—One cupful of rice, one tablespooofal of butter, six eggs; boll the rice until tender, season while boiling; pour off water, mix the butter, and a sprinkle of pepper; spread oni hot platter, poach eggs and put them on the rice. A few bits of green cel ery leaves or cress will garnish tho dish. Stuffed Tripe—Cut boiled tripe Into strips four Inches wide. Spread with a force meat made with three oupces of stale bread crumbs, half a teaapoon- ful of chopped lemon peel, one tea- spoonful of sweet herbs, two ounces of chopped suet, salt and peppef to season and bind with the yolk of one egg. Roll the prepared strips and tie. Pat them In a baking dish or pan and roam-one and one-half hoars, basting frequently with a little butter and wa ter mixed. Cazarana Cake—Cream three-fourth* cupful Of butter, add two cupfuls of brown sugar, the beaten yolks of two eggs; dissolve one teaspoonful of soda In two-thirds cupful of sour milk; add this alternating with three capfuls of sifted floor;,beat well; add one-third cupful of wine, one cupfnl of stoned raisins, one tesipoonful of cinnamon one teaapoonfol of nutmeg; add a pinch of allspice; when well beaten, tarn Into a buttered cake pan and bake In a hot oven twanty-fiv* minutes. .