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I t, 1.: TIU TH OF THE MATTER, „1 her graceful hand to me, I and " odded H,H 1 I An 'n, poor and low deffree; ■ l’® r wjth lhe proudest set la classed. 1 , , Pt she waved her hand to me— I hand, which scores have vainly sought— I yea flushed, perchance to see Ii .visaed on and heeded not. B Th f 1 > i Vberk some would do or die, Vt ", ftlll not as olhera are. krW v , ( | ,mr hand; no heed took I, B nih'il on my bobtail car. I —Life. lIEfITHEBOPER. B y WALTER BESANT. 1 . ,ol had not written my an- I , -i, i's sweet letter. The reason S 1 j I red my words would prove 1 \ id; compared with his noble 1 ;i : ,<1 I was afraid besides that I : ii say would offend or disap i R ": , What maiden but would have I- ■ . Yet this business with Bj • | ;.;e resolve to lose no time, I * . ioiisly to consider what I I •; i ly to the long Matter which fj .... ijn ; v bosom and read daily. In B , undisturbed, 1 carried paper 1 • > tie fugleman’s room at the I ' wi .ie my letter in the after j . .cr I could snatch an hour I, vd; !;. What was I to say in many tender protestations ■ t j ; And how was I to speak of ■ ii W said the fugleman, “that i., a villain. Last Tuesday week .. n i tn to Coldstream—lace and B, v “Athew stood in and found the BL u j, ,, V.-t hois a villain.” ■ \, ; ,v!iabout yourself?” I asked. I for me.” he said, “I'always said fciat , c !he I) >y got his foot on -the low- BLniiiu it would not be long Vie fore he pJ ~i {ho top of the ladder. Half way Ip u; •he is, I reckon, by now. So a t i i-i:i sot surprised to hear of his Li foim.a.o, and only wish I was young mi -h to b<' liis fugleman. Tell him ;a t first if all. But Mathew is a villain, ext vou may say that I’m well arid mrtv, and likely to continue in the way grace, such being my constitution and v habits. Mathew, his cousin, is a operate villain. Tell him that. You ay toll him next that if he still re -let h eggs I have got such a collection r him us can’t be matched. As for athew, he is a rogue and a villain, sh, tell him. are plentiful this year, and tors there be in plenty. Yesterday I appo 1 a badger, and 1 know of a marten iposite the hermitage. The birds are Lid, but 1 had good sport with his orsliip last winter, and hope to do sorae limrbv myself when the nights draw But. Nay next that I send him my faith flul respects ami humble good wishes; and Blatheu is a \ illain. And &s for your own [Brett y self, you sit down .and tell him that Merc isn’t a straigliter maid, nor one more Beautiful, on the banks of Coquet; while, Bb for eyes and shape and rosy lips” I "Indeed,” I cried. “I shall tell him no Bdi nonsense. No, I will not tell him Bach nonsense. Y . *, "Why. he loves tliee, sweetheart. Say ■.child, to please him, so lonely he is, ■id so lur away from us. I wish ho hod BLpicture just now, with the pretty IWp s on the cheeks and all. A girl Hp to be proud for such as him to fall Hi ve with her.” I "Is he truly in love with me?” I said, Bin tear.', coming into my eyes, because Bv tin:t the words were spoken I know By well how much I longed for that By thing. “Why, lie says he wishes me B Driness with my husband. As if I could any husband hut Ralph.” here—there,” lie cried, “tell him Tell him that, and it will make him •y and bring him home.” fou think such a little tiling as that hi bring him home?” There's one tiling, ” said the old man, ieh women can never understand, and ’s the strength and power of love, re wes a man in Lord Falkland’s regi t—but 1 cannot tell thee all the story, iv was a young gentleman in the rteenth, when we were stationed at \ in love with a Spanish ladjr— B‘ ' ‘at another time. What did si idler care that he got COO the next And as for the young gentleman, fould have done the same—and always S(> —k another dozen of duels was to ’’ alter it, and him to bo pinked in v one. Cheerfully he would have Ahe same for such another charmer, tv would, and more; but women never ■erstand." k'ii these mysterious words did he en r: hA‘ me as to the force and vehemence r J h' men of the passion called love. jtVialph was only home again, we have a protector. 1 thought of i|i' an t hesitated no longer. Yet it was ttmaaidenly tiling which I did, and to ’tt y I uia uncertain us to whether I ' just ified by all the circumstances. It ’’ Asides, a dangerous thing to do, be l am convinced that nothing more e ‘ ,;!y turns aside the fancy of a man U V.(,mail—which is a delicate and ten 11m . even at its strongest —than the 1 but she is lacking in the raod ■li: 1 Reserve which are the choicest t ’' ICs bf a maiden. Yet I ran that dan h I imperiled the most precious . ! u;e in all the world, the heart of ‘p\’h. But there is a time to speak, V Us time to keep silence. Wliat I J w as this; Ralph—l have now received and tor, and I thank you for it with 'veil. My father hath lost all in u. imd is now returned to his native ’ v “ are, therefore, poor indeed, and ’’ uothmg to live upon except the an l . ' ii; h he long ago bought for my who fails* daily; when she , ’’ 11 have nothing. Also, my ‘■ < r * s afflicted with a strange beliof I "' is rich. This makes us unhappy. !i th spread abroad a report that 11111! is las, and not yours at all, by second will, which nobody has j • A himself. I fear that you will with your cousin. Tliefuglo jj., 1 " v,; il and hearty, and bids me tell I set forth as many of the could remember. “As re t of lil / Self ’ * ie kade me say many things riis kind heart, for he loves lcm but l must not write them down. My dec i Ralph. do not say again that you want me to have a husband I shall never marry any husband nor love any man, ex cept yourself, if you still continue to love me. Indeed, there is no moment of the day —if you will not think me unmaidenly to confess this thing—when you are out of my thoughts, and I pray night and morning for your safety and sj>eeily return. Ma thew has asked me to marry him, and is angered because I refused. He has spread abroad reports that you arc now a high wayman. Will you come back to us, dear Ralph? lam in great sadness, and I am afraid that Mathew- means some mischief. Yet I would not mar your fortune by call ing you away from the work you have in hand. Mathew threatens me with re venge, and Barbara, his sister, bids me read passages in the Holy Script ures which threaten woe to sinners. I am afraid what they may do. though I cannot think that they can do us any evil. It makes me unhappy to think that any can believe here that you have be * e a highwayman Yet I keep your letter A ret, and no one knows where you are. The fugleman says that a villain must have rope enough to hang himself. Ah, Ralph, if you coaid come back to us. But the quiet country would be tedious to you after your splen dors and the pleasure of an active life. But whether you come home or whether you stay, you must always believe that i am your loving Dkusilla. “P. 8. —I forgot to beg that you may not take it ill that I have written these words. For, indeed, you maybe married, emit least in Jove, with one more worthy onan myself. Audit that is, so, I wish both her and you many years of happiness and love, and shall only ask her to let me iovo you still as my brother. How can Mathew presume to court a girl who has known Ralph!” CHAPTER VIII. IS IT TRUE? * Now was Mathew pulled asunder with a grievous doubt and anxiety. For not only might his enemy, as he considered him, appear at any moment to demand a strict account, but lie knew very well that if lie pushed on liis suit or attempted any deviltry with us, I might send for Ralph and ask his protection. Yet could my story be true? llovv could I know, and I alone, of liis welfare and the place 'of his dwelling? Was it possible, lie thought, that such a secret, if there wits any secret, should be intrusted to the keeping of a mere girl? If the boy was really doing well, why did he not return on his twenty-first birthday and claim his inheritance? So that the more lie thought about it, the more he tried to persuade himself that the thing was false. And yet he w-as afraid; I could see that lie was continually haunted by the fear of what might happen. He sought me often and begged for information concerning his cousin. Next, lie tried my father, but his memory as regards the lad was quite gone; and my mother, but she took no in terest in the subject, aud said she knew nothing about the boy for her part. “Yet,” said Mathew, “your daughter pretends to know- where lie is and what he is doing.” “Then,” replied my mother sharply, “Lord help the man! go and ask my daughter.” “But she will not tell mo.” “Then how can I? Hark ye, Master Mathew; you come here too often My daughter hah given you her answer. She bears no love to you; she will have none of you. Go, then, and leave us alone. Wo are poor enough, God knows, but not so poor as to thrust husbands on o nr girl against her will. Leave us to ourselves, good man, and find another wife.” After this, Mathew remained quiet again for three or four months. That is to say, he came no more to the house. So great, and reasonably great, w*as my suspicion of him that I was certain h" w'ould do something to revenge himself upon me, or to get me in liis pow-er. Ynt I know' not—l could not guess—what h • would do, or in what way he could injure me, as if the machinations of wicked irien can ever be suspected and guarded against; as if the head of him who is desperately wicked may not conceive, yea, and exe cute tilings which an innocent girl would believe incredible. The first alarm was caused by a. visit from Barbara, who came to see my mother and myself, together or separately. She said she was a messenger from her brother, who, whatever I might say or think, was the most forgiving and the most long suffering of men; that he was perfectly prepared, if I would make submission, ask pardon for the injurious things I had said, and reveal what 1 knew of Ralph, viz., where he was living, w-hat lie w-as doing, and what were his inten tions; to pass over all, and to take me once more into favor. “Good Lord!” said my mother. “Does the man think he is the Great Bashaw? Favor, indeed!” “Beggars,” said Barbara, “must not be choosers.” At these w-ords my mother flamed up, and asked Mistress Barbara many ques tions relating to her birth, parentage, wealth, religious professions, personal beauty, and so forth, leaving her no time to answer any. This is, witlr respect to the memory of a kind parent, a manner of speech common among women—even w-ell bred city madams when they are angry. Finally, slie said that there had been quite enougli said about Mathew's proposals, and that lie was to understand again,*and once for all, that they were distasteful; upon which Barbara coughed, and said that she had delivered her message, that she had no desire, for her own part, for the alliance, wdiicli w-ould as certainly be as distasteful to herself as it w-as to Mrs. Hetherington, and more so, for her brother had a right to look for fortune, which w-ould be of much more use to him than a baby face; that she was surprised, being a messenger of peace, and sent by a man of substantial estate, as all the world know, to be thus treated by folk who were ex pected shortly to come upon the parish, and the daughter to be glad of honest ser vice and a crust. But enough said. “Hoity toity!” cried my mother. “This is brave talking, indeed, from plain millers and simple farmers. Is the world going upside down?” Barbara went away, but returned a little before Christmas. Mathew, she re- peated, was of so Christian a disposition that he was still waiting for submission ami to know w-here the boy was to be found. She also held out her skinny finger in warning, and when I laughed and re fused either to make submission or to tell where Ralph was living, she bade me tremble, aifd read the first chapter of the book of the Prophet Joel, applying verses four to twelve to my own case, especially the last clause, which on investigation proved to be a prophecy that joy should wither away from the sons of men. I laughed again, but I confess that I was disquieted. What consequences? I was soon to discover that the woman used no idle threat, though I believe that she did not herself know anything of the abomi nable plot which Mathew contriving for our destruction. * This, l say, was just before Christmas. We passed the'season of festivity in com fort. t hanks to a gift from Mr. Carnaby of a noble sirloin and some bottles of good wine for my father; but on Twelfth Night my grandmother, who had become very feeble of late, suddenly showed signs of impending change. This w-as a trtily dreadful thing for us, not only for the loss of a good and affectionate parent* which those w-lio have faith ought not to lament, but because at her death w-e should lose even the .small income which we had, and there w-ould be nothing but the housri. It was with despairing looks that my mother and ' 1 sat by her bedside all that night. .In the morning she died, having been speechless for some hours; but, as happens often with the dying, she rallied just before the endp and recovered for a moment the pow-er of speech. “Child,” she whispered to me with her last breath, “thou hast been a g#od child. The Lord will reward thee. Be of good hope, and never doubt that the boy will return to be thy protector and thy guide.” After her funeral I asked my mother if she had any money at all. Slie told me that on leaving London some of their oh 1 friends made* up between them a purse of a hundred guineas in memory of old times, but after payment of their small debts and the cost of the journey from London, she had the stun of fifty-five guineas put. by for unforeseen wants-r --tbat w-e must live on this money as loug as it lasted, after which she supposed w r e must starve. Fifty-five guineas! Why it would last us a year and a quarter at least with pru dence. Fifty-five guineas! It w-as a little fortune to us. It would keep us until I got a letter from Ralph. Where upon I told my mother to be of good cheer and to w-ait' patiently and hope for the best. She sighed, being never a woman of sanguine disposition, and ignor ant of those secret springs of happiness within me which made me think lightly of present poverty. And now you shall hear a plot of dia bolical wickedness, which for the time was successful. We all know that for a season sinners are sometimes permitted to compass tlieir own designs, but for their surer undoing in the end. Two days after the burial of the dame, at a time w hen we might be supposed to be overwhelmed by the calamity of being JiTt destitute, Matliew came to tlie cot tage. He looked ill at ease, and Ills eyes met mine shiftily, but he spoke out with boldness, while he produced a leather pocket book and turned over certain papers wdthin it. “I have come, madam,” he said address ing my mother, but looking at m~, “to inform you or your husband—it matters not which—that I can no longer w-ait for Hie interest on the principal of my money, and that you must be prepared to pay, in take the consequences.” “What interest? What money?” asked my mother. “Why,” he affected great surprise, “is it possible that you are going to deny the debt?” “What means the man?” my mother said impatiently. “Nay,!’ said Mathew, smiling, but look ing like a hangdog villian the w-hile. “this passes patience. I mean, madam, my loan to your husband.” “What loan?” she repeated; “and w-hen?” “Why.” said Matliew, “if you pretend not to know, 1 am not obliged to tell you; but since . Well, I will tell you: I mean this, madam; the sum of two hun dred pounds advanced by me to your R is band, for which, and in security, ho hath assigned me a mortgage on this house. ” My mother was quite wise enough to know what was meant by a mortgage. Slio asked, but with pale face, where was his mortgage. Matliew unrolled a paper and laid it on the table. My mother read it through hurriedly. Then she sank back in her chair and covered her face with her hands, saying: “It is true, my child. Here is thy fa ther’s signature. This is tlie last blow.” pi ipggi “Here is thy father's signature.” Mathew rolled up the paper again and put it in his pocket. “Can you, madam,” he asked, “pay me my money ?” “Go ask of the poor demented creature to whom you lent it,” she renlied. “Then,” said Mathew, Rif the money be not forthcoming I must sell the house. Yet there is a way” “What way?” I asked. “You know the way. You have only to tell me where the boy is and to marry me.” I shook my head. "Aud you, sir,” cried my mother, “you who lend money to poor madmen for the ruin of their house, you—a villain if ever there was one—you think that I would give my daughter to such as yon?” “Very well, madam, very well.” said Mathew, unmoved. “Very likely the cottage will sell for as much as the mort gage. Perhaps, if not. your husband may carry liis extra\ agunces to a jail, as provided by a righteous law.” Here he lied, because, I believe, my father could be called upon for nothing more than the house which was his secu rity. . My mother pointed to the door, and Mat he v/ went away, leaving us Ix-wildored indeed. Two hundred pounds! Now, in deed, we were ruined. But what had he done with the money? “Mother,” I cried, “it is a black and base conspiracy. My father has never, since he came from London, possessed a single sixpence. Think of it. If lie had a penny we should have known it. Try to remember if ever you saw the least sign of his having money.” No, there was none. lie wrote no let ters and received none, lie beught noth ing. Lis which were now old and worn, wore the same as those he wore when he returned home. On the other hand, because he was of a generous heart, he was forever giving away what he called money in large suras by means of drafts upon London bankers, which he would sign aifd press upon the recipient with kind words. For instance, on my birthday he always gave me an order for £IOO on a piece of paper, signed by his own hand, “Sol. Hetherington,” bidding me, because I was a good girl, go buy myself some finery and fallals.' At Christmas, the New Y r ear, Roodsmass, fair time. and other times of rejoicing, he would fill his pockets with these valuable gifts.' apd sally forth —first to the vicar, with an offering for the poor, saying, tliat*it was little merit to give out of abundance; that tbo Lord lovetli a cheerful giver; that tli’e poor we have always with us; that a rich man must rerhember the fate of Dives, and that; for his part, he would that the church had all charities in her own hand, so that schismatics, profligates and per sons without religion should starve, with other pithy and seasonable remarks. Having received the vicar’s thinks and a glass of usquebaugh to keep out the raw air of the morning, lie would proceed up the village street, tlie boys and, girls touching tlieir caps and making courte sies to him, while the barber and black smith would offer the compliments of the season, with the hope that her ladyship was well. Then he would pass the cot tage of Sailor Nan, and would call her out and press into her hand a folded paper, saving that it was for Christmas cheer; that she must rejoice, with a dish of good roast beef and plum porridge, and a great coal fire, anil bidding her God speed, would go on liis charitable way, while some laughed and some looked grave, and tears would fall from tlie eyes of the women to think that one so good and generous should also be so poor. Alas! my father was one of those who could never become rich. Even while we spoke of this we heard outside the voice of my father as if to confirm our words: “It ill becomes men of substance, Mr. Carnaby, to allow poorer parishioners to bear tlie burden of such tilings. I will myself repair the ro*sf of the church at niv own charges. Nay, sir, permit me to take no refusal in this matter. If it stand me in £I,OOO I will do it. Why, it is a lend ing unto the Lord; it is a good work.” It happened that in some way I had more influence over my father than any one. That is to say, he would uqfold liis mind —such as it was, poor man! —to me with greater freedom than to my mother, who could never make any show of in terest or belief in liis magnificent designs and charitable schemes. I therefore tried to leyn from him, if I could, the truth of this business. After listening to a long story of liis intentions as regards the church and the endowment of the living at Wark worth, I turned the conversation upon Mathew Humble, and asked my father if he had of late seen and spoken with him. He said that Mathew now avoided rather than sought his company, for which he knew no reason, except that when you have ob’f.gcd a man it fre quently happens t hat ho keeps out of your way—a tiling, he said, of common ex perience in the city, where young men, in , cautious men and unlucky men often ob tain assistance in the prolongation of bills and loans. “Since I have been of such great serv ice,” lie said, “to Matliew Humble, he seems to think that he must not come so often as lie did. A worthy man, however, and, perhaps, he is moved by the shame of taking assistance. ” “Very likely, sir,” I said, wondering what thing, short of the pillory, with the fugleman and his pike beside it, would move Matliew to shame. “It is strange that men should thus court the appear ance of ingratitude. Did you ever, sir, borrow money, sums of money, of Matliew Humble?” • Lend, you mean, Drusilla,” ho replied, turning red with sudden anger. “No, sir, I said borrow. Pray pardon mo. sir, I had n<> intention to offend.” “But you have offended, child.” ne puffed his cheeks, and became scarlet with sudden passion. “You have of fended, I say. Not offended? Do you know what you have said? Have words meaning for you? Should I, Solomon Hetherington, Knight, known and venerated for my wealth from Tower Hill to Temple Bar, and from London Bridge to Westminster, stoop to borrow —to borrow, I say, paltrv sums —for lie could lend none but paltry sums —of a petty farmer? Not mean to offend! Zounds! the girl is mad.” “Pray, sir, forgive me. lam so ignor ant that I knew not” “To be sure, my dear, to be sure.” He became as quickly appeased as he had bc6n easily offended. “She does not know the difference between lending and bor rowing. How should she?” “And have you lent Mathew much, sir.” “As for lending, I have, it is true, placed in his liarids, from time to time, sums of money for which I have no security and have demaijded no interest. Eut lot that pass. lam so rich that I can r fiord to lose Let it pass. And whether he pays them back or not, I do not greatly care. ” “Yon gave this money to him.” I said, “by drafts upon your bankers. I suppose.” “Why, certainly. You do not suppose that we London merchants, however rich we are. carry our money about with us. That would indeed be a return to barbar ous times.” “Then there was the paper that you signed in the presence of an attested at torney and of Barbara, what was that, fatly rf’ lie laughed and made as if he were an noyed, though he appeared pleased. “Tut., tut,” he said. “A trifle —a mere trifle; let an old man have his little whims sometimes, Drusilla.” “But wliat was it, sir?” I persisted. “Mathew would have call it a mort gage,” my father went on. “A mortgage, indeed! Because he wislved his sister not to know It was —ho. ho!—a deed of gift, child. That is all. It was when I as signed certain lands to him. A deed of gift. V\\> called it a mortgage, but I could not prevent showing Barbara by laughing —ha, ha!—that it. was something very different. In addition to the money, I have bestowed upon him a field or so for the improvement of his The gain to him is great; the loss is small to me. A mortgage, we agreed to call it. Ha! ha! Duly sign xl and witnessed. Your father, Drusilla, is not one to do things irregu larly. Dui} 7 signed and witnessed. ” , This conversation made it quite clear to that■'Matliyw had contrived an abomin able plot fop our ruin. For the supposed deed of gift which my father wished to sign, lie substituted a real deed of mort gage, ih which my father was to acknowl edge that he had received £2OO for which he assigned lhs house for security, and m - * without, as afterward appeared, any clause as to time allowed after notice should he given of foreclosing. How far the lawyer was concerned in this con spiracy I know not. Perhaps he was in nocent. Indeed, lam now inclined to be lievo that he was innocent of any com plicity. How far Barbara— ] )erbup s <she, too, was ignorant of this wickedness. All that night I lay awake turning the thing over in my mind. I planned a thousand mad schemes; I would break intp Mathew's room and steal the papers. I.would go round the town and proclaim his wickedness; I would inveigle him into surrendering the papers by a false promise of marriage; I would seek the protection of Mr. Carnaby. All these things I con sidered, but none of them approved them selves on consideration, because a forger and a cheat will always be ready, if lie escapes punishment for the first offense, to repeat his wickedness. Lastly, I re solved upon seeking Mathew at the mill, where I could talk to him at greater freedom. I went there in the afternoon about 2 of the clock. When l lifted the latch 1 saw Barbara sitting on the settle near the window working. Before her, as usual, lay an open Bible. Strange! that one who was so hard and severe could draw no comfortable things from a book which should be full of comfort. , She shook her long lean forefinger at me. “I have known,” she said, “for a long time the ruin that hangs over your house. I saw your father sign the mortgage. He laughed and called it a deed gift, I remem ber. All! good money after bad. But my brother, who was foolish enough to lend the money, was not so foolish as to let it go without security. A deed of gift! Ho is cunning, your father, and would de ceive me if he could, I doubt not.” She turned over the leaves and found some thing that seemed to suit the occasion and my demerits. “ ‘He hath made thy vine bare.’ My brother is full of com passion. ‘He hath made it clean bare.’ Thy punishment hath begun.” “I wish to see your brother alone.” “Do you come in peace or in enmity? If in peace, yon must first make submis sion, and confess your deceits as regards the boy, who is surely dead. Nothing else will satisfy him. You can begin with me. Where is the boy?” “What I have to say is with your brother, not with you.” “Go, then; but remember, when you are married, lock not to be mistress here. I shall continue to be the mistress as I have always been. If youcomc-in enmity, then you have me to battle with and not my brother alone. Two hundred pounds is not a sum to be given away for naught. Men are soft where a woman is concerned; Mathew may be a fool for your sake; you may look to wheedle him out of his papers. Ah, but you shall not. He may be a fool, but I am behind. I am not soft; your eyes will not make a fool of me, Mistress Drusilla.” She then bade me go within, where I should find her brother. It was a cloudy afternoon, and, so early in the season, already growing dusk; Mathew was seated beside the (ire, and on the table a stout jar containing Hollands which he had already begun to drink. “Pretty Drusilla!” he cried, astonished. “Have you brought the money?” “No,” I said. “I come to learn if you are in earnest or in jest.” “In jest?” Then he swore a loud oath. “See you, my lass; if that money is not paid next week, your house will bo sold. Make your account of that. But if you comply with my conditions, the papers shall be torn up. ” “Then I am come to tell you, .Mathew, that although I shall not comply with your conditions, the cottage will not be sold.” “Why not?” “Because, first of all, that mortgage is false. 1 know now what you did. You caused my father to sign one paper, be lieving it to be another. That is a fraud, and a hanging matter. Master Mathpw.” He laughed, but uneasily, and he turned pale. Also, which is hardly worth the noting, he swore a great oath. “It’s a lie!” he cried. “Prove it!” “I can prove it, when the time comes. Meantime, reflect, on what I have said. It is a wicked and detestable plot. Reflect upon this and tremble.” He laughed again, but uneasily. “There is another reason,” I said, "why you will not sell the cottage. It is this. You are afraid that Ralph may come home and demand an account. Well. 1 can tell yon this, that he will not come home just yet. But. if you do this thing a* surn as I am a’ive. Mathew. 1 wth write to lit us &n: tel, him all I shall tell him ltw v>n have persecuted me to marry you n<'* iiecause volt want me for yum wile, aim Itiougu you Uuve bad your answer a dozen times over but because you want to plagut and spite your cousin. ! wilt tell him next, how you have spread false rejHirts about another will, ami how you have w|iisj>ered that be is turned highwayman And lastly. I will tell him how yon have practiced upon the kind heart: of a poor demented man and made him sign his name m testimony of your own foul plot and falsehood 1 will not spare you I will tell him all I will beg him to return post haste, and to bring with him oflicers of justice Then, in deed. you may look for no mercy nor for anything short of the assizes and New castle jail TO BE COXTIXCKT). YOUREAIIS Ought to have attention perhaps. If so, B. B. B. will do you good, removing all ignorant matter, the direct cause ot deafness. Witness the following testi monies: COULD HE AI? A TICK CRAWL. Mr. C. E. Hall \drote from Shelby, Ala., Febuary 9, 1887: “1 could not hear it thunder. 1 heard of B. B. 8.. used two bottles, and now can hear a tick crawl in the leaves. t li “l GAVE CP TO DIE.” Knoxville, Texn., July 2, 1887 I had catarrh of-the head for six years; l went to a noted doctor and he treated me for it, out,could not cure tne, he said. 1 was over fifty years old and gave up to die. t had a distressing cough; my eyes Were swollen ami i aim confident 1 could not have lived without a-change. 1 sent and gotone bottle of your medicine,us*‘d it, and felt better. Then I got fourmonf. and thank God! it cured me. Use this any way you may wish for the. good ot sufferers. Mas. Matilda Nichols, v , ‘ 22 Florida Street. A PREACHER CURED OF DYSPEPSIA. Miccosukee. Fla., Leon Go.. July 20, SB. I have been a sufferer from indigestion and dyspepsia for a long time, and have tried many remedies, but, until I was in duced by my friends to try your B. B. B. received no relief, but since using it have found more relief and comfort than from any other treatment I have used. Hop ing you will forward to my address your little 32-page book for prescription, also evidence of cures. Semi at earliest date. Rev. Rob't C. A BOOK OF WONDERS, FREE. All who desire full information about the cause and cure of Blood Poisons, Scrofula and ScrofulopsSwellings, Ulcers, Sores, Rheumatism, Kidney Complaints, Catarrh, etc.., can secure by mail, free, a copy of our 32-page Illustrated Book of Wonders, filled with the most wonderful and startling proof ever before known. • % Address, Blood Balm Go., 9 6-lm Atlanta, (ia. ipT’Storm Calender and Weather Fore casts for 1889, by Rev. Irl R. Hicks, with explanations of the “Great Jovian Period,” mailed to any address, on receipt of a two cent postage stamp. Write plainly your Name, Post Offie and State. The Dr. J. H. McLean Medicine Cos., St. Louis, Mo. Dy*pepsia, Despair, Death. These are the actual steps which follow indigestion. Acker’s English Dyspepsia Tablets will both check and cure this most fearful of diseases. Guaranteed by J. iC. Wikle & Cos. eow * ■ In cases of Fever and Ague, the Mood is as effectually, though not so danger ously poisoned by the effluvium of tiie atmosphere as it could lie by the dead liest poison. Dr. J. H. McLean’s Chills and Fever Cure will eradicate this poi son from the system. 50 cents , bottle. 9 (5-3 in You will have no use for spectacles if you use Dr. J. H. McLean's Strengthen ing Eye Salve; it removes the film and scum which accumulates on the eyeballs, subdues inflammation.cools and soothes the irritated nerves, strengthens weak and failing sight. 25c. a box. 96-3 m Exposure to rough weather, getting wet, living in damp localities, are favora ble to the contraction of diseases of the kidneys and bladder. Asa preventive, and for the cure of all kidney and liver trouble, use that valuable remedy, Dr.J. H. McLean’s Liver and Kidney Balm SI.OO per bottle. 6-8-3 m If you suffer pricking pains on moving the eyes, or cannot bear bright light, and find your sight weak and failing, you should promptly use Dr. J. IT. McLean’s Strengthening Eye Salve. 25 cents a box. * 6-8-3 m To the Consumers of Oils. We handle all kinds of lubricating and machinery oils, and are manufacturers’ agents and can offer sreoia inducements in this line, either by the gallon or barrel, Very respectfully, J. R- Wikle & Cos. Their Kuwi {looming:. Probably no one thing has caused such a general revival of trade at Wikle’s Drug Store as their giving away to their custo mers of so many free trial bottles of Dr. King’s New Discovery for Consumption. Their trade is simply enormous in this very va uable article from the fact (hatit always cures and never disappoints. Coughs, Colds. Asthma,Bronchitis, Croup, and all throat and lung diseases qVickly cured. You can test it before buying by getting a trial Jbottle free, large size sl. Every bottle warranted. 3 Is Consumption Incurable? Read the following: Mr. 0. A. Morris, Newark, Ark., says: “ vYas down with Abscess of Lungs, and triends and phy sicians pronounced me an Incurable Con sumptive. Began taking Dr. Kings New Discovery for Consumption, am now on my third bottle, and able to oversee the work on my farm. It is the finest medi cine ever made.” 5 Hurrah for Cleveland and Thurman! Bandana handkerchiefs at 50 and 25 cents at Scheuer Bros.