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sV.'DAY MORNING. 'SONNETS. jC Of al! th* obaourtty surrounding WlllUm Bhakijr, ht* sonsots lira or h• baen made tbn moat myacarloua. It will probably ne*r on dacided whether la tboao aonnataj fihaksspeara was writing of his personal experience*, whether be was suing as a loser or whether they were Impassioned creations of his boundless and fertile brain, but It will ever be recognized that he wrote with as marked Individuality and dlstlnctlvenetf in, these early effusions as In bis dramas, and stamped the whole with a genius unexoelled. But one scholar In three bundrod years has questioned their beauty and eicelUaea as a whole. When forty Winters shall besiege thy brow, ” And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's Held, ; Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now, Will he a tattered weed, of small worth held; Then, being asked where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an nll-eattng shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beau* ty's use, If thou couldat answer,—"This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old ex cuse- ,r Proving his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new-made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'Bt It cold. When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk In hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o’er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. And Summer's greeu all girdled up In sheaves, Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; Then, of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'against Time's scythe can make defense, Save bread, to bravo him, when he takes Ihee hence. AUNT JANE. By JOHN WORNE. "Anything exciting in your letters this morning, dear?" “Well, I don't know,” said Lucy; here's a letter from Aunt Jane.” "Aunt Jane? Did I ever meet Aunt Jane before she married?” Lucy got up and went around the breakfast table, looking troubled. "Tom dear, you remember that day you asked me to be your wife?” “Yea," he replied. "Why, what'* the matter?” "You remember I said I had an aw ful sin to confess —a past, a present., and a future; something you might never be able to forgive?” "Yes. I wouldn't listen.” He put bis arm around her. “Well, it was-—it was Aunt Jane.” “Great Scott!" he replied. • • • • Aunt Jane arrived as threatened, punctually a quarter of an hour late. SW was always a quarter of an hour kite, on principle. It arose out of a jßislike for being kept waiting when asjied out to dinner, for instance, and rapidly spread over the whole of her movements, owing to her morbid pas *for regularity. To be late for kfast and in time for lunch upset hi yw tm tiho.was scrunnlous ly late for everything. This was an noying. unless you knew her and al lowed for it; but so were most of the things Aunt Jane did. She was small, but enjoyed a deep bass voice. “Ah, my poor child,” was her greet ing, "how ill you are looking." "1 didn't know it,” said Lucy meek ly. “You think you're happy, but 1 know better, poor tiling. 1 see from your looks, from your manner, that you are utterly miserable. Now, confess, haven't I guessed right?" ‘‘l'm—l'm perfectly happy," groaned Lucy, dismally. "I mean, 1 was till— till—" "Till you enme,” was what she wanted to say, but her courage failed. "Till you married!” said Aunt Jane, triumphantly. "Didn't I say so?” The manner of Aunt Jane had a cu riously quelling effect upon all who allowed themselves to be brought un der its spell. Having extracted this admission, she followed up her suc cess by a skilful cross-examination, which reduced the poor girl to tears, and almost persuaded her that her husband was the most brutal scoun drel on earth. Every little instance of Ms Irritability, every lift In protest, however gentle, about lateness of brenkfsst or toughness of beef, was dragged out of her by tortuous means, carefully exaggerated and embellished with details supplied from Aunt Jane's own instinct, and lilted into its place in an elaborate and highly colored mosaic of perfect villainy. And when it was done, so difficult was It to dis tingulrb fact from fancy that Lucy was wondering how on earth she could have married (he man at all. "And now, my dear,” said Aunt Jane, "to follow up your suggestion that he is concealing something far worse than all this” —Lucy had never suggested anything of the kind, hut rite saw now how probable It was— ",lc.t tell me fully anything he may have confided to you and any suspi cions you may have that he is keep ing anything back. There should be no se. rets between a man and his wife's aunt." "No, Aunt." said Lucy, struggling with her tears; "I quite agree.” "For instance, does he receive let ters which he doesn't allow you to look at?" ”1 —I—don't know; I never asked him." she sobbed. "Poor thlld— poor, simple child! As If he would confess It! The very fact that ho rays nothing about those let ters ought to have put you on your guard. He always gets down to break fast before you. I'll be bound, and gloats over them In secret, eh?” “Y—yes. he does, usually; but—but —f don’t knew anything about the gloating." She dried her eyes be tween each word. “No; the housemaid would see that.” “I sup—suppose she would.” “And doesn't It strike you as suspi cious that the housemaid hasn’t told you about It? Looks like a conspira cy. doesn't It. eh?” Lucy clinched her hands and said she ought to have suspected It, it was so obvious. "Ah, my poor child, the obvious is ao seldom visible! I And that people My glass shall not persuade mo I am old, So tong aa youth and thou are of one data; But whou In thee Time's furrows I bobtdd, Then look I death my days should oxidate. For all that beauty that doth covor then Is but the seemly raiment of my heart. Which in thy breast doth Ihve, as thlne< in mo; How can I then bo older than thou art? O, therefore, love, be of thysalf so wary, As I not for myself hut for thee will; Boaring thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tendar nurse her babe from faring I/11. Presume not on thy heart when mtmo Is slain; Thou glv'st me tbtne, not to glvej back again. Shall I eompmre thee to a Bummer’;day? Thou art more lovely and more temper ate; Bough winds do stako the darling buds of Mny, And Rummer's lease hath all too short a dato; Sometime too hot the eye of heave® shines, Anil often Is bis gold complexion, dimmed; Andeveryfalr from fair sometimes declines. By chatioe, or nature's changing course, untrlmmod; But thy eternal Hummer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou oweet; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in hts shade, When In eternal lines to time thou grow eet; So long as men can breathe, or eye can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. —William Shakespeare. very often miss what to me ia aa clear aa daylight.” Aunt Jane had never been on a acent bo hot. "And have you acceaa to all cup boards, drawers, aafes?” "[ —I—think1—think go,” waa the faltering reply. “Think ao!” Bald Annt Jane. "That's a pretty state of mind for a wife. Take me to his study at once! Am I not his wife's aunt?" This was said because Lucy seemed to hesitate. Together they went to the study. Aunt Jane sniffed con temptuously. “Smoke!” she snorted. , “He smokos?" Lucy admitted it. “And drinks, I’ve no doubt?’’ "Y—yes, I’m afraid so." "And plays cardß?” "I—l—think so, a little.” "Poor dear, t>oor dear! What more do you want? Now, show me this se cret drawer you were complaining of. Khe hadn't complained of any. but pulled the handles of several and at last found one that wouldn't open. "There you are!” came the trium phant cry. "Have you ever seen in side this?" Lucy couldn't YemfcHrtnSf TlThi sue had or had ever wanted to. "Doesn’t It fit In wonderfully?” said Aunt Jane. "In there lie the letters over which he and the housemaid gloat In the early morning.” Lucy saw It all clearly, "And I have no doubt there have been times when he has told you, with a pretence of sympathy, not to be tn a hurry to get up?” Lucy did remember one or two in stances, when she had a slight, cold. Aunt Jane chuckled. "I never met a married couple yet who oughtn't to be divorced at once,” she said. "This must he finally set tled this evening, and 1 will stay by your side till he gives a satisfactory explanation, He never will; it won't hear explanation.” "I am very grateful to you, Aunt,” said Lucy. "Show me my room, poor thing. I always take a rest before dinner.” "I am sure you must require It,” said Lucy, leading the way up stairs. "And mind," said Annt Jane at the door, "not a word to him about this till 1 tackle him; you would only put him on his guard and give him an opportunity of destroying the only ev idence we have." "I will not mention It,” soid Lucy, humbly. When Tom came in, he was met at tlie door, ns usual, by his wife, lie thought it strange, hut supposed elm was looking after her guest. When he came down to the drawing room punctually. Lucy was alone there, looking gloomily into the fire. She did not turn on his entrance. “Well, my dear,” he said cheerily, “has our sin come home to us?" “If you mean," replied Lucy, with hauteur, "has my dear Aunt Jane ar rived, she has.” "That’s what 1 meant.” he said, a little surprised. "And am I to be a model or an awful example?” "It is not necessary for me to teach you to wear the cloak of hypocrisy.” she replied, with tears coming to her eyes. He raised his eyebrows. "Why, what on earth—what’s the matter, dear?” He tried to kiss her, but she drew away from him. She was sobbing bit terly. "You ask me.” she said, “you, with all those—with all that —" She nearly flung the guilty letters In his teeth, hut remembered her aunt’s warning just in time. "With all those what?” he asked, bewildered. But not another word could he get from her, and he was standing looking at her with an ex pression of utter amazement when Aunt Jane sailed In. a quarter of an hour late. She required no introduc tion. “You are the man. I suppose?" she said, with a snap of the teeth. He bowed. “How do you do. Aunt Jane?” he said. “1 hope you had a pleasant journey.” "So-so. No thanks to you!” "Dear Aunt Jane." he said softly. “I wired to the porters to be polite.” It was clear that he did not take her seriously, and Lucy was indignant. "I hear,” said Aunt Jane, as they settled the dinner table, “that 3u aret* lawyer?" “I nmrjtßLik Tom. "Never eoild stand lawyers," she went on; “a nasty, deceitful lot of ser pents." “Indeed they are,” said Tom, “loathly, crawling creatures.” He she'yk his head solemnly. unable to put the case more s/Tongly, Aunt Jane found herself un expectedly with nothing more to say. So she turned, with pity in her voice, to, Lucy. “My dear, I wonder you allow your cook to stay In the house." "Do you suggest a shed at the bot tom of the garden for her?” said Tom, gently interrupting. He had decided to assume the offensive. She ignored him. “This soup,” she said, "is disgraceful.” Lucy apologized humbly. So did Tom. "Take away Miss Wilkins’ soup,” he said to the servant, and it went be fore Aunt Jane hail time to clutch (he plate. It was long before any thing else was said by anybody, but Tom seemed to be enjoying his din ner. Indeed, the two ladles were dis gusted at the brazen Impudence of the fellow. Lucy longed for the end of this ghastly meal and yet feared what was to follow. At last, the servants left, and Aunt Jane coughed signifi cantly. Tom looked up. Lucy said, timidly: “Let us go.” “No,” Bald Aunt Jane; “the time has come.” “Has it?" asked Tom, cracking a nut. “Your conscience,” said Aunt Jane, “must tell you that you owe an ex planation to your wife.” "Must it?” asked Tam, checking a smile. “Don’t lose yoir temper, sir," said Annt Jane. She always began an ar gument like thtt-—it seldom failed. "Lucy, tell him what you want to know.” “I—l—-hadn’t \<e better go Into the drawing room?” stammered Lucy. “No! I will protect you.” She turned fiercely upon Tom. "You have letters In a drawer tn your study which is locked. Don’t deny it!” “I won't,” said Tom. “It's probably quite true.” “By your brutal conduct you thought you had cowed tills poor child’s spirit so that she would make no inquiries.” “How did you guess?" said Tom. “But I have come, sir!" “I can’t deny It,” he said. “And I shall remain and protect my helpless niece forever, if necessary.” “She warned me that something of the kind might happen," lie said, help ing himself to a banana. “Are you going to show me those letters?” “Certainly not; they are private.” Aunt Jane tried to wither him with contempt, but wns so unsuccessful that she felt that, unless she retreated in haste, she would lose her temper her self. "Come!” she said. “Leave him to his conscience.” As they went out Tom said to his wife: "Are you a party to this silly nonsense?” but ahe did not deign to answer. It. was all beyond doubt, now, oti hta own confession. Tom smoked a cigarette. He hadn’t a notion what the row was about, but there would obviously he no peace till Aunt Jane went. So he changed his plan of attack and strolled into the drawing room. The two were on the EIGHT —BLACK hrdlupu sofa. Aunt Jane's arm was round Lucy’s waist. They looked ferociously at him. turned away, shuddered, and were silent. He sat down on an easy chair and took up a book. For five minutes nothing was heard hut indig nant breathing. Suddenly lie re marked, “I saw the doctor again to day.” There was no reply. Aunt Jane clasped Lucy tightly. He went on, "I asked him what he thought.” Still a silence. You could hear their shoulders shrugged. • "He said.it was a little hard to ex plain the green spots, hut the pink and yellow ones were either scarlet fever or something in-itis and were quite well known in the profession.” Annt Jane had released her hold on Lucy ami was looking at him with open mouth, lie want on casually, “1 asked, was tt infectious? He said you can't tell until somebody has caught it from you." Aunt Jane was standing up. “But, he says, in case there should bo any danger. I had hotter avoid the company <f all the near relatives of myself or my wife.” Lucy hurried up to him with alarm on her face. Aunt Jane backed tow ards the door. "Dear Aunt," ho said advancing with outstretched hand, “you’re not going yet, surely?” She gave a little scream and jumped away. In a moment she was out of the room. Lucy turned to him with concern. “Is it serious, dear?” she asked. “Just you see that Aunt Jane gets comfortably out of the house.” Lucy understood, and the spelt van ished. Aunt Jane was up stairs, hur riedly putting ou her hat and coat and muttering aloud. “I’ll take a room at the hotel till tomorrow. Send on my box. No. I am afraid I can't wait —I shall be late as it is. Write and tell me how he is getting on. and don't forget to dis infect the letter—why didn't you tell me this before you invited me? The incompetence of some doctors!—and sprinkle it all over the carpets. Good by." She scurried down the stairs. Tom was In the halt to say good-by. She dodged round him and cut at the door as If 20 microbes were snapping at her heels. The deserted couple sighed with re lief. Lucy put her head on Tom’s shoulder. “I am so glad she’s gone. dear. I think she's a witch; she seemed to get hold of my mind, somehow." '“Let’s go and look at the guilty let ters,” he said. “No, I don’t want to see.” “Well, they are only what you wrote to me before we were married.” So she brought what he wrote to her. and he brought what she wrote to him. and they exchanged bundles and sat at opposite sides of the table, and he knocked on the table and shot across to her the first In date and she shot across to him her reply to it; THE BRUNSWICK DAILY NEWS. and he read It and ehot across th next, and so on all through the list, and when they came to the things which meant kisses • • • There is a good parlor game for two. —Philadelphia Telegraph. FISHING WITH HANDS. Daring Hawaiian Swimmers Need Neither Pole Nor Line. It Is hard to believe that human be ings can become expert enough at swimming and diving to be able to catch fish In their watery home, yet It is so. The native Hawaiians are the ones who do it, and It is a common sight In the districts that are not densely pop ulated to see men, women and chil dren engaged in thus catching fish, shrimp and crabs. Sometimes they crouch in shallow water and feel around the coral and lava bottom for the creatures. So skilful have they become by practice that even the swiftest fish rarely es cape. They can seize a crab and perk him out of his rocky lair before he can irse hfs claws. The Hawaiians are assisted in this mode of fishing by the fact that many species of Pacific Ocean fish hide themselves in clefts in the rocks and lie there when danger threatens. This habit is utilized by the men and boys to catch those fish which live in deep water. They tie a bag around their waists and dive straight down to the bottom. There they hold fast to a rock with one hand, to keep themselves on bottom, and with the other they feel and grope on the cre vices or under the overhanging rock ledges till they get their hands around a fish. Then they puPßiim into the bag and grope for another one until they have to ascend for air. A daring kind of fishing Is that for the octopus. The Hawaiian dives to the bottom and pokes a stick into cre vices and holes In which the octopus loves to hide. When the stick touch es one of the ugly things it invariably takes hold so tightly with its tentacles that it can be dragged forth. The mo ment the fisherman has thus hauled it out, he lets himself ascend. He goes up so fast that he reaches the surface before the angry and stubborn devil fish has made tip his mind to let go it's hold on the stick. When he reach es the surface, the Hawaiian grabs the octopus and instantly bites deep into its head, thus killing the brute at once. Another rather daring form of fish ing Is that for the ula, a species of lobster. When the fisherman Is ready to go down for this creature, he wraps his right hand in a long piece of cloth. Then lie dives and feel's around with his bandaged hand until he finds the ula. Frequently he will work so fast that he will bring up two or three ulas from one dive. Now and then the fisherman finds a puhi in a hole instead of an ula. Then the bandage does not save him from being badly bitten, for the puhl is a great sea eel of immense strength and with jaws set with immensely sharp tefjh. —Philadelphia Public Ledger. Mi QU^B" r 'AND CWRIOUB. Tests In Bioment houses show that in five minjutes after sweeping 2500 germs settled, on a saucer three inches across. In tlie same length of time before sweeping 75 germs settled on the saucer. Anew speed record of 27 seconds for tho kilometer was made by the Hon. C. S. Rolls tn Nottinghamshire, England. A 72-liyn;epnwer Mors racer was used and the rate at which it traveled was equal to 83 miles an hour. The amount of water within the crust of the earth is enormous, amounting to 565,000,000,000,000 cubic yards. This vast accumulation, If placed upon the earth, would cover its entire surface to a uniform depth of from 3000 to 2500 feet. A writer in Charities places the number of crippled children who ap plied for relief at the New York hos pitals during the visit of Dr. Lorenz at 8000, nearly all of whom were sent away because of the inadequacy of the hospital for their care. In the course of a lecture in London Sir Harry Johnston reproduced , by means of the phonograph, records of many of the native songs of Uganda utilized in their war dances, festivals and orgies, ns well as many of the dialects of the variou^tribes. In Germany electricity, among other curious results, has rehabilitated the discarded windmill. At Nereshelm a windmill supplies power for 36 inc candescent lamps that light a large paint factory. Another In Schleswig- Holstein keeps up a steady current of 30 volts. At Dusseldorf a windmill winds up a heavy weight of which the descent works a powerful dynamo. The impression that British North America is covered with valuable timber ts fallacious. Black walnut, red cedar and white oak are not found north of Toropto. A line drawn from the city of Quebec to Sault Ste. Marie will designate the northern limit of beech, elm and birch. The north shore of Lake Superior will mark the northern boundary of sugar hard ma ple. Certain substances which are deadly in their effects upon men can be tak en by the brute creation with impun ity. dorses can take large doses of antimony, dogs of mercury, goats of tobacco, mtce of hemlock and rabbits of belladonna without Injury-. On the other hand, dogs and cats are much more susceptible to the influence of chloroform than man and are much sooner killed by It. Grateful to the Government. "Mike," said Plodding Pete, "gre you ever tempted to be an anarchist?” “Not a bit of it.” apswered Meander ing Mike. "If dere wern't no gover mint Here would be nobody to keep de jails warm in winter and collect taxes to repair de roads in summer.” —Washington Star. SETTLINGS! By"c33 HE bleak stretched of i( Jf browning grass gave a O I O tinge of sadness to the H JR landscape, and the hum of I W<W innumerable insects which had prolonged the summer months well into the fall were growing fainter and less rhythmic with the advancing sea son. The crops had been garnered and the approach of frost brought no terror to the farmers, hut in some Indescriba ble way It affected the nerves of the lonely woman standing before her rude shack gazing toward the setting sun. Somehow the autumn had always brought a shade of sadness into her life. Even back In the old New Eng land days—before this horrible night mare had transformed her life—she had experienced the same feeling of de pression. “I guess It’s because I hate to see things dying,” she explained to her self to stifle back a rising rebellion of sorrow. “The summer was short enough hack home, but out here It’s all too short.” There was a dreary, homesick ex pression In the eyes, and through the straggling hair the bronzed forehead showed little marks of premature wrinkling. Dorothy Wellington In her girlhood days had been termed “come ly,” a word which just fell short of calling her good looking or handsome. But with time nnd experience her fea tures had grown harsher and yet with out blotting out a certain sweet ex pression of resignation. Eternal long ing for the impossible, however, eats out the heart and ambition of the strongest, and Dorothy was daily find ing her burden more unendurable. “It Isn’t natural,”, she confessed to herself many times. "I’d rather give up all nnd go hack without a cent. I could work and make a living. Not in Dunbary, but somewhere else—any where except here.” It was a strained and unnatural po sition for a young girl to find herself in, and nothing but a strong, stern sense of duty could hold her to the bargain another day. It was not home on the bleak Oklahoma plain. The very quarter section on which they lived was In dispute. The shack which they had built for temporary quarters might not be their own. Across the “dead line” there was another shack— a second blot on the landscape. To one or the other the quarter section be longed, but to which none could say. The slow-moving courts would In time decide, but for the present there was only an armed truce, and neither side dared venture on the property of the other. Jared Wellington had left Dunbary In the East to cast his lot with the early settlers of Oklahoma, and when the rush began he had been the first to settle on a desirable quarter section. But while he had been busy staking out the section another had filed a claim to the same piece of land. There was a dispute which threatened to end in murder, but Dorothy had been the means of quieting the two combat ants. They agreed to let the courts settle the claim, and meanwhile the two owners built on opposite sides of the “dead line.” which they drew ex actly through the centre of the quarter section. That was three months ago, anti In the meantime Jared Wellington and Henry Egerton had nursed their wrath in silence while they planted and gath ered their first season’s crops. Each bitterly envied the other the crops which by right should belong to him. With alert eyes and gun loaded for active service, each watched the other, determined to exact the full pound of flesh demanded in the agreement. Had accident or sickness forced either over the “dead line,” the other would unquestionably have shot his enemy in his tracks the moment he set foot on his property. Such were the bitter conditions under which Dorothy had lived for three months, hoping and praying that the court’s decision would shortly settle the controversy, but never did the law seem to lag more exasperatingly. Autumn was changing the whole face of the landscape and winter was ap proaching with its long period of gloomy weather, but the “dead line” and the Egerton shack in the distance, continued to make life for Dorothy and her father bitter and disagreeable. Jared Wellington was as hard and fet in his ways as the New England granite hills among which he had been reared, and Dorothy knew his nature too well to attempt to induce him to compromise with his lonely neighbor. Eonely Henry Egerton appeared to be in his shack, for neither wife, mother, nor child appeared around his home. Daily he had toiled In the fields all summer, returning to his rude home at night time to prepare his own supper, and smoke quietly and solitarily near the door of his shack until the moon was darkened by the blood-red horizon. Dorothy had watched these orderly proceedings from her quiet retreat, often wondering at the man's lonely life, and in her tender heart half pity ing him. He was young and not hard-looking, as she remembered him on that event ful day when she had interposed to save both from a possible tragedy. But after all It had been a fleeting glimpse of the flushed face and eyes burning with auger and determination. Those were exciting days when man forgot his thin veneer of civilization and displayed his savage origin. The wild rush across the promised line, the fights and struggles to gain possession of the best quarter sections, the fear and lamentations of those who had failed, and the awful intensity of the calm which had prevailed days and weeks before the final word was given to throw open the land to the eager public—all these pictures were burned on Dorothy’s brain so that they seemed like some horrible nightmare. How different it all had been from the quiet New England village where she had been reared. “Why could she not have lived there forever? What right had he.r father to teav her from her home, root and branch, and plunge Into this wild, lawless cauldron of unrest and bitter strivjpgs?” Dorothy brushed back a rebellious * ■ Vi '*a pj ji -i>.'**s? ■ , .'. ‘I , ; undertone: tat her! He him eld. Why diil that ntBaPuSHH come here?” She looked bitterly across tire line.” Henry Egerton had just emergM from dlls shack and stood, with hanfl shading his eyes, watching her. Nearer she could see his gun leaning against the side of the shack. “He must be bad, or he would offer to compromise,” Dorothy continued. “He is young and able and father is old and feeble. He might move on, and—” She suddenly dropped her Toice to an Indistinct murmur, for an apparition appeared In the doorway of the shack which made her excited. She shaded her eyes and looked more keenly. It was a small, toddling child, scarcely two summers old, holding uncertainly to the side of the doorway, and cooing at the big ball of fire slowly disap pearing below the horizon. The man raised his hands and the child ran to him and jumped into his arms. “He Is married, then, nnd has a fam ily,” Dorothy breathed. “Maybe I have misjudged him. Has the child a mother, or ” Again her sentence died out In an Indistinct murmur, but the sun had set and twilight was rapidly spreading over the landscape. Dorothy saw an other form, bent of figure and white of hair, walking across the field, and after waving a hand of welcome to him she turned to her work inside. There was seldom any mention of their neighbor’s affairs between father and daughter, and to-night Dorothy merely told of the presence of the baby on the opposite side of the “dead line” and then subsided. Jared Wellington raised his shaggy eyebrows and grunted: “Then he's married? He’ll bring his wife next, I suppose. Maybe he has heard that, the courts ” A horrible suspicion entered the minds of both. Had the courts decided respecting their claims, and had Henry Egerton heard that he was the sole and legal possessor of the quarter section? Otherwise why had he brought his family out to his lonely home when he had lived without them for three months? Jared Wellington felt the heavy op pression of disappointment, and his white head drooped lower nnd lower as the evening advanced. Dorothy tried to cheer him, but in vain. Finally she decided to present the matter clearly to her aged parent and show him that all would not be lost even If the courts decided against them. “What of it, father?” she said, cheer fully. “We can go back East and live. I can work and support you. I will enjoy life more than out here. I stand this much longer. I must ,*SO ce companions and neighbors.” rw . “No, no. Dorothy, it can never b<% Fa murmured. I shall never live to the East again. If it is true that—that —he owns it”—pointing dramatically toward his enemy’s shack—“it will kill me. I canuot survive it.” The tears blinded the blue eyes' of the woman, and she turned away to hide them. “It may not be. father,” she murmured In a thick voire. But whether true or not, Jared Wel lington took to liis bed, nnd on the mor row he was unable to raise his head from the pillow. Dorothy nursed him with all the skill she possesed. but he needed more than she could give. Slumbering fitfully, the patient would awaken occasionally, and murmur in distinct sentences. The fever of age and anxiety had unsettled his mind, and he raved like a child of ten. Dorothy turned away in despair. Impending death in the dreary shack made even her stout heart quail. It was ten miles to the nearest physician, hut it was necessary to go. Would the feeble patient awaken, and finding himself deserted, commit some wild act? She held the door half open, debat ing whether to go or .stay, when sud denly a slight pressure from without made her turn hastily. There, almost at her feet, was a bundle of red cloth ing. surmounted by a shock of light brown hair. The pair of innocent eyes looking up at her suddenly gleamed with a new-born happiness. “Muzzer! Muzzer! I’se found you at last. Where's you been so long? Baby’s been cryin' an’ cryin' fur you. Hug baby, an’ tell him you'll nebber, nebber leave him again.” A pair of warm arms were raised be seechingly upward. Dorothy picked the litle child up in her arms and hugged and kissed it. The longing in her heart for someone to love and speak to was almost too much, and she broke Into a violent sobbing. The child cuddled close to her and said softly: “Don’t cry, muzzer, fur I won't leave you ag’in. I'se goin’ to stay forebber an’ ebber with you.” The hands, chubby and warm, stroked the hair of the weeping woman. Dor othy raised her eyes to look at the little face pressed to hers, and then she started. A dozen feet away stood Henry Egerton, an expression of confusion and uncertainty on his face. He raised his hat and said: “rardon me, I’ve come for Virginia. She ran away, and I could not catch her until she crossed—crossed over here.” Dorothy still held the child In her arms, and Virginia suddenly ex claimed: “I’se found mnzzer! I'se found muz zer, Enel’ Hen'y. Here she is.” The face of the man worked strange ly. A softening of the firm outlines made him look tender and sympa thetic. “Poor Virginia lost her mother a week ago,” he murmured, “and she has come to live with me. I could not licar to tell her the truth. But I sup pose I was wrong. Come, Virginia, come with Enc-le Henry.” “Not unless muzzer comes, too,” pleaded the child. The embarrassment of the man In creased. Dorothy, understanding the „ ", V ; - f - , , ' IP'^Pw fa j, %, *ada * '1 ■ 1 ■■ '•■■■■■ ( ' 11! i: vy** Imi fn mili'is 111’ Sifi-h' shack behind the ’ j while that individual examln^H tient he waited patiently at ti^p* l!y * of the rude bed, furtively watSP two faces which seemed Inseparably associated together. Jared Wellington was a long time In bed and the fever wasted him to a skeleton. Nature had robbed him of the power and strength to protect his shack from the approach of the enemy. But before his complete recovery the “dead line” had been obliterated. The little footsteps of Virginia had worn a smooth path across it from shack to shack, and often Henry Egerton fol lowed after his tiny niece “to go and see mtizzcr.” Somehow there was as much attraction for him as for the innnocent child, who had found in Its bereavement another who had quickly healed the wound. Then one day Henry Egerton walked to the old shack with lines drawn tighter around his mouth, and with eyes hardened to bear a, new burden. The decision of the courts in their re spective claims had been handed down. The ownership of the valuable quarter section was decided forever. Beyond the hearing of the convalescent man, who sat in the sun of the doorway, Egerton told the news to Dorothy. Under the blunt announcement she paled and flushed by turns. Then pity for the drawn face before her made her exclaim: “Oh, I’m sorry for you, Mr. Egerton. I think you should own half.” “No, it was all or none. Now the courts have decided it air belongs to your father. I’m an interloper, and must leave at once. You have right to order me off before night.” “But I won’t do it, Mr. Egerton.” Dorothy replied, with a bright smile. “You can stay as long as you like. “No man could do that unless"—he hesitated—“unless you could let me place for as \n!nr hii'' 1 ' 1 ' was ” -; ill? ? d/i j§n *H. V ‘r C ' the HCtiOU %> 1 an:f -“ Q Sobrbthy did not have from the shadow of the shack a small figure toddled forth and a baby’s voice exclaimed: “Muzzer, make Duel* Hen’y stay an’ play bear with me. I wants him.” Dorothy, with a happy smile and gleaming eyes, picked the child up iii her arms and replied between her caresses: “He will stay. Virginia, and he shall play bear with you all the morning.”—New York Times. Philosophy of a Cheerful Mind. To be cheerful when the world is going well with you is no great virtue. The thing is to he cheerful under die advantageous circumstances. If one has lost money, if business prospects fail, if enemies appear triumphant, if there is sickness of self or those dear to one. then is it indeed a virtue to be cheerful. When poverty pinches day after day. month after month of through the years as they- pass, and one has ever to deny self of every little longed-for luxury, and the puz zle of how to make one dollar do the work for two has to be solved, then the man who can still he cheerful is a hero. He is a greater hero than the soldier who faces the cannon’s mouth. Such cheerfulness is the kind that we need to cultivate. To acquire this self-command, we need to think of many things. We need to guard against giving way to irritation about little things. If we can maintain self-control in small mat ters, we shall have less difficulty in maintaining it when great matters are to be met. If we meet irrepairable losses we must readjust our lives to fit the new conditions. There is no great evil so bad but that it might have been worse. I.et us congratu late ourselves that the worst is not yet! There is truth in the saying that “every cloud has a silver lining.” Though it may for a time look so dark we can see no glint, of the silver, yet we know it is there.—Milwaukee Jour nal. i Just a Few Bir Words. Some etymologists at tbeir luncheon of sandwiches and sarsaparilla were laughing over the question- of long words. The first one said that Ihe longest word in bis experience was to be found in Eliot’s Indian Bible. He pronounced the word, aud it was as though he were delivering an oration in an unknown tongue. Then be wrote it down. It was: W u t teppessittukgussunoowebtunk quoh. The man explained that this word meant “the act of kneeling before the Lord in prayer.” A second etymologist, smiling, said: "There was a book printed In the sev enteenth century that was full of long words. A scientific work it was, and its very title was unwieldly.” He wrote the title as follows: Panzoologicomineralogia. The third etymologist then, recalled that there was a seventeenth century tragedy of the name of “Crononhotont hologofe,” the opening words of vAdch \ A Web