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VOL. XL
ROBERT JARMNE S S
WOOING *
Am Annaisdale Romance.
TTT HE Black Bull was not an or¬
\ dinary inn—rather a survival
of the wayside house of rest,
A wood of pines stretched
from the rear down to the river, and
the cheerful white front of the house
Stood out from the gloomy background,
beckoning welcome like a human
friend.
On each side the porch were benches
Where the farmers sat. on market
days exchanging the gossip of the
countryside. Indoors the best kitchen
was the gathering place.
On a certain March morning a fire
of pine logs blazed in the grate, and
the side window was thrown open to
let the breeze from the pine wood
stray in. Contrary to precedent, the
hostess of the Black Bull was a spin¬
ster. While her father lived she had
set aside all offers of marriage, and
stood staunchly between the old man
and his besetting sin of conviviality
till she laid him, honored and lament¬
ed, in the kirkyard on the hill.
One suitor had remained persistent,
Bobert Jardlne, of The Willows. His
farm was on the Dumfriesshire hill,
and he looked down on the Black Bull
from its gable windows. But he did
not content himself with that. He was
a frequent visitor, and Esther Morri¬
son's face took a tinge of pink, and
she gave a hasty touch to her smooth
hair as she heard his voice in the
patch. She was a prim, precise young
Woman with fixed ideas, and Robert
Jardine was easy-going and genial; so,
by law of contrasts, they were made
for one another. He was a man of few
words, and it was enough for him to
stand with his back to the lire, strok
Jog-Ms brown beard, and watching Eh*
ther. No one would have taken him
for a wooer,_ and yet, in his slow fash¬
ion, he was bearing down steadily on
the port of matrimony. *
“It’s real heartsome up yonder the
now,’’ he said. “The sole-thorn’s a’ in
bloom in the lane, an’ the birdies are
singin’ and the lambs skippin’ in the
meadow—it’s real heartsome at The
Willows.”
It was not the first time Esther had
beard the charms of The Willows,
varied only by the season.
“I wouldn’t wmnder,” she assented.
“The country’s aye nice in the spring¬
time. Is it a good season for the
lambs, Robert?”
“Well, I ha’e seen better. There’s a
.good few o’ them dousy enough like.
I’m no’ so rich the year as I thought
to be. Ye see, I was reckonin’ on get
tin’ the house new papered an’ painted
this spring, but,” with a wistful glance
at her, “I’m waitin’.”
Esther smiled.
“John Robinson was askin’ me if
you’d a mind to sell the Black Bull.
He’d give ye a good price for’t.” He
did not look at her again, for he knew
by heart, the obstinate upcast of her
-chin when he mooted this topic.
“An’ what for would I sell the Black
Bull, Robert Jardine? Folk shouldna
be in haste to make changes. They’ll
be the longer o’ ruein’ them.”
He sighed.
“Well, I must be movin’ home,
though there’s nobody carin’ much
what road I go. I’m missin’ the old
mother more every day.”
The words touched her. She held
■out her hand, and it was lost in his.
“Some day, Robert, maybe there will
be one to watch for your hame cornin’.”
His face flushed, and he laid his
hands on her shoulder, but she drew
back.
“Oh, I’m no sayin’ who it will be,”
•she added.
“There’s but one 'woman in the world
for me, an’ well ye ken that, Esther,”
be said sternly, and strode away.
The little town among the hills was
an uneventful spot, and sensations
were rare and precious. One of these
was the yearly visit of Signor Jacobi
with his circus and menagerie. It was
the market day, and crowds stood
gaping at the gay procession. In start¬
ling contrast with the ladies in velvet
and spangles was a monster ape in a
cage bringing up the rear. His crafty,
old bewrinkled face looked out from
between the bars, and he put forth
a stealthy hand to seize an inquisitive
old farmer’s spectacles or snatch a
swain’s gay necktie. Suddenly, no one
could tell how or why, a hubbub arose
‘To tiuna own self be true,and it will follow, as night the day, thou cans’t not then be false to any man.”
UNCOLNTON, GA „ THURSDAY, AUGUST 7. 1902,
—shrieks and jostling and scrimmage.
The fastenings of the ape’s cage had
given way, and, with a wild dash for
freedom, ho hounded, jabbering and
chattering, over the heads of the ter¬
rified crowd. Signor Jacobi smoked
his pipe that afternoon in the porch of
the Black Bull. The performance was
postponed, while his troupe scattered
in fluest of the missing member.
“He has the cunning of fifty foxes,
has old Jargo,” he said. “He has
doubled on me more than once; but he
turns up when he gets hungry. He’s
a crafty old boy.”
“You’ll come with mo to the show,
Esther?” asked Jardine, who loved a
variety entertainment.
“No, no, Robert, I cannot leave the
house. I promised the maids to let
them go; besides, I have my accounts
to make up. I must be bankin’ my
money.”
“You are gettin’ to be a rich woman,
Esther. I wish The Willows was doin’
as well as the Black Bull; sheep farm¬
in’ is risky business.”
She looked at him anxiously. She
knew that his father had been a
“waster,” and it was uphill work to
restore the farm to prosperity; but it
was not her way to express sympathy.
The town was very quiet next even¬
ing; every one who could afford it was
at the circus. The side windows of the
best kitchen were wide open, and the
spring breeze wafted the muslin cur¬
tains inward. Esther sat at a tabic
with the contents of a leather bag
spread before her—a heap of sovereigns
glittered in the light from the pine
logs. She lifted the gold in her fingers,
counting it with a pleased expression.
She had & Self-satisfied conviction (that
success like hers must be the reward
of a good church-goer and an upright
woman. She had no fear to be alone
in the house with so much money,
for thieves were rare in Annandale.
There was a rustling sound among the
shrubs at the window, but she did not
hear it. The bell of the outer door
jiugled, and, gathering the coins into
the bag, she set it on a shelf and went
out. It was old Mr. Meldrum, a fre¬
quenter of the inn; he was an elder of
the kirk, and he gave her his opinion
at length on “playactin’ an’ a’ sic de¬
vices o’ Sawtan.” As he was leaving
her she heard hasty footsteps run down
the passage to the kitchen, and at the
door she met Robert Jardine. ITe was
flurried and breathless.
“I’m late for the show, Esther; you
won’t come? Well, I brought you a
posy to keep you from feelin’ lone¬
some.”
He patted her shoulder and rushed
out. The kitchen was filled with frag¬
rance from a bunch of yiolets on the
table. She buried her face in their
cool, purple beauty.
“He’s a faithful soul, Robert Jar¬
dine,” she said to herself. “A body
might do worse than take him at his
word—some day.”
She turned to take the bag and lock
it up in the safe. It was gone! Two
of the sovereigns lay on the floor. A
hasty hand had snatched the bag and
dropped them out. She saw it all in a
dreadful vision, and the hand she saw
was Robert Jal'dine’s! It all flashed
m grim detail on her limited brain.
His hints of losses, his flurried air.
There was a mortgage on The Willows;
perhaps the interest was not ready.
He knew she could never charge her
father’s friend and her own with thpft.
And so she thought bitterly he had
robbed a lonely woman. She paced
the room wringing her hands. The
pine logs were dying into ashes, and
the air Was chill. She closed the win¬
dow, picking up her overturned work¬
table. Robert Jardine a thief! And
this was the end of it all. She never
knew till then how strongly she had
cherished the thought of a love-lit
home and little children round her
knee. No, she could never marry a
thief. But, surely, it had been a sud¬
den impulse; he would come back and
explain. She would lend him all he
needed. She heard the servants’ voices
at the rear. The show w T as over. The
farmers’ springcarts flew past, the
east wind sighed through the pines.
She listened for the rapid hoof-beats
of Robert’s chestnut. Yes, there he
comes—slower; he is going to stop.
No; he passes on. She buries her face
in her hands, and, like a dirge of lost
love, comes the murmur of the river
flowing clown from Ericstaue Brae,
Then she started up, and seizing the
violets—his sweet gift—she flung them
into the lire, piling fresh logs upon
them; and watching them writhe and
squirm like living things.
But when the maids came in she was
calm, and none of them guessed that
their mistress had touched the border
land of tragedy that night.
A week passed, in which she did not
sec Robert Jardine. She’said nothing
of her loss; it would be, her secret
anil his. She heard among the gossips
in the porch that he ha<I*gone to Glas¬
gow, and that he was making some
improvements on the farm.
“He’ll be takin’ hame his wife some
o’ time days, Miss Esther,” said old
Mrs. Burrows, the matchmaker of the
town. “An’ she’ll no can say him nay.
It’s lang he has waited, an’ it’s a guid
fairm, The Willows; an’ lie’s a gey
decent lad, Robert JardiSe.”
Esther smiled at her.
He came on market clay, but there
was a crowd in the porch, and the
benches were filled with smokers. She
did not see him till afternoon. He
took his usual stand on the hearth, and'
looked around.
“Your violets will be withered by
now?” he said. “I’ll bring you fresh
ones. They’re fine the pow down the
bank where mother plan ted them, an’
the daffy down dillies, as Molly calls
them, arc coinin’ out, in the long
meadow. You’re fond o’ flowers, Es¬
ther? They’re real heartsome.”
“Yes,” she answered coldly. “I’m
for takin’ in more ground at the rear
an’ plantin’ a flower garden.
He stared blankly at her.
“You’re what? An’ what for would
you lay out money for other folk that
way, Esther? The Willows will be
ready for you, an’ what’s to hindef
the weddin’ ? I’m wearyin’ for ye.”
She looked straight in liis eyes. How
could he meet her glance and know
he had robbed her?
“There’ll be no me, Rob¬
ert Jardine,” sliirflarar “Thu’ll have to
seek your wife elsewhere.”
He started forward to grasp her
hand, but she pushed him back.
“No word more shall cross my lips;
but well you know I can never marry
you—now.”
“Never marry me? An’ what for,
do you think, I have been toilin’ a’
these years if it wasna to make a
home for you? An’ now you say you
can never marry me.”
He stood before her, his face working
with emotion.
“I’m no great things, maybe, but I’m
your faithful lover, Esther, an’ you’re
not goin’ to throw me over in the face
o’ a’ the neighbors. It’s not as if we
were strangers; you ken me lang
enough.”
“Ay, fine I ken you, Robert,” she.
said drily. “I woul maybe be a hap
pier woman this day if I didna.”
“I’m hanged if I can make out wha
you’re drivin’ at,” he retorted iu an
ger. “Will ye speak straight, an’ tell
me why you’re tliorwin’ me over?
You’re inair glib wi’ the speech than
me.”
“I have nothing to say if you have
not. I cai__mt help what the neighbors
think. I do not mean to marry you.”
“So be it, then. You’ll be fashed wi’
me uae mair. Ye can spier me when
ye want me back,” he said, flinging
out. She watched him mounting his
spring cart, and unwilling tears cloud¬
ed her sight.
Snow fell late that year, checking,
the promise of spring, and the hedges,'
instead of whitening with hawthorn
buds, were weighted with a pallid
burden. There was much gossip over
the cessation of Robert Jardiue’s woo¬
ing, for every one was interested in
the love story of the mistress of the
Black Bull.
Esther’s heart was heavy, and as the
snow began to thaw she turned her
thoughts to the garden she meant to
lay out to the edge of the pine trees.
She kilted up her skirts and made her
walk over the heaps of last year’s
leaves. In a hollow something red
caught her eye. Stooping over it she
saw that it was a scarlet jacket with
gay brass buttons. She took a branch
and cleared the snow away. Some
bulky tiling lay beneath. A shudder
seized her; it looked like a human
body. Had some poor creature per¬
ished in the snow? There was a heap
of bones under the scarlet cloth. Again
a shudder seized her, though she was
not a nervous woman. She swept
away the last remnant of snow, and
there lay bare a ghastly object—the
gigantic skeleton of the lost ape!
She was turning away to make
known her discovery, when something
stopped her. This time it was the
glitter of gold. Under the fleshless
lingers was a leather bag. Some of its
contents lay on the earth. Conquering
her repulsion, she withdrew the bag
and gathered up the coins. It was her
lost property.
A sudden faintness seized her; she
remembered in a. flash the open win¬
dow, the overturned work-table. To
think that she had held Robert Jar
dine for a thief and lost him!
She concealed the bag under her
cloak. No one had known of her loss;
none need know of its recovery. She
went in by the bad: kitchen; the ser¬
vants were whispering together in a
group.
“Baud yer tongue, she’ll hear ye.
Wha’s gaun tae toil her?” some one
said.
“What is it?” she asked sharply.
She turned to her old Irish cook, whose
ruddy face had grown pale. “Speak,
Betty; what is wrong?”
“They’re sayin’, mistress, that Mr.
Jardine has broke bis neck or some
thin’,” Biddy blurted out. "But I
wudn’t be afthcT heedin’ thipa If I was
ty. A HID HI! MUMS
A'
; I -IN-
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mm
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Is* is
rtTA I Ml i £43 C*2
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Our One Dollar Brogan is better. Our One Dollar and Twe nty -five
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Our One Dollar and Fifty Cents Shoes are simply superb. Dollar and
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We can give you Ladies Shoes at 75c, but the Shoes we want to sell
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We never forget the Children and Babies and this line of Shoes this
season is better than ever before.
HATS! HATS! HATS!
Our prices in Hats are simply Tornado Swept. We give you Boy*
Hats 10c, a real good Hat 25c. Men’s Felt Hats 65c, Men’s Extra Good
Felt Hats $1.00, and so on to the end. within mile of this in
We don’t expect any one to come a us season
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GREAT EASTERS SHOE CO.
907 Broad Street, Augusta, Ga.
you. It’ll not be a word aV thruth’ll
be in’t at all, at all.”
But she did not hear the attempt at
comfort; it seemed to her she had al¬
ways known how the story would end.
The servants looked in silent pity at
her white, set face as she passed out
of the kitchen. She locked the bag in
the safe, and set out for The Willows.
It was a long* walk, but she felt the
need of action. As she ascended the
hill she could hear the bleating of the
slieep in the fields of The Willows.
She had never guessed till now how
strong a hold this place had on her
affections as her future home. A sal¬
low, dark-browed woman opened the
door.
“Eh, it’s no’ yersel’, Miss Morrison?”
she drily asked. “Ay, the maister’s
lied a sail 1 come down. The doctor says
he’s no’ to be disturbed by naebody.”
“Then ho is not—”
“Na, na, he’s no’ deid, though there’s
them that liasna been carin’ muckle
what cam’ tae him.”
She stood blocking up the door, but
Esther pushed past her.
“I’m going to him, Molly,” she said.
“Weel, he’s in the auld mistress’s
chaumber, but I’ll no’ tak’ the respon
slbility——”
Esther went softly along the corridor,
and opened the door, A sunbeam
struck through a corner of the blind,
but the room looked bare and chilly.
His 'bandaged head rested on the pil¬
low; his face was ghastly, but his
A VI t \ 10
v f .
eyes turned on her with a look of glad
surprise.
“Why, Estheri” be said.
“Hush, don't speak, Robert. I hoard
you were hurt, and I came to you.”
“Ay, I had a near shave. Prince
woudn’t take the dyke. I’ve been a
bit reckless this while. Nobody cared,
ye see, Esther.” His brow contracted
in pain, and he stopped.
“Yes, dear, I cared,” she whispered,
stooping over him. A crimson blush
Crept over her face and neck, and’she
kissed him on the mouth. Never in all
his long wooing had ho ventured to kiss
her. Surely be must be dreaming
now!
“You mind what you said to me. If
I wanted you I must spier you. Get
better, dear, for my sake, and then you
Will let me come home to you.”
She struggled with her shy pride to
bring out the words, and they revived
him like wine. The deadly depression
that had baffled the doctor’s skill be¬
gan to lighten, and the patient revived
with the tonic of hope. Esther left the
Black Bull to the care of her maids,
and nursed her lover back to health.
The doctor rubbed his hands, well
pleased. “He’s going to do, after all,”
he said. “But I 'don’t know that I
have all the credit of the case. He
was bent on slipping through my On¬
gers. Now he wants to get round,
and that’s half the battle.”
*
When the roses bloomed white among
the ivy in the porch of The Willows
Esther Jardine came home. John Rob¬
inson is the landlord of the Black Bull,
and The Willows is more heartsome
than ever under the rule of its tidy
mistress.
Now and again a memory comes to
her of the sinister visitor that almost
robbed her of life’s treasure of love,
and she has learned to be very char¬
itable in her judgments.—Scotch
American.
France’s newest prison, eight miles
from Paris, is the biggest in the world.
It covers half a square mile, has 1824
cells and will contain 2000 prisoners.
Deacon Jones—I know of three
brothers in a neighboring town that
would afford excellent material for
a sermon on the theme of brotherly
iove.
Deacon Brown.—I’ll make a note of
it. Tell me more about them, deacon.
Deacon .Tones—Well, John, tha
eldest, is a physician; Thomas, the
second brother, is an undertaker, and
William, tne youngest, is a marble
cutter.—Chicago News.