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VOL. X.
THE MAN AND HIS
CHANCE.
B EFORE a writing table in the
morning room of a country
vicarage a girl was sitting,
pen in band. Young—not
more than twenty-two—she was pretty,
With delicate, thoughtful-looking fea¬
tures. There was a sheet of paper
before her, but she bad not written a
word. She sat gazing at it in abstract¬
ed fashion, apparently deep in thought.
At length, as if unable to arrive at
any decision, she rose with a sigh, and
made her way across to the window
and looked out. It was a cold, bright
afternoon, and the view showed a
. stretch of country denuded of every
trace of green covering. In the dis¬
tance, some two miles away, the small
town of Sonningford could he seen,
the roofs of the houses glinting in th?
dying rays of tlie winter sun.
The girl’s eyes drifted to where a
flown stretched high away. On the top
were some old stone ruins, and, her
glance resting on these, thoughts of
some bygone hours spent there crowd¬
ed back to her mind. As she medi¬
tated the tears came to her eyes.
“Yv’e weren't so far apart then!” she
murmured; “now, it is different.”
She turned away from the window,
and caught up a newspaper from the
table. A gleam came into her eyes as
she looked at it.
"Two columns and a half!” she ex¬
claimed, softly. She read a stray sen¬
tence here and there. “Cheers—cheers
—prolonged ministerial cheers!”
There was a tap at the door, and she
laid the paper down suddenly.
A servant entered the room.
.Mantell has called, miss!” she
annor.n c efl. *
“Ask him to come in here, please,”
the girl replied. She walked rapidly
to her writing table and shut tlie cover
of her case.
The next moment the door opened,
and Mr. Mantell was shown in. He
was a kindly faced old man, with white
hair and bent shoulders. He had a
.bundle of newspapers under his arm,
■which he put down on tlie table be¬
fore holding out his hand to the girl.
As she turned to greet him there was
a tiny flush on both her cheeks.
“Ah, my dear; I needn’t ask how
you are!” he cried, as he clasped her
hand. “Your looks tell their own tale.
Father’s writing his sermon—mustn't
be disturbed oil any account; of course
not! So we two will have our chat
together in here, eh?”
Margaret pulled forward a chair to¬
ward the fire. The old man warmed
his hands at the blaze.
“And when did you get back?” she
asked.
"This morning. Such a week, my
dear Margaret! And directly I re¬
turned I felt I must come over and
tell you all about it.”
She bent down and arranged the
cushion for liim.
“Very nice of you,” slie said, in an
even tone. “And bow did you leave
Laurence?”
“He was in splendid condition!” cried
tlie old man. “And, of course, sent al!
sorts of kind messages to you.”
Tlie girl turned away for a moment.
“Ah, my dear!” he went on. enthu¬
siastically. “Never have I been so
proud of my hoy as I have this week.
You would have been proud of him,
too, Margaret!” lie added, looking
round at her fondly.
“Yes,” she assented; “I am quite
proud of him. He bails from Son
uingford, you know!” she added,
forcing a smile.
Tlie old man was still looking at her.
“Yes,” lie said, musingly; “1 wished
you had been with me. Somehow,
Margaret, you, of all tlie others, are
the one I most like to talk to about
him. You never seem to tire of my
enthusiasm—you take as much interest
as I do. You are almost as a sister
to him!”
The girl was staring out of the win¬
dow.
“Yes—but your week, your splendid
week?” she said, suddenly.
“Ah, yes. my splendid week!” he
cried, rubbing his hands. “He took
me everywhere—seemed proud to in¬
troduce me as his father! They talk
of him as the coming man, Margaret—
the most promising of the young ones!”
“That’s what the newspapers say,”
she put in.
“And it’s true—quite true!” he said,
eagerly. “If you could hear what the
•To thme own self be true,and it will follow, as night the day, thou cans’t, not then be false to any man. ”
LINCOLNTON, GA , THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25. 1902.
people I have met this week think
of him! They say his brain is mar¬
velous—that the country sorely needs
men with reasoning faculties devel¬
oped as his are!”
The girl picked up the newspaper.
“I read the full account of his
speech,” she said. “Did you hear
him?”
He nodded his head excitedly.
“Yes; I was in the gallery. It was
a wonderful speech, my dear! And
the House, accustomed as it is to won¬
derful speeches, was fairly electrified.
A thrill went through me as I gazed
down on his straight young figure, his
eyes gleaming, his face lighted with
enthusiasm, the words coming out as
a torrent, only pausing now and again
to let the cheers die down, and T real¬
ized that lie was my son—my only
son!” finished the old man, with a
tremble in his voice.
Margaret did not speak for a mo¬
ment.
“Do you think it silly of me to he
so proud?” lie asked, suddenly.
“No, no!” she said, hastily.
He pointed to the papers on the
table.
“His photograph is in a lot of the
weekly papers. I brought them for
you to see.”
“Thank you,” she said, moving to¬
ward the table.
A sudden smile lighted up the face
of the old man. He looked up quickly
at her.
“And—hut I have not told you the
great news—the tiling that may hap¬
pen!” he cried. “It is almost too won¬
derful to believe!”
She turned round swiftly.
“Can you keep a secret, Margaret?”
he asked, playfully. “As yet, it is only
in the clouds, you know!”
She forced a smile.
“I think I can,” she said.
“On Wednesday Laurence was invit¬
ed to a great Minister’s reception.
And what do you think, Margaret?—
I went, too!” he cried, triumphantly.
“Lord Ashbury heard that I was in
town and insisted on Laurence bring¬
ing me. Was it not kind of liim?
Everybody I was introduced to spoke
of Laurence’s future. They said he
would be in the Cabinet within the
next ten years, or, possibly, even less
—think of that, my dear—the Cab¬
inet!”
“But your nows?” asked Margaret,
quietly.
The old man's eyes gleamed.
“It’s an open secret up there,” lie
whispered, “that Lady Helen, Lord
Ashbury’s daughter, is in love with
him—that he has only to say the word,
and she will accept him!”
He looked at Margaret to see tlie
effect of his announcement. Appar¬
ently she was perfectly unmoved. He
could not see that the hand behind
her was trembling like a leaf.
“Think What a marriage like that
would mean for my boy, Margaret!”
lie- cried. “Lord Ashbury, they say,
lias no objection to tlie match. He
thinks Laurence the man of tlie future.
As his son-in-law, lie would be of tlie
greatest possible use in giving him his
influence. Then, again, Laurence has
only a few hundreds a year private
money. Lady Helen is very wealthy,
and could give him the position in
society lie will need. It would he a
wonderful match, Margaret!”
“Wonderful!” she said, in a low tone.
“With such a marriage nothing can
stop him. He might he Premier, one
day—who knows! Premier, Mar¬
garet!” he cried.
She opened one of the papers.
“And Lady Helen—what is she like?”
she asked, calmly.
The old man's face lighted up.
“Tail, graceful, a beautiful woman—
a leader in society, a brilliant conver¬
sationalist—one of the few women
who know anything about politics!”
he exclaimed. “And she is in love
with Laurence, fascinated by his per¬
sonality!”
The girl turned over a leaf of the
paper.
“And what does he say?” she asked.
“Say! I never dared to even hint of
it to him!” he returned. “But,of course,
he would never be mad enough to let
such a chance slip by! They are ad¬
mirably suited to one another. A
daughter of Lord Ashbury, too! It
would be madness—utter madness!”
“And you would wish it yourself?”
ra
asked Margaret, in a very low voice.
“Wish it!” he cried. “I desire it
above all things! I am an old man,
Margaret, my dear, and Laurence and
his career are ail that I have left! If
I live to see him one of the great men
of the nation I shall be happy!” he fin¬
ished, tremulously.
The girl glanced at him for a mo
ment. Then, with a sudden quick
look of resolution she sat down at her
writing table.
“It is getting near post time,” she
said, in a hard voice, “and I have a
letter that must go. Will you excuse
me for a moment?”
“Dear me—so late!” he cried. “Write,
by all means, and I will drop your let¬
ters in the box on my way back.”
Margaret’s head was bent over her
letter. He could not see her face, but
she was writing vigorously. At length
she finished, read it through and ad¬
dressed an envelope. She stamped it
and rose from her seat. She was very
white, but he did not notice it.
“Done!” she said, with a smile.
He got up from his chair and took
tlie envelope from her hand.
She picked up three others from the
table.
“Would you mind dropping these in
at the same time?" she said.
Ho was studying tlie address of the
first letter she had just written.
“An old friend’s privilege!” be said,
looking up at her with an inquiring
smile. “I see this is to the doctor.
Is what we have all been rather ex¬
pecting going to happen at last?”
He saw her change color. He took
a step forward and IK caught her hand in
his. .
“He is a good roan, Margaret,” be
said, kindly. “I am glad.”
A mist rose in her eyes.
•’Thank you,” s'btj. murmured.
“I was so certain.” .he continued,
•thought “that I of gave ic jas’iyisle''«’as"seh lit'jgfiM ? a bint. / fflg I
me
off.”
“You told Laurence! Did be say
anything?” she said quickly.
“He had no time,” the old man re¬
plied, with a laugh. “I told him as
the train was moving. He knows the
doctor, and will be pleased. Now I
must be off, my dear.” "
She saw him out, and then, return¬
ing to the room, flung herself down in
a chair. The tears coursed down her
cheeks,
“It was the only way,” she cried.
“He would never do it without—his
career must come before everything—
for his father’s sake—his own sake!
He will understand.”
* * * *
It was seven o’clock that evening as
a tall young man leaped from tlie
London train at Sonningford station.
The porter touched his cap as he rec¬
ognized him, for the little town was
proud of Laurence Mantell, M. P.
He ordered his hag to be sent to bis
fathers house, then set out to walk
the distance. The night was lovely,
the country road rock-hard under foot.
He strode on, deep in thought. He
had not intended to visit Sonningford;
nothing had been further from bis
thoughts that morning. Always busy,
he was particularly hard pressed just
now, but the words bis father had
flung at him as tlie train was moving
had haunted him all day. He could
think of nothing else. At last, acting
on impulse, he had canceled his en¬
gagement for the evening and come
down to Sonningford.
He reached tile cross roads, where
one led to his father’s house and the
other to the vicarage. He paused for
a moment, and his eye rested on the
pillar-box—a red splash of color nest¬
ling in an ivy-clad wall. He was about
to pass on when some thing white, ly¬
ing on the ground a few yards away,
caught his attention. He stepped to¬
ward it and picked it up.
He stood for a few moments gazing
reflectively at it, then with a decisive
movement he slipped it in the pocket
of his coat, and set out at a quick pace
along the road to the vicarage.
In a few minutes he arrived there.
Miss Margaret was the only one in.
Would he see her?
He entered and was shown into the
drawing room. He sat down and wait¬
ed impatiently.
A few moments afterward the door
opened and she came in.
“This is a surprise, Laurence!” she
said, with a nervous little laugh. “I
thought you were so busy.”
“A man is never so busy but wha-t
he can spare time to do the thing I
have in view,” he answered.
“I have come here to-night, Mar¬
garet,” he continued, quietly, “to ask
you to be my wife!”
She started back with a little cry.
“No, no!” she said. “As boy and
girl we played at being in love, Lau¬
rence-”
“I was a man, and meant it!” he
broke in.
“No; you must not mean it, Lau¬
rence!” she went on, gently. “It was
before you went to London—were
made a member of Parliament; before
you became the famous man you are!”
She paused.
“What difference does fame make to
love?”
“Simply this, dear!” she spoke in a
low, trembling tone. “The country
clergyman’s daughter is not the wife
for a man destined to hold the position
you are!” He was about to interrupt,
but she silenced him with a gesture.
“I should never be able to assist you;
iD time you would repent of having
married, a nonentity.” She paused.
“Your father has been here, Laurence,
and told me of Lady Helen. You must
marry her, Laurence—think of that
wonderful career—of what such a mar¬
riage means to it. When your father
told me of it,” she said, gently, “I
knew you would think that you were
bound to me—though, of course, you
weren’t. But I knew bow honorable
you are in every thought—that unless
I did something you would let this
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R. G. TARVER, Manager
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S h oc ^ this
We never forget the Children and Babies and thia line of Shoes
«eason is better than ever before.
HATS! HATS! HATS!
Our prices in Hats are simp’v Tornado Swept. We give you Boy*
Hats 10c, a real good Hat 25c. Men’s Felt Hats 65c, Men’s Lxtra Good
Felt Hats $1.00, and so on to the end.
We don’t expect any one to come within a mile of us this season in
Price and Quality. When in the city be sure to Cal), and Examine and be
Convinced.
907 Broad Street, Augusta, Ga.
chance slip by, so i did the thing!” she
finished abruptly.
“You wrote to the Doctor and ac¬
cepted his offer of marriage?”
“He asked me a week ago, and I said
I would write to him.” She smiled
through her tears at him. “I knew
you would not say a word while I was
still free; so, when your father was
here I wrote and accepted him, and
be posted it.
“But you are free still, thank
heaven?” be cried suddenly. “Your
letter was never posted, It was
dropped on the way to the box, and
I picked it up. I recognized your
writing at once.” He held it out and
she gazed at it in wonderment, “And
whether you have me or not. Mar¬
garet!” he continued, “I tell you this—
that, under no circumstances shall I
ever marry Lady Helen—for the simpie
reason that I do not love her! I feel
certain you love me still!” he cried.
“As for me, I’ve never ceased to love
you from the day I first told it to you
on the Down! If you will not marry
me, I shall drop the whole life and go
abroad: then your anxiety over my
career will have been entirely wasted!”
“Leave politics?”
“On my honor, yes!” be answered,
gravely. “But on the other hand, if
you'll marry me we’ll do our best to
NO. 17.
patch up the ruined career—make the
best of it!” he added, smijing. “My
father loves you and will accept the
Inevitable. Besides, it is his fault—
he dropped the letter!” he added, with
a smile. “Which is it to be?” He was
very near to her. He saw a slight
flush pass over her cheek. A gleam
of unutterable happiness crept into
her eyes.
“If it’s quite inevitable,” she wbisr
pered, softly.
Her eyes met his, and the next md*
ment he had caught her in his arms.
“This is the only real chance I’ve
ever had, dearest!” he cried. “I’m
going to make the most of it!”
And he did.—Woman’s Life.
British vs. Yankee Boys.
A stout Englishwoman said the other
day that in her opinion the American
climate is “better for. boys” than that
of her native island.
“My first two boys were- born in
Yorkshire,” she said, “and my younger
three were born in Massachusetts and
Ohio. Well, these three fellows are
way ahead of their British brothers.
They have more brains and they’re
quicker to catch on to things.”
Her husband agreed with her so far
as the intellectual superiority of his
American boys .was concerned. He
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added, however, (hat the blessing was
uot an unmixed one.
“The American boy lias more cheek,”
he said. “He talks too much and thinks
little of his father. My English boys,
when they were boys, used to look up
to their pop. They thought me the
cleverest and bravest man on earth.
That isn’t what my Yankee lads think
of me. They obey me all right enough,
but there is something in their eye all
the time which makes me feel as if
they set. me down for a foreign old
fool. They’re too proud of their coun¬
try, and everything that isn’t Ameri¬
can seems small and funny to them.”—
New York Commercial Advertiser.
The cost of lighting and buoying the
United States coast is $250 a year for
each mile.
Dancing Mice.
The so-called “waltzing mice” of
China and Japan have been supposed
to owe their dancing peculiarity to dis¬
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examination of the ears of these re¬
markable animals, Dr. K. Kishi has
reached the conclusion that the or¬
gans are perfectly healthy and that the
dancing is an effect of centuries of
confinement of the race in small
cases.