HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Huron Signal, 1881-04-08, Page 22
THE HURON SIGNAL, FRIDAY, APRIL 1881.
A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
17 term ,tint boa
f1.PT1j xxv.
It was $ 4ead fame --not frightful
look at, beirmtital name, as the mueels§
slowly settled—but dead, quite dead.
1 laid him down aglain, still resting his
head a ainat my knee, till he gradually
stiffened and grew cold.
This was just at moonrise; he had
said the moon would rise at two o'clock,
and so aha did, and struck her first ar-
ruwy ray across the plain upon his face
—that still face with eta half -open mouth
and eyes.
I had not been afraid of him hitherto;
now I was. It was no longer a man, but
a corpse, and 1 was the murderer.
The sight of the moon rising, is my
last recollection of this night. Probably
the fit of insanity, which lasted for many
months afterward, et that instant came
on, and under its influenoe I must have
fled, leaving him when he ley, with the
gig standing by, and the horse quietly
feeding beside the great stones; but I do
not recollect anything. Doubtless, I
had all the cunning of madness, for I
contrived to gain the coast and get over
to France; but how, or when, I have not
the slightest remembranoe to this, day.
As I have told you, I never saw Dallas
again. When I reached Pau, he was
dead and buried. The particulars of his
death were explained to me months
afterward by the good cure, who Catho-
lic as he was, had learned to love Dallas
like a son, and who watched ever me for
his sake, during the long, melancholy
mania, which, as he thought, resulted
from the shock of my brother's death.
Some day I should like you, if possible
to see the spot where Dallas is buried—
the church -yard of BiIheres, near Pau;
but his grave is not within the church-
yard, as, he beings Protestant, the au-
thorities would not allow it. You will
find it just outside the hedge—the head-
stone placed in the hedge—though the
little mound is by this time level with
the meadow outside. You know, we
Presbyterians have not your English
feeling about "consecrated" ground; we
believe that "the whole earth is the
Lord's," sad no human consecration can
make it holier than it is, both fur the
worship of the living, and the interment
of the dead. Therefore it does not
shock me that the cattle feed, and the
grass grows tall ever Dallas's body. But
I should like the headstone preserved—
aa it is; for yearly, in different quarters
of the globe, I have received letters frotn
the old cure and his successor, concern-
ing it. You are much younger than I,
Theodora; after my death I leave this
charge to you. You will fulfil it for my
sake, I know.
Must I tell you any more ? Yes, for
now comes what some might say was a
crime as heavy as the first one. I do not
attempt to extenuate it. I can only say
that it has been expiated ---such as it was
—by twenty miserable years, and that
the last expiation is even yet not come.
Your father once said, and his words
dashed from me the first hope which
ever entered my, mind concerning you,
that he never would clasp the hand of a
man who had taken the life of another.
L
---
literal "worm that death not, and flee de sand it, that question will have been
that is never quenched," IAisiekssieR anewU eao do you nu Mips
smile Bulkiest are the • it for �minute I think you as my
n t, wife' I .. friend, child, mimeses,
spiritual belt '
SomeMrqtls,
if Satan
to rouse me in
a boy net tweedy
-before toe, to los. ai
fury against a pee wi o semi have been
depraved to the core, a rnsae
whom I had no personal good s, 01
whom I sow nothing but his soma Yet
must I surrender my life for his --be tried,
condemned, publicly disgraced --finally
die the death of • dug. I had neve'
been a coward—yet might after night I
woke, bathed in a cold sweat of terror,
feeling the rope round my neck, .sed
suing the forty thousand upturned
faces—as in the newspaper amount of
the poor wretch who was hanged.
Remember, I plead nothing. I know
then are thou who would say that the
moat dishonorable wretch alive waa this
same man of honor—this Max Urquhart,
who carries such a fair reputation; that
the only thing I should have done was
to go back to England, surrender myself
to justice, and take all the consequences
of this one act of drunkenness and un-
governable paaaien. However, I did it
not. But my sin—u every airs must --
be sure—has found mo out,
Theodore it is hardly eight hours since
your innocent arms were round my neck
and your kisses un my cheeks—and now!
Well, it will be over soon. However I
have lived, I shall not die a hypo-
crite.
I do not attempt to retrace the course
of reasoning by which I persuaded my-
self to act the way I did. I waa only •
bey; this long sleep of mind had re-es-
tablished my bodily health—life and
youth were strong within me; also the
hope of honor, the dread of Shama Yet
sometimes conscience struggled so fierce-
ly with all these, that I was half tempt-
ed to a medium course, the coward's last
escape—suicide.
You must remember religion waa
wanting in me—and Dallas was dead
Nay, I had for the time already forgot-
ten him.
One day, when, driven distracted by
my doubts, I had almost made up my
mind to end them in the one sharp easy
way I have spoken of, while putting my
brother's papers in order, I found his
Bible. Underneath his name he had
written—and the date was that of the
last day of his life—my name. I looked
at it, as we look at a handwriting long
familiar, till of a sudden we remember
that the hand is cold, that .no earthly
power can ever reproduce of this known
writing a single line. Child, did you
ever know -no, yuu never could have
knew—that total desolation, that help-
less craving for the dead who return no
more.
After I grew calmer, I did the only
thing which seemed to bring me a little
nearer to Dallas --I road in his Bible.
The shapter I opened at was so remark-
able, that at first I recoiled as if it had
been my brother—he who, being now a
spirit, might, for all I could tell, have a
apirit'sknowledge of all things—speaking
to me out of the invisible world. The
chapter was Ezekiel xvu. , and among
•that wosid have bun ink -
of coming
would have
to me who,
my whole lib.'
Think ' o issieli 'jive tried to make
it to you Thia of sitting by my fire=
side, hewing that you were the gaily one
required to make it happy and bright;
that, good, and pleasant, and dear as
many others might be—the only absolute
necessity to each of us was one anoth-
er.
Thea the years that would have hol-
lowed, in which we never had to say
Rood-by—in which our toe hearts would
daily lie open, clear and plain, never to
have a doubt or a secret any more.
Then—if we should net always be only
two !—think of you as my wife, the
mother of my children——
fsum what has been dune, 1 may at last
be able to detail thus events. Fer both
Mao's sake and my own, it seems best to
do it, unless 1 mould make up my stied
to destmy ago whole juttntaL An un-
finished record is wui . than uone.
=our lifetimes we /►all Guth pre -
lir secret; but many a chance
Wags dark things to light, and 1 have
goy Max's harmer to guard ea well as my
owe
This afternoon, paps being out driving,
and Penelope gone to town to seek fui a
maid whom the governor a lady will re-
quire to take out with her—they sail a
naonth'heuoe--I shall seise the oppertnni-
ty to write down what has befallen Max
and me.
My own pour Max ! But nny' lips are
un his ring; this hand is as safely kept fur
him se when he first held it in his breast.
Let me turn back a page and see
where it was I left off writing iuy journ-
I was unable to conclude this last
night. Now I only add a line before
going into the town to gain information
about—about this person; by whom his
body was found, and when buried; with
that intent I have already been search-
ing the cathedral burying ground, but
there are no sign of graves there—all is
smooth green turf, with the dew upon it,
glittering like a sheet of diamonds in the
bright spring morning.
It reminded me of you, this being
your hour for rising, you early bird—you
little methodical girL You may at this
moment be out on the terrace, looking
up to the hill -top, or down toward your
favorite cedar -tree., with that sunshiny
spring moving face of yours.
What would he say to a man who had other verses were these:
taken a life and concealed the fact for " When the wicked *dart turneth away
twenty years 7 Ism that man. from kis wickednw that he hath corn -
How it came sheat, I will tell you. nutted, and doeth that which is lawful
For a twelvemonth after that night, I and right, he shall esus his soul
was, you will remember, not myself; in alive.
Because
truth, a maniac, though a quiet and ha conaidenth and turneth
harmless one. My insanity was of the I away from all his transgressions that he
sullen and taciturn kind, so that I be- ! bath committed, he shall surely live; he
trayed nothing if indeed I had any re-
membrance of what had happened,
which I believe I had not. The first
dawn of recollection came through read-
ing an English newspaper, which the old
rure brought to amuse me, an account of
a man who was hanged for murder. I
read it line by line—the trial—the ver-
dict—the latter days of the criminal —
who was a young lad like me - and the
last day of all, when he was hanged.
By degrees, first misty as a dream,
then ghastly clear, impressed on my
mind with • tenacity and minuteness all
but miraculous, considering the long
blank which followed—came out the
events of that night. 1 became con-
scious that I too had killed a pian, that
if any eye had seen the act i should have
been taken, tried, and hanged for mur-
der.
Young as I was, and ignorant if Eng-
gliah criminal law, I had sufficient com-
mon sense to arrive at the conclusion.
that, as things stood, there was not a
fragment of evidence against me, indi-
vidually, nor, indeed, any clear evidence
to show that the man was murdered at
a11. It was now a yes- ago—he must
have long since been found and buried—
probably with little inquiry; they would
conclude he had been killed accidentally
through his own careless, drunken driv-
ing. But if I once confessed and de-
livered myself up to judice, I myself
alone knew, and no evident.* could ever
prove, that it wee not a comae of wilful
murder. I .heidel be hanged --hanged
al.
"I never will leave yuu as lung ea I
live. "
Then I ran back to Penelope, and told
her I should walk home with Dr. Urqu-
hart; he had something to say is one.
She tried anger and authority. Booth
failed. If we had been summer lovers
it might have been different, but now, in
his trouble, I seemed to feel Max's right
to me and my love, as 1 had never dune
before. Penelope might have lectured
for everlasting, and I should only have
listennd, and then gone back to Max's
side, as I did.
His arm pressed mine close; he did
Rot say a secured time, "Leave me.
"Now, Max, I want to hear."
No answer.
"You know there is something,
we shall never be quite happy till
told. Say it outright, whatever it
shall nut mind."
No anawe'r.
"Is it something very terrible 1"
"Yea"
"Something that might come between
and part us '"
and,
I trembled, though not much, having
so strong a belief in the impossibility of
parting. ]'et there must have been an
expression I hardly intended in the cry,
"Oh, Max, t ell me," for he again stopped
suddenly, and seemed to forget himself
in looking at and thinking of me.
"Stay, Theodora—you have some-
thing to tell me first. Are you better?
Have you been grow/lug stronger daily i
You are sure 1"
"Quite sure. Now—tell me."
He tried to speak once or twice, vain-
ly. At last he said:
"I—I wrote you a letter."
"I never got it."
"No; I did not mesal you should until
my death. But my mind has changed.
You shall have it now. I have carried it
about with me, on the (thence of meeting
you, these four days. I wanted to give
it to you—and—to look at yuu. Oh, my
child, my child."
After a little while, he gave me the
letter, begging me not to open it till I
was alone at night.
"And if it should shock you—break
your heart 10
"Nothing will break mp heart."
"You are right, it is too pure and
good. God will not suffer it to be
broken. Now, good -by."
For we had reached the gate of Rock -
mount. It had never struck me before
that I had to bid him adieu here, that he
dil not moan to go in with mato dinner;
and when he refused, I felt it very much.
His only answer was, for the second
time, "that I did not know what I sou
saying."
It was now nearly dark, and so misty
that I could hardly breathe. Dr. Ur-
quhart insisted on my going in immedi-
ately, tied my veil close under my chin,
and then hastily untied it.
"Love, do you love me?
He has told me afterward, he forgot
then, for the time being, every circum-
stance that was likely to part us; every-
thing in the whole world but me. And
I trust I was not the only one who felt
that it is those alone who, loving as we
did, are everything to one another who
have most strength to part.
When I came indoors the first person
I met was papa, looking quite bright and
and pleased; and his first question was:
"Where is Dr. Urquhart ! Penelope
sod Dr. Urquhart was coming here."
I hardly know what was done during
that evening, or whether they blamed
Max or not. All my care was how best
to keep his secret, and literally to obey
him concerning it.
Of course, I never named his letter,
nor made any attempt to read it till I
had bidden good -night to them all, and
smiled at Penelope's grumbling over my
long candles and my large fire, "asif I
meant to sit up all night." Yes, I had
taken all these precautions in a quiet,
solemn kind of way, for I did Lot know
what was before me, and I must not fall
ill if I could help. I was Max's own
personal property.
How cross she was that night, poor
Penelope! It was the last time she ever
scolded me.
For some things, Penelope has felt
this more than any one could, except
papa, for she is the only one of us who
has • clear recollection of Harry.
Now, his name is written, and I can
tell it—the awful secret 1 learned from
Max's letter, which no one except me
must ever read.
My Max killed Harry. Not intention-
ally - when be was out of himself and
hardly accountable for what he did; in •
passion of boyish fury, roused by great
cruelty and wrong; but—he killed him.
My brother's death which we believed to
be accidental, was by Max's hand.
I did s', and it was more than I could
bear at the time. I have had to take
another day fur this relation, and even
now it is bitter enough to recall the
feelings with which I put my pen by, so
long ago, waiting for Max to come in
"at any minute."
I waited ten days; not unhappily,
though the last two were somewhat anx-
ious, but it was simply lest anything
might have gone wrung with him or his
affairs. As for his neglecting or "treat -
me ill," as Penelope suggested, such a
thought never entered my head. How
could he treat me ill i — he loved
me.
The tenth day, which was the end of
the term he had named for his journey,
I, of course, felly expected him. I knew
Pray for nee, soy love, my wife, my if by any human power it could be man -
Theodora. aged, I should ase him; he never would
break his ward, I rested on his love es
in waking from that long aick swoon I
had rested en his breast I knew he
would be tender over me, and not let
res sudor one 'sons hour's suspense or
pada than he could possibly avoid.
1 have found his grave at last.
"In mgtnory of Henry Johnston. only
son of Reverend William Henry John-
ston, of Rockmount Surrey, who met his
death by an accident near this town, and
was buried hen. Born May 19, 1806.
Died November 19, 1836."
Farewell, Theodora.
CHAPTER XXVI.
HRH STORY.
Many, many weeks—months, indeed,
have gone by since I opened this my
journal. Can I bear the sight of it even
new 1 Yes, I think I can.
I have been sitting ever so long at the
open window, in my old attitude, elbow
on the sill, only with a difference that
seems to come natural now when no one
is by. It is such a comfort to sit with
my lips on my ring. I asked him to give
me a ring, and he did so. Oh, Max
Max ! Mai !
Great and miserable changes have be -
and
it is
is, I
so -ming in some book, sad thinbiig I me
true it was—it is straw bow goon a i
pest unsery gi sews Blear. Wa hing up
from the firer few mini* of tope b.
walikiresent, I su.oel to bare besti aware
all these twenty yews that my Max
killed Harry.
0 Harry, my brothel, whom I never
knew—no mon than shy stnngsr in tl.s
street, and the faint um awry of whom
was mixed with au inde6ni
of wickedness, *aguish, and
something
to
us ell, if 1 felt not as I .w,lht, then or
afterward, forgive cue. If, though your
sister. 1 thought less of you dead than
of my living Jlax--my poor, poor Max,
who bad borne this awful burden fur
twenty years—Harry forgive me'
Well, I knew it --as an absolute fact
and certainty— though as one often feels
with great personal misfortunes, at first
I cauld not realize it, Gradually I be.
came fully conscious that an overwhelm.
ing horror it was, and what a fearful re-
tributive justice had fallen upon papa
and us all.
For there were some things I had not
myself known till this spring, when Pe-
nelope, in the fullness of her heart at
leaving us, talked to me aguod deal of
old childish days, and especially about
Harry.
He was • spoiled child. His father
never said him nay in anything—never,
from the time ho sat at the table, in his
own ornaanental chair, and drank Cham-
pagne out of his own particular glass,
lisping toasts that were the great amuse-
ment of everybody. He never knew
what contradiction was till, at nineteen,
he fell in love, and wanted to get mar-
ried, and would have succeeded, fur they
eloped (as I believe papa and Harry'i
mother had done), but papa had pre
vented them in time. The girl, some
village lass, but she might have had a
heart neverthless, broke it, and died
Then Harry went all wrong.
Penelope remembers how, at times,
shabby, dissipated man used to meet u
children out walking, and kiss us am
the nursery maids all round, saying hi
was our brother Harry. Also, how h,
used to lie in wait for papa coming au
of church, fellow him into his library
where, after fearful scenes of quarrelling
Harry would go way jauntily, laughin
to us, and bowing to mamma, who alway
showed him out and.shut the door upon
him with a face as white as a sheet.
My sister also remembered papa
being suddenly called away for a day
two, and, on his return, our being a
put into mourning, and told that it we
for brother Harry, whom we must neve
speak of any more. And once when ah
was saying her geography lesson, ani
wanted to go and ask papa some qua
tions about Stonehenge and Salisburj
mamma stopped her, saying she mm
take care never to mention these plat
to papa, for that poor Harry—she calla
him so now-- had died miserably by i
accident, and had been buried ne,
Salisbury.
She died the same year, and son
afterward we came to Rockmount, liver
handsomely inline grandfathers mune;
and proud Cid. we had already begun 1
call ourselves Johnston. Oh me, whi
wicked falsehoods poor Harry told alai
his "family." Him we never age
named; not one of our neighbors h�
ever knew that we had a brother.
The first shock over, hour after hog
of that long night I sat, trying by ai
means to recall hits to mind, my fathn
son, my own flesh and blood—at least I
the half-blood—to pity him, to feel as
ought concerning his death, and the of
that caused it. But do as I would n
thoughts went back to Max—as the
might have done, even had he not be
my own Max, out of deep cwmpasai,
for one who, not being a precuediati
and hardened criminal, had suffered f
twenty years the penalty of this sing
crime.
It was such, I knew. I did n
attempt to palliate it, or justify hi
Though poor Harry was worthless, a
Max is—what he is—that did not all
the question. I believe, even then,
did not disguise from myself the truth
that my Max had committed, not •fat
but an actual crime. But I called h
my Max still. It was the only word tl
saved me, or I might, as he feared, hl
"broken my heart."
The whole history of that dread
night, there is no need I should tell
any human being; even Max himself 1
never know it. God knows it, and t
is enough. By my own strength,
never should have kept my life or re
on till the morning.
[ro es ooterrttran.)
It may here seem strange that I had
never asked Max where he was going,
nor anything of the trimness he was
going upon. Well, that was his secret,
the last secret that was to be between us;
.o I chose not to interfere with it, but to
wait hi. time. Also, I did not fret much
about it, whatever it was. He loved
me. People who have been hungry for
love, and never had it all their lives,
can underetaad the utterly satisfied ctfn-
tentwent o1 the one feeling ---Max loved
me.
At dusk, after staying in all day, I
went out, partly because Penelope wish-
ed it, and partly fur health's sake. I
never lost a chance of getting strong
now. My sister and i walked along
silently, each thinking of her own affairs
when, at • turn in the road which led
fallen us, and now Max and I are not not from the camp, but from the moor-
lands, she cried out, "I do believe there
is Dr. Urquhart."
If he had not heard his :.amt', I think
he would hare passed us without know-
ing us. And the face that met .:nine,
was not. Nor did we judge it well to I when he looked up -1 i.cier .has. foir-
inform Lisabel. Therefore, papa, Pene- get it to my dying day
lope, and I keep our own secret. It made me shrink back for a minute,
Now that it is over, theY on of it and then I said
" Oh, Max' hare you been ill r..
smothered up, and all at Rockmount ..Ido nut know. Yes—PueaiLly,
goes on as heretofore, I sometimes won- „When n didt you ms back t"
der do strangers or intimates—Mrs.I f e
Granton, for instance—suspect anything i " o comefour days ago. Were yuu coming to Rockmount ?"
Or is ours, awful as it seeing, no special „ 13.ockasoiint' oh' in Be shudder -
and peculiar lot 1 Many another family
ed, and dropped my hand.
may have its own lamentable secret, the
burden of which each member his to ' Dr. Urquhart seems in a very un -
bear, and carry in society a cheerful un-
certain frame of mind," said Penelope,
countenance even as this of mine. severely, from the other side of the
Mn. Granton said yesterday mine was. read. "R• had better leave him.
"a cheerful countenance." If so I am Come, Don.
glad. Two things only could really have She caroted me off almost forcibly
broken my heart—his ceasing to love me She was exceedingly displeased. Four
and his changing so in himself, not in hu days• and never to have Dome or written.
circumstances, that I could no longer She said it was *fighting and insulting
worthily love him. By "him" I mean, the family
of course, Max—Max Urquhart, my be. " A roan, too, of whose antecedents
trothed husband, whom henceforward I and connections we know nothing. He
can never regard in any other light. may be a mere adventurer—a penniless
How blue the hills are—how bright Scotch adventurer. Francis always
the moon ! So they ought to be, for it said he was.
is near niidaummer. By this day fort- " Francis is But I could not
night — Penelope's marriage -day — we stay to speak of him, or to reply to Pe -
shall have plenty of roses. All the nelepes bitter words All 1 thought
better; I would not like it to be a dull was how to get lack to Max. and entreat
wedding, though so quiet; only the Tre- him to tell what had happened. He
hernes and Mrs. Gunton as guests, and would tell me. He loved me. Se,
me for the solitary bridesmaid. without any feeling d "proper pride," as
"Your last appearance, I hope, Dora, Penelope called it, I writhed myself out
in that capacity," laughed the deer old of her grasp, ran hank to De. Urquhart,
and took possession of his arm—my arm
lady. "Thrice a bridesmaid, neer a
bride, which couldn't be thought of, you - -which i had a right to.
•
know. No need to speak --1 guess why "Is that you. Tiedovat'
your wedding isn't talked about—the old "Yes, it w L" And them 1 said 1
story man's pride and woman's palates.
wasted him to go hoists with me and tell
doing'to be married. Penelope's mar-
riage also has been temporarily podpond
for the same reason, though I implored
her not to tell it to Francis, unless he
should make very particular inquiries, or
be exceedingly angry at the delay. He
shall not die.
"For I have no pleasure in him that
dieth, saith the Lord God: wherefore
turn yourselves and live ye."
I turned and lived. I resolved to give
a fife --my own—for the life which I had
taken; to devote it wholly to the saving
of their lives; and ef; its close, when I had
built • good name, and shown openly
that after any crime • man might recov-
er himself, repent. and atone, I meant
to pay the full price of the sin of my
youth, and openly to acknowledge be-
fore the world. How far I was right or
wrong in this decision i cannot tell—per-
haps no human judgment ever can tell.
I simply date what I then resolved, and
have never swerved from -till I saw yon.
Of necessity, with this ultimate con-
fession ever before me, all the pleasures
of lite, and all its closest ties—friend-
ship, love, marriage - were not to he
thought of. I set them aside as impossi-
ble. To me. life could never hoe entoy-
meot, but simply atonement
My s.be.geent hertoty you are ac-
quainted with—how, after the needful
term of medical study in Britain (I chose
Dublin as tieing the place where I was
utterly s stranger, and remained there
till my four years elided), i went u an
army surgeon half over the world. The
first tins* i ever set foot an England again
was not maty west. before i saw, in the
ball -room of the Cedars, that sweet little
face of yours. The mune face in which
twn days age, 1 read the look of love
which stirs a nian's heart to the very
mere. le • moment it nhlitevatsd the
by the neck till 1 vise dead . and my reenlutions, ronftiete, sufferings, of !wea-
ns/no, car nems, ilall.s'• and mine ty years, and restored m* to • man's
blasted forevermore right and privilege of loving, wooing,
The wee** that rd'ter hat
elrp..i I marry--, Shall .e eves be iisarri-
• eouvery of reason we.s sloth that. Olen „di
1 Jose eeaaehar'a hnes iha Ht the etas yue !lad lbs. 4 .vat
Never mind. Nobody knows, scythes* me what W **mad
but me, and i shallkeepa quiet tongue a- "Balls. Dot. hour* Ro horse with
bout natter. Least said soonest mended. 7uwr aiatatfter."
All will come right anon, when the den "i W fines raj here 1 mean te
tor is • little better off in the world." *AY bora'
I let her suppose sn. it ie of little He stopped, took both my hands, and
moment what she or anybody think*, se forced a salla ' Yon are the deter•
that it is nothing if1 of him. mined lith. Indy yen always were; but
„Thrice a bridesmaid, never a Midi" yvu do eat know whet yoe are saying.
Even so. Yet, would I chimes lots with Tde led better go hems end les.* roe."
oar bride Penelope or any other bride 1 i was sees them some great miser? To suppose one teals a gnat Maw se
No wee epaewe/hisg us i tried to read it featly et the instant U • mistake- A
Now that no mind has been settled to is hie fen "Do 70S -" did he still dune rather than wounds k.pecially
its uveal laved has had time so view love wee i was shout to ask hot there when it trainee in a letter ,cut in quid
War calmly tc sstufv Itself shat we. wo ai.e't !� my •news - vs. and al""es
ne u 1 -ew, Ida' • +atter that
weld hare bees dons di/Weft beset rd poet" y h, and ns. 1 ,.mem bar attwrward
I write this down calmly, now ; but it
was awful st the time. I think 1 mud
have read on nmehamically expeoting
something sad. and about Harry like-
wise; I soon guessed that bad man at
Salisbury must have been poor Harry—
but I never guessed anything near the
truth till i same to the words "1 mur
dared hies."
A thoroughly neat woman is never
unchaste one.
Yellow Oil is the most deservedly
pular remedy in the mullet for Rhein
tiem, Neuralgia, Sprains, Bruise, Fl
Bites, Sore Throat, Lame Hach, C
traction of the Muscles, Croup, Qi
say, and every variety of Pain, ly
nesa, or Inflammation. for interns
external use. Yellow Oil will never
you. Sold by all dealer in medicine
Burdock Blood Bitter& it the 1
Blood Purifier, Liver and Kidney Re
Looe, and Restorative Tonle in
world. it acts epee the Livor the 1
r1ep and the Bowels, eeriwg all sow
of Bilious a iuplaipts, Sidney compile
and diseases of the B1sed. Ask j
Dlntggid for Hardoek Bled Rist
Manple h reals. 10 swats. regtalu00,
r