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Home My WebLink AboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1899-1-13, Page 6} BET\TEN t 1 nee BERTH # et. CLAY. (Continued.) CHAPTER. I. " WOMEN PLAY AT I.OVIL" "I alp not so unreasonable as to ex - Peet emelt reason from a gentleman, Sir Centime; your illustrious Sex is not firmed toe it; bat I think there are few men ell the zvoeld brave enough to deny one feet." "and what is the .fact, Lady' May?" Inquireai $ir Clanton. "it is this: 'heat, let what may bap pen after Aaa,aritag,:, beirAre marriage a lady s".ecoid In. every in once have her own way." Tee eel:den:an looked slightly puz tied, and then answered: whaught la1ies alas had their own way •t31rou;;dz life --rill that I have known have d"oue so. My mother. then whom a sweeter, truer woman never iSvaKl, pexis quite a parade :of wifely obedient* and subm^:saaon, but in reality Elle ruled every thought and every action. of my father's life." Lady Mares answer virus a rippling, neactitl laugh that was sweet as the Mere of sil, er bells, yet had in it Beene l.hin, of •quiet sarcasm that made tier lover's face flush crianson, "You laugh, Lady Mee." he Sall, quickly, "but I plead guilts to eaten' taiu ng old.-ttebioned notions about tfeeee things, I believe that raen were tetra le rule; to command to govern; women to obey, to advise, to counsel— to penile, If you will—but decidedly to .s obey." "It iv kind of you to adndt that we eau � gaele end//... counsel," she rep,ltied, . ode:tigiy. "Ser1ous1y .-Teh klot,'"`,. blip= toe, I de not tbiuk I shall ever obey, 11 feet a great isaeliurttion to cemmand, to rule, and to govern --cone for sub- mission or enething of that kind." The handsome face oi her lover grew anxious, half sad, .ashe looked at her. Bo Mair, ao iraper*ioua, with the pretty aim .at a rebellious child added to the chain in of her bewitching beautee laxly May ecntdaued "I, myself, no Matter what poets my, aiev,�r celled admire he Griseldas of the fvEaridi they have no charm for me," ips it would be better for you ee they bud, May," said Sir Clinton. She azt4d up one pretty, white Angel, ss though in Warning: "You are hound to think axle perfect" she said; ,a ed thateiilwields as though you thought me capable of great Improvement." "'So 1 do," be replied, hastily; "at Inuit, that is--o'lh, May, you r•ontatse mo, you bewilder me; first with, your beutttifail eyes, thea with your subtle *Met"E:1A. I know that my request is a reasonable one; you cannot drive me trove the position." "Pe.-b41As not, bet I may lead you tem it, Clinton; you know the old sty - bag about the "thread of silk.'" " "I am neither to be led nor driven," be eoid; "you are my betrothed wile, sand if 1 object to anything you do, and there is meson in my objections, you aught to yield to me." "And you really choose to object to cry waltzing with Count Soldeni—the count with the dark, dreamy eyes and musical voice?" "1 strongly object to it, Lady May. I object, es I 'have told you before, to your waltzing at all," "That is very absurd," she replied. " Nt et all," he said, his face flush- ing, his eyes filling with a deeper light; "not at ell, May. I have won you from the wiodd; you are the fairest, the loveliest woman in It. 1 have won you for my own; I have held your hard in mine; I have kissed your lips; I have sailed you my promised wife. I have won you by wooing you as I think no smear ever wooed a woman before." He paused for the passion of his Words overcame him. She looked up in his face. "You are too earnest," wile said, chatty. "Ori, Lady May, do mot be so cold, se cruel to me, o heartless, sto unlike reurrelf. How can I bear it after hay- ing won you thus? how can I bear to see you waltzing with others, another msra,s arms round you—you, who ought only to be approached with the rever- ence dne to a queen? When you were waltzing with Count Soldeni, I saw one of those bright coils of hair lie un- fastened on his shoulder, and he touch- aed it --he touched it with his band, and Reid something laughingly to you." "Whet of it?" asked Lady May, ells dninfuily. The veins on his forehead grew dark, his hands were tightly clenched. "Street of it?" he repeated. "Why, for one Ming, May it opened my eyes; it showed me the fearful depths in my awn nature that I did not even know existed: it showed me of what I was cape hie if the demon of jealousy were once fl oused in me." • "And all because the poor count was kind r•nous;h to tell me, in the most flowery enol gallant style possible, that 1 era. of Devat's finest efforts had come to grief; that—let me try to remember l drib own wards—that the sun was shin- ing on his shoulder. It was sem A:nd again Lady May laughed musi- aaiay. "lie 'had no right to say anything of the kind," was the angry reply. "That is why I object to waltzing. I main- tain that It is a light, frivolous dance, !, and tends to make people forget tlhey tae strangers.: -Do you think that Count golden; wouid have dared to ton.yi your hair even after an acquaintmnee • of years. had you gait been 'waltzing i with him?" "'rate cause led to the effect," see said. laughingly. "I cannot see in it inlay reason 'for such high tragedy se this.,' "Peat I do," he persisted. "You wo- rrier', nfiter ail, have little feeling, Lady Mans-1itt1e depth -of feeling. Love see,na to be only a pastime with you. The mighty passion of a man amuses you; his heart is a ptaytheng; the fierce fire of jealousy something to laugh at. You wave your white hands and lead men into a very inferno of pain and anger. You dissect his sufferings, end take each sepatsaate pang as an extra tribute tolou,rsel vee. ;I say that you play st , Ave, and knownothing of its depth or mesal ing " She raised her beautiful eyes to lite. "Perhaps," she said, gently, "the da+ racy come when I sheen remird you of those wards—"Women play at love, ant know nothing of its depth and mean. tee.' You hear that F can repeat them correctly, and. I repeat also that, elan( day or other! I sthall bring them ag:,inst You." He thew nearer to her; he was to deeply in earnest that he did pat per eeive her mood was changing. "Women play at love, do they, ClIn- t.w? What of those grand old stories pieta tell us --are they all untrue? Did Juliet play at love? Was poor Deade mead's love play? Was Lady Rue ell's love for her husband all play? What of the hapless Sp u dse queen, who for years refused to leave her dead bus. band? What of those who have periled litre, frame, happiness, all for the men they loved—was it all play? Was it clay when Eleanor drew Pram the poisoned wound its venom, and so saved her king? AIA, Clinton, history, poestee, fiction, do not tell us wow's leve is plea y. " "Times have changed," he said, g1oom- ily, "Women, used to be earnest, God - tearing, after a simple faaleion; now they are, by edea ation, by training, al - meet by nature, frivolous, night, vain, t9a•peicious---playing with, great paszeons as children play with, fire. A.h, May.. why: do you make me say these thiugs?'" "You any them early enough --they do not seem to cause you any greet pain." "My darling, YOU do eat know what pain is. You will think ane fierce, vialeaa- I cannot 'help It• I declare to you teat, wtben I saw that man's pre- srunptuous fingers "touch your hair, I could have slain him; it was as though e. fierce fire crept tram nay heart to zny brain, and nerved my hands to do strange deeds. Tbere is no fiend. Ito cruel, no demon so ax+ng, no pain so terrible as aealouse. You must give nee the promise I ask, May—that you will not waltz again, except with me." A gleam of misehlee hrigiAtened her lovely face. "It any eair should leappen to fall os your shoulder, and you should toucb it, it would, at course, not natter, Clhr- tcu?" "C'ertainiy not; when you pmrwieed to be my wife, you became all mine --- that fairest of all Laces, the soft white hands, every golden hair on that queen- ly )lead, became minae, No rash hand nAuet touch you." , "It would bare been better had. I been made of wax; you would have p'.aaeed me under a rem case then." "You may laugh, darling; but it is no laughing matter for me. I could be jealous of the sun that shines on you, of the wind that lasses your face, of the flowers that you caress. I love you, so dearly that I would take you in the in- raeet depths of my heart, and keep you there, shielded from every eye." "And you would not think that sel- fish," she said, gently. "I suppose, I imagine, all great lone must, of necessity, be selfish," he re- plied. "Therein also you are wrong. You have made two false accusations to -day —one is, that women play at love; the• second, that great Iove must be selfish. Now, I am not superstitious—far from it—but I have a presentiment that, In the time to come, I shall be able to prove to you botch those assertions are false." Was it a shadow of the etramge, weird future that fell over the beau- tiful face and darkened it? The smiles faded. Lady May sat for a few min- utes indeep, silent Thought. "Shall I ever tame you, my darling?" said her rover, fondly. "Yon are like a wild, bright forest bird—shall I ever tame you?" "No," sbe replied, and in one min- ute the bright, gay spirit was all alive again. "When you can grain an eagle, a wild r ountain bird, to come and eat crumbs as the robins do, then you may tame me, Clinton." "That will be never; but, May, we need not spend the whose of this bright, sunny day in arguing. Give me the promise, my darling—tell me that you will never welts with any one except myself." There was evidently a struggle in Lady May's mind; then sbe said, quietly; "I cannot give you the premise, Clln- tan; I should not keep It if I did." She had hardly finished speaking when the door opened, and a footman enter- ed the room. A small card lay upon the silver solver he carried in his hand. "The Count Sotdeni, my lady," he said "What have you told him?" asked Lady May. "I said that I did not know whether your ladyship was at home or not, but that I would inquire." "The answer is—not at home," said Lady Mey, and the servant went away. She turned with a playful smile to her lover. "Now, will you call me cruel? I have seat the _comet, with his dreamy eyes, away." "You sae all that is charming." he replied. She •held out her white, jeweled 'brand to him. "We wll not enamel any more tae. lay, then, Clinton. I cannot give roe the promise, but I will do as the *ewe- Capers say about. petitions—I wilt take it into consideration: And now I must. say good -morning; you have been here two hours; I have visitors coming; the two hours hare passed very .quickly." "My love; -my desitng, make me happy with that one promise," he said; but she laud ber white hand , on •hie lips. and Mewed them. Those who were conscientiousresign- e4 after a time; those who were not made Ago attempt at correction. The se' tess did when her little daughter relied her sixth year, and the earl cared but little for his home. Morda sit, Earl of Treviyn, was by no means a model peer; he preferred the gay cities: of the Continent to his country sect; he preferred the gay abandon of Con- theneen life to the calm, measured pr - priety of English Life. He cared little about his native land, less about the duties that should leave detained Wm, there. He was well pleased with hie. little daughter, simply because she was his heiress; and the fact of having an. heiress saved him from the trouble of marrying again. Tee edetates of Tre- vlyn were like the title, unentailed— a daughter could succeed as well as a sou, He considered that he had done his duty remarkably well. He had mar. ried and his wife, Miss Constance Lock- wood, ockwood, was a great heiress; he had lived with her in peaee .and prosperity—they had never disputed, She had been fax too proud ever to say whether her mar- riage was a happy one or not. ')those who saw the expression of relief on her face when she heard that she had to die, said she could never have known whet happiness was. Her little daugh- ter caught her last words, and they were, "It is all disappointment," Then, when his wife died, the earl had busied her, and had mourned for lien after the most approved fash )Oil. tis erected a stately monument to her me - ivory; a stained-glass window in the church et Elsdene; a row of aimshousee called. "Lady Constaance's Bounty," were all so many tributes to hex Ane• teary.. He placed his daughter, atter her mother's death, under what he con- sidered proper guardianship, and then thought it high time that he should en- joy hlnself. Looking back on hie life, the emit enm well pleased with it. As a bachelor, a married man, and a widower, he am sidered himself to have been without reproach. Now that an heiress was provided for his estates, he gave him, self up to the enjoyment of the life he loved, Ile feriae to England at rare intervals to visit his daughter; he was satisfied to find her growing more and more lorely, and in some vague way seemed to consider there wag greet eredit due to ham for it. Of her faults or her virtues he never thought; she const be highly educated, highly accom- plished; but he never said she must be good. Even this guardianship, indif- ferent aa itwas, ended ween Ladya was only Aileen. The earl enjoyed him- self self too mucic; he died from a sudden attack of gout, leaving his lovely young daughter, one et the richest heiresses and one of the loveliest girl in England, 'What could be expected? Nature had done much for her; she was marvelous- ly fair ee face; she was dowered with some of the richest gifts; she had a smile like suesbine--a laugh like clear, sweet music; she had a generous heart, a large, frank, noble nature, a grand soul. She was impetuous, imperious, charming, capricious, and fascinating beyoud the power of weeds to tell; she dazzled, bewitched and enchanted; yet she was never for two hours together in the same mood; the strange thing was, that greatly as her snoods varied, each one seemed to suit hes best. Slue was gay, laughing, animated, bright, vivacious, witty, sarcastic, all by turns. She was thoughtful, silent and given to reverie, ail by turns; she varied as the sky and the clouds vary, yet was always charming. She had great virtues and great faults, this fair Lady May; she was by no means a flirt, yet there were times when one thought ger the very queen of coquet- tes, her every action, every gesture had such an irresistible charm of its own. At the age of edxteem, Lady May Trey- lyn was almost alone in the world; she had a host of distant, titled connections, but none whom she particularly cared for. Be the advice of her guardians, she chose a cousin of her mother's, Miss Lockwood, to Iive with her, but Miss Lockwood was a mere cipher—Lady May ruled with the most absolute so- vereignty. CHAPT.B t II[, "LET ME ENJOY MY YOUTH." There was perlhsups, no prettier room in London than this boudoir in Cliffe House. There was certainly no lovelier woman than this one who refused her lover the promise he asked. Cliffe House was the town residence of the Lady May. Trevlyau, the sole daughter eare. heiress of the late Merdauat, Earl ot Trevlyn, the fairest girl and the wealth- iest heiress in England. Those who spoke of Lady May's faults, always ex- cused , them by saying: "What could be expected? her mother had been one of the proudest' women of the day, far too pi and to see any fault in her little daughter—far too proud to believe that any child ofhers could be anything except perfect." (TO BE CONTINUED.] Saw the New Bonnet. Mrs. Billson—So you met Mrs. De Fash- ion an the street? I'in so glad 1 They say she is wearing a new bonnet just import- ed. Did you see it?? Mr. B.—Y-e-s, I noticed it. Mrs. B.—That's splendid! How was it trimmed? Mr• B.—Well, it had a cowcatcher in front, a tailboard behind, a flower garden on top and a job lot of assorted ribbons all round. You can easily make one like it. —New York Weekly. As the Judge Viewed It. The Judge—That fellow who was be- fore me today has been fined at least a dozen times for fast bicycle riding. Hie Wife—He must have money to burn. "I don't know how that is, but he cer- tainly has money for scorching purposes. —Yonkers Statesman, Tatting No Chances. Spacer -Scribbler is an odd stink. Sorawler—In wbat way? Spacer -Why, he not only incloses a., postage stamp for return of Ms copy, if rejected, but also a revenue check stamp in ease it should be accepted,—Town Topica. Criticism. Gifted Amateur -e -Now, Mrs, Vivash, I really want your opinion. no you think a glass would improve it?,, Mrs. Vivnsh (who has had enough of It)--:M-yrs, "I think ` it would — ground !sm.—Punch. Erdal gi r.)Al2. J W Li.$ CLARE I "Ah, , Bernardet, 111,'. Bernardet," laughingly said the magistrate, "you have a weakness for reporters. Do you want me to tell you something? You will finish by becoming a journalist," "And you will certainly fiuish in the habit of a member of the academy, M. Giuory," said the little Bernardet, with bis air of a mocking abbe. • CHAPTER XVIII. Very often after leis release from pris. on Jacques Dautin went to the corner cat the cemetery at Monttnartre, where his friend lay. And ho always carred Rowers. It had become to him, since the terrible strain, of bis detection, a necessity, a habit. The dead are living. They wait, they uuderstaud, they listen. It seemed to Dentin that he had but one aini. Alas, what bad been the wish, the last dream, of the dead man would, never be realized ! That fortune which Rovere had intended for the child whom he had no right to call his own would go, was going to some far off cousins of whose existence the ex- consul was not oven aware perhaps, and whom be certainly had never known— to some indifferent persons, once rela- tives, .strangers. "I ought not to have waited for him to tell me what his intentions were re- garding his daughter," 'Dantin often thought. What would become of her, the poor girl, who knew the secret of her birth and who remained silent, piously devoting herself to the old sol- dier whose name she bore? Qne day in. February, a sad, gray day, Jacques Dantin, thinking of the past winter so nnbappy, of the and secret grave and heavy, strolled along toward that granite tomb near which. Rovere slept. Ho recalled the curious crowd which bad accompanied his dead friend to his last resting place, the towers, the undercurrent of excitement, the k �t �Ce*S j, 'e1wrt, e is e r—. - Very often Jacques Dantin went to the cemetery where his friend lay. cortege. Silence now flhled the place 1 Dark shadows could be seen here and there between the tombs at the end of paths. It was not a visiting day or an hour usual for funerals. This solitude pleased Jacques. He felt near to him whom he loved. Louis Pierre Rovere! That name, which Moniche had had engraved, evok- ed many remembrances for this man, who had for a time been suspected of assassinating him. All his childhood, all his youth, all the past! How quick- ly the years had fled, such ruined years. So much of fever, of agitation—so many ambitions, deceptions, in order to end hero! "He is at rest at least," thought Dantin, remembering his own life, without aim, without happiness. And he also would rest soon, having not even a friend in this great city of Paris whom he could depend upon to pay him a last visit. A ruined, wicked, use- less life! He again bade Rovere goodby, speak- ing to him, palling him thee and thou as of old. Then he went slowly away. But at the end of a walk he turned around to look once more at the place where his friend lay. He saw, coming that way, between the tombs, as if by some cross alley, a woman in black, who was walking directly toward the place he had left.: He stopped, waiting -yes, it was to Revere's tomb that she was going. Tall, svelte, and as far as Jacques. Dantin could see, she was young. He said to himself: "It is his daughter!" The memory of their last interview game to him. He saw his unhappy friend, haggard, standing in front of his opensafe, searching through his pa- pers for those which represented his child's fortune. If this was his friend's daughter, it was to him that Rovere had .-^had to anon tier fatale. Me walked slowly back $o the tomb. 'Phe woman in black was`now kneeling near the gray stone. Bent over, . arrang- ing a bouquet of chry santhemums.whicla she had brought, Dantin could see only her kneeling form and black draperies., She was praying now. Dantin stood looking at her, and when at last she arose he saw that she was tall and elegant in her :mourning. robes. Lie advanced toward her. The noise of his footsteps on the gravel. caused her to turu her head, and Den- tin saw a beautiful face, young; and sad. She had blond: hair and large eyes, which opened wide in surprise. He saw the same expression of the eyes which Rovero's bad borne. The young woman instinctively made a moveineut as if to go away, to give place to the newcomer, but Dautiustop- ped her with a gesture. "Do not go away, mademoiselle. I am the best friend of the one who sleeps here," She stopped, pale and timid. "I know very well that you loved) him," he added, She unconsciously let a. frightened? cry escape her and looked helplessly aroulHe told me all," Dantin slowly said. "I am Jacques Dantin, Ho has; spoken to you of me, I blink"--. "Yes," the young Woman answered. Dantin involuutarify shivered. Her voice had the same timbre as Rovere'::. In the silence of the cemetery, near the tomb, before that name, Louis Pierre Rovere, wl 'eh seemed almost like the presence of his deed friend, Dantin felt the temptation to reveal to this girl what her father had wisher) her to lbiow. They knew each other without ever having met, Ona word was enough, one Dente was sudioient, in order that the secret which united them should bring there nearer each ether. What Dentin was to Revere, Rovere bad told Marthe again and again, Then, as if from the depths of the tomb, Rovere had ordered him to speak. Jacques Dantin, in the solemn silence of that city of the dead, confided to the young girl what her father had tried to tell. hitn, Ile spoke rapidly. The words, - A legacy—in trust ---a fortune, fell frown Iain lips, but,the young girl quickly interrupted him with a grand gesture. "I do not wish to know what any one has told- you of me. I am the daughter of a Haan who awaits title at Blois, who is old, who loves only rue, who needs only me, and I need nothing." There was in her tone an accent of comniaud, of resolution, which Dentin recognized as one of Rovere's most re- markable characteristics, Iiad Dantin known nothing this sound in the voice, this ardent look on the pale face, would have given him a hint or a suspicion and have obliged Lim to think of Rovere. Revere lived again in this woman in black whom Jacques Dantin saw for the first time. "Then?" asked thisfriend of the dead man, as if awaiting an order "Then," said the young girl in her deep voice, "when you meet mo near this tomb do net speak to nee of any- thing, If you should meet me outside this cemetery, do not recognize nee. The secret which was confided to you by the one who sleeps there is the secret of a dead one whom I adored, my mother, and of a living person whom I rever- ence, my father." She accented the words with a sort of tender, passionate piety, and Jacques Dantin saw that ber eyes were filled with tears, Jacques still wished to speak of that last confidence of the dying man, but she said again: "Adieu!" With her hand, gloved in black, she made the sign of the crops, smiling sad - ]y as she looked at the tomb where the chrysanthemums lay; then, lowering her veil, she went away, and Dantin, stand- ing near the gray tomb, saw her disap- pear at the end of an alley. The martyr, expiating near the old crippled man a fault of which she was innocent, went back to him who was without suspicion, to him who adored her and to whom she was in their poor apartment in Blois his saint and his daughter. She would 'watch, she would lose her youth, near that old soldier whose ro- bust constitution would endure many, many long years. She would pay her dead mother's debt; she would pay it by devoting every hour of her life to this man whose name she bore—an il- lustrious name, a name belouging to the victories, to the struggles, to the history of yesterday. She would be the hostage, the expiatory victim. Witli all her life would she redeem the fault of that other. "And who knows, my poor Rovere," said Jacques Dantin, "thy daughter, proud of her sacrifice, is perllaps 'hap- pier in doing this!" In his turn he ]eft the tomb. He went out of the cemetery. He wished to walk to his lodging in the Rue Richelieu. He had only taken a few steps along the boulevarcl, where it seemed but yester- day he had followed, talking with Bernardet, behind Revere's funeral car- riage, when he uearly ran into a little man who was hurrying along the pave- ment. The police officer saluted him, with a shaking of the head which had in it regret, a little confusiou, some ex- Cu88al. "Ab, M. Dantin, what a grudge yon must have against me!" "Not at all," said Dantin. "You thought that you were doing yonr duty, and it did not displease me to have you try so quickly to avenge my poor Ro- vere.'' "Avenge him! Yes, hewn' be aveng- ed! I would not give 4 sons for Charles Prades' head tomorrow, when he is tried. We shall see each other in court. Au revoir, M. Dantin, andall ray'ex- cuses!" "Au revoir, M. Bernardet, and all my compliments!" The two Arlen separated. Bernardet was on his way home to breakfast. He was late. Mme. Bernardet would be waiting, and a little red and breathless he hurried along. Ho stoppedonhear- ing a newsboy announce the last num-, ber of Lutece. "Ask for the account of the trial to- morrow, the inquest by Paul Rodier on the crime of the Boulevard de Clichy 1" The newsboy saluted Bernardet, whom he knew very well. "Give me a paper P•' said the police officer. The boy palled out a paper from the package be was carrying and waved it over his head like a flag: "Ab, I 'understand; that 'interests you, M. Bernardet!" And while the little man looked for the , heading Lutece in capital letters, the title which Paul Rodier had given to a series of interviews with celebrated physicians, the newsboy, giving Pier - nutlet his change, said: "Tomorrow is the trial. But there is no doubt, is there, Mi Bernardet? Prades is eondemped in advance!" "He has confessed; it is an accom- plished fact," 13eruardet replied, pock- eting lyes change. ".1u -avoir and thanks, M. Berns del." aM " Q Bent over, arranfl eg a bouquet of chr?!s anthem tens trtceela she had Lrou(.tlat- And the newsboy, going on his way, cried out: "Ask for Luteee--the Rovere trial. The affair tomorrow. Paul Rodier's in- quest on the eye of the dead man." His voice was et last drowned in the noise of tramways and cabs, M. Bernardet bnrried on. The little ones 'would have become impatient, yes, yes, waiting for him and asking for )Aim around the table at home. Ile looked at the paper which he had bought, Paul Realer, in regard to the question which he, Bernardet, had. raised, bad interviewed savants, phys- iologists, psychologists, and in good journalistic style had published the evening before the trial the result of his inquest, 115, Bernardet read as he hastened along the long titles in capitals in large headlines: "A. scientific problem apropos of the Rovere affair." "Questions of medical jurisprudence," "The eye of the dead Arrau." "Interviews and opinions of MM. les Drs. Brouardel, Roux, Duclaux, Peau, Robin, Pozzi, Blum, Widal, Gilles de la Tourette"— Bernardet turned the leaves. The in- ".erviews filled two pages at least in sol- id columns. "So much the better. SV pluck"the better," said the police officer, enchant- ed. And hastening along even faster he said to himself: "I am going to read all that to the children—yes, all that. It will amuse them. Life is a romance like any other, more incredible than any other. And these questious—the unknown, the in- visible, all these problems—how inter- esting they are! And the mystery—so amusing!" TEE END. Where Is Henson? "Perhaps the first question that pre- sents itself regarding heaven is its lora tion;" writes Evangelist Dwight L. Moody in The Ladies' Home Journal. "For my part, I am not satisfied with the vagueness that describes my future home as everywhere and nowhere. I read that the Master promised his dis- ciples au' abode in his Father's man- sions, whither he was going to prepare them a place, and in the Revelation the Auostle John described the wondrous beauties of the city of God. The Evan- gelist Luke tells us that Christ ascended from the little group of his disciples as they followed him out toward Bethany and that while they stood gazing up in- to heaven there appeared unto them two messengers to cheer them with the promise of his Doming again, and so it is with the child of God when the earth- ly pilgrimage is over. The soul ascends to those mansions which Christ has gone on before to prepare for those who love him. The location of heaven is not an important matter. Christ said very lit- tle about its situation, but a great deal about its being with God. To be sure, God is everywhere, but heaven is his home; it is the Father's house. It is not the homestead that makes home the most attractive place on earth, but it those who live there, and so it will be. with heaven." Women Bullfighters. Two of the most popular and richest bullfighters in Spain are women, the sisters Lola and Angelica Pretel to wit, natives of Brandenburg, in Germany. As.. girls they were circus riders, and then it occurred to their manager to make them toreros. The Pretel sisters were successful from the, beginning. Now they are owners of a large troop, or quadrille, composed of women >bande- rillos-fighters on foot—and picadors, or horseback riders: They take this troop from town to town in . Spain, giving exhibitions wherever they are 'booked during the season, which lasts from May till October each year. • Bach of these women earns about 500,000 pe-. setae in a single season (£25,000). Out of this amount she must furnish all her elaborate costumes, for indeed she is dressed in `"spangles and gold, and pay all expenses of the quadrille. They have a magnificent villa near Madrid, with training quarters unsurpassed in Spain. Unfortunate. The Lady -You brute, you've pawned everything I"ever had of any value. The Brute -Just my luck. If I could' pawned you and kept them, what a happy man I should .be 1—Pick Mie Up. Two Heurte That Beat as Two. I' bel—So 'theyare married! 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