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The Gazette, 1893-08-10, Page 2tet NOT WISELY, CHAPTER XV: The body faints sore, It is tired in the race. Do you know Erlsbach ? Very likely not. You won't find it in any map er guide -book, or directions to fashion- able spas and watering -places. You won't find it by this name either, for its people call it differently. It is just a little dusky spot on the confines of the Austrian Tyrol, a little village shut in by pine forests wa,sh- ed by silvery waters ; quaint, old world, unremarkable, but beautiful exceedingly. In the warm June weather ErLsbach is at its best. So green, and fragrant, and cool, with soft airs blowing from the pine forests, and the gleam of snow on the mountain heights, and the emerald waters of the river shining in vivid brightness where the sun - rays slant amidst the greenness of the boughs. It boasts of but one hotel does Erlsbach, gazes at her. a little old-fashioned hostelry, with nothing "I didn't think she would have taken her to recommend it save that it is very clean and picturesque, and the people are honest as 1 he day. To Frlsbach, and, as a matter of course, to the Kaiser Hof, comes one June evening two ladies and two maids a courier,and lug- gage, en attendance. Tbeir arrival is expect- ed, their rooms are taken ; the best rooms, with a balcony overlooking the river, and that far-off view of the mountain heights beyond, where the purple light of evening is melting on the whiteness of eternal snow. When the bustle of arrival is over, one of the two ladies comes out on the balcony and stands there for long, looking out at the pretty, peaceful scene. A voice from the room within speaks after a time : a " Do you like it, Lauraine ?" - knows it must be done, and he succeeds in say 'ours.' I make no pretence at deceiv- it. It has not come to later on ' with me. I had but one thing to make me happy ; it ,has gone. Don't expect me to be consoled in a few months." " But, my dear, you have your husband, your duties; Do you know it seems to me as if you wereein a way, estranging yourself from him ?" "He can find plenty of amusement in the world," says Lauraine, coldly. " Little Frank was nothing to him,except just simp- ly the heir who would come after him in due time, and keep the estates in the family. But to me--" She breaks off abruptly. The faint wind from the pine woods blows over her head and ru es- the soft dusky curls above her brow. In that dim light, with her pale, beautiful face turned upwards to the purple sky, she looks so young, so fair, so sorrowful, that a rush of tears dims Lady Etwynde's eyes as she The figure moves, turns half round. "It ss like a poem," she says, softly. Like it ? One can hardly say that ; one feels it." The speaker advances and joins her. " Yes ; you are right. I only came here once ; it was years ago, and my heart was heavy with a great sorrow. I left it be- hind me, Lauraine ; buried it amid the lonely woods and mountain ways. Oh, my dear, my dear, if you might do the same ?" A sigh parts the beautiful grave lips of eauraine Vavasour ; she grows very pale. " That cannot be," she says, faintly. " I could never forget easily ; and this, this was part of my life—myself. Do not let us speak of it, Etwynde ; it hurts me still." " Most people say to talk of their troubles lightens them." " I am not like that then. My sorrow is shut in my heart. 1. cannot bear to profane it with speech." " But it makes it so much harder to bear, Lauraine." " Not to me ; nothing on earth, even your sympathy, could lighten it." Lady Etwynde is silent. Her thoughts go back to that dreary, awful time when the child's death was yet so new a thing ; it is nearly nine. months ago now, and Lauraine has been all that tirne in the great old gloomy mansion on the Northumbrian shores. The funeral had been long over be- fore Sir Franics returned, and then he had made but a brief stay, and gone to Scotland with some eriends. " Frettid rg could do no good," he said philosophically, and he hated the gloomy quietude of Falcon's Chase, and was only too glad to leave it. Lady Etwynde stayed with Lauraine all through that dreary winter; she could not bear to leave her alone in her grief and despair, for the sorrow seemed but to take deeper root in her nature. Even a.11 Lady Etwynde's gentle sympathy could make no way. She half -feared and only half -comprehended this new phase in her friend's character. For she could not know that Lauraine felt a terror of herself now : that it seemed to her as if the one safeguard she had cluing to had been swept from her hold, and she lay anchorless, shelterless on the great dark sea of life, beholding no hope or ray of light, turn e she would. The chill of winter passed into the fair, sweet month of spring ; but no change came o her. Nothing seemed to thaw the ice about her heart. A strange chill and silence from the outer world rested upon her life as it was now. Of all her many friends and acquaintances none seemed to remember her, or heed her. Keith had written again and yet again ; she had never answered him once. She dared not. His sympathy, his presence would have been a comfort too great not to be dengerous, and the mere she longed for them the more rigorously she denied them to herself. With the spring her husband wrote to know whether she wanted to come to town for the season. She read the letter with a shuddering horror. The season ! To dance, drive, gossip, kill time in a round of empty pleasures ; tate • herself with luxury and extravagance. The thought seemed loathsome to her now. Her youth and all that was best in hr seemed to have died with her little child. •Itler eyes seemed ever to have that look in them that had so frightened and pained her friend; the look as of tears that could not • fall. She was awfully, terribly changed, 'both in body and mind, and when Lady Etwynde paid her a flying visit, tearing herself from msthetic joys and the glories of the Gros- , %tenor Gallery Exhibition, and endless re- -Anions among the cultured, she was shock- ed and alarmed at the alteration. "You must leave here, you will go melancholy mad !" she said, imperatively; • and- Latiraine, having arrived at that stage -when she was tooipiritless and too indiffer- . _oat to oppose any vigorous scheme, yielded -yassively, and was borne off to Erlsbach. Sir Francis of course, could not come. He liked London, and was not going to give up its-thou.sand and one- enjoyments Ten- the sake of an invalid's whim. Her en -offered. voluntarily to sacrifice her- -lief -the matter, but Lauraine would not ri eat 'fttetin tit, and the end she and Lady Etwynde, under charge of au experienced eie4 Set out far Germany and, travella ask:* and- easy stages, arrived one s , jarte=evaang at quamt, pretty Eris eV" Teaenr" eine," says Lady Etwynde, •ip.uing theconversation "after a long tiel pause, "have you ever consider- e*fiknpitting yourself rebell- .nst God t9 go on like' this ? All of sorrow Are sent for some wise (knot see believe it, at =later on--'' pis Lauraine, "that is just joy that is thrilliogfhis every sense; but he sorrow to heart like this. How little one know s, after all !" she thinks to herself. A week drifts by. Amidst that tran luil pastoral loveliness, amidst the beauty of the woods and streams, in the whole dreamy, simple life they lead, Lauraine rests and rejoices in such quiet, unecstatic fashion as is left to her. Her sorrow seems less hard and cold a thing here; the angel face of her lost darling comes with a more tender grace to her memory. She can talk and even smile with some- -thing of the old playful witchery that used to be hers. 'There is always something now to see ; there are no landmarks here as at Falcon's Chase to recall the footsteps of that baby life whosejourneying was so short a one. She begins to feel a little interest in places and things once more. She likes Lady Et- wynde's talk, even when it may be on cul- ture and ethics ; she can listen 1 o her when she reads out, which she does admirably as well as judiciously. On the whole, there is a decided improvement about the mental " tone " that delights Lady Etwynde, she never appears to notice it. Life and worldly cares, and even worldly joys, seemed sometimes to sink into almost insignificance amongst these mountain soli- tudes. They were so grand, so sublime, so immovable. Their lessons came home to Lauraine's aching heart, and soothed and comforted it insensibly to herself. She grew less sad, she brooded less over what she had lost She had no hope, nothing to look forward toe yet still the present so steeped her in peace and rest that it seemed to her in after years as if these fragrant forests, this wil- derness of ferns and flowers, these foaming watersearad far off gleam of shining glaciers and crowning snows, had possessed some magic power that insensibly soothed and lulled her heart's long pain. Late one afternoon she and Lady Et- wynde are returning from a drive to a little village some two miles distant. The sun is just setting above the forest heights, there is alternate light and gloom among the heavy foliage, those beautiful shades of green and gold that made up so much of the charm of a wood. Lady Etwynde is driving rather quickly, and the road is nar- row. Before themsheReqs a figure of ahorse man proceeding leisurelealong. At the near approach of the ponieserapid trot he pulls • his horse aside to make room. Lauraine leaning back in the little low carriage, gives a careless glance up as she passes, then all the pallor of her face flushes deepest scarlet; she starts forward with an exclamation of amaiement Lady Etwynde notices it, and reins in the ponies. " Mr Athelstone ! Is it possible ?" she says. In astonishment quite as aenuine, Keith draws the bridle, and bends toward the two figures. " What a strange meeting," he says as he shakes hands first with Lauraine, then with Lady Etwynde. " I thought you were in London," Laur- aine says, quickly. After one wild leap of joy her heart seems to grow still and cold with a great dread. What evil fate, she wonders has thrown him across her path now ? • They are all two genuinely astonished to be embarrassed, and Keith proceeds to ex- plain how he has been mountaineering for the last month in the Tyrol district; how his headquarters at esent are that little vil- lage they had just visited ; and he has ridden over • to Erlsbach from idle curiosity, to see what the place is like. Of course there remains nothing for it but to invite him to the Kaner Hof, and an -hour later the trio are sitting at dinner, the table drawn close by the open window, and the pine -scented air blowing in cool and soft from the mountains. Keith and Laur- aine talk very little to each other. The brunt of the conversation falls on Lady Et- wynde, and she in no way objects. Keith has always been a favorite of hers, and they have many sharp and witty arguments, while that pale, grave figure in the soft black draperies listens and smiles, and feels at once disturbed and restless, yet glad. Sooner or later they would meet. She had known that always, but had never dreamt of it being so soon, or so strange- ly. Somehow in life the meetings we expect never do take place as we expect them. We may rehearse our little scenes as carefully as we please, we may arrange our looks our words, the very tones of our- voices, but when the actual rencontre does occur it is sure to be utterly differentand thecarefully- arranged programme is never carried out. It is so with Lauraine now. She some- times longed, sometimes dreaded to meet him, but always imagined it at some dis- tant time and in some totally different Man- ner ; and now Keith is sitting, at her table, her own guest, smiling, talking, looking at her to all appeara,nce as - unconcerned as if that "garden scene" has never been enact- ed. He is a better actor than herself, and he determines to be it. She shows that she is troubled, pained, perplexed. He ignores' everything that might lead to that past, is careless, cynical, indifferent as of yore ; but allthe time his heart is beating with tumul- tuous pain, he is thinking how sadly altered she is, how changed -from flee bright bea.uti- ful Ineuraine of his boyhood, and yet dearer to him in her suffering and sorrow than in -any years that are past It is hard work no deep down the fly:meat; that arenhrenging, the-lov-e that ii leaping, the • doing it and in deceiving Lauraine.The cloth is removed. The soft dusk settles on the pretty quiet scene without. Lady Etwynde, who dislikes a. glare -cf light, blows out nearly all the illumination of candles in their room, and they sit there by the window watching the stars come Out one by one, talking, less now, but with something grave and earnest in the talk that it has lacked before. At last Lady Etwynde rises, and, saying -she has letters t� write, moves away to a little inner room, partitioned -Off by cur- tains from the one where they have all been sitting. It is solitude, yet not solitude. The sense of being together, the knowledge that their low tones are unheard, is just restrained by the feeling that another per- son is close at hand. Keith is silent for some moments, then bends towards Laur- aine. " You never answered my letters ; I could hardly expect it. But I do hope you believe I felt for your grief ?" "Yes,"she answers, simply ; "I always felt sure of that." "1 am glad you say so. When you never wrote I thought you were offended, indif- ferent, perhaps. it has been a terribly blank time for me." " I think you have no right to tell me that," she says, flushing and paling with nervous agitation. " I cannot help you, and it only adds to the sufferings of my own life that yourais also bad." " Sad t" heechoes, wearily. " If you only knew how sad. But you are right ; I ought not to speak of that. How strange it seems to meet you here; almost makes one believe in Fate ! To think that I rose this morning and rode off haphazard, not even guessing you were within a hundred miles of me, and now, at evening, I am sitting by your side !" " How is it you have forsaken the London season ?" questions Lauraine. "If I told you the real truth you wo,ald be angry, and I cannot utter. conventional lies so you, Lorry." She trembles a little. Her eyes go out to the shining river that mirrors the silver glory of the starlight. At her heart a dull pain beats. " Your friends, the Americans, where are they ?" she asks evasively. " In Paris, I believe. At least, they may have left now ; but they were there up to May. Nan is mad about Paris." " Nan," be it remarked, is what he al- ways calls Miss Anastasia Jefferson. Lau- raine knows this, and smiles a little. " You and she are as great friends as ever, I suppose ?" she remarks. "She is a jolly little girl," Keith answers, carelessly. " Yes, I suppose we are friends in a way. We are always quarrelling, and yet always making it up." " Why don't you—marry—her ?" asks Le,uraine, abruptly. He stares at her as if uncertain of 'what he has heard. " Marry Nan ! Good Lord ! I never dreamt of such a thing !" " Other people have," continues Lauraine; "even the girl herself, I fancy." He laughs a little bitterly. "What fad have you got into your head ? Nau looks upon me as a sort of elder brother. There has never been anything of 'that sort' be- tween us. As for marrying, well, you ought to know I am not likely to do that." "1 think you ought to marry," says Lauraine, very quietly. "You see you have wealth and position, and yet you lead such a 'hornless' kind of life. That is the only word that expresses it. And some day surely you will think of settling down ; you cannot be always like this." " You counsel me to marry," he says, with exceeding bitterness. " Have you found the experience so pleasant a one ?' The crimson colour rushes all over the proud fair face. " That has nothing to do with it," she says coldly. " Has it not? Well, if I choose to be faithful to a memory that is mylook out. I am not one to forget easily, as I have told you before." " And you don't care for Miss Jefferson?" asks Lauraine, unwisely. He looks at her in silence for a mement, and under the strong magnetism of his glance, her eyes turn from the scene with- out and meet his own. " I think you should know," he says, very softly. There comes the sound of a rustling skirt, a closing door. Lady Etwynde has left the inner room; they are alone. In an instant he is kneeling by thelow chair on which she sits. Her hands are clasped in his. "Oh, Lorry, Lorry !" he cries; " it is so hard ?" The passionate plaint thrills to her very heart. She lays her hands on either shoulder, and looks down into -the pain - filled depths of the blue eyes. _ "I know it, dear," she says, very gently. "Is it not hard for me too?" "You are so cold, so different, and then you have your home, your husband, your —. Oh, forgive me, darling ! How could I be so thoughtless ?" He sees the spasm of palm on the white face, the sudden quiver of the soft red lips. "I—I have nothing now !" she groans, despairingly, and her two hands go up to hide_ her face. A storm of passionate weeping shakes her from head to foot. .ing you." "You do not deny that you love me?" "Of what use ?" she says, . meelfanically. "I made a fatal error in my marriage. But error or not, I must keep to it and its con- sequences. Only, Keith. if you had any pity, any mercy, you would avoid me, leave me to fight out my life alone. At least I owe my husband—fidelity," A hundred words rush to his lips. It is in his mind then ee tell her of what her husband really is; of the scandals that are whispered in clubandboudoir, over cigarett- es and Souchong, but something restrains him. It would be mean, he thinks; and, after all, would ie make any difference to her? Had she- been any other wom- an. . . . And, after all, she loves him, not her husband. On that email crumb of comfort he feeds his starved and aching heart, standing there beside her, silent, troubled, fighting against every wild and passionate impulse that bids him fling honour and scruples to the wind, and snatch at the perlious joy of a sinful happiness. " Yes," she says, with a heavy sigh. " I must at least give that. The best part of me and my life is laid in the grave of my little child. Often I think I shall never feel glad again, but after to -night I leave it to you whether you are to make my life harder for me, or help me to struggle against myself." • His eyes gleam with momentary anger, petulance, pride. " You give me a hard enough task, I hope," he says, passionate- ly. " And yet your last words hold all the tempting that could possibly beset a man, Why should I save you from your- self ? By heaven, if you loved me, if you only knew how I love you, you would not count the cost of anything that stood be- tween us and our happiness 1" " Would it be happiness ?" answers Lauraine. " I think not Keith. Is a guilty love ever happy ? Does it ever last ? If it did the world would not teem with forsaken women, nor the rivers of our great cities bear such burdens of shame and de- spair." " You do not know me, if you doubt. Have I not been true to you since, boy and girl, we stood together, and played at sweethearts in the old Grange garden at Silverthorne ? Till I die I shall remember you, and love you, Lorry." "Other men have said the same, and have forgotten." -" Other men ! Yes ; but you surely know me well enough to believe me." " It is because I believe you that I wish to save yon deeper pain. You cannot com- mand your feelings, and I—I must not lis- ten to you no. It is wrong, shameful." He moves impatiently. " Your words are very cruel. But to me you have always been that. You could not be true to me even for a few years." She shudders as if a blow had struck her. " it is ungenerous to speak of that now ; you know the faalt was not all mine." But Keith is in no mood to listen to her. His blood is on fire, his heart is hot and angler, and he feels that sort of rage within him that longs to spend itself in bitter words and -unjust reproaches, even on one he loves as dearly as he loves Lauraine. There is a sort of savage satisfaction in making her suffer too, and he pours out a fury of wrath and reproach as she stands there mute and pale and still. " I am not ice, like yourself," he says, in conclusion. " Other women love, and forget all else for love. You—you are too cold and prudent. I am young, and you have wrecked my whole life, and given me nothing but misery. I wish I had died a thousand deaths before I had seen you 1" A shiver as of intense cold passes over her. She knows Keith's wild temper of old, but she had not thought it was in him to speak as he had spoken to her. She forgets that a great love borders almost on hate, so intense may belts passions, its longing, its despair. " After 41," says Keith, with a mocking laugh that grates terribly on her ear, "why should I not follow your advice as well as your example? Why should I eat my heart out, and waste my life on an empty love? You have told me to leave you ; that you wish to see me no more. Very well ; this time I will take you at your word. I will leave you, and let the future prove who was right or wisest. I—I will go away ! I will forget !" - "It is well," she says, her voice low and faint. "1 deserve all you have said, and more. 1 have only brought sorrow to you! Go away, live your own life, forget me, and be happy again." " Those are your last words ?" "Yes. My life is hard and sad enough ; you would add to it shame and misery and undying remorse, and call that a proof of -- love. Forgive me if I cannot see it in the same light as yourself." "And I say you do not love me, and never did, or you would know--" " Very well," she interrupts, " believe that. It is best that you should." "And I am to go now?" he says, sorrow- ful and hesitating. " If you send me from you to -night, Lauraine, I will never co me back. Remember that." Both of them are hurt and angry now, both beset with cruel pain, and waging that terrible conflict with passionate love and Keith is alarmed, distressed, but he is wounded pride that is at once so ill-judged, wise enough to rise and stand quietly by. He attempts no consolation. The storm abates at last. • Those tears have done Lauraine good. She has been cold and hard in her grief for so long a time. She also rises, a little ashamed, a little confused. " Let us go out on the balcony," she says, and he follows her without a word. It seems like a dream to him ; a dream that will never be forgotten, that will haunt his memory with a vivid thrill of pain whenever he feels the scents of moun- tain air, or sees the gleam of quiet stars. With them, too, he will see the little bal- cony of the quaint old" Hof," and a slen- der figure with draperies of dusky black, and a face white, solemn, inexpressively sad that looks back to his own. "Keith," she says, very gently, " there has come a time when I must be frank with yon. Yon say you do not forget, that you cannot. In that case, if you have any honour at all, you must see that you should -avoid me, 0f myself, of my pain, I wilLnot speak. What nee? Between Ma two lies a barrierwe can never cross. When you say such words to me as you have said to -night, you make the very question of friendship an impossibility. Is there any thobtlo..our minds that in any way is and resentful a thing. Lauraine looks steadily away from the entreating, watchful eyes ; away, away to the far-ofi mountain range swept with faint gray clouds, silvered by the clear moonlight and the haze of the shining stars. " If he only knew," she thinks, in the depths of her aching heart, " if he only, only knew !" But he does not know. To him she is =only co'd, calculating, unloving. Right and pure he knows in her mode of loving and thinking ; but what man who loves as Keith loves can see light and purity as the things they are ? "1 have never asked you to come back," says Lauraine, faint and low, " and be very sure I never will. --I am sorry that you are angry with me. _Perhaps to -morrow you will be sorry too. But I know it is best." "Good-bye then!" She turns, aad gives him her hand. He looks at her long and the blue eyes grow misty, the fire and anger die out. He bends suddenly forward and touches her lips with his own. He does not speak an- other word, only drops her hand and goes. The echo of his footsteps dies away. The • door doses with a heavy sound. With a stifled sob Lauraine falls Ott her knees, and leans her head against the low lee that. - donne it. mind, i railings of the flowerdeovered balcony. " Dear Heaven ! how hard it is to do right !" she moans. The wind stira the pine boughs and the stars shine calmly down.. They have seen se much of trouble, have heard so much despair, and to them a human life is such a little space to sorrow in, or be glad. (TO BE CONTINUED.) CURIOSI'rIES. At the Belding Brothers Silk Works, Northampton, Mass., there is a well 3700 feet deep that is perectly dry at the bot- tom. Potato rot is caused by a minute parasite, a species of living breathing creatures so small that a colony of akoo can live in a. space smaller than a pin's head ! The condor soars higher than any other species of bird, spending nine -tenths of its life at a distance of more than, three miles above the surface of the earth. In the human blood there is an average of 300 red cells to every single white ene. The red cells have an average diameter of 1 -3200th of an inch ; the white ones, 1 -25, - 000th of an inch. In Machyn's Diary, entry of March 3 1557, I find the following: Seen a shoe maker soundly thrashed at Cheapside to -day by order of the baliff for making a high- priced boot of a cheap quality of leather. A female codfish will lay 45,000,000 eggs during a single season. Piscatorial author- ities say that were it not for the work of the natural enemies of fish they would soon fill all the available space in the seas, rivers and oceans. A late authority on American money says that the largest amount represented by any one "greenback" is $10,000 and that there is but one such note in existence. An old German scientist has lately come to the front with the startling declaration that all diamonds of this earth originally comeite.sfrom the moon or aerolites or meteor- _ A recent experiment station bulletin gives startling statistics concerning theseeds of weeds. According to the document re- ferred to the purslane may have as many as 388,000 seeds to the single plant; the thistle 95,366 and the plantain close to 50,- 000. McCarty says (see "Statistician and Economist," Page) that bees, in order to collect one pound of clover honey, must deprive 62,000 clover heads of their nectar. To do this they must make 350 trips to the fields. The largest amount of insurance at risk upon a single life is $1,000,000, carried by John Wanamaker, • Harrison's Postmaster General. Stetson, the hatter, carries the next largest amount, $750,000. IRON RAILS IN ARCTIC REGIONS. A Shipment of Haas for the Siberian Road via the Kara Sea. Capt. Wiggin, who originated the idsa that the Arctic waters of the Kara Sea might be utilized for commerce between western Europe and Siberia, is going to enter the Kara Sea again this summer on another voyage to the mouth of the Yenissei River. He is in command of an expedition sent out by the Russian Government to take to the Yenissei two light -draught steamers that have been built on the Clyde to navi- gate the great Siberian waterway. These vessels will leave England toward the end of this month. They will be carried by the Arctic vessels Blencathra and Orestes and the last-named vessel will take as part of her cargo the first consignment of rails ship- ped by sea to the Siberian railroad. When the Orestes reaches the mouth of the river at Golcheeka the rails will be trans -shipped to Russian river steamers and taken far south, to where the railroad is building. The Blencathra and the Orestes will then re- turn to England, where Capt. Wiggin is expected to arrive about the middle of OcTeobr.- heera. rails will form the first cargo of such heavy material that has ever been conveyed by sea to Siberia. Omit. Wiggin has the utmost faith that he will be able to make his way through any ice he may find in the Kara Sea. If the enterprise succeeds, a cou- siderable saving of time and expense will be effected as compared with the long and costly overland journey. A BRAVE NOVA SCOTIAN. Lost His Life to Save His Cab in Roy. A New York, special says : Alexander Howard Cann, first mate of the Nova Scotian barque"Lillian," now here, lost his lite at Demerara June 20, from carbonic acid gas arising from the vessel's cargo of sugar. He sent the cabin boy, Douski, to the chain locker to haul in the cable. The boy was below so long- that the mate slid down the companion ladder and went for- ward to the locker. Ten minutes passed and neither the mate nor the cabin boy appeared. Then the for- ward hatch was pulled off and a heavy cloud of vapor came from the opening. The crew saw the mate and the boy lying unconscious on the lower deck; both black in the face. One of the crew tried to get te them, but was driven out by the fumes of the sugar. Then a rope was twisted abont the boy's leg and be was epulled up. He was unconscious and remained in a coma- tose condition for an hour and a half. When the mate was finally raised by the same means he was dead. Doctors from shore resascitated the cabin boy. Cann undoubtedly saved his life, as he swooned at the further end of the chain locker, with his head projecting beyond the door. The authorities investigated Cann's death and held the vessel four days.- At Cann's funeral at Demerara a big demon- stration was made by the people. They made Cann out a hero, and his last cere- monies approached in dignity the funeral of a statesman. Thought it an 'Inuit. - Clara : " Well, aunt, have your photo- graphs wine from MeaSkapperfoltettefer. Miss Maydeval (angrily): " Yea ; and - they went back, too, with a note expressing " Gratious ! 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