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Home My WebLink AboutThe Wingham Times, 1911-04-20, Page 7UMWMala MNARl� ei,'l e(� e��'eMAWMUM RI a. THE WING:RAN TUFFS, APRIL 20, 1911 \7icl 4 ck Parted at the Altar By LAURA JEAN LIBBEY, Author of "When Lovely Maiden Stoops to Folly," "Olive's Court- ship" " When His Love Grew Cold," Etc. 'CHAPTER I, --"TO THE GRAND BAI4." "When you read what I have written here, I shall be lying cold in death." The words were written by the trem- bling white hand of a young girl, stand- ing in her bridal robes alone, at mid - tight, in the vestry of an old, isolated thumb. Continuing, she wrote rapidly on the leaf she had tern from the marriage re- gister :— "Despite the chock, it will not 'natter much to you, although but a few mo- ments since—only a few moments—you led me to the altar, and vowed there to love and cherish me—oh, cruel words! Oh, false vowel—when you know your heart was cold and bitter toward nee, "I am going to set you free, knowing I must part from you. I um young to die; but death is sweeter than life with- out you. Yes, at the very altar you shall have your freedom back again. "Your poor, unhappy, loving DORIS." • Let tis rend the romance of the few "brief days that led to the love of thiel ill -mated bride and groom; how they incl, and what caused this hasty and most reckless of all reckless marriages; .and why the young bride fled from her bridegroom at the very altar. Only three days previous to the open- ing of our story, on a sunny .Tune after- noon, the hands of the great clock on the walls of Madame Delmar's fashion- able seminary at Beeehgrove, Maryland, are slowly creeping around to the closing hour of four, .but it seems to the rest- less, bright-eyed seminary girls that the closing hour will never roll ground to- day. The ball taps at last, lessons are'over, and n moment later a bevy"of young la- dies Colne fluttering, laughing and .ehntting down the broad stone stops, as :only bright, romping, happy light- hearted school-girls—who know nothing .of the cares of the world—can laugh and ,talk. Among the group, yet quite apart :from the rest, was a slight, fair young ,girl, differing from her companions by being far prettier. Her plain muslin 'dress, reduced almost to shabbiness, was sadly in contrast to their dainty, ruffled mulls; but you would lose sight of this in gazing at the exquisite,piquant beauty of the dimpled rosebud -face, framed in curled golden hair, and the large blue h. Jeyes—deeply, beautifully blue, like the :heart of a velvet pansy; yet she was only ,Doris Brandon, madame's dependant r ward. Turning abruptly into a side path, ' Doris crossed the lawn with flying foot- - steps. Reaching a secluded spot at the :lower end of the spacious' grounds, she flung herself down on the daisy -studded. -•grass. sobbing as though her heart would break. Angry, defiant, rebellious tears they were, and surely no young girl ever had .more bitter cause to weep. • "Oh, dear! oh, dears" she sobbed, . dashing the great pearly dew -drops away with a slim white hand, "if my life were • Ely like the life of other young girbl Qh, it was bitterly cruel of madame to' 1 {aunt me with my dependence be ore the whole school -to -EMT! If I only had winge, like this brown linnet inthe k e trbe over boy head, how quickly I would flys, from this dreary prison. I am young, and life eftuns warm in my veins, fills my heart, , {feats in every pulse; yet how can 1 live i• About even one of those things that •aka life endurable? How much lodges this monotonous life to lac I t, won - •der. It was to end sooner than she know; :this very day was to be 'the turning oiat of her life, whether for weal or for woe, ah ! who shall say? She removed hor hat, and the June imnshine fell unheeded on the graceful, head crowned with tumbled, golden hair, phat framed the flushed, pretty, tear -wet hoe. A slight wind raised the hat from the grass, and bending forward quickly to recover it, she caught sight of her own face in the clear, babbling brook that flowed through the grounds and on to the glittering Chesapeake. ' "Ah I if that face belonged to any one . else it would be called very pretty. It is fairer than Vivian Courtney's, and they •rave about her beauty. Who couldfind . anything to admire in a poor little no- body like me? ' I might as well have been ugly, for all the good beauty does me," sighed Doris. There was a time coming when that same face was to be more brilliant, when crowds were to surround it and to do homage to its loveliness. But it was never fairer than on this sunlit after- noon when Doris Brandon bent over the stream and moaned for the dreariness of her young life. The far-off shriek of the incoming afternoon express startled her, and she sprang to her feet with a little cry. "I had almost forgotten to go down to the south gate and watch 'for Vivlaut Courtney's bean, who ie' leo come by that train, and deliver to him the letter she intrusted to me to give hint." Picking up her iutn•hat, and hastily tying the blue ribbons uncles her dimpled chin, Doris rose quickly, and Rimming furtively back at the seminary walla, aped away in the d • tion of the thesteptith gate on her fateful errand. At that moment the Southern expreed, Which was twenty minutes late, ,teamed Into the little station of Beech Grove, on the Chesapeake. From the rear car sprang is handsome lioung man, who gazed about hint quite doubtfully, a moment after the train Warded on. • Ho Is a tall, handeomo 'well-dressed iDung fellow, ark as to hair and coni- .. �Ilerioit, and thoreughll� aflstsoratleo, rebel' the straw hat Whlith 1e rather earelessl �' back front Lietwrowtt; ,shite brow t0 the • toe Of his'jiolished Hoot, which he Is tapping rather impa- tiently with hie gold-mouated, ebony walking -stick. "Ab! that mutt be the plade," he lay* 'to himself, eying eeuriouely a large! stone ,buildin with many turrets and •blew. wirer. that. •lent be bta!lulori lr semip;lry. Vi% tan said I couldn't possibly miss it," And for the twentieth tlmo that after- noon he drew from his breast pocket a dainty, perfumed, pink -tinted, mono - grained letter, whioh was directed in a girlish hand to "Mr, Frec.orick Thorn- ton, jr., care of Mr. G. Thornton, Esquire, Banker, No. — Wall street,New York." lie drew the dainty letter from the envelope, and looked carefully at the directions in the postscript again:— "Take gain:"Take the path to the right of the station, and It will lead you directly to the seminary, by way of the old south gate. I will be there waiting for you. Be' sure you comb in time for the grand ball. I have set my heart on going. It will be a wonderful affair, All the girls of the school aro justwild over it, and can scarcely wait for Tuesday evening to roll around. I must close now, in order to watch my opportunity to smuggle this into the mail -bag and outwit madame, whose argue eyes are ever on the alert to prevent billets -dour from leaving her establishment. " Yours in great haste, . "VIVIAN COURTNEY." "Pretty, willful Vivian," be mused, with a smile and a flush, on his hand- some face. "Before I leave Beech Grove, you will have to answer 'yes' or 'no' to a certain question that has been agitat- ing my heart 'this many a day." He walked quickly up the daisy -bor- dered path,thinking of the bright, girlish eyes that would be watching for hint from one of the dormitory windows, Turning an abrupt curve in the path he came suddenly in sight of the white, arched gate of the seminary grounds; and standing beneath the tall aroh, under the waving plumes of a lilac tree, was a picture he never forgot while his life lasted—a picture that would have startled any young man who was a beauty -worshiper; and, with the sight, all thoughts of Vivian flow from his mind. - At the first rapid glance he bad beheld a slim young girl in a blue dotted mus- lin dress, IS bewitchingly pretty face, half shaded by a broad straw hat, and waving, golden hair, a,small, red, smil- ing mouth, and a pair of wonderful blue eyes. Ho approached, raising his straw bat with a low bow. "I expected to see Miss Courtney here," he said, rather confusedly for this debonair, worldly young man. "I—" • "I am here in Vivian Courtney's place. or rather, to deliver a letter to you from her, if you are Mr. Frederick Thornton, and I suppose you are," she interrupted eagerly. He smiled amusedly, and bowed, and she drew from the folds of her pocket a tiny little note which ahe placed in his hands. Sho was just turning to leave him, when he said, eagerly:— "Please don't go yet. This may require an auswer." So Doris waited patiently by the gab, stealing shy glances now and then from under her long, curling lashes at the face of the handsome young stranger as be perused her schoolmate's note. Doris Brandon had never seen such a handsome young man before, The French masters and the musio professors of the seminary wero cress and very ugly. The dootor and the rentor, who Dame 000a- sionallya were both old, and the few young men in the village that lay over the hill were very C ommon- Ploos sort of persons, indeed. No wonder this smiling, handsome young man quite captivated Doris's girlish fancy at first sight. me note which Vivian had written contained but a few tear -blotted words, and was as follows:— "Dear Frederick—Father has come quite'unexpootedly, and I am to go home with him, ho Saye. We have barely time to reach tho train. Oh, how disappointed you will be when you come. ' I am, oh, so sorry. Fate seems against us. What a pity it is to mise the ball, too, after I had set my heart on going. I hope I shall not lose all that I set my heart on. I shall have to get some bne of tbo school- girls to meet yo11 and deliver this to you. I don't know who yet. "Yours, in the greatest kind of a hurry, "VIVIAN." "P.S.,—Come back to town by the nett return train."' "There is no answer," said Mr. Thorn- ton, smiling, and adding imploringly, "But won't you sit down on this log for a moment, and tell me, please, how it was that Vivian left the seminary se hastily, and what she said to you, when she intrusted you with this note." Blushing prettily, and thinking it would be quite ill-mannered to refuse bim, Doris sat down. "Vivian's father Dame quite unexpect- edly for hor," sho said, quite unconscious that she was repeating the words of the note, and that he knew all about it al- ready, "and just as Rho was going down the steps with her father she thrust two notes into my hand; one was to me and read:— " 'Give ead:—"'Give the other note to a young man who is to cone° on the afternoon train and be at the old south gate at four o'clock this afternoon. ' Watch' sharp for him, and don't let madame see or know. Of course I know it's a little bit wrong to deooivo madathe, but, oh, it'd so ro- mantic, you know.' " Frederick Thornton smiled again de he stood loaning Carelessly against the trunk of a tree, watching her. "What a sweet, guileless little oreaturs ehe le," he thought. At that moment a sharp, rasping voice broke harshly on the atifnmer air, CailIng loudly: Doris 1 Doris Brandon, where are you? I want you!" It was droll to gee how the birds flet` tut of their nests, Ova 'a terrified whirl back again; togging loudly to eaoh other, ad thou h -they 'Would ear:_ - "Look f lool.1 Bare in our green, shady her/idlee' is an angry W01114111" • Doris sprang from her iuosey heat 11 "it it Madame Delmar," she Dried, fit affright. "How angry she WO llTa iso me if she found me loitering here." With a little nod of her curly head, she would have sprung down the shady path, but Frederick Thornton put out bis white hand detainingly, A sudden impulse came to him to son this fair young girl again, and that was the be- ginning of the fatal end, "Will you come here tomorrow after- noon at this time for a note to deliver to Vivian when she returns to school?" he asked, earnestly. "Yee," she liror tsed, hastily, and in an instant sho was lost to sight among the trees. "Doris Brandon, Ah, what a pretty name, and What a pretty young girl. But somehow, she does not look quite happy," ho mused, as he turned away with •tomething very like a sigh. Doris eluded madame by taking an- other path to the seminary. Her little heart was in a strange whirl and a dark smiling face seemed to dance between her and the sunlight. Poor ohildl She would have had a happy enough life of it if her path had never been crossed by this handsome young man. CHAPTER II.—THE LO VERS. Frederick Thornton paced up and doh n the land before the old south gate, quite half an hour the next nfternoon before Doris made hor appearance. "I was afraid you had quite forgotten your promise to come hare to -day, Doris. You will pardon me for calling you that; it sounds so ranch sweeter than to say Miss Brandon," he added. "I should hardly know how to answer to the name of Miss Brandon," she said, thoughtfully. "You are the first person who ever addressed me so; every one calls me Doris; I like it best, As to my coming late, madame was very Dross with me to -day. 1 could not get away before," Ah, how sorry he looked. "I heard over at the village that the present term at the seminary closed yes- terday nfternoon, and most of the young ladies had returned to their respective homes. I feared you had gone after I had seen you," he said; "and as to tho note, it was useless to write it in that case." "You thought I was a pupil here'?' she asked, laughing softly, while the color name and went in her pretty, dimpled cheeks. "Yes, I thought so," he answered. "Is it not so?" "Oh, dear no," elle Answered, with a merry. girlish laugh. "I am only Madame Delmar's ward. I have lived here always." "Always?" he repeated, wonderingly. She nodded her curly head. He was a stranger in that locality or he would not have asked that question. Every one in the village knew Doris's history—how, seventeen years before, a stranger, heavily veiled, had been seen making her way in the dusky twilight through the village streets, pausing now and then to ask a stray pedestrian which road led to "tho young ladies' seminary." Each one that she spoke to noticed that she carried a heavy, dark basket, and that her voice was low and tremulous. The next morning the strange dark bas- ket was found on the steps of the semin- ary, but the veiled woman had disap- peared. When the basket was brought to Madame Delmar and she opened it, she threw up her bands with a gasp of horror and dismay. "There's—a—n—baby in it!" she cried, in consternation. A note was found pinned to the baby's breast; 1t contained only a few words, in delicate chirography, which rend as follows:— "In the name of humanity do not turn this foundling from your roof. Give her the name that sho roust bear—Doris Brandon." Simply these words—no more. Madame fretted and fumed, but ended by keeping the child. Although she grew up a singularly pretty girl, madame could never quite overcome her great prejudice against her, and she quite be- lieved the girl was born for her especial annoyance—to be her especial cross. Madame was strict, grim and hard with her. She had too many tasks set for her to loiter among her companions, and her dresses were always Ao shabby, being made from those cast off by madame, that she was rather glad than otherwise to escape the gaze and close scrutiny of the seminary girls as much as possible. Doris never knew how it happened, but as they stood there under the waving lilac blooms, with one question leading to another, she had told this handsome. ntranger all of. her simple history—a his- tory so dark and so unutterably dreary for such a fair young girl, he thought, pityingly, as be looked at pretty, Bby Doris. "And when vacations roll around— then the place is closed up, all save the western wing—it is indeed , like a pri- son," she sighed. "Yes, yesterday was the last day of the term; every one has gone, and life will be very lonely for me," and.the red lips quivered. "I shall be staying a few days longer in the village," he said. "D6 you think Miss Debtor would permit me to cell upon your ' Doris drew back with a merry laugh. "You do not know madame," she said, laughingly. "I would not dare monition your name to her, the bas such a.tereibie averaion to men. She often says' if she were dying, her last solemn request to nett .' g aCup A 41 'p"'"^d e-s't suffering far 25 years. flothiee effeetbve until Dr. Chase's Medicines were Used, "it :Motels me ltlen'ure to spenk 'avnrahlt of hr. ('h",s''i Nerve Fond Incl Nidtley-Livor I'ilie," writes Mr. he, T. Collins Morp'"tli, Ont. "I had nw•t1 a sufferer tar 25 years from •'i:'11(8, lumbago and neuralgia and •ri"•1 nearly all the remedies adver- `ised without one !'nick, of b'netit until I b Tim the use of Dr, Chase's n1"liieines, Before 1 had finished two toe , of the Nerve Food and ttidfieq- i-iver Pills I noticed considerable u'nelit in my condition. I have so 'nnt'h Confidence in these medicines that 1 have refornnie nded theni to 9otena of my friends.' In severe eases of this nnturo the combined use of these medicines brings rettflte which .Are both sut• arising and satisfactory, The Kid. Hey -Liver Pills regulate the notion. f kidneys, liver and bo*Mels, while. the, Nerve Food enriches the blood and builds up the nervous system. Edmaneozi, Bates do tKo., Toronto. me would be, 'never to look with an thing save hatred upon oho face of Hien So,,yoii see, I would not dare introdu you to hor, she would forbid mo to spca to you;" "You would not like that?" aske Frederick, gently. "No," confessed Doris, hot blushe dyeing her pretty, dimpled face, "Nor should I," he exclaimed, ener- getically, "If she were to imprison you, koop you under look and key because of it, 1 should be your Prince Charming. I would find some way to rescue you from Sour dreary prisou. Would you like to see me again?" he asked, abruptly. "Would you care for it?" Poor, pretty, shy Doris! Sho looked for ono half moment into the depths of those dark, splendid oyes, then her own fell, and again a crimson flush suffused her face, He took her hands in his, "If you will only say that you care tot it, I will manage in some way. Do ru:1 care?" fie persisted. . "I—I—shouldn't mind," she faltered, shyly. "You tell me you have never had one pleasure in all your young life," he wont 013, earnestly. "That 1s FO sorrowful, Now, I have a pion in my mind that would give you a treat " She clasped her little hands together and gazed at bim breathlessly "You have heard of the great ball that .8 to take place at. Langdon villa to- morrow, Tuesday. night? Young Lang- ton was a college ubum of mine. I can y. peach I Vivien was not there to go to the ball, so what harm was there in taking poor, k pretty little Doris,0 to wh0 mit wog Yd e b such a treat? If Vivian were displeased d about it. --•Vivian, who was one day to be his bride—it would be his last escapade e with any other girl, he promised himself, arr.tnge it so Ilsat ycu,can g', tegen like.' "I—could—go—to—the grand ball?" she gasped in dismay. "Yes," he said, gayly, "but you would have to manage it by strategy. If I were to ask medium to permit you to go, you aro sure she would refuse; so why ask her? It grieves me to hear yon say you have had not ono pleasure in your young life," he said. kindly. "The lights and the music would bo a brilliant treat for you. I would not asic you to go, if I be- lieved there could. be the least possible harm in it; it seems so cruel to deprive you of so much gayety. If you are brave enough to slip out of the grounds and meet me here, we will go to the ball, and I will bring you home any time you say." Let it be thoroughly understood!, hear reader, that no other thought save the one desire to give this beautiful, lonely girl a bright evening of happiness prompted him to make this impulsive offer. Frederick Thornton was a young main of the strictest honor. He was gay and careless—a beauty - worshiper, but no ono laver yet attributed to hint a dishonorable 'fiction. He rover- enced all women for the sake of his mother and fair sisters. No broken hearts had been laid at his door. Our readers will bear this in mind when they read what followed. It was such a novel, dazzling idea— the very thought of going to the grand ball—that it quite overcame Doris with intense childish. delight. "Could I get book before half -past ten, do you think?" she asked, breath- lessly. "Madame closes the house and the gates at that time." "Certainly," he responded, promptly; "you see, this being a village, the affair commences at nine, instead of eleven. We could be there by nine and stay until ten, and it would not take us more than ten minutes to reach the seminary, don't you see?" "Yes" she answered raising her great childish pansy -blue eyes to his face; then suddenly they fell in great perplexity. "I do not know what kind of dresses young girls wear to balls" she said with childish simplicity. "Oh I oouldn't go; I have nothing fit to wear," "You could wear tho white dress you have on" ho declared; "the best dressed young girls are always the simplest dressed and plainest " "Oh," she cried. with pretty confusion, "surely girls don't wear • anything like this?" "Indeed they do" he persisted; he lost sight of the fact that the plain muslin dress which looked very pretty in the red glow of the sunset, and with that background of bright -hued roses and green leaves, would look outre when brought t in contrast t with the sheen satins and costly robes. The elite of the whole country would be present at this ball. "If you are quite sure of that, and sure it wouldn't be wrong, I—I think I would like to go—oh, ever so much," she faltered. And so, these thoughtless young peo- ple—she, a child of seventeen, and he, only a boyish young fellow of four-and- twenty—settled the matter, and they lived to rue it while their lives lasted. At length the eventful Tuesday, even- ing drew near. Oh, how eagerly Doris watched for the sun to set, the dusk to', creep up, and the golden -hearted stars to come out. Nine o'clock struck from an adjacent belfry as Doris crept nut of the seminary. The coast was quite clear; there was not an obstacle to overcome. Still the girl's heart beat high with excitement; it was a terrible, almost an awful thing to do, yet she liked the excitement and enjoyed the danger, as the young and thought- less always do. Madame Delmar, usually so grim and stern in all things, gave the girl her full freedom to roam in the moonlight where fancy willed — about the picturesque grounds that surrounded the old gray - stone seminary, and in this she commit- ted a great error. "The birds and the flowers cannot put nonsense into the girl's romantic bead," she would tell herself, grianly. Her peace of mind would have taken flight at once, if she had but dreamed that among tho fragrant roses there lurked a yoting and handsome man. Standing on an upper veranda in the shadow of one of the tall pillars, she saw - the alight form flit acmes the grounds in the moonlight. "I shall call her in presently," thought madame. Then for the neat half-hour she quite forgot about Doris: In making his way toward the old south gate the thought occurred to Fred- *riok whether or not his dark -eyed 'Vivian would quite approve of this little romantio escapade when she heard of it, Or not. But surely sho could not quite find it in her heart because he -.her lover —had stepped nut of his way to give as Musty" gild isa few hoots of pleasure. Ifo wee certainly Vivian's lover. He had toot declared hlmaelf in so many Words; still, that had been only a ques- tion of time as to when ho should. He alight take a fancy to a pretty face for a day—but its heart always went hack faithfully to Vitiate, If fate had tot taken Vivian awar from the aenllnary ao etiddenly, theft would certainly have beets a formal en- gagetnent between thein. The diamond betrothal ring he had beught to place On her -little' white band still lay in hie Vest CHAPT'tiil . 1131, MARRYING IN HASTE, When Doris entered the grand ball- room she calfght her breath with a erg of delight. "Oh, Mr. Frederick!" she gasped, olutohing at his arm with, her little, trembling white hands, "it seems like fairyland—or—a—a glimpse of heaven!" Frederick 'Thornton laughed amused- ly; to him there was nothing out of the common in the banks of roses, the palms and waving ferns, the dazzling chande- liers, and the unique and brillant acts - turtles of bewitchingly pretty maidens and passe matrons. "A young girl's first ball does seem like a glimpse of fairy life," he answered, gayly. "Those that follow never seem quite so nice." "I shall always remember you when I think cf my first ball," she answered, impulsively. "And, indeed, I am quite sure it will be my last and only ono. No one will ever take me to a ball again." "Do not be so sure of teat, Doris," he replied, in a low voice, "What are you Doris drew back in terror too great for words. "It would make 'natters no better. You do not know emadame. She will never het me enter her door again. Oh,41 wish I were dead!" 'I meant that you should have such ala happy time • in going to the ball," he said. gently. "I am so sorry it has ended so." She bowed 'her beautiful golden head until it touched the cold stones. " Where can I go? What shall Ido, Mr. Frederick?" she sobbed. "I am so young and friendless! Oh, I wish indeed that I had died when I was so happy amidst the lights and the music, dancing with you at the ball!" She was clinging to him like a terrified child, sobbing piteously now. He was quite at a loss what to say to comfort her. "Are you quite sure it will be as bad as you say, Doris?" he asked, hoarsely. "Are you sure she will turn you from hor door for this?" "Oh, yes, yes," sobbed Doris. "I am as sure of it as though it had already happened." As she speaks a strange thought Hite through his brain — a thought that twenty-four hours ago he would havd scooted. "Oh, what shall I do. Mr. Frederiok?" she moaned. "I am so young—I—I am afraid of the great, cold, cruel world." "You shall not face the cruel world, Doris," he said, huskily. "I am a gentle- man. I cannot leave you in distress brought on by myself. There is but one way out of the difficulty, and that is this: I must marry you," "Marry mel" sho echoes, her little hands dropping from her tear -stained eyes, and gazing at him aghast. "Do you see any other way out of itf" he asks, repressing a groan that rose to his lips. "I confess that I do not, under tho oircumstancoe. I must make the only atonement possible. I must make you my wife, if you are willing. It is the only reparation within my power. Will you accept it, poor little Doris?" She looked up at him wistfully. "Do you really want me to marry you?" she asked, shyly and wonderingly. "I suppose that would bo the only proper thing," he remarked, hopelessly. "But do people ever marry eaoh other who have only been acquainted such a short while as we have been—mot quite a week?" "Sometimes," he answered, abstract- edly. "How strange it is that you should really want to marry me," she mused. "I don't see what for. But, really, I don't mind if—it you want me so very much." Want her! He could have laughed aloud at the veryidea. He did not want her. He was forced, as it were, into mak- ing her his wife. Ho could have cursed his folly, as he stood there that had led him into the fatal error that had per- suaded her into going to that ball. He aroused himself from his bitter thoughts by a great effort. "It may as well be now, Doris," he said, with reckless despair. "No doubb we can find somebody to perform the ceremony at once." Sho was romantic and 'impressible. Ah! how nice it would bo to have a handsome young husband like Frederick Thornton to love and protect her. There would bo no bitter sooldinga and harsh, grim Madame Delmar; no more heart- aches because she was alone in the great, cold world. Sho had led Such a lonely life; her poor heart had always cravat loved so much. She never forgot that ride through the sweet, pink glover to the stone church that stood on the cliff overlooking tbe glittering Chesapeake. 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The Kind You Have Always s Hou ht g Bears the Signature of EXACT COPY OF WRAPPER, ,�„awy..... Use for Over Thirty Years CASTORIA TN[ C[NTAUII N[W YC,IN CITY, COMPANY, tor's parlor, and of how the'reoror• daughter had loaned her her own wet, ding veil to wear, and of Frederick lead ing her up the dim aisle of the chum; —up to the altar—his face grave alines; to sternness, and pale as death. ` Oh! how weird it all seemed to Dori. Then, as if in a dream, she stool quit; still by his side wa,ile the fatal ceremony went on. She heald the questions en.1 responses, and answered the questions put to her; and the white•hairel minis- ter pronounced her his lawful wedded wife. 4The bridegroom bent down his hand- some head to kiss his bride; he !:naw it was cllstolllary, it was expected of hilt'. Doris drew back with a startled cry, for his lips wore as cold as ice. "Are you glad to have married me, Mr. Frederick?" she whispered, Timidly, as they turned from the dila old altar towards the vestry to sign the register, "Glad!" he groaned, under his breath. Rut low as the words were muttered, her strained ear caught them, and every word shocked her, and stabbed her heart like the thrust of a dagger. "Glad! You have wrecked my life. You have parted me forever from Vivian, whom I loved so madly. I have given you my name. I will caro for you, because in the eyes of the world you are my wife; lent here at the altar we part. I pray heaven I may never look on your face again." She did not faint. Sho did not cry out, or utter any moan. All in a moment her young heart seemed turned to stone. When the names were all signed* in the register, Doris turned piteously to her bridegroom:— "I have o neu er ra t make P Y she mid."All—even you. Frederick -leave nee alone in the vestry for a brief half hour. Do not refuse me. You will come here alone then, Frederick, my husband." It was a strange, unheard-of request. He bowed wonderingly; and left het, and the door closed after him, shutting him out from her view. "He married me and he•doos not love me!" she moaned, wildly,' as she sank down shivering on her knees. "I have Wrecked his life, for I have parted him from Vivian. That is what he said. Oh,' I heard it. But it is not too late to re- pair what I have done," sho panted, as the low dash of the waves caught her ear. "I can set him free at the very plias.. 1 can, and I will. If I have to part from him, I had better die." And this brings us back, dear reader, to the pitiful scene that opens this story. CHAPTER IV.—REPENTING AT LEISURE. The clock in the church tower struck the mid -night hour in slow, measured strokes, and Doris struggled up from her knees with a wild, panting cry, sobbing. out:— "When he returns he must not find me here" Then in her bridal robes, without one kinkin=at that you gaze so intently at „net bank of rests?" he asked, curiously. "I was thinking what a pity it was to ant them from the stem and bring them here, for just a few hours. By to -morrow they will all lie withered and dead against that wall." "Whitt a waste of pity!" he laughed, "They will have served their purpose well --gladdened the eye, delighted the sense. But conte; the band is about to strike up a . waltz. I hope you have learned to waltz, Doris." The hour that followed seemed like a dream to poor, pretty little Doris. She could have danced on amid the lights and the music, forever end forever. And in the excitement, the revelry, the brilll- adney, can it be Wondered that time seemed 'fairly to take wings and Whirl away? Doris had been very much abashed at first to see that she was, as usual, the poorest dressed girl in the gay throng; but in the excitement of the lights and emetic!, and in the exuberance of happy youth, she soon forgot it, and was enjoy- ing hentelf as she had never enjoyed her- self before, The eyes of the gentlemen followed her admiringly, and the ladies, in cense- quence, were exceedingly jealous ani! envious. "Whois she?" they asked of each hth1.M hese. t Awl In all her simpleness and plai• nness, as is often the case, even amidst that throng of beauties, Doris was acknowledged the belle of the grand ball. Mrs. Langdon, the hostess, gazed at the pretty young girl in wonder, and at last she sought her son. "Max," she said, leading him aside. "who is that young girl? How came she here? Who invited her?" "I slid, mother," he responded, prompt- ly. "She is one of the seminary girls. Miss Doris Brandon is her name, 1 be- ?}eve. You remember we sent a card to Miss Courtney, ,he could not attend. And my old chum there, Frederick. Thornton, asked me to send a card to her, and, of course, I complied. Are you displeased, mother?" "No," she answered. "Still, I should have boon better pleased had I been eon - suited first. The girl is pretty, I.grant you; but she does not look quite at home in our set, and you know how particular I am in that regard." "She may be a little awkward," laughed the son. "School -girls have the reputation for being so. She must be our • equal socially—some millionaire's daugh- ter—or Thornton would not be paying so much attention to her. He never takes a step backward in the social scale, you know." Mrs. Langdon looked relieved. On re- turning to he ball -room ehe observed that young Mr. Thornton and the pretty belle of the ball had disappeared. As we have said, time flew by on gold- en wings. Neither Doris nor Frederick noted the fleeting moments. Over and over again Doris told herself how happy she was as she looked into Frederick Thornton's. handsome , face with glad, shining eyes. In those blissf'hl moments, a woman's heritage of love had come to her, and more than once that evening the thought occurred that her life would be doubly dark and dreary when ho left the village. She dared not think of the cold, dark hours when she should see him no more. And like the faint echo of a dream, the words of the poet recurred to her: -- "Perchance if we had never met I had been spared this vain regret; And yet 1 could not ,bear the pain Of never seeing then agi 'n." Yes, Doris had learned to love him— (To be continued.) Children Cry I FOR FLETCHER'S CASTORIA Was Terribly Afflicted With Lams Back. I Could Not Sweep The Floor. , It is hard to do house work with a weak and aching back. Backache conies from sick kidneys, and what a lot of trouble sick kidneys cause. But they cant help it. If more work is put on them than they can stand it is not to be wondered that they get out of order. 1)oan'e Kidney rine are a specific for bane, weak or aching backs and for all kidney troubles. Mrs. Napoleon L'armour Stnith'o Palle, Ont., writes: -,-"I take pleasure in writ- ing you stating the benefit I have received by using Doan'e Kidney Pills. About a year ego I was terribly aflliatad with lame back, and woe so bad 1 coukl not even sweep my own floor. I was advised to tryDomes Kidney Pills which I did'and wih the greaten benefit. I only need three boxes and I am he well ae ever. I highly reeonimcnd these pills to any buffeter from lame back and kidney trouble." y tDoan's Kidney Pills are SO cents per bol or 3 for $1.25, at all dealers or mailed direct on receipt ofAirice by The T. Mil- burn Co., Limited, �Toronto, Ont. When ordering direst *pouf/ "I i1n'e. a