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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1911-05-04, Page 7E WINGIIAM TIMES, m,t Y 4, 1911 7 .)� _l�ei9uuevta e a hcl u vi u e rJU e er o U fi Parted Altar ,, \mo L r f By LAURA JEAN LIBBEY, Author of "When Lovely Maiden Steeps to Folly," "Olive's Court- ship," " When Ibis Love Grew Cold," Etc. of /��: G)(c7 G ,k1G �ri�Gl'� 6• C Grp Jo11J (,��/�G GAG � .G\G, • ala *�i� ► til { �� ► 1 =h � � 1 3 � 1 ! I � %I %l n. �i'i� .dead in my wedding clothes at his feet—. ' draggled with mud.* Wo would be dis- at the altar." mewed for life if any one hereabouts saw "My poor child," said the housekeep- you. 1 ta;it you again, Doris Brandon, •er, soothingly', "that is a horrible prayer what's the meaning of alI this?" to fall from the lips oe one so young. ''1-1 cannot fell cnu, madame!" Be brave and strong; look your trouble sighed In els, bitterly. "Ugly be kind to in the face calmly, and pray God for me ani fr i et that I ever went away." strength to bear it. You aro not the first "Ito !al. hear that e ise:••tble girl? 1)o young wife who bus been cruelly aban- you hr,,r her, .io;,nse c ried madame, doned by the man she loved and trusted ttirteuels' ex.as''emcu c J. ".his is the area- -the man who, at the altar, vowed to ter' yen w• old wase• your pity on 1 She love, cherish and protect her while life sl,ps ,,ii' is tin mg!, t. heaven only knows lasted." ',There, an•i 1 tir, glee the hay and sonar• "I loved him so!" moaned Doris, in •r tee whole countre for her; and now, "Oh, heaven help me to bear it, or I l u.r two days, she cornea curtly heels, most die. Where shall I turn, whero si; d asks me to forget the disl_race she shall I go?" ',n; hroarht on ns anti most of all, in - "I would advise you to go back to suits us by tellie us not to at.k where your mother," said the housekeeper. aei has beau, 1 never struck the girl in "She could comfort you best." "I have no mother," sobbed Doris. "I am alone in the great, cruel world." "You ;rust have friends." said the housekeeper. Doris shook her golden head. "Not one on earth," she sobbed. The good housekeeper looked at the fair young girl in wonder. No friend 1—not one on the 'wide earth! It was almost incredible. "Are you sure the marriage you be- lieve in so fully was a legal one?" asked Mrs. Lane, in perplexity. "A man who deserts a young girl deliberately in this fashion is capable of any villainy." Doris raised her great, childish blue eyes to her face. "I am sure it was legal," she an- swered. "I remember he was very partic- ular that it should be so. Oh, how can I think he has willfully, deliberately de- serted mel Some day he will return here for me. I feel sure of it; I feel it in my heart. I cannot live without him, any more than the flowers could live without the sunshine. Oh, he must return to mei" How the next day passed Doris could never remember. It seemed as though the torture of a lifetime was crowded into it. Then it suddenly dawned upon her She must leave the hotel. She could not remain there forever. There was but one plaoe she know of to go to, and that was --back to Madame Delmar's seminary. Ah, what a desolate ride back it was to Beech Grovel • The train whirled past beautiful stretohes of country, thrifty villages and peaceful homes, but • Doris looked out of the windows without tee- ing. It was dusk when the train stopped at the station. For an hour or more a terrible storm bad been raging, but Doris stepped from the train and made her way up the steep path, all unmindful of the bitter storm. Her wedding -ring fell from her finger in the long grass by the wayside, but she did not heed its loss. Stealing in through the great arohed gate -way, she made her way around to the western wing of the building. This bad been set apart for Madame Delmar's tree during vacation. The crimson hangings were looped baok, and a bright flood of light shone out through the dankness like a beacon light. Noiselessly Doris approaohed the window and peered into the room. Ah, what a contrast to the cheerfulness within was the driving, pitiless storm without. Drawing the rose vines aside, Doris pressed her white face still closer to the pane. At the table, engaged on some trifling fancy work, sat Madame Delmar, and near her stood her brother John, a plain, sturdy farmer, whom madame was al - Ways particular to ignore in public. John's farm adjoined the seminary grounds on the left, and the awkward bachelor brother made his home in the western wing of the seminary; but few of madame's dainty, aristocratic pupils Byer knew this, or even dreamed of the. etlstence of such a person. On this particular evening madame d her brother John were discussing tie's sudden disappearance of a few qys before. Ah + how taint every r word +wis heard by the little figure crouching mut there in the pitiful storm! "I always thought no good would some of Doris roaming round like a wild gypsy for hours at a time," declared haadame, stitching vigorously at hor em- broidery. "And now she has run away at last. I havealways said no good ever comps of taking in waifs left on one's doorste She always wanted to play the fine Doris Brandon was too roman- tic. muoh love -dreaming and non- liense go with these pretty faces." "I can't think where the child could possibly have gone, Cynthy," interposed honest John, dojeotedly. "I always thought we wore doing our clear duty by Little Doris in providing .her suoh a good home. 1 never dreamed she was unhappy here. I miss the child so I" "Don't make en old fool of yourself, .john Delmar!" exclaimed his sister, energetically. (She never wasted any of the little elegancies of speech or gram - Mar Upon plain, honest John.) "It Ras that miserable girl's own fault if Sho was not happy here. She was always toe fond of decking beraelf out in finery, to leek nicer than my pupils, and they rich men's daughters, every one of 'em. And as to missing her the Lord knows 1 ani glad to be rid of herl" she added with epitefnl emphasis. A twig snapped beneath the window, and—Wal it Only their fancy?—a white Noe, trained in tangled, golden, wet hair, peered wistfully into the room from among the climbing red roses, A moment later a shadow crept acrosa thethreshold, and a voice, faltering piteously, broke out brokenly;' -•y "Oh, madame 1 1 have Dome baok to you! Oh, pity and forgive! Vf you scold me 1 Abell fall down and die at your feet 1" "it's Doris's spirit!" gasped madame, •in terror, "Leek at that hugged hair and white, horrible faded" "I am no spirit, madainel" sobbed Doris, advancing toward the banter of" the room, near where the horror-etrioken woman steed, "l'm your unhappy ward, DOris, So you are really Doris in the flesh i"a retorted the irate madatno, her ruing Singer taking the place of her ntomeletery fright. "Where Were you been for the tact two dayst I want, to knots *here 'eon have beat, I tit Y. lent doss is be. my life yet, but I declare I Dan scarcely restrain myself from heating the truth out of her. 1 shall investigate this matter thoroughly; depend upon that, ungrate- ful girl." " You may kill me, if you choose, madame," sighed poor Doris,' with e gasping, tearless sob, as she sank down on the fidor in a little, dark heap, "but I will not --oh, I . cannot reveal to you the dark secret of the past two days." "Is there a lover at the bottom of it?" pried madame, shrilly,'; fairly shrieking the words in the girl's startled ear. "Answer me? Has love anything to de with this disgraceful affair?" "No. No one loves me," muttered Doris, faintly. "My poor heart is bruised so sorely. Oh, no, no; God never intend- ed any one to love mel" she added, wearily. "You cannot deceive me. There's a lover.at the bottom of it," declared ma- dame, suspiciously. "It's just suoh pink and white baby faces as yours that make all the mischief in the world. You can- not remain under this roof till you maks a glean breast of it." The beautiful, young golden head was beat low before her. Doris turned her great blue eyes pite- ously to honest John Delmar, who stood by, regarding the scene in dazed, dum- founded helplessness. "Forgive me, oh, won't you, please, and take me book!" sobbed Doris, dis- tractedly, holding out her little white hands toward him. "You have been kind to me all my life. Don't desert me now, for I have no one but you to look to. If you turn from me I shall surely die." "It would bo the best thing you oould do," returned madame, curtly. " You may as well go baok where you have been for the past two days if you persist In refusing to confide in mo." "Do be merciful and forgive me," cried the poor, tortured child. "I have nowhere to go, madame. God has Shut me entirely from His mercy, and forgot- ten me, tool" "Well, that's just what I intend to do," pried madame, heartlessly, florally grasping Doris by the shoulder, and forc- ing her to her feet. "1 want you to leave this house the same way you came. Go where you've been the past two days," she repeated, tauntingly "and if yon have one spark of decency or pride left, you will keep out of the neighbors' sight, or there will be worse stories afloat than there are now. For the last time I say, clear this mystery up straightway, or go." "Oh, how can I tell her? How dare I tell her," thought Doris, wildly, "that I am a victim to love's cruel ourse—that he whom I weddedand trusted so blind- ly, deceived me more oruelly than death; cast me adrift on the great ocean of lite without the least pity for my youth, my innocent, broken heart, or my blasted hopes! "Surely, you don't mean to drive me from the shelter of your roof out into the bitter storm, madame?" gasped Doris. "Surely, you cannot mean it," she cried, a death -like chill creeping over her "I do moan it!" cried madame, sharp- ly. 1 Go—without dole 1 y y "Now, Cynthy, sister, don't be too hard upon poor little Doris." interposed John Delmar, in an unsteady voice. "'You've gone far enough. You most re- member, Cynthy, little Doris is only a young, thoughtless child. I do not be- lieve she's done anything wrong. Have you, child?" he asked, with intense earnestness. Doris tried to answer, but the words died away on her white lips, making no sound;and she gazed at him with a world of pitiful entreaty in her childish, blue eyes, like a hunted doer suddenly brought to bay. "There I" cried madame, shrilly and triumphantly. "Don't you see sho dare not deny it? I say again, you waste your pity." John Delmar, poor Doris's only friend, turned away, sick -at heart, and abruptly left the room, to hide the great tears that were wellingdown his honest face. CHAPTER VIII.—OIIT IN THE DAB,ENESS. With a bitter cry, Doris sank on her knees at madame's feet, her beautiful, tangled, golden hair falling in reckless abandon about her like a golden veil, her lovely young fade white with fear. Poor child! She might have known better by past experience than to appeal to John Delmar, when his sister "laid down the law," as he called it, "It is night now, madame. You Will at least let me stay under the shelter of yunr root until morning. Listen to the terrific storm, hear how it thunders, and see the blinding. lightning. Oh, madame, I am so afraid of the darkness and rho terrible storm. In the morning 1 will go quietly away. and you shall never look upon my face again; and I shall always remember that you did not drive mb out into the fairy of the bitter night." Madarne's outting, sarcastic laugh answered her. "Afraid of the storm and the dark, mess l" she !snored, meliolously. "'You were not afraid to Atoll out of the house at night, and remain out of it for two eoneeoutive nights; Yon did not cats 'whether you disgraced me or not." "I never meant to diegraoo you," sighed Dale, humbly. "Depend upon it, you shall not have the opportunity of disgracing in., sty ignore," replied Madame Delmar, grimly. "Go!" she Dried, pointing to the door, "And nevor let me lack upon that pink, and -white baby face of yours again. Ir you persiet i is o stn s a in aroundhere, e I y1: shall have you arrested, and then yeti will be forced by the law to clear up this mystery. The secret as to where you have been will be wrung from your lips, whether you are willing or no." Madame Delmar never forgot the wild. startled cry that broke from Doris's lips. "Madame," she sobbed, struggling up from her knees, and turning to the woman who had shown her so little mercy in the hour of her bittoreet need, "you have not been kind. You have driven mo forth into the cold, bitter World to live or to die as God sees fit; but I forgive you. Sonia day you may regret this action. When any one men- tions the name of Doris, the unhappy waif fate thrust upon your hands, and who has been unwittingly such a cross to you, It is my prayer that you will always try to think of me kindly and at my best," Without another word. Doris turned end fled out into .the darkness of the night, In the distance she could hear the plaintive murmur of the waves as they beat against the shore. "I wish I had Sting myself , into the dark water when I intended to, that night, when those fatal words bound me to him—his wedded wife.. "His wife! Oh, dear heaven!" she Dried bitterly, struggling on through the srriWq actors* and the darkness. "May God forgive him for the falsehood that stained his lips!" She flung herself down in all the storm, and hid her white, despairing face in the long, daisy -studded grass,' weeping for the overthrow of her hope and her love, and the desolate young life that lay in ruins around her, as she had never wept before. The rain, like angel's tears, fell pity- ingly down upon that golden head buried among the silent daisies; but Doris did not even heed it. She stretched out her white hands through the darkness, crying out to her lost love. Lite was too hard to bear with- out him. Bat suoh a passionate burst of grief is the soonest over. She did not cry out for heaven to wreak its vengeance on this handsome young husband, who had de- serted her at the altar, as it were, as many another might have done. "I will learn to forget him," she cried, raising hor white face to the dark sky. "I will cast him out of my poor, shat- tered heart, as he cast me out of his, without one regret. Oh, the madness, the folly of trusting too blindly to love!" Was it fancy, or did some one call her nano? Doris raised her head', from the long, wet, daisy -studded grass and listened. Was some ono calling her name, or was it only the wind sighing among the branches of the trues overhead, or perhaps some night bird's cry? She sprang to her feet, listening in- tently. It was no delusion; footsteps were hurriedly approaching, and she beard John Delmar's voice calling:— "Doris—little Doris—are yotl here?" "I am here," she answered; and a mo- ment more ho was standing beside her. It had been all so sudden, so unexpect- ed, the whole affair was over, and Doris was gone, before John Delmar fairly realized what had occurred. "Come bank, little Doris," he cried, in a voice husky with emotion. "I will be responsib;o to Cynthy. Thank God you are here,. when it comes to that I have as much right on these promises as she has. Sho shall not turn you away." Doris shrank back from his out- stretched hand. "I shall never enter your door, Mr. Delmar," she sobbed, piteously—"no, nevor again." All his entreaties proved unavailing; no inducement would prevail upon Doris to enter the house from whence she bad been so rudely and cruelly repulsed. "But what will you do, child? Where will you go?" asked John Delmar, in the greatest perplexity. "I don't know," sobbed Doris—"un- less you shall tell me some place." "What had come over pretty, defiant, willful little Doris?" thought John, in Sheer astonishment. "Was this crouch- ing, timid little creature the romping, mischevious, dimpled face of pretty Doris, who had but one short week ago been the very sunshine of the old semin- ary, despite madame's crossness?" "Tell me where I can go, Mr. Del- mar," she pleaded. "I cannot—oh 1 I cannot remain here! You have always been kind to me; be kind to me now, g and tell me where I can o. n "Do you really mean it, child?" he asked, slowly. "Yes," she sobbed. "I want to go where no one who has ever known me Caught a Cold od Which Ended in a Severe Attack of Pneumonia. Too much stress cannot be )aid on the fact that when a person catches cold it must be attended to immediately, or serking results are liable to follow. Bronchitis, Pneumonia and Consump- tion are all caused by neglecting to cure the simple cold. Mrs. G. W. Bowman, Pattu lo, Ont.; writes; --"Three years ago I caught a cold which ended in a severe attack of Pneumonia. Since that time at the beginning of each winter I seem to catch cold 'very easily. I have been so hoarse I was unable to speak loud enough to be heard across the room. Last winter, however, a friend advised me to try Dr. Wood's l!lorway Pine Syrup, Baying ft had helped her. I bought a bottle and before it Was half used 1 was completely cued. I also find it a good medicine for the children when they have colds." Beware of the many imitations of Dr. Wood's Norway Pine Syrup. Mk for "Dr. Wood's" and insist on getting What you axle for. It is put up in a yellow wrapper; three pine trees the trade Mark; the price; 25 cents. Manufactured only by The T. Milburn. Co.,. Limited. To onto, can look upon my face." A sudden thought flitted through John Delmar's brain, "Perhaps, after all, it would be best for little Doris to go away somewhere until Cynthy's wrathhad time to smolt"' he thought. "14 you aro in earnest, and wish to go away for a spell, I think I Dan manage it," he said, slowly. Doris seized his hand, covering It with passionate, grateful kisses "There is a family in New York—the Granvilles—who would receive you into their household for a month or so, if I wore to request it. Do you think you would like that? You are not used to the ways of elty life, child, Mrs, Granville would be kind to you." "It does not matter much where I go; one place is the same as another to me," answered Doris ,• drearily. How little John Delmar thought, as he went back to the house and penned that fatal letter, that that ono incident was the turning point of poor, hapless Doris's eventful young life. He wrote it with a smile on his lips, little dreaming of the terrible consequenoes that would accrue from it, ,3e took her down to the depot, and purchased her ticket. The train was just starting, and with a hasty "Good -by," little Doris drifted out of his life forever, ai.d on to her fate. "Have 1 done right in Bonding the child to New York?" he pondered, as he stood on the platform of the little station in the down -pouring rain and watched the train out of sight, es the bright light disappeared in the impenetrable darkness. "'New York is a great, cruel, wicked city. I almost wish I had sent Doris to some quiet little village here- abouts. Somehow I have a vague, troubled sensation about it, I should have taken time to consider the matter well. I do not know that I have ever done anything like this on the impulse of the moment before, I hope Doris will write as soon as she reaches there." Carefully placing John Delmar's letter of introduction in her pocket, Doris leaned back in her seat, givirata herself up to her own thoughts. Wedded and cruelly deserted in the space of one short week, was ever a young girl's fate more pitiful? And yet, 'for all Chis, Doris could not quite hate the handsome young hu.s- band she had met and married so roman- tically. The sun was high in the heavens when the train steamed into the Grand Central depot. The confusion, the stir, the rush of the great throngs of people confused Doris wonderfully. "It is worse than Baltimore," she thought, in alarm. "Cab! carriage! hack!" cried a dozen voices, as ninny cabmen closed in around the timid, shrinking little figure, and Doris was almost thrust into the nearest vehicle. A short ride brought her to her des- tination, No, — West 32nd street. Tim- idly ascending the brown stone steps, Doris rang the bell, and a servant soon appeared in answer to the summons. "If you please, I should like to eoe Mrs. Granville. I bring a letter from Mr. John Delmar, of Beech Grove. Toll her—" "Mrs. Granvillcl" repeated the man. "Why, that's the name of tho family that used to live hero. They moved away —left the city over a year ago." "Gone!" echoed Doris, turningdeadly pale. "Gone! did you say?" "Yes," replied the man, impatiently, "that's what I said, Miss." A deadly faintness seized Doris; she stood in the marble vestibule dazed, be- wildered by this terrible stroke of fate. Where was she to go? What was she to do? She turned and walked down the steps clutching her little hands tightly over her heart. Alone, friendless, and with less than a dollar in her purse, in the streets of New York! .Ah, what should she do? That was the piteous prayer that fell from her white lips, as she moved down the street. "New York!" slie murmured, with a sudden start. "It is here his parents live. How strange it is that I could have for- gotten that, even for one moment." Should she go to his mother—the cold, proud, haughty lady he had described, and tell her all? Oh, no, no—a thousand times No! She would rejoice that her son had loft her; she would find no pity, no mercy there. She had scarcely proceeded a dozen reds ere she saw a phaeton, drawn by two mettlesome pcnies, rapidly approach- ing her. One fleeting glance at the young girl reclining among the cushions, and she recognized her at once. It was Vivian Courtney, dashing, piquant, dazzling Vivian, in pink mull—her dark beauty enhanced by the crimson, lace -edged um- brella she carried, and the coquettish pink plumes which waved from her dainty straw hat that rested on her dark curls. Little Doris's glance lingered but a moment on Vivian's proud face, then turned to the gentleman handling the reins. Every drop of blood seemed sud- denly to leave her heart. The very air seemed to stifle her, and the light of the sun to grow dark around her; the gen- tleman was Frederick Thornton—her husband! His dark, handsome face was bent eagerly toward his companion, with a rapt look of love and admiration in his passionate, eloquent eyes that made poor little Doris almost faint to witness it lavished upon another. CHAPTER IX.—A FINE LOOKING COUPLE. Doris, almost fainting from excite- ment, Stood fairly rooted to the pavement While the phaeton whirled past. A lady and gentleman walking directly in front of her turned and looked admir- ingly after the natty egtripage and its handsome occupants. "A remarkably fano-looking couple,", sho heard the gentleman remark. .And in answer to the lady's question if he knew them be replied: "There are very few Now Yorkers who do not. She is tho daughter of a wealthy gentleman who lives somewhere in the suburbs. She's only a school -girl as yet. Home just now on a vacation from boarding-acheol, I understand. Her companion is Hanker Thornton's eon. I had it from his own lips yesterday that the rumor floating about is perfectly true. Ile is soon to Marry Miss Courtney." Without pausing to hear another word, Doris turned like one who had been dealt a sudden death -blow, and fled preoipi- tately down the street, There was a email park at the end of it, which she entered, and flinging herself down on Sane of the benches, sobbed as though hor heart Would break. Ellen the dashed the ).nearly tear -drops frons her blue eyes, and laughed aloud, and the sound of that wild laughter startled her. "Do 19 soon to marry ]Hiss Courtney 1 That la what the gentleman anew one cried, putting theshining hair back from her flushed, tear -stained face, "For one i 1 n little minute I almost believed it, Ii le utterly 1mpossi le absurd I Why, he could not marry her, for he is married to me, No one else could claim hint. No one else has a right by his side." She wondered if she shouldhave called out to him. AU her pride rose up and answered, "No 1" "What do other wives do when their husbands forsake them?" she muttered, below her breath, "I have heard of suoh things, but I never quite believed a has- band who took the trouble. to marry a young girl would heartlessly, deliberately desert her. I never dreamed that would be my fate, I never thought what those wives did. Oh 1 if I had a mother to go to—a sister to sympathize with me. It is more bitter than death to be all alone in the cold, cruel world." Sitting there, listening to the falling, splashing water of the fountain, the thought ocourred to her again as to what she should do—whero she should go. She could not sit in the park much tenger— already the policeman patroling the grounds was commencing to eye her sharply. She might walk through the crowded streets until night set in—but whero could she go after that? She was quite too dazed to think. Slowly she arose and moved toward the entrance gate, For long hours Doris paced the streets of New York until the dusk began to gather and the great electric lights wore lighted. At length the strength of her limbs seemed to fail her; glancing up, she found herself standing .before the en- trance of the same park in which she had sat that morning. She tried to reach the bench by the fountain. She took one stop within the enclosure; than, with a little faint cry, she throw up her hands and fell, face downward, on the gravel walk in a dead faint. In a moment the same policeman who had watched her so furtively that morn- ing hurried to her side. "Poor child," he muttered, "so young and so fair, I am sure she is a stranger in Now York. It would be a deed of mercy to take her home with me and let Ellen attend to her." And without further ado Doris was conveyed across the way to the patrolman's humble home. When Doris opened her eyes she found herself lying on a chintz covered settee, and a kind, motherly face bending over hor, and the look of puzzled wonder deepened in Doris's pansy blue eyes. " You fainted, my dear, at the park gate, and my husband brought you here," explained the little womau. "You have been here all night. Your friends will be greatly worried over you, I fear." "Friends!" repeated Doris, drearily. I have no friends here; not one." "Where are you stopping?" asked the patrolman's wife, gently. "I am a stranger in the city; I just came here," answered Doris. "Diel you come to New York to find work, poor child?" asked the woman. Doris raised her eyes to the plain, kindly face. "I-1 have had a great trouble," she said— 'so great that it has blotted every- thing else out of my mind. I quite for- got to think out the great problem of life—what I am to do." "Poor child," sighed the woman, "you have had a groat trouble, and you so young. You can't be much over seven- teen, I'm sure." "Just a few inonths past," said Doris, wearily. "I have a daugheter, my dear, so much like you, fair of face, with shin- ing golden hair. She has married and gone away out West, far away from ue, and you touch my heart because you are like her." "Married!" repeated Doris, bitterly. "If you loved her why did you let her marry?—" The patrolman's wife laughed a cheer- ful little laugh. "Why did she marry, my dear? Why, because she loved her husband. Heaven intended then; for eaoh other, or they would not have wed." "Does heaven always intend the two who marry for each other?" asked Doris, breathlessly. "To ba sure, my dear," replied the woman, wondering at the question. "But supposing, by any chance, peo- ple find out they have made a mistake in marriage—that they have married the wrong person—what do they do then?" "Do, my clear?" replied the good wo- man in wonder. "How do you mean?" "How do they remedy the mistake?" Doris asked. "Do many men desert their wives?" "Oh, dear no," was the quick reply. "'Once married, married forever. There is no help for such a mistake. If people are dissatisfied after marriage they rarely complain. They sensibly make the best of it." Doris turned her white face to the wall. "Oh, my God 1" she thought, in the bitterness of her own thoughts, "I can- not understand the problem of my own life. If he meant to marry me, why did ho desert me?" That was the burden of her passionate cry. Doris drank a cup of tea that was brought her, but she could take no food. "I am sorry," she said; "you are very kind to me, but I cannot eat. Lot me thank you before I go." "Are you going out to try to find work, my dear?" asked the good woman, wistfully. "Yes," said Doris, bravely. "Then 1 should advise you to buy a thick veil for yourself the first thing you 40. I say it only in kindness. Beauty like yours is a dangerous and fatal gift often to ayoung girl. You will remember my words when you are older. They will come back to yon many a time through life. I would advise you to get a veil at once to hide suoh a face ad that from the gaze of men. .A. pretty face often brings misery when its owner id unprotected and innocent, as you appear to be." A tow minutes later Doris was out on the crowded street again. At the first notion store she passed Doris went in to ptrrchase a veil. A. gentleman, tall, dark and handsome,. stood at the counter, looking over an assortment of kid gloves. no glanced up as Doris entered, and the glove he held dropped to the showcase. "What an exquisite facet" he mut- tered, glancing furtively ,at the lovely face, fair and dainty as a flower. crcwned in its sheen of curling golden "hair, the great, childish, pansy -blue eyes, and the lovely rosebud mouth. "1 would like to look at eonio veiling," said T)oris, timidly approaehing the counter. "Sire do not keels veiling here," re. sponded the dapper young clerk, meat• ally wonderin-g why syoung girls with u, 111111111VII4�ll111111111111ppppifll'1,ci,,inn14111 Iit011111,n,, (.1 ' (fGj�STj ,9llj(T' to 10,n hrlu,q ,n , p O, a1,11 10, , AVegetablePreparationforAs- simitating the -Food atldRegula- ting the Stom,arhhs and13owels or Tar Promotes•Digestion,Cheerful- ness and Rest.Contains neither Opium,Morphine nor rTinered. NOT NAM C 0 TIC . Rave'ofOId.lf&fNtTI ?J Cl. Q .nunpkin Je„ al- ribaSe,uur Ro..4ell4, eWee - "huse Jerd • iippernwit .10 o, a eaJodm • 4! oth.d Sugar . Aperfect Tielnedy for Constipa- tion, Sour Stoin sch,Diarrhoea, Worms ,Convulsions ,Feverish- racss Convulsions,Feverish- taCSs and LOSS OF SLEEP Tac Simile Signature of NEW 'iYOTx2k►. A For Infants and Children. Tho Kind You Have Always Y fou h _ Bears the Signature of In Use For Over Thirty Years EXACT COPYOF WRAPPER. IA THE CENTAUR COMPANY, NEW YORK CITY. to tt;.t.;,r1,'1• stet,.. neette ": • such pretty races could be induced a wear a veil at any price. "You'll prof ably get what you want at Kellogg e King's." "I do not know where that 1s," Bel Doris. "I—I—am a stranger. I have ju• coma to Now York " As sho spoke, as though attracted by a magnet, Doris glanced up, and ea - countered the fixed gaze of a pair 0; burning dark eyes. Blushing crimson, she know not why, Doris dropped the sweeping hashes over her eyes, turned hurriedly, and left the store. "No doubt she has come to New Y "1 to look for work," s.cid the clerk, t1u•ar- ing to his other customer. "it's a sed pity young girls will come to this over- crowded city. It's a shame to see ru,•h a pretty little creature adrift on the wci. ld," Making some casual reply to the cle.'k, the gontleinanly-appearing, handsome young man walked out of the store, quickening his pace as he reached the pavement, hurrying after the retreating little figure up the street. Doris had purchased the veil, and only the long golden curls were visible, and the prettiest dimpled chin imaginable. "I must buy a paper and look it over," thought Doris. And acting upon the thought, she bought a paper, and the first lino that met her eye was the advertisement of an agency that furnished employment to women. Doris made her way there without de- lay. There was a lady superintendent in attendance, who looked curiously at the fair young face as Doris paid her fee. "Your name?" she said, posing the pen in her white fingers. "Miss Thorne," Doris replied. And it almost seemed to Doris other lips than her own must have framed that answer when she looked back at that memorable scene in the bitter, tragic after years which followed. She gave her age as seventeen, adding, earnestly, she should like to get a posi- tion as governess, if she could, "That iser v young,"returned the y lady. "A governess of seventeen stands but a slim chance. Of course you have good references?" sho added. "No," replied Doris, in a low voice. "I am an utter stranger to the city." The gentlemanly stranger had entered the agency, standing unobserved behind Doris while this conversation was going on, and now he retreated to the door. "No references!" said the manageress, raising her eyebrows. "Surely you must know some one who can vouch for your respectability. Requiring a reference is customary," she explained, seeing Doris draw back with wounded pride and blush to the roots of hor lovely, golden hair. "I can give none," she answered, simply. "Then I am obliged to return your fee and take your name from our books," returned the lady. And faint and dizzy, Doris walked out of the agency. As she reached the pavement, her eyes blinded by tears, seine one touched her arm, and, glancing up, Doris found the dark -eyed stranger she had met in the notion store bowing low before her, CHAPTER X --PRAYER ANSWERED. Doris drew back with a little startled try. The handsome, dark -eyed stranger she had first encountered in the notion store was standing before her, bowing mast profoundly, as she stepped out of the employment agency, discouraged and sick at heart. "1 beg your pardon, Miss," he said, reeTlectfully lifting his hat. "1 wag standing in the doorway of the agenep a tnninent since, and emit' not help hear- t n inall that passed 'between the uaanaget- r ess and yourself. T am in search of sonars trustworthy young lady to 1111 a position recently and unexpectedly vacated. You are in search of a situation; sappest) you try the ono I have to offer." Poor little Tigris steal dumb and transfixed with joy before him. Surely Goal must have heard the prayer that had just gone up to heaven to direct her to some way by which she -ortld barn her dally bread. It never occurred to her guileless, un- sophisticated heart to mistrust Mtn. Sho implicitly believed God had sent him in answer to her prayer. That this was simply an excuse to speak to her she had never once dreamed. She had not come to that knowledge of the world which teaches that men's lips often speak ona thing and their hearts another. She never suspected there was any- thing unusual in this procedure, or that the handsome stranger would not have asked the same question of any other young girl whom he chanced to meet on the steps of the employment bureau. Doris clasped her tiny white hands supplicatingly before her as she replied, with trembling„ eagerness, straight from the depths of her heart:— "I think God must have sent you to mo, sir, for I was just praying that I might find some position at once. I --I do not know very muoh—but I should try, oh! so hard to please you, sir, if you would only trust me with the position. I am so glad you met me instead of some one else. I did not know which way to turn. I am a stranger in New York." "Any one could readily see that," he answered, with a light laugh, that some- how jarred harshly upon Doris. "What is the position, sir?" she asked, timidly. "As clerk In a retail dry goods store up town," he answered. "Remain just where you are until I summon es cab," he said, turning away. "I won't be long." He had barely stepped to the edge of the pavement ere the manageress of the agency, with a white, anxious face, called to Doris. "My child," she said, leaning over her desk, "would you mind telling me what that gentleman was saying to you? My motive for asking you you shall know hereafter." In a few brief words Doris related the conversation verbatim. "I thought as much," replied the man- ageress, her face dark with anger. "Would to heaven we could find a law to punish such wretches. That man is a well-known roue; a greater rascal does not walk the streets of Now York. Young girls should never speak to strangers," she went on, as she gazed. at the lovely young face. "Many a trap is set for the feet of the innocent and un- wary in a great, wicked city like New York. Yon must leave here at once," she said, thoughtfully, "before he comes back, and remember—I give you my best advice when I say, flee from that maxi es though he were accursed. He is not a man for you to know or trust. I almost ask it as a prayer—for your sake, mind." "I will," replied Doris, sobbing out her grin irode. T .-a,, (To be continued.) 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