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Autlmr of “ THE VICAR‘: It was a sultry day this Wednesdayâ€"the day before my wedding dayâ€"and a. cloud :seemed to hang over the old town, for the air WM oppressive, and they told me that the sky ‘st dark and thundery-looking. After lunch I egenerally used to lie den, for I was still very weak and delicate, and this afternoon as usual): I went up to my ‘own room for the purpose of doing so. This summer-house was thickly over- grown with hops, and was comfortably fur- mished. There was a couch in it, and a. ‘table, and I asked the maid to place me on .the couch. Aunt Sarah went with me fisee that everything was right for me, and to fold a shawl over me, and having done this, she left me to try to sleep, as she was going into the town upon some little errand of her own. Gerard and his m)ther were also going ' out, so I lay still for some time trying to i 'sleep. But it was in vein. The room felt hot and close, and at last, weary of tryin to get any rest, I rang my hand-bell for my maid, and asked her to take me down into the garden at the back of the house, It was a large garden ; larger than the arden at my poor uncle‘s house, and was fiivided into a flower-garden and a. fruit- gsrden. A well divided the two, and in the fruit garden there was a summer house, and I told the maid to leave me there. l 40 me. I sat there thinking for 9. long time, but at last the sultry air made me drowsy. I suppose I must have fallen into a. light sleep, for I remember nothing more until I was startled by hearing the sound of voices close One of these two people was Mrs. Yorke. It was her voice I heard distinctly as I be- came fully awake, and these were the words LI overheardâ€"â€" I sat up and listened, and m a moment or 'two became wide-awake. I ought to explain that there was an iron garden seat placed outside the trellis-work of_the summer-house â€"indeed”abaoluse1y against itâ€"and I be- came convinced as I listened that the two yeople I heard speaking were sitting on this 1‘17 bity you Gerardâ€"from my heart I pity youâ€"but you must see there is no possible 1: éeafi. Mry breath came short, a cold dew broke out on my brow, and I grasped the arm of the couch, and strained mv ears, as the trembling wretch must strain them who waits the verdict on which hangs his life or death. “‘N‘HI’V know that well enough, mother,” answered Gerard‘s voice, “ yet, though I pity the poor girl, I think it is a. confounded shame Uncle Stephen forcing on this man Tiage as he has done. Fancy having a. ‘blind wife to drag _a.f_ter you nll-pne’e fia‘ys !" “ It’s a great trial no doubt,” said Mrs. Yorke, “and if you had not been so com- pletely dependent upon your uncle, I should have advised you not not to make the sacri- fice. But. as it is, you have simply no choice. Truly, we little can foresee the future. I always hoped you would marry well, Gerard, and for this cause, for years and years, I have kept up our position, and (humoured your uncle. And when Alice Denby came here, she seemed exactly what you wanted ! Young, good-looking and richâ€"well might I think my load, proud dreams for you were about to be fulfilled ; and nowâ€"see how it has turned out l” Gerard gave a. harsh laugh. ‘“ Bad enough for me, at any rate," he said. “ A blind wifeâ€"a girl who will pro- bably turn out not_to have u fartbing l” “ There was a. Scotch marriage at least,” answered Gerard, “and that will, I think, and Uncle Stephen thinks, be strong enough to decide the case against Alice. This wretched child of a felonâ€"for of course- Mebel Neal will be sentenced to transport- ationâ€"will, I believe, inherit all Mr. Denby’s moneyâ€"all the money I hoped to make mine when I asked Alice Denby to marry “ And you really think," saicr Mrs. Yorke,“ that the case will go against her when It is tried? You really think there was a marriageâ€"a legal marriageâ€"between Mr. Denby and this wretched womanâ€"Ma- lbel Neal !" “ I truly pity you, Gerard.” “ And what makes it worse," continued Gerard, “is this poor girl's affection and trust. But I mean to be kind to her, and as I am forced to marry her she shall never ess the truth. Poor Alice! She’s a good, ind, tender little girl, mother, and I feel convinced had Uncle Stephen not interfered â€"ha.d in fact she been told the truthâ€"she would never have held me to this engage- ment. But you know what he insisted upon? That Alice should never know of her loss of fortune until after her marriage, and even then he wished it to be kept a secret from her. “Never let her know, Gerard," he said, “ she has lost enough ; all yeur‘life you must never forget that she is our liJ lind. ” “ Yes, he said the very same words to me,” answered Mrs. Yorke’s voice. “ It is amost vexatious business altogether ; with your looks you might have done so differ- ently ! And that old women too, Sarah Warburton, coming into the house to bother ~one l But I shall try to get her sent to the right-about. The only consolation is, that of course now, Uncle Stephen cannot help leaving his whole fortune to you, and he is rich; and perhapsâ€"who knowsâ€"this poor girl may not live long. She is delicate, and with the shock and one thing and another, some day Germ-51 you _ma.y be free." As M'rs. Yorke said this, a groan broke from my lips. My strength had failed me â€"I could bear no moreâ€"and I rose grasp- ing the trellis-work of the summer-house for suppggt. TheHI heard an exclamation, and a. mut- tered curse, and I knew that Gerard Yorke and his mother had seen me. “ My dear Alice,” faltered Mrs. Yorke. “Are you there? Have you been asleep? Let me help you.” And she ‘tried to lay her hand l_1pon my agm. But with-a. cry'and a. shudder I pushed her a_wa.y. “ Do 'not touch me, you wicked woman !” “ do not speak to me, or come near me any more. And Gerardâ€"was it youâ€"was it you, I heard ‘2" DARKNESS. CHAPTER VIII. ‘s Govznnss,” “ Foormm’rs IN THE Sxow," “ QUITE TRUE, [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ‘ DORA RUSSELL, My voice broke with the uuutternble bitterness of the question, and I lifted my arms in the air, groping blindly with my hands. up..." . “ R'hat have you overheard ‘2" asked Ger- ard‘s voice, almost defiantly. “Answer me, Alice ?” And be roughly grasped me by the arm. _ N ‘i‘. Enough I" I answered, “enough ! You are free, Gerard-free from the poor blind girlz-Oh 1 Heaven help me 1 Heaven help "WA-s I uttered these last words, wild and pageignage _s“obs a!most choked me. ‘ AWN“: u L_._L Lu. r” " ’ . “ Hush !" sand Gerard, “ hush, for Heaven sakeâ€"here is my uncleâ€"would you ruin me ?" He hissed the last words in my ear, but I did not heed them. My brain was reeling, and wild despair was in my heart, and I cried out in gay anguish. 7‘7‘ Mr. York; I Mr. Yorke I come to me, come to me!” I cried, and the next moment I heard Mr. Yorke’s firm footsjzep_ approagh. “ What is this 1‘" he asked, “Eternly. “ What extraordinary scene have I inter- rupted 2” Alice, my child, what is the mat- ter with you ‘2" And he took my hand in his. “ Take me away 1” I said, clinging to him. “ I know all nowâ€"know that I am pennllegsâ€"that you forced Gerard to marry ,_,,_ LA 3:- In \Vith snme such mad and anguished words as these I clung to Mr. Yorke. who now put his arm round me, and h‘glq I_1p up_. _ . “ Gert-4.125: Answ'er me,” I Hear}! him say the next minute, “ what have you dge to this 9901' g_ir1 ? What have you told her." It", WW‘" c(’iear Stephen-4” began Yorke. “ I want no explanation from you, Mar- garet,” interrupted Mr. Yorke, yet more sternly. “ Gerard, if you have any man- hood, any truth in you, answer my ques- tion. How is it that [find this poor girl on the eve of her wedding-day in such distress as this ‘3 ’ “ Then Gerard answered. “ Well, uncle," he said, “ my mother and I were talking about Mabel Neal‘s trial, and her claims upom Mr. Denby’s property, and we talked foolishly, perhaps, and Alice, who was in the summer-house unknown to us, overheard, I suppose, part of our conversation, and misunderstood it.” "‘Ti‘hvfiris enough; Gerard,” I heard Mr. Yo_rke s_a.y next, “Your fgcefiells the rest.” I made no answer; no denial, to Gerard's words. I felt only at that moment that the cruel truth which I had overheard had killed me, and to hide myself away to die was the one thought that filled my mind. " 7‘; Take me awgy; take me to A'th Sarah â€"â€"to Biddlestone ; anywhere from here,” I kept murmuring, and Mr. Yorke answer- edâ€" 7‘ Yes, Alice, dear child, I will take you. Lean on me, my dear; lean, and try to Walk.” I did try to walk. I remember straining the utmost powers of my trembling limbs to do so, but after I had struggled on a. few steps I could go no further, and sank down like a dead thing by Mr. Yorke’s side. After this, a long elapse of memory and reason came to me. But through all my fevered dreams, through all the fantastic fancies which darted through my brain, an infinite sense of pain never left me. This seemed to reverberate through everything. and never for an instant did the dark shadow of my grief leave me. The snow was lying on the grey cathedral dome, and the air was chill with the breath of early winter, when I again knew those around me, and gradually began to realise â€"3.5 I la. there in unchanging darknessâ€" all that ad happened to me since you bright spring morning, when I had first walked with Gerard by the shining waters of the Dere. HI was afraid to speak at first. I had re- cognized two familiar voices too, and I was afgaid to aslg quest_ions._ But one da‘y when I put out my hand with a. restless sigh, I felt it gently taken in a “mag, firm: 990.1 9183?.- “Alice,” said Mr. Yorke’s voice, “ do you know me my child ‘3" Then I spoke. “ Yes,” I said, " you are Mr. Yorkeâ€" Stephen Yorke_?” 7 “‘Yes, Stephen Yorke,” be repeated, “ and this is a. bright day to me, Alice when I hegr your v_oice again.” ____ “I Have been 716111 ill,” I answered, “but Iremember now. I remember Ger- ard’s words and his mother’s words. Ger- r," ard ngver loved me, Ml. Yorke . “No,” said Mr. Yorke’s grave voice, “for had he done so he would have loved you more dearly in your blindness and sor- row. Love changes not with the passing troubles of time.’ “ It was strange," I said wistfullv, “for â€"T 19ve_d him §o_dearly. AIaflhe well '3” “ As far as I know 'he is,” answered Mr. Yorke. “ But Aliceâ€"that day, when I learned his baseness from his own lips, he leftdm’y house. He has left Derehnm for 00 .' g “ Oh! Mr. Yorke 'I" “Yes.” continued Mr. Yorke, “and his mother has gone with him. The are not however without means, for I ed taken Gerard into partnershi in in business, and given him a. small s are. %his I pur- chased back again from him, and with this ‘sum of ready money, he has left Dereham. ‘ He came to me pennilessâ€"his father ruined himself by a fatal propensity, and when Gerard and his mother entered this house they were absolutely dependent upon me. Thus he had left Derehnm better off than he came, by several thousands, and my con- science is at rest concerning him. But his Icompsny I could not have endured i” “.And you did this for my sake Y" I said, and I si hed. “ I di it, because it was right," answer- ed Mr. Yorke; and then he changed the conversation, and began talking to Aunt Sarah, and I lay there, in darkness and in silence, thinking --thinking of the past ! They did not tell me everything at first, but by degrees. Gradually, then, I learned that Mrs. Yorke, had quitted Stephen Yorke’s house most unwillingly ; that she had begged and prayed, even on her knees, 71";k_e n‘xgvarvaéyâ€"take me away to die 1" n &c Mrs. tobe allowed to remain. But Mr. Yorke had continued firm. “ You must: go,” he said ,aud she was forc- ed to go, and she and Gerard had a bitter qugrre} befpre they l_eft. ‘ During the mutual recrimination which had been exchanged between them, Gerard had blamed his mother for first inducing him to ask me to be his wife merely for the sake of my supposed fortune, and he had told his uncle the truth of what had passed between his mother and himself outside the sum mer-house, and had expressed great contrition for having caused me such bitter pain. ' It was Aunt Sarah who told me 9.11 this ; and how Mr. Yorke had formally asked her to remain in his house: and how he had made his will, and left everything he pos- sessed to me. “I adopted her,” he told Aunt Sarah,” when she was engaged to Gerard, but I did not; adopt her for Gerard's sake. but for her own. And now when Gerard had acted like u. scoundrel, she has become dearer to me even than before.” So I lay through long days of darkness and stillness. I knew I was at home. I had one faithful friend thst change had not changed, and trouble had drawn closer, and as time went on this thought grew very sweet to my heart. For my supposed fortune from poor Uncle John Denby had vanished away. He had marriedâ€"been married for years beforeâ€"to his housekeeper, Mabel Neal. But he had made her swear a solemn oath that she would never reveal this. This oath Mabel had kept until she found herself in a. prison cell for causing the explosion which had de- prived me of my sight. .vu 1.111 Then she sent forqu. Yorke and told her story. By her account she and Uncle John were married in Scotland, and she had let- ters in which he addressed her, as his “ dear wife.” But as years went on his affection for her seemed to have cooled or changed, and he insisted upon her swearing that she never would declare their marriage. She was an ignorant woman: ignorant and passionate, and felt great, and not un- natural, anger, when she heard I was Uncle John‘s heiress, and she determined to frighten me out of his housd. . n1 She dare not tell of her marriage, she said, for fear that his spirit would return and re- proach her for breaking her oath; but the secret doorway which he had caused to be constructed during his lifetime between his library and the housekeeper’s room, afforded her the means of terrifying me. Then, when she heard I was going to marry Gerard Yorke she grew desperate. She had seen poor Uncle John use gunpow- der in very small quantities, and she knew it exploded; and knew also where he had kept some among his stores. But she had no knowledge of its power, and without this knowledge she had placed the canister which contained it between the secret door of communication that connected her own room and the library. This secret door being thus partly ajar, she had overheard Gerard and myself talk- ing disparagingly of her on the night after Mrs. Yorke’s dinner party ; and in her pas- sion she had flung a piece of lighted paper into the canister containing the gunpowder ! Gerard must have left the house when she was actually seeking and lighting the paper, for she told Mr. Yorke that she be- lieved he was still with me when she com- mitted her murderous act. Acting upon her information Mr. Yorke had investigated the truth of her supposed marriage with Uncle John Denby. Mr. Yorke at first did not believe her assertions, because Uncle John had told him that he wished and intended to make his brother’s only child his heires.s But he believed after his researches that this Scotch mdrriage, which had undoubt- edly passed between them, would hold good in law, and that the one child which had been born to them would prove to be the legal heir of Uhcle J ohh‘s property. In the meanwhile Mabel Neal lay in prison, her trial having been postponed on account of my illness, as my evidence was considered essential to her conviction. All this Mr. Yorke or Aunt Snrah told me. It was Aunt Sarah who told me that Mr. Yorke had made his will, leaving me everything, and Mr. Yorke, I think, told me all about the unhappy woman, Mabel Neal. He told me, also, that she had expressed deep contrition and regret, when she heard that her mad not had destroyed In sight. She had asked even to see me, but t is Mr. Yorke had declined. She also had express- ed great anxiety and affection for her only child. This boy, a little fellow of some five years of age, she had placed out to nurse in one of the colliery villages round Dereham. He had been brought more than once to her cell to see her, and it was said that her meetings and pal-tings with her child were very affecting. She was tovbe tried at the Spring assizes, and after her fate was decided the legality of Uncle John Denby’s marriage was also to be decided. But Mr. Yorke did not deceive me. He told me all the eminent counsel that he had consulted gave it as their opin- ion that the marriage would hold good. Mr. Yorke, however, considered it his duty to dispute it. My interests, he said, de. manded this, and also he went upon the de- clared wish of his late friend ; my uncle havin more that once expressed his inten- tion 0 making a will and leaving his whole fortune to me. ’ The winter pasned away very quietly. Aunt Sarah had made many friends by this time in Dereham, and all Mr. Yorke’s friends were very kind to me. People felt sarrv for me, I think, and Aunt Sarah told me that Gerard’s conduct was universally condemned. And for Aunt Sarah’s sake, and Mr. Yorke's sake, I tried to bear my burdens} patiently. They veere both so good to me that I would indeed be ungrateful if I had selfish- ly added to their anxiety about me. So I tried to smile when I heard their footsteps, and byvand-bye this grew more easy to me. grew reconciled also to my blindness, for Aunt Sarah’s tender hand was ever near me to direet my steps. _ So when Ehe Epring time came, though I could not see the buds breaking into green leaves, nor the sunshine falling on the placid waters of the Dere, I could still feel its warmth, and hear the birds singing in their i°y_~. Then came the dayâ€"a. day to which I had looked forward with much dreadâ€"when I had to appear in court, and give my evi~ deuce at the trial of Mabel Neal. Mr. Yorke lead me in, and I heard amur‘ mur of sympathy all around when Iappear CHAPTER IX. ed. Mabel Neal was defended, but the barrister who had undertaken her case, de- clined t9 9ro§s~qnestion me._ Thus I had, of course, only a few words to say. and told in court exactly what 1 have written down about the explosion. After I had given my evidence Mr. Yorke wished to take me away, but I asked to re- main 3. short time longer. Butl was sorry afterwards that I had done this, for in eloquent and touching language the judge summed up, pointing out with peculiar vigour and pathos the terrible loss, which I, “ a. young and inno. cent girl,” he called me, had sustained by the prisoner’s act. Before he had finished his speech, I whis» ered to Mr. Yorke to lead me out of court. felt indeed that I could no longer endure the strain upon my nerves; and as Mr. Yorke led me away again a. murmur of sym- pathy was heard around. Mr. Yorke returned to the Court after having taken me home, and I did not know the result of the trial until the evening. Then I heard it. Mabel Neal was declared guilty, and had been sentenced to ten years’ penal aergitude. - .‘ - ,, ,L,.I__A 1.- r “ But I have something very strange to tell you about this woman," said Mr. Yorke. “ After her sentence, and after her removal from the court, she sent a very pressing message by one of the officials that she wished to see me. I accordingly proceeded to her cell, and found her in bitterâ€"almost uucmtrollahleâ€"grief. ‘ My boy! my boy 1' she kept repeating, walking up and down the cell like a. caged lioness. “ Who will look after my poor boy?‘ " “ I was touched with her grief," continued Mr. Yorke, and promised that no wrong at least should be done to her child, if I could help it. Then, with sudden passion, she fell down on her knees before me. ‘ Sir,’ she said, ‘ sir, I believe you are a good and merciful man, and as you hope for mercy will you promise me to look after my 'Joy after they have taken me away '2 And one thing more,’ she continued, ‘ let me look on the face again of her whom I have so deeply injured, and beg on my knees for a word of pardon from Miss Alice Denby’s lips?’ “ Alice,” went on Mr. Yorke, “will you be angry when I tell you that I did promise that you should see herâ€"and something more. Isaid I knew your heart, and that I felt sure that youâ€"because she had wronged you so cruellyâ€"would see after her child 1 Alice, forgive me if I have done wrong,” and Mr. Yorke took my hand, “ but you are one of those whom I believe will try to obey the Divine command and ‘ feed your enemy,’ and this unhappy woman is hungering with anxiety for the future of her child." “ Rot to-night,” answered Mr. Yorke, geqtlx. ‘f_We Wil_l go to:morro‘w." “ I will go," Isaid. “ When shall I goâ€"â€" to-pight ?’f U Anii so the next Ewming, when the sun was shining outside, and the birds twittering, Mr. Yorke tggk rne to th_e_g§.ol. A chill, cold place ! I felt myself shiver as I entered it, and I clung closer to Mr. Yorke’s arm. “ Are you afraid ?” he said. “ No,” I answered, “ not afraid, but the misery beneath the walls seems to cast a. chill over my heart.” Then we {were ushered into Mabel Neal's cell, and for a moment there was silence after We had entered it. “ I have brought Miss Denby. you see, Mabel," an instantlater, said Mr. Yorke’s grave sweet voice; and upon this with a cry and sob, the woman fell down on her knees before me, and grasped both my hands. “Forgive me I” she sobbed out. “I have blinded you, I have spoilt your life, but have: Energy I" “I forgive you, freely,” I answered. “If it were in my power I would make you free to-day. As it is not, and as I am told you wish me to do so, I will look after your child to the very best of my power, when you are away.” 1 .- .-. u ‘ u.- a In passionEte words of gratitude and self- reproach she listened to me. She seemed, indeed, almost. overwhelmed with grief and shame. “Oh, Miss,” she said, “I must have been mad, I think, when 1 lifted my hand to hurt you ! But I was mad ; driven mad by one who ought to have loved me well 1 For Miss your uncle had tired of me long before he died, and he wished to hide me and my babe away for ever. But the lad is his law- ful child, for we were married, though he was ashamed to own it, either in his life- time, or after he wes_dea.d l”_ ngZaiiz, I promised to take care of the child; of the little cousin, whom I had found so_ strangely. A “ Andâ€"andâ€"” wept the poor mother, “ don’t bring him up to hate me. \Vhen I am far away tell him of his poor, poor mother, who sinned so badly for his sakeâ€" for Miss, I thought if I could have frighten- ed you away from the old house, that I might have taken my little lad to live with me there. I never meant to do you the harm l didâ€"never, never.” “HIV have forgivei: you,” I said again, and then I asked her where her child was living at_the presept timg‘._ .n n.-n‘ It was at & colliery villa. e called Red- clifi‘e, situated about a mile rom Dereham, and here she had placed her little boy with one of the collier’s wives. I promised to go to see him on the following day, and this evoked a. fresh burst of tears and anguish from the unhappy prisoner. “ Ob ? Mr. Yorke,” she said, “ Please ask them to let me see my little lad again before I go 1 I am told they will take ma away the day after to-mon-ow 2 Oh I Miss, for mercy’s sake, ask them to let me see my boy again {” 1v 1 us, -v, ..°.v,, Mr. Yorke at once promised to do this and then we took leave of her ; but I paus- ed a moment behind to whisper aword of comfort in her ear. “ I will see your child to-morrow morn- ing,” I said, “ and in the afternoon I will come to see you again, and if I am allowed to do so, I shall bring the boy with me.” " §he cl'aéped my ha‘lllds, an'd kissed them passionately, while her hot tears rained dowg Aupon thin}. I. 7 “ Sher would have been a good woman I think,” said Mr. Yorke thoughtfully, as we left the prison walls, “ if she had been bet- ter treated and better taught. Your poor uncle, Alice, indirectly caused this woman’s crime.” The next morning was afine one, and upon my expressing a. wish to do so, Mr. Yorke agreed that we should walk by the river-side an the way to Redclifi‘e. This is a lovely wank, and in the old, old days, sometimes Gerard and myself had gone there, and I thought of this as I side‘ But I could think of these days calmly now. I had lost Gerard, who had never truly loved me, for true love would not have changed as his had done, and I had now a. faithful friend. If I can d only see again-â€" and I sighed when I icfimbered that this could never be. walked on almost silently by Mr. Yorke’s “ Why do you sigmlucez" asked Mr. Yorke‘s grave gentle voice. I did not answer and my head fell low. “ Do you still regret, Gerard ?" the next moment said Mr. Yorke. “ No," I answered, but I felt that my voice faltered, “ Iâ€"lâ€"was thinking of my sight.” 0“ My dear,” said Mr. Yorke, softly, “ let me see for you ? Have you not Aunt Sarah‘s eygs an§ minenggys at you? service?” u 1- .- “I smiled. “Telf me: then,” I satid, “ about the river. Is the sunlight dancmg upggx ic,er7Yor1§e Z" A ‘Then he described the scene around us to me, and as he talked I forgot that I was bland. I forgot the dark days when Hope had turned her bright face from me, and when Despair had cast her dark wing over my soul. I was content now, I thought, and I listened well pleased at Mr. Yorke’s kigd and graphic words. I was 113?. fired when we reached Red- clifl'e, and_ wish_ed the_w§y had” begq l-gnger. “ W'hat a change is Here !" said Yoer. ” Nowl Alice, we have left the lovely coun- try behind us and have entered a. dirty, dis- orderly collierx vil!a.ge !”_ I cofild feel {he chgnge in the atmosphere at once. I could smell the coal dust, and therqggn draiqs. “ What a. place for a. woman to choose to rear 8 child in I” said Mr. Yorke, as he directed me to pick my steps along the rough and uneven way. Then we came to Ehe row of small uni- form houses where the miners lived. Here Mr. Yorke made inquiries for Mabel Neal's child. “ Ay," answered the woman he asked, “ that’s her that was tried at the Courts the 'tother day. and got ten years for blowing up her master’s house. Her bairn lives at Margeret Greysâ€"yon’s the house.” Picking our steps through the mud, we reached the house she indicated. The door was open, Mr. Yorke said, and one or two women were standing about it. “ Does a. childâ€"the child of Mabel Neal live here ?” said Mr. Yorke. “ Poor bairn 1 poor bairn !" answered the woman he had addressed, shaking her head. “ Does it live here ?” repeated Mr. Yorke. n “ It’s just drawing its last gasps, said the woman. “ It took the croup at six this mom_ing_â€"he’ll _tell yoq bet‘tgr thap I 9gn_.”_ “ Is the gentleman inquiring after Mabel Neal’s child '2" then said a. masculine voice (the doctor’s). “ Ah, Mr. Yorke,” he added. “ I saw you in court the other day. Thls is a. sad case, isn’t it? Mabel Neal’s child is dying.” “Is tbére'no hope I" I asked, breath- lessly. “ 0h ! poor child, surely there is 501m: hqpe ‘2" “ I fear not,” answered the doctor. “ But allow me to lead you in ? Poor little fellow ! he‘s a. beautiful child I” A golden-head, lovely boy, Mr. ' Yorke told me afterwards, was lying on a. woman’s knee as we entered the cottage, gasping his few last breaths away. Each gasp was a. sob, and guided by that painful breathing, and by the doctor's hand, I approached the child. Suddenly, as I did so, it started up. “ Mammy ! mammy l" it cried, and held out its little arms. I took it in mine, and laid its head upon my lglceast. “Mammy, mummy,” it repeated, “I can't breatheâ€"lift me upâ€"mammy I” And with this last word hanging on its lips it shivered and died. Laura once had an affluent beau, Who celled twice a fortnight or so. Now she sits, Sunday eve, All lonely to grieve, 0b, where is her recreant beau, And why did he leave Laura so? \Vhy, he saw that Laura was a languish- ing, delicate girl, subject to sick headaches, sensitive nerves and uncertain tempers ; and knowing what a. life-long trouble is a fret- ful, sickly wife, he transferred his atten- tions to her cheerful, healthy cousin, Ellen. The secret is that Laura’s health and strength are sapped by chronic weakness, peculiar to her sex, which Ellen averts and avoids by the use of Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescription. This is the only remedy, for woman’s peculiar weaknesses and ailments, sold by druggists, under a. positive guaran- tee from the manufaeturers, that it will give satisfaction in every case or money will be refunded. See guarantee on bottle wrapper. I Trust thyself ; every heart vibrates to that Iron string. Your goodness must have some edge to “2â€"- else it is none. A Flat Contradiction. Some one has told you that your catarrh is incurable. It is not so. Dr. Sa e’s Cato. rrh Remedy will cure it. It is p easant to use and it always does its work thoroughly. We have yet to hear of a case in which it did not accomplish a cure when faithfully used. Catarrh is a disease which it is dangerous to neglect. A certain remedy is at your command. Avail yourself of it be- fore the :omplaint assumes a more serious form. All druggists. Nothing is at Ia. at sacred but the integrity of your own mind. People who are subject to bad breath, foul ceased tongue, or any disorder of the Stomach, can M: 01104; be relieved by using Dr. Carson's Stomach Blttere. the old and tried remedy. Ask your Drug Let a. man know his things under his feet. Catarrh, Catarrhal Deamess and Hay Fever. Suflerers'nre not generally aware that these diseases are contagious, or that they are due to the presence of living parasites In the lining membrane of the nose and eustachian tubes. Microscopic research, however has Yroved this to be “act, end the resuminhati 31ml) 9 remedy has been formulated whereby oaterrh, oatarrhei dealneee and hay fever are cured in Iron one to three simple a pllcatione made at home. A pamphlet explaining is new treatment is sent tree on recei t of stamp b A. H. Dixon 5; Bo Street est Toronto. eneda. 11' waxing Why Laura Lost Her Beau. That. cured him right quick. An easier physio You never will find Then Pierce's smlll “ Pellets," The Purgative kind. Small but precious. 25 cents per vial. He ate green cucumbers; They made him quite sick; But he took a few “ Pellets" (To BE CONTINUED.) worth, and keep