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Floris Carlisle! He clutched the seat with both hands, and looked down at her as she bent forward, her face hidden in her hands, her ahght figure shaken by her grief; looked down at her with an expresâ€" sion in his face which, dreadful as it was, but poorly reflected the re- morse within him. Retribution! What retribution could be more dire~more complete than this? That the very woman who had, as it; were, plucked him from the depths of degradation, and inspired him with a, desire for a higher life, should prove to be the girl whom he had, with cold-blooded heartâ€" lessness, tricked and depgived‘! It seenxed so direct a blow from a]! indignant Providence that he stood stunned and overwhelmed. What should he say to her? Great and merciful Heaven lâ€"What could he say? In an instant a wild temptation assailed him. Why should he tell her who he was, and the crime he had committed? Why not keep his secret forever, or at any rate until he had married her and made her his own? He might tell her then, perhaps. ‘ fie put the terrible temptation away from him with a shudder. Vile as he had been, he was not vile enough for_ that. His head‘drooped; a. wistful, ach- ing; longing came over him to tell her all ; to throw himself at her feet and say, "It is I, who love you better than life itself, who have done this!” but he could not find strength for it. Hey waited; silent, motionlessâ€" his, brain whirling, his heart aching witn a dull, gnawing despair». Floris strfigéled wit'h hefoutburst oi grief. “Forgive me!” she said; “1â€"1 have been very selfish; But it will all come back to me so plainly! It seems only yesterday that it all happened, instead of months ago! And now, now that I have told you all, you see, do you not, that it is impossible I could ever be your wife; do you not?” Siowly she raised her head, and stretched out her hand toward him, but he did notâ€"could notâ€"take it. “Ah, yes,” she said, “it is bet ter that it should be so, that you should understand whyâ€"why it can- not be as you would wish it. But 1 am very grateful; you have been very kind and considerate, and I am sorry that I could not say yes. As to trust, yes, I would have trusted you. I do not think you will go back to the evil life you have lived. If-if,” she went on, looking up at him and starting slightly at the sight of the pallor and liagga-rdness which had settled on his face~â€"”if you have freely for- given me for inflicting so much pain on you, will you promise me that ~that you will keep the resolution that you have made?” He was silent. She sighed. “If you would,” she pleaded meekly, “it would be so :ne consolaâ€" tion for me in my solitude to feel that I had been the means of ef- fecting some good in my poor, mis- erable life! Will you not promise to keep upon. the path which you have struck out for yourself ’1” He, t-rieci to speak, but the words died away on his dry‘liips.” She put out her hand with a humble, deprecating glance at him, and slowly ‘he took her hand and held‘it in his own, hot and burning and feverish. ' That was all. He could not- trust himself to utter another word. “I promise,” he said, hoarsely. “I promise! You shall see that I can remember, and keep my prom- ise.” With unsteady steps and with the face of a. man who has suddenly been told that he is condemned to death, he made his way to his ho- tel. It was the Hotel Italia, the best hotel in the place, and he held the best rooms in it. He put her hand down gently, looked into her eyes with all the agony of despair burning in his, and turned and left her. For when he had told Floris that he was poor, he had omitted to tell her that it was his intention to give up the money he had to some char- Fighting Life’s Battle; CHAPTER XXVIII. ;, LADY BLANCIIE’S BETTER PUNISHMENT He crossed the street and enter- ing the hall, went up to the land- lord, whose voice he heard raised in loud conversation with his wife. 'Oscar Raymond leaned against the window of the liftle office, and waited till the man was disengaged. Now and then fragments of the conversation reached him. It: seemed that they were deploring their lack of accommodation. An English milord was about to arrive with his friends and suite, and the Hotel Italia. was too full to afford them the rooms they requir- ed. “Barti! It is always so l” ejacuâ€" lated the little landlord, excitedly. “When one is busy then come per- sons of importance, and one has to send them to the atticsâ€"at other times, when one is empty, then no one comes of any kind; it is always WO'scar Raymond stepped up to him. so!” “You can have my rooms,” he said. “I leave Florence tooâ€"night.” “But signorâ€"â€"â€"” “You can have them in half an hour,” went on Oscar Raymond. “Send my luggage to the railway station.” The landlord was profuse in his regrets at losing so good a custoâ€" mer as Signor Raymond, and gratiâ€" tude for his consideration. “You see, this is a great English milordâ€"oh, very greatl and natur- ally the Hotel Italia would like to give him of its best!” ' The landlord tried to remember the name, but after striking his forehead melodramatically several times, gave it up as a bad job, and Oscar Raymond ascended to his rooms and listlessly packed his things. When he had finished, he descended and gave the keys of his apartments to the landlord. v “Who is he 1” asked Oscar Rayâ€" mond, indifferently: “They are at your disposal now,” he said. Having paid his bills he went to the station, and aimlessly took a ticket for Paris. In Paris he would be able to think of his ultimate desâ€" tination. Here, in Florence, he could think of nothing save the pale, lovely face of the girl he had left weeping in the square! the girl whose happiness he would give his heart’s blood to secure, the girl whose felicity he had ruined and wrecked I More utterly wretched than he had thought it possible for him ever to be, he paced up and down the station. The usual bustle and stir of an arriving train passed him by un- noticed, the people started now and then at the tall, distinguished man with the wan, haggard face, but he was unconscious of their glances. All his thoughts were concentrated on Floris Carlisle. The expected train came in, and he was turning in his restless proâ€" menade to get out'of the way of the bustle, when he saw the dopr of a first-class compartment open and a. gentleman alight. It was Lord Norman I In a moment, at sight of him, Os- car Raymond stood motionless, then with an effort he recovered his pres- ence of mind and slipped behind a pillar. _ Lord Norman held out his hand to some bne in the carriage, and the some one proved to be Lady Blanche. Lord Seymour followed, and the two valets and Lady Blanche’s maid came up to them from a. secondâ€" class carriage. Oscar Raymond took in all the scene meant in a moment. They were married! He leaned against the pillar; his arms folded‘ across his chest, his head drooping. They aré niarried! The plot he had conceived had been successful! Lady Blanche had triumphed, and Floris Carlisle was left in the blan'kness of solitude and desertion. An awful rage and despair sprang full-born into his breast. Lady Blanche looked more beau~ tiful than ever as she stood by Lord Norman’s side. The old se- rene, placid loveliness had return~ ed to her fair face, and shone in her velvety eyes. V), “I have fritimphed! I have won : seemed to proclaim itself in her very gait and bearing. And as he looked there rose be- fore his eyes the vision of Floris, pale and sad and despairing, rob- bed by the vilest acts of her lover, and her young life condemned to melancholy and hopeless solitude. Mad rage devoured him. With clinched hands he strode forward as if to accost her, then he remem- bered what he was and shrank back. But he would not leave Florence now ! - He waited until the party had started for the hOtel, in the grand- est carriage available, then mood- ilv followed them. When he reached the hotel, the confusion attendent upon the arriv- al of such important guests reigned rampant. In the stir and hustle and con- fusion of waiters and chambermaids â€"â€"flying apparently with no definite purpose, hither and thither â€" his return was unnoticed. He waited in the shadows of the hall for a little while, with no setâ€" tled intention in his mind, only a dim, vague rage of impatience then a thought struck him. He went to the office and opened the visitor’s book. Never, for a moment did he doubt that they were married, but he thought he would ascertain. With trembling hand he turned to the page for the day and bent over it in the dim light. Then with a 10W cfy of relief he shut the book and wiped from his brow the sweat that had gathered there. The name she had written was not Blanche Norman, but Blanche Seymour ! The moon rose over the city and poured its light on to the front of the Hotel Italia. He was looking older by some years than when we saw him last, and there was a scar on his foreâ€" head which Lord Harry’s stag had left as a. slight reminder. In a. balcony on the first floor Lord Norman was seated in a low chair. A cigar that had gone out was between his fingers, and his thoughts seemed to have wanderâ€" ed far away. There was, *too, a sad moodiness in the dark. eyes' that robbed his face of its youthfulness, and was not good to see. It was the look of a man who had found life considerably less worth living forâ€"a. look of doubt and dis- trust of his fellows, which Rousseau might have worn in his worst epoch. He Fat very still, and with the grave, queer look in- his eyes, and doubtless his mind was wandering to some of those moonlight nights or: which, with Floris by his side, he had felt assured that the world was the best of all possible worlds, and that life was well worth living. Absorbed in this moody contem~ plation, he did not hear a, light step on the window sill behind him; and Lady Blanche stepped out and laid her hand on his shoulder be- fore he knew that‘. she was near. “Poor papa has gone to bed,” she went on, softly, her hand rest- ing on his shoulder, so that her White, delicate fingers could touch his hair. “He is tired out. What do you think he said toAnight, Bruce ’I” and she blushed and smiled. ‘ “How beautiful it is, Bruce,” she said, softly, looking out on the city that lay in the moonlight beâ€" neath them like a. picture of Cana- letti’s. “I am awfully fond of Florence. And one sees it at its best toâ€"nighb.” He nodded, but he did not speak. Never very talkative, he had be- come remarkably silent and short of speech since the news of Floris’ “falseness” had been broken to him. “He said that we might have waited until we were married be- fore we made this trip, and that it was confoundedly like a honey- moon. Poor papa. It was a. little too bad to drag him across the channel; but it will do him good, and I am sure you are ever so much better, aren’t you, Bruce?” “Don’t know,” came listlessly from his lips. “Considering that there hasn’t been the slightest thing the matter with me for months past, I may say that I am,” he answered languid- 1y. “I’ve noticed, Blanche, that you have got a fixed idea in your head that this trip was made for my especial benefit. It is very flat- tering to me,_bu_t myj.â€"” “Yes, yes, I know,” she said, with a little laugh, but with a sud- den restless shimmer in her eyes that was strangely at variance with her serene and reposeful voice. “But all the time it was I who was so anxious to get out of_ England. at. They were not married yet! quite truefBruce, I had grown CHAPTER XXIX. sick of England; Scotland, especi- ally.” “Scotland isn’t England,” he murmured. . “I longed to get away, and I should have been ill if I hadn’t crossed the channel. Andâ€"and it was so good of you to consent to our marriage taking place at Parisw” He looked at his cigar, and see- ing that it was out, flung it away and felt for his cigar case. “I have a letter to write now, Bruce,” she said, presently. “It is but a-short one. Wait here and I will join you when I have finish- ed.” Farmers, do you keep records? Itl is doubtful if there is anyone thingl that will add more to the interest of 3 farm labor, or make its usefulness more apparent in shorter time than one simple methOd of figuring. Supposing that mixed farming is followed, an answer is desired to the query, which pays best, sheep, poultry, fruit, cows, steers or grain? It may be found after a year’s record that the farm is best adapted for dairying. Then will naturally follow the investigation, which cow pays best? This phase of the question has not yet appeal- ed to all owners of dairy herds, but is in truth at the very founda- tion of profitable dairying. Every farmer is interested in cutting out all unprofitable features of his busi- ness, he wants to produce plenty of good milk at the least cost, and to this end dairy records are indispen- sable. Why? Simply because they enable the watchful owner to deâ€" tect those cows that give the most milk and fat in proportion to the feed consumed. Which cows will respond to a little extra grain? Which cow can I least afford to sell? Are any in my herd not pay- ing? Will it pay me to get a good pure bred site? The dairyman needs to know such points definiteâ€" ly hence he must keep records of feed and milk. Forms are supplied free on application to the Dairy Commissioner, Ottawa, Ont. Hens will lay during all seasons of the year providing they are well fed. They should receive sufficient food to sustain life and 'renew the tissues, keep the body warm and produce eggs. If there is not suffi- cient for all this the egg yield will be robbed to supply the deficiencies for the other demands. As soon as the hens on the range cease to find a sufficient supply of bugs and worms to satisfy the demand for meat they must be fed meat or the yield of eggs will cease. ‘Hens be- gin to lay quickly in spring as soon as vegetation begins to sprout and bugs and Worms are plentiful; and they cease just as quickly when this necessity is taken from them. A quick response to the demands of nature should be given to supply the hen when the frosts of fall be- gin to deprive her of nature’s food- supply. PBfiltry that is to be sold to mar- ket, whetheroldplj yogng, 53119qu be held over until they have finish- ed the molt and have been fed into proper condition for market. It never pays to sell hens in molt un- less they arefat and plump. There is always a loss in selling young stock in thin flesh or poor condi- tion. Thin poultry will average 3 to 3% pounds in weight. This same poultry properly fed into market condition will weigh 4% to 4% pounds each. All the addition above the original will be table meat, and the carcass is advanced one-third in weight without adding anything to the waste material Poultry thin in flesh at 90 a pound is less profitable to the purchaser than the same poultry would be if fattened to table weight and pur- chased at 140. per pound. A good quality brings a profitable market price. Dairy farmers in Canada should think seriously of what might easâ€" ily be accomplished by a very litâ€" tle extra effort? Very few would pass by the opportunity of picking up five or six five dollar bills. A huge sum of money is waiting for owners of dairy cows. Not only is pi‘esent cash value asâ€" sured for the application of a little And she left him. (To be continued.) A COW’S ACCOUNT. WINTER FEEDING. COWS AND CASH. brain power, but a solid and per-«j manent improvement of dairy con- ditions, a distinct raising of the) whole status of dairy farming, a.‘ measurable gain in contentment and selfâ€"respect, a notable and en-} viable addition to our reputation? among the nations of the world as‘ high class dairymen would quickly, result. Unfortunately we have to: go on record even in these days oil widespread and easily-availablo4i dairy knowledge as owning lots of? cows that produce only 2,000 or 2,3, 500 pounds milk during their bestf Six or seven months. Such cows are no credit to their owners, and such owners scarcely de credit to tho dignified title of dairymen. Ca- nadians should jealously guard‘ against such a condition 'of affairs- being possible. It is easy to detect: those poor cows by recordingfi weights of milk, and it is injurious‘ to any district to retain such wretâ€"S ched specimens, mongrels not real' dairy cows. The queen of the dairy? the select cow will do infinitely bet- ter if handled right by men who put dairy intelligence into daily op- eration. To return to that pile of cash; if only half the cows in On-, ta-rio were made to yield just ten“ dollars more worth of milk, it means an extra five millions of dollars within easy reach. An Old Toper Explained to a Sym‘ pathetic Audience. ' Father Mathew, theyIrish advok cate of temperance, whose name, said Dr. William Ellery Chi-inning, deseryed “to be placed in the cal- endar not far below that of the apostles,” often had to listen to- personal experiences which Hid not sound so tragic as the penitent meant them to be. One evening, says the Rev. Edward Gilliat, in “Heroes of Modern Crusades,” an; old toper had been explaining to a; sympathetic audience how he had‘ been given to long sprees: “Well,” said he, “of course I; kind 0’ thought I couldn’t go onf widout bringing me and the poor, wife and childer to sup sorrow.‘ “I first drank me own clothes in. to pawn; then I drank me wife’s» cloak off her back; then I drank her. flannel petticoat and her goundg then I drank the cups and saucers:I out of the cupboard; then I drank? the pot and the kettle off the fire at then I drank the bedclothes from? the bed, and the bed from under; meself and me wife. “Well, what brought me to ms senses at last was the cold flute and the poor childher crying,‘ ‘Daddy, we’re so hungry P “I remember the last night of me- bla’guarding there wasn’t a. bit to‘ cat or a sup to taste for the poor‘ little things; and the big boy, he said, ‘Poor mudder didn’t eat a hit all day; she gave all she had to Katty and Billy.’ “ ‘Daddy, I can’t go to sleep, I’m so cowld,’ says the littlest boy.‘ “‘God forgive your unnatural father!’ said I, ‘and hould yer whisht,’ said I, ‘and I’ll make ye comfortable ;’ and with that, saving your presence, ladies, I takes me broochesâ€"Wis no laughing matter,; I tell yewand I goes Over to the; craychers, and I sticks'one of thej childher into one of the legs, and; another of the childher into the{ other leg, and I buttons the waist-4 band round their necks; and If tould ’em for their life not to: sneeze. ‘ “‘Well, get up, and bad scran to ye!’ says I. “ ‘I can’t,’ says the young shav- er. “But be cockrow in the morning Billy, who was a. mighty airly bird, cries out: “ ’Daddy; daddy 1’ “ ‘What’s the matter?’ says I. “ ‘I want to get up, daddy’l’ says “ ‘Why can’t; ye, ye cantankerous cur 2’ says I. ‘ “ ‘Me and Tommy’s in the breechâ€" es,’ says he, sadly. ' “ ‘ :61: out of it,’ says I. ” ‘Daddy, don’t ye remember! W e’re buttoned up,’ says the little chap, ’65 smart as ye please. “So up I got and unbuttoned the oraychers, and I says to meself, ’twas a burning shame that the chil- dher of a Christian man should be buttoned up yonder instead 0’ 1y- ing in a dacint bed. “So I slips the breeches on me shanks,” concluded the penitent, “and off I goes to your riverenco and takes the pledge; and ’twas the crown piece that your riverâ€" ence, God ,bless ye! slipped into the heel 0’ me fist that set me up again in the world!” If you can say anything good ofg a man say it now. To-morrow may‘ be too lat-e. HOW IIE REFORHED.