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“Dear cousin, how shall I thank you?” "By not thanking me at all. Rosalie." He stares out of the window. as if he had never seen lighted streets before, while I look at his grave profile and won- der if he thinks me a miserable spoil- sport. I have spoiled his pleasant; even< ing, at all events. I am sure he hates the idea. of going to this low fourth or fifth rgtte theatre at the other side of this 01 y. "“I supoose I shall. from the descriptio yqq havegiven meg an‘d herrrphprtfogrnuh‘ "Yesâ€"dyed it. I suppose. It will alter her appearance a. good deal.” "So I should suppose." The silence lasts till we reach Carle- ton Street. ‘V‘T'l‘ake cére of yourself in those Out. Iandish places. Ronald,” I say, with ra- they tardy concern, as he wishes me good- “D5. not be uneasy,” he laughs care- lessly. “I have come to too many cross 1‘0?de not to be able to take care of my- se “And when will you let me know?" “Early to-morrow. You are going home to-morrow?” V _ ‘ A 7 v‘r‘bo you think Ronald?” ."nv a“-.. _,, V“, "I should recognize her among a thou- sand,” I say, sighing. But Ronald is immovable, and I do not press the point. 7 "You say she has changed the color of ’Tyéu'say she her hair?” higfiht‘ "“Efififfilfist depend upon what yéu find out“ to-night.” “TYou nifisifi go home, Resalie. I shall go down with you to Woodhay to-mor- row.” v‘J'Very well. But you must first bring Gerard Baxter 119111 to me.}’_’ He winces a little. tun-Ling his head away. I look up at. him as he stands in the dim light of the gas jet, buttoned up in his long light-colored coat, his hat in his hand. There is something very noble about this grave cousin of mine, something calm and cool and steadfast, which recommends itself to my careless fancy, engrossed as it is by other things. “Good-night,” he says coldly. I . “Good-night," I echo, vaguely; and he xs_gone. I hope I have not sent him into any danger. I hope he will not get into any row in that wretched theatre to-night. Half the night I lie awake. thinking of him and of Gerard Baxter. and of what the morrow may bring forth, my heart throbbing and my head in a whirl of su- spense and dread of I know not what. A thousand nameless terrors and conjec- tures flit- through my brain. What if Lily Baxter should escape us at this last mo- ment! What if that child has outwitted mewput us on a wrong scent altogether? But over and above all is the glad tri- umphant consciousness, the hope that will not be put down, that to-morrow, through my‘ instrumentatlity. Gerard "And she alIOWed him to lie in prison all this “time, kuowingâ€"” “She seemed to think it rather a good joke." Donald says. shrugging his shoul- ders. “I tsi‘ you she has scarcely any notion oi‘ right or wrong-«he looks a mere child, end a more ignorant unedu~ Gated, utwriy thoughtless child there could scarcely be. 1 uPV'cI‘ saw such hardihood in my lifeutlie idea of the body that, was found ham-lg been identified as her body seems to have been the groatt‘st source of amusement :0 he"â€"she could not, speak of it without laughing.” “Did her mother know?" “She knows no 'ng about her mother. I believe she di kes the woman excee- sivelyâ€"oztiid one can scarcely wonder at it.’ “She is very pretfy. is she not?" I ask, hesiénlingW. “She has a most beautiful face,” "Ynu admire her?" "‘No avian can look at her without ad~ )cr.” "W011, Ronald?" I have started up to meet him. the ter- rible suspense of the night and morning showing itself in my white face and shak- ing limbs. “I have found her, Rosalie." I cover my eyes with mydiands in a. passion of tnankiulneus. "And Gerard Baxter?” “This evening Gerard Baxter will be at liberty.” “He does not know it yet?" “No"â€"-cux‘t1y. I stand by the table, leaning my hand upon it, Ronald Scott opposite to me, watching my face with curious intent- ness. “Did you recognize her at once?" "No, not at once. But I saw her after- wardâ€"homing out of the theatre; and then I recognized her." "Did you speak to her then?” "Yes." "Was she frightened?" “Not in the very least." “But did she intend to let him die, Ronald?" “No. At. least. she says so now.” "And you believe her?” “She is nothing but a. foolish, giddy child. I am only surprised that she was clever enough to baffle us all as she did. She intended to punish him, she said. He had suspected her of horrid things. and she meant to be even with him. She had never meant to let the trial come on»â€" 30 she said. She. pretended to know no- thing about her husband at firstâ€"not, even that he had been suspected of making away with her; but I soon let her see that she could not make a fool of me." fiérxitreyimay v be free Ruby Rose Cold Cream NA-DRU-CO If " A SEVERE TRIAL; A toilct delight, with the exquisite fragrance of fresh roses. Makes chapped hands smooth and so“ and keeps :h-xn so. Preserves the most dcllsazc 13x59: against exposure to .. 5:: as: weather. Try it- you’lz :e 1:21;! a cfi?’ ’t. Your Druggist will confirm our statement that they do not contain gnyflllng that can harm heart or nervous system. 25c. a box. NA'IFO?V‘£'.L DRUG A . -.é£MlCAL CO. Oi CANA'JA. LSMETED. 184 1x125: sigh. Ronald Scott does CHAPTER XII.â€"(Oont’d) NATIONAL DRUG lND CHIMIC‘L CO. OF CANADA. LIMITED. 124- OR, THE MEMORY OF A BOY WITH DARK EYES. snibmu to n headache is to waste energy, time and comfort. To stop It «once simply take NA-DRU-CO Headache Waters CHAPTER XIII‘ you will recognize a not hear her. u. “What will you do about Gerard Bax- ter?" I inquire,‘ aftqr a ‘p‘ause. “I am going for the girl now, to take her before the authorities.” “If she should have run away, Ronald?" “My dear Rosalie, you must think me a very simple person! I took care to put the house where she lodges under the surveillance of the police. But I do not think she has any intention of running away." ""5036 she wonder how you discovered her?” “She did not ask me any questions. and I volunteered no information; I think. myself, she was rather surprised that we had not found her before.” “Can she be punished in any way?" “I think not. She is so young, you know: and she will say she knew nothing abogt her husband's detention in pri- son. ’ “Ronald,” I ask. in the same hesitating way in which I had asked another ques- tion, “do you think she cares at all {or him?” “I am sure she does.” I do not know whether the answer pleas- es me or displeases me; but I put my hand _po_my _h¢art: 7"(.u‘tyt‘Ji‘rlTai‘cfaii'x‘ilrhurriedly. “Don‘t lose any more'premous time: and, when Ger- ard israt liberty: sqnd hm} heye to me‘.” W‘fnfivadlchl'is NIHaEe-délaH'VKeilsr; ibut he merely saysâ€"_ “And you will allow me to take you down to Woodhay this evening, Rosalie?" “When I have seen him." He goes away then; anl. for the next hour and a half, I walk up and down the room in uncontrollable excitement. I cannot sit stillievery sound startles me. every passing cab draWS me to the window. every voice down-stairs causes my heart to heat so tumultunusly that I wonder how it can bear the strain. Twenty times I look at my watchâ€"how slow the minutes draglâ€"it is not one o‘clock yet: and yet I feel that I have endured an eternity of suspense since Ronald Scott left the house at eleven. The cool. autumnal sunshine slants into the room. creeps across the colorless car- pet, lies on the familiar pictures, on the faded table-cloth, on the silver clasps of my fur cloak as it hangs over the hack of a chair, on the dead dry grasses in the vases on the mantel niece. How weary I am of them all. how I hate the sight of them. and of my own ghastly face in the glass! I see it every time I turn in my restless passing to and fro‘a white face, with dark shadows under the dis- tended eyes, with contracted brows. with pale trembling lips that look as if they could never smile again. Can this bag gard woman really be Allie Scottâ€"the girl who used to laugh. sitting over the fire with Olive Deane, who used to sing “In my Chateau of Pompernik" and “Nancy Lee" in ‘such a gay rollicking voice. who used to lounge in that ham- mock-chair, eating almonds and raisins and dreaming dreams of a boy upstairs painting away in a shabby velveteen coat, who had thought it such a terrible thing to have been found out in the unsolicited gift of a bunch of violets? I can scarcely believe in my own identity when I look at that ghostly i‘ace which seems to grow more ghostly with every loud monoton- ous tick of the old clock on the landing. With every step that passes by the door â€"thatrpassres and does not come in. He makes no answer, but kneels there looking up at me, his cheeks wet. with tears; and, though I speak so bravely, I myself am trembling exceedingly; my hands are as cold as ice. though my cheeks burn. “It could not be done. I am a beggar on the face of the earth, Allieâ€"twice beg- gared now." "But I am richâ€"you forget that!” He shakns his head, with the old 0b- stigate r gesture. He lopks up at me with drowned eyes, with pxteous lips that tremble like my own. “You shall go to Italy. Gerard; you shall study in Rome and Florence; you shall make a name for yourself and do In crqditâ€"I who am ypur fripqd." He srhiles faintly at,that; we both smile. he; looking pp»ar{d_1»_]po_kine down. "‘You!" "Yes. She shall live with me at Wood- hay while you are away.” "With you. Allie?” “With me. And, when you have grown rich. yqu shall come for hergin two or fihrfie’ years perhaps, if you work very ar .’ v He shudders, still kneeling beside me, itill holding both my hands against his reast. ' His haggard young 'face brightens a littje, but, only a ivory Little. “But liéten. When you are a great art- ist. you shall pay me backvwnh interl - if ygu liken” 1 "But that wre'tchéd child!” he says, at ast. Another hour passesâ€"two hours. Mrs. Wauchope comes up with my luncheon. and carries, it away as in untasted; a telegram arrives from UN Tod to say that' the carriage has been em to meet me; but. the carriage may go back again. for I am late for that, train already. I am beginning to feel that I cannot hear this terrible strain on brain and heart any longer when the door opens. quicklv, is quickly closed again. and I turn round, to find Gerard Baxter standing just inside the roomrlooking at. me. For a moment neither of us speaks. He has buried his face in my dress and is sobbing heavily. while I hold both his hands in a. close, hard grasp, shivering as if I had the ague. "Gerard." I say at lastâ€"“Gnrard.” Still he sobs on. like a heartbroken child who has wearied himself out with sobping._ “Gerard, you are I; over now, dear; you for both our sakes!" "Howl-Eiisééw hirs Vicar-swonen face*that face which seems: to me but the ghost 9f 1ts former self, so gaunt, so haggard Is it. “Do not try to thank me, dear," I say. with stiff lips that almost refuse to form the words. “It was all my faultâ€"I know it: but it is all over now.” “And I do not care to live. It would have been better for me if I had died.” “But you must care to live. Why should you not care to live, Gerard? The world is before you~you are young; it, is only cowards who wish to die!" "I will take care of her for you, Ger- ard." 7 With a low exdiamatiou, I hold out both my hands. He starts fox-ward, and, seiz- ing them, falls upon his knees at. my 60$. “You have saved my lifeâ€"I would thank you for it, if I could speak; but, I can- nog speak!” “Have you forgiven mo. Allie?” you are kming me. It is n11 dear; _ym‘ldmust not give way, ' “Ho’w’éa’fi iofi {elimé VbonliiéeVâ€"I who have lost the only thing worth living for in the world?” "Entirely. I wish I could as easily tor- zixe .mysfilfl "Egbeth his head and kisses my hands pas_sxonately one afger the ogber. Looking down into the boyish, care- worn face, remembering all his love for me, all that he has suffered through that love, a great flood of pity surges through my heart. WT'Mbeoor boy,” I say, smoothing the dark hair back from his forehead«"my p003 boy!" r “Cali 'yyou care for me still, Allieâ€"a mis- erable wretch like me?” "I shall care for you always, Gerardâ€" always!” "As you cared for me once, Allie?” For a moment I hesitate, with the hun- gry hollow dark eyes devouring my face. "As I might care for a dear brother, if I had one. Gerard." He stands up. flinging away my hand. "15 that all?” “That must be all." “And you can mete out your affection to such a ninety as that?" “I hope so~with the help of Heaven!" “I cannot!” be exclaims roughly. “1 have not my feelings so admirably under controlâ€"J cannot love you like a‘ lover onefiday, and like a brother the next!” “We Eim never be anything but friends, Gerard; but I shall always be your friend ~y0u1‘7 bpsp of? friends." "I know it; and I glory in the know- ledge. I love you with my whole heart and soulâ€"as I shall never love any other woman. And now is it any wonder that. I do not groatly carertp live?” 7‘And I shall be your lover," he says £assionatelyâ€"~“your lover, as long as I we.” , “You may think so now,’ I answer quietly. but my heart rebels against the bitter fate that has divided us. “My darling. I have wearied youâ€"you look like a ghost!" he exclaims. with a penitence as passionate as his anger had been a moment before. “I will go away “You muwst gouaway,” I say, putting my hand to my forehead. “You must go away." â€"I will do anything you ask me. Oh. my darlingl my darling, you do not know the anguish it is to me to leave you this day!" He has turned away from me; there is a look of utter misery in the gaunt youm: face, in the wild dark eyes: I am afraid of himiafraid that. he wi '1' do some des- nergte thing, perhaps, in is deqppir. SIR EDWARD GREY. Who may become Prime Minister of Great Britain. “Gerard, if you love me. you will prom- ise me to do what I ask you.” "If I love you, Allie?" "You will 2'0 awayâ€"a1: once-to Italvâ€" to Rome. You will start to-morrowâ€"I will give you a check on my banker 1â€"- L0 be repaid when you come back Ger- a‘l‘d, you have brought suffering upon me tooâ€"you owe it to me to make this re- parationfiit is all I ask of youâ€"or will ev‘eér ask perhaps. And you owe it. to your WI 6." "Do not speak of her." "But, I must speak of her. The child loves you. Gerard." _» "So much the worse for her.” "Yes. unless you prove yourself worthy of her love." ’ "Of her love. Allie?" "It. is the only love that can rightly be- long to you now. And it is a. precious gift, Gerardweven the love of a child.” He turns away impatiently. “Gerard, will you do thisâ€"for my sake?" “If you asked me to lay down my life for you. Allie. I would do it.” "And will you go at once?” 'fAs soon as you like. I do not care what, becomes of me.” "“Mgrmli'éafi'ié’fidkéfi,’;"1ié €595, letting his_1;ead sinkuuipon his breagt. “I hope not," I answer, with a poor at- tempt at a smile. And then I fill in the check for him with a hand that shakes a good dealâ€"a check for a hundred pounds. “You may write to me from Italy. And I will write to youâ€"to tell ygy about your yvifel” Hc kisses my hand passionately, looks at my face with eyes which seem as if they were trying to take away a mem- ory which must last them through eter- nity. and then, without another word, he goesravrvay. We are rushing along through the dark- ness, my cousin Ronald Soon and I, as fast as the express train can carry us. Ronald is leaning back against the cush- ions opposite me. his tweed cap pulled well down over his eyes. I am sure he is not asleep, though he sits there so quiet- ly: but I see his eyes in the shadow~the lamp over our heads gives Such a. miner- able glimmer of light. We have been travelling for nearly two hours nowâ€"in another hour we shall have reached the nearest railway station to Yattenden, where the carriage from Woodhay will be waiting for us. We have scarcely ad- “Dear Gerardlrdo not speak like that It hreafis my_ hgarti to _hear you.” _ And I throw myself face downward on Mrs. Wauchope‘s drab moreen sofa. and cry for two long bout“: as if my heart would break. {MWWMIOW See the British Medical Journal, Sept. 16, '1 1. and the Medical Times. Nov. 18, '1 1. GREAT fiGDY-BHILDER IS T HE dressed each other during the whole of those two hours. Ronald does not. seem inclined to talk, and I feel too wretched to do anything but brood over my misery, staring into the darkness with wide-open miserable eyes. “Are you vhy tired. Rosalie?" Ronald's voice startles me. the silence between us has lasted so long. "Rather. Why do you ask?” "I thought you looked tired." "Have you been studying my face?" a. little querulounly. “One cannot very well help seeing what is straight before one." “I thought your eyes were shut,” I say, remembering how I had studied all that was visible of his calm grave face a while ago, wondering what he thought of me. "Willey were “not shut. What, were you trying to fixgd out jgst npwf” well “When you did me the honor to con- sider me so intently.” 7 "I was trying to find out what you thought of me, Ronald.” "And did you find out?” “Not much. You have one of those faces which I cannot read." “Then 1 have the advantage of you there.” “Can you read my fave?” "Very often I can,” he answers, smiling a. little. “You have an interesting study, then” â€"-shrugging my shoulders. “I think I have. Rosalie. would you like to know what I think of you?” "I know you think me very foolish." “Then you do not want to know?” "You could not, tell me anything plea- s’ant"~with a rather forced laugh. "I wish we were at. Yat/tenden, Ronald; don't you?" Kidsrfrbr your sake. Rosalie, are you to see that fellow Bayer again?”_ The name sends a shiver through my veins. And yet it. is for ever ringing in my ears. “No. Why do you ask?” “I an; glad to hear it,” he says, xvithaut answermg my question. “Why are you glad?” "Because it is neither good for you nor for him." I shoal}! be angry if Ronald did not look so grave, did not speak in such a mat- ter of fact, fatherlyiwiayt is ghing win-Italy}, ther a subdued voice. “And you have taken charge of his wife.” {‘Yes.” \â€" Ronald expresses neither approval nor disapproval. I wonder if he despises meâ€" if he thinks that I am breaking my heart about a. lad who by all accounts could not have cared yeg'y much fol: mg? I am almost sorry I, like a coward, refused to let him tell me what he thought of me just now. But I had shrunk from an- other lecture. knowing the folly and wickedness of my undiwipliqed heart. “Ronald, you have refiemed your pro- mise nobly,” I say, stretching out my hand to him in my old impulsive fash- ion. “You have been a true friend to me; you have borne with me very pati- ently; do not think too badly of me, if yqu can hell; it." “All myvueffibVi-ts’ must be directed the other way, Rosalie.” he answers quietly. WHâ€"e ‘fientiisfli'ofvrvard out of the shadow to take my rhand. And you get ‘the genuine unadulterated, painted, undoctored article. “IMITATIONS ABOUND." An; in) uuu 'Juu Juan nun. When?" I ask, though I know very m Frame 84. Hay {5% 33', srnoffggngf'hun RE you an expert? Do you know a good piece of fencing when you cxamifie it? Or do you judge a, certain make of fencing from the records it has made with your neighbors? No matter how you judge fencing. you’ll find the quality of LEADER Fence fully up to your standard. 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