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"Lost! Lost! All lost!" he mumbled. Jumbling the words together almost in- coheremly. , “What, is lost. father?“ she asked. “Everything, everything!" he cried in the same manner. “I can't remember. can't remember! It‘s ruin. utter ruin! My headâ€"I can't think. can't remember! Lost. lost!" In her terror, she put. her young arm round him as a mother encircles her child in the delirium of fever. “Try and tell me. father!“ she imploer him. "Try and be calm. dearest! Tell me. and I will help you. What is lost?" He tried to struggle from her arms, tried to push her from him. "You know!" ‘he mumbled. "You're watched HIDâ€"YOU know the truth! Every- thian ls lost! I am ruined! The imort- an w. vuAu“ u» . It could not be trueâ€"it could not. be true! Stafford had not written it. It was some cruel jest, a very cruel jest. D8!" petrified by someone who hated them both. and who wantonly inflicted pam- Yes.; thatlwae it! That could be the only explanation. Someone had written in his name; it was a forgery; she would meet Stafford presently. and they would laugh at. it together. He would be very angry. would want, to nunish the person who had done it: but he and she would laugh to- gether. and he would take her in his arms and kiss her in one of the many ways in which he had made a kiss an ecstasy of delight. and they would laugh together as he whispered thatlnothing should ever separate them. She picked up the letter, and, with a shudder. thrust It, in her bosom, as Cleo- patra might. have thrust, the asp which was to destroy her; then with leaden feet, she crossed the hall and o ened the library door, and saw her fat er stand- ing by the table clutching some papers in one hand. and gesticulating wildly with the other. Dizziiy. for there seemed to be a mist, before her eyes. she went, to him and laid a, hand upon his arm. “What is ii. father?" she said. "Are yo_l_1 ill? What is the matger?" A J _._..-1. ,vu .u. w. ... He gazed. “at herm€aafiii§hnnd struck his hand on the table. after the manner of a. child in a senseless passion. a poor (111 me She laughed now as she pictured the Scene that would be enacted. But sud- denly the laugh died on her lips. as there flashed across her mind the words Jessie had said. Stafford was engaged to Maude Falconer. the girl up at the Villa. whose beauty and grace and wealth all the dale was talking of. . 0h. Heavens! Was there any truth in it. was there any truth in it? Had Stat ford indeed, written that cruel letter? Had he left her for ever, for ever, for ever? Shou'ld she never see him again, never again hear him tell her that he loved her, would always love her? The room spun round with her. she sud- denly felt sick and faint. and. reeling. caught at the carved mantelshelf to pre- vent herself from falling. Then gradual~ 1% the death-like faintnessipassed, and s e became conscious that, her fathers voice was calling to her. and she clasped her head again and swept the hair from her forehead. and clenched her hands. in the effort to gain her presence of mind and self-command. He‘ slipped. by s anus and fell ink on to her knees, him. and stroke withered hand 1.11:: and to her horror more vacant. his sank stjl} [own 1!] rushed in. For and unhelpful (rle to lift 11 into which he man's eyes 0 breath. find “‘1 looked from 01: smile. which :1 terror. “It's. 111 pantiugly tried to push he "You know!" watched moâ€"you thing is lost! I Rage! Herondale I Then she opened it. slowly, as linger- hlgly she had looked at it. spinning out the pleasure, the delight which lay before her in the perusal of her first love-letter- With her foot upon the old-fatehionCd fender. her drooping as if there was someone present to see her blushes, she read the letter: and it is not too much to say-011M, at first she failed utterly to lrasn its meaning. \Vith knit. brows and quuhing heart, she read it again and again, until its significance was. so 10 speak, forced upon her; then her arms fell .Elimnly to her sides. and she looked straight before her in a dazed, benumbed fashion. every word burning itself upon her brain and searing her heart. The blorw had fallen so suddenly. so un‘ expcptedly. like a. bolt from the blue. smiting the happiness of her young life as: a sapling is smitten rby summer light- ning. that for the moment she felt no Dam. nothing but. the benumibing of all her faeultiea: so that she did not see the nor-trait of tJhe dead and gone Heron up0n Which .her eyes rested. did not hear her fot-her'a voice calling to her from the library. was conscious of nothing but those terrible words which were dinning through Ilier brain like the booming of a great bell. Presently she uttered a low oryland clasped her head with her hand. as 11' to shut. out the sound of the words as- if to shui out that, tortured her “a 1‘ A Paglish Ymmg 1m: CHAPTER XXV Herondale will pass away! I am man. a. very poor man! Have pity have pity on me!" ipped. by sheer weight, from her nd fell into the chair. She sank her knees, her arms still round and stroked and caressed his (1 hand that twitched and shook: her horror his stony eyes grew meant. his jaw dropped. and he in lower in the chair. ie! Jason!" she called. and they in. For n épace they stood aghast ihelpful from fright. then Jason 0 lift his master from the heap hich he-had collapsed. The old eyes closed. Ihe struggled for and when he had gained it. he from one to the other with a which added to Ida's grief and 11 r igh fell into r knees. I 1 stroked hand that fu {he-‘éiifind of ~the he Or. the Belle of the Season. higmrmj Continued) 3d. huskily, they don't, Sights 0n tlu from her She sank 11 round .5941 his goes on Then, again, she was not free to in- dulge in idle grief, in the luxury of woe.- the great house had still to be run, she had to bury her beloved dead, the mourn- ing which seems such a mockery when the heart, is racked with misery, had to be seen tozl and she did it. and went through it all, with outward calm, sus- tained by that Heron spirit which may be described as the religion of Iher classâ€" noblesse oblige. Jessie had wept loudly through the house ever since the death. and could weep as loudly now; but if Ida. shed any tears she wept in the silence and darkness of her own room. and no one knew her utter a moan. "To suffer in Silence and be strong" was the badge 'of all'her tribe. and she wore it with quiet. staicism. Godfrey Heron's death had happened so suddenly that the news of it scarcely got beyond the radius of the estate before the following morning, and Stafiord gone to London in ignorance of this sec- ond blow with which Fate had followed up the one he had dealt Ida: and when the neighbors-the Varyvnes. the Banner- dales. and the Avery'sâ€"came quickly and readily enough to offer their sympaA-hy and help. they could do nothing. The girl. solitary and lonely in her grief as she had been solitary and lonely through her life, would see no one but the doctor and Mr. Wordley. and the people who had once been warm and intimate friends of the family left reluctantly and sadly. to talk over the melancholy circumstance. and to wonder what, would become of the daughter of the eccentric man who had lived the life of a recluse. nu.“ u“; “u. v. w --. Mr. Wordley would have liked to have persuadéd her to see some of the women who had hastened to her to comfort her; but ‘he knew that any attempt. at persua- alon would have been in vain, that he would not have been able to break down the barrier of reserve which the girl had instinctively erected between her suffer- mg 50111 and the world. His heart ached for her. and ‘he did all that a. man could do to lighten the ‘burden of her trouble; but there was very little that he could do beyond superintendiug the necessary arrangements for the funeral. Ida sat in the library on uie .LLIUlIILJB of the funeral. A pelting rain beat upon the windows. over which the blinds had been drawn: the great silence which reigned in the chamber above. in Which the dead master of Heron lay, brooded over the whole house. and seemed in no part of it more intense than in this great book-lined room,_in which Godfrey Heron had spent so much of his life. Ida day back in the great armchair in which he eat. her small brown hands lying limply in her lap. her eyes fixed absently umn the open book which lay on the table as he had left it. The pallor of her face, increased by her sorrow. was accentuated by the black dress. almost as plainly made as that Whlch the red-eyed Jessie wore in her kitchen. “10th nearly a week had elapsed since her father had died in her young _arme. and notwith- standing her capacity for self-reliance. Ida- had not yet recovered from the stupor of the shock. nn n‘lnn luv uu vv .muuu. u... u... v” y- ~__ but there was very little that he could do beyond superintendiug the necessary arrangements for the funeral. His first thought was of the relativw; butysomewhat to his own dismay. he found mm, the only one whom he could trace was a cousin. a. more than middle~ aged man who, though he bore the name of Hero'n. was quite unknown to Ida. and, so far as Mr. Wordley was aware. had not. She was sea back in his ch over which he mentous Yeaâ€"1E ESEâ€"£111 is gone! My p( "thm‘!" broch from L "Ftfll’lel‘. I am here. Lool m me" I am hereâ€"cverybl I am here, and all is well His lips twisled into a. of cunning. almost of glee; ed. and the (‘1‘)! 1060 ugai' "I can't, rememberâ€"all 1 My poor child! Have pity As she clung to him. guy she clung. she felt, a .shudd him. and he fell a. life-lee shouflder. The minutesâ€"were the: years?-passed. and were fragments by a. cry from " ‘ ‘ =â€"- YAnl l Haw..-“ "Miss Ida! ter's deaf“: tors ueatu: Ida raised her father's head shoulder and looked into his knew that. the girl had spoken He was deag. She had lost I) and lover in one day. know npr c dgem: load Between .‘vl Foot and in All . They don't. guess! Lhavnged to one of i! ay. "Lost! Lost!" 1 d. ruined! _ ngon CHAPTER XXVI the library on the morning 1. A pelting rain beat upon over which the blinds had the great _silen09 râ€"wcre 1hey minutes. or and were broken Into a cry from Jessie. Miss Ida! -He‘sâ€"Lhe mae- guess!" Then his mam- l a of intense alarm and: mt!” he gasped. “I'm Herondale has gone, My poor child-Ida!" from Ida's white lips. e. Look at me. speak everything is not lost. is well." mm a, smile. a smile of glee; when he groun- 3e again._ .“s,;. uu‘. . .... ‘â€"all is lost! Ruined! we pity on my child!" Lm. supporting him as , «shudder run 1hrough life-less heap on her dim d from her a face. and 1 the U'uth. both father 0| (‘il Thank you; no. I rhad an abernethy biscuit at the station." He drew back from. and waved away, the tray of wine which Jason at this moment brought in. “I never touch wine. I. and all mine, are total abstaiuers. Those who fly to the wine-cup in moments of tribulation and grief re‘y on a, broken reed which shall pierce their hand. I trust you do not drink. Cousinjda?” '75‘1”ao"u3{'think I should me it." said Ida. but indifferent-1y. as if the question were of no moment. “I would rather stay here." He returned in a minute or two. ac- companied by a, 1:231 and gaunt, individ- al, who, in his blurk clothes and white necktie. looked :1 cross between a super- ior undertakar and a. City man. His features were strongly marked, and film expression of his countenance was both severe and melancholy, and. judging by his expression and his voice. which was harsh and lachrymose. his particular form of religion did not appear to afford him ‘eitller amusement; or consolation. “This is your cousin, Mr. John Heron," said poor Mr. Wordley, who was evidently sufi‘ering from the effects of his few min- utes' conversation with thabrgentlemnn: pressed regret for our birthright of 11115. ery or the lateness of the train. "Will you have some lunchâ€"some wine?" she asked. a dull. vague wonder rising in her mind that this grim, middle-class man should be of kith and kin with her dead f archer. 7 > _ 7 7 "mfgwsay to him?" she repeated low. dull voice. as if she did not stand. I "Yes." he said. "I did not know whether you had formed any plan. whether"â€"-he hesitated again. “you had thought of goingâ€"of paying a visit. â€" to these relations of youm. He lives in the north of London, and has a wife and son and daughter, as you know." Ida passed her hand across her brow. “How do you do, Ida? I trust you are bearing your 'burden as becomes a Christ.- ian. We art born to sorrow. The train was threevqua-rters of an hour late.” “I am sorry." said Ida, in her 10W voice leaving him to judge whether she ex. pressed regret for our birthright of mie- ery or the lateness of the train. "Will you have_ sgme lunchâ€"eqme wipe?" she "No!ye's: sometimes replied. vaguely, and and his eloquence us a my preamneri mr. Wordley. with much miegiving. had in- vited this, the only relative he could find. to the funeral. and Ida was now aiwait- lug this gentleman's arrival. The stealthy footsteps which belonged to those who minister to the dead passed up and down the great 1house. Jason was setting out the simple "funeral baked meat/e" which are considered appropriate to the occasion. and Mr. Wordley paced up and down the hall with his hands he- hind his back. listening to the under- taker‘s men upstairs, and glancing through the window in expectation of the carriage which had been sent for Mr. John Heron. Presently he saw it round- ing a bend of the drive. and went into the library to prepare Ida. She raised her head but not her eyes as he entered. and looked at him with that dull apathy which denotes the benumbed heart, the mind crushed under its heavy weight, of sorrow “I came in to tell you. my dear. that Mr. John Heron is coming," he said. “The garriage is just turning the bend of the rive." "I will come.“ she said. raising and supporting herself by the heavy carved arm of the great, chair. “No? no!" he said. “Sit down and wait, here." He did not want, her to hen-r the stealthy trend of theruqdeqtaker'e men. “No? no!" he said. “Sit down and wait here." He did not want her to hen-r the stealthy tread of the undertaker‘s men. and meet the coffin’which they were go- ing to bring downstairs and place in the hall. “I will 'bring him in here. Is there anything you would like me to say to him. my dear?" he asked. and spoke with a certain hesitancy; for as yet he had not spoken of her future. feeling that her grief was too recent. 'too sacred, -to per- mit of thé obtrusion of material and worldly matters, Mr. Wordley coughed discreetly. They certainly had not asked her. but. he felt quite assured that an individual whose reputation for sanctity stood so high could not be so deficient in charity as to refuse a. home to his orphan cousin. "They han not sent you any definite invitation yet, but (hey will be sure to want you to go and stay with them, for a time at any rate: and I think you ought, to go."_ “I am afraid you'd find it very lonely at the Hall, my dear.” he said. “In fact, I don't think you could remain here by yourself,” he added, evading the direct gaze of Ithe great, sad eyes. "I should feel lonely anywhere,” she said. “More lonely with peo 16 I don’t; know, probably. than I shoulg fee] here, with Jessie and Jasonâ€"andâ€"and the dogs. “Well, well. we can't discuss the ques- tion now, and will endeavor to act for the best, my dear." said the old man, still intent, upon his glasses. “I hear the carriage. I will bring Mr. John in.” “This is your cousin. Mr. John Heron," said poor Mr. Wordley, who was evidently sufi‘eriug from the effects of his few min- utes' conversation with that. gentleman. Mn John Heron surveyed the slight. figure and white face with its sad, star- flike eyesâ€"~surveyed in with a- grim kind of severity. which was probably intend- ed for sympathy. and extending a cold, damp hand. which resem‘bled an extreme- ly ibony shoulder of mutton, said, in a raspiug, A melancholy. ‘ vgicg: Ida passed her hand across her brow. trying to remember. “Ah, yes.” she said at last, “I remem- ber you told me about them. I never heard of them beforeâ€"until now. Why should I go to them? Do they want me? Have they aslged m§?"_ Mr. Wordley polished his glasses very intently. r 7 ‘ strict. observers of were considered b long to them be unchnritablc. Mr. John Heron ber of this littlel its small cirr-les 1 and his eloquence Wordley. with m‘ vited this, the on! of the Esta. of one of th bers of whk of brothers m ast. known sects» the mem- aned themselves some kind are supposed to be very of the Scriptural law, and by those who did not be- both narrow-minded and Ial SU“mu of Refu- and was firm is extreme 53 , Jay preamp not much." :urding him prominent l was {um in a under mem- ‘us in nctity 2 Mr. sne rith This was rat-her more than Mr. Wordley could stand, and. very red in the face, he invi-led Mr. John Heron to go up to “18 room which he had prepared for him. When that gentleman had stalked out. the 01d lawyer looked at, Ida. with a. mix- turg of dismay and oommiseration. “Not, aâ€"erâ€"particularly cheerful and genial person. my dear; ‘but no don-byMr. John Heron is. extremely conscientious andwrâ€"gooiheatted." ' "I daresay,” assented Ida, apathetical- 13’. “It does not. matter. It, was very kind of him to come so far toâ€"to the funeral." she added. “He might have stayed away; for I don't think my father knew him, and I never heard of him. ‘ IS it ‘not yime ygt?" ghe Vasked, in a 10w voICe. As she spoke. Jessie came in and took her upstairs to her room to put on the thick black cloak, the bonnet with its long crepe veil, in which Ida was to fol- low her father to the grave; for in rte of Mr. Wordley‘e remonstrances, she ad remained firm in her resolve to go to the church-yard. . Presently the procession started. The old clergyman who had christened her and every Sunday had cast glances of interest and afl’ection at her as she sat in the great "loose box" of a. 99W. found it very diflicult to read the solemn service without breakin down, and 1115 old, thin voice quavere as he spoke the wards of hope and consolation which the storm of wind and rain caught up and swept across the narrow church-yard and down the dale of which the Herons had been so long masters. a, dull wonder; for she had never seen this kind of‘man before. Mr. Wordley poured out a. glass of wine. and, in silent, indignation. handed it to her; and, unconscious of the heavy ecowl with which Mr, John Heron regarded her, she put her ‘lipe to it. "A glass of wine is not a. bad thing at any time." said the old lawyer; “especial- ly when one is weakened and prostrated by trouble. Try and drink a little more, my dear." "'Will you gi;é iour arm to .;Miss Ida. Mr. Heron? I want to get her back to th‘e‘Han aq ‘spon as‘posmbler." Ida was led to the ca iage. passing through a. lane of sympathizem amongst whom were representatives of all the great dale families’; and all bent the)!‘ heads with a. respectful ‘pity and sym- pathy as the young girl made her way down the narrow path. About half a. pathy as the young girl made her way down the narrow path. About half a dozen persons ‘had been asked to go_to the Hall for the funeral lunch,,at Whlch Mr. John Heron. as representative of the family, presided. It was a. melancholy meal; for most, of those present were thinking of the orphan girl in her room above. They spoke in lowered voices .of jud the dead man and of the great family h from which he had sprung, and recalled t ’3 stories of the wealth and lavishnese offing The listeners exchanged glances. and looked grave and concerned. ‘ . “No Will?" said. Lord Bannerdale. anx- iously; then his kindly face cleared "But of course everything goes to his daugh- ter; the estate is not entailed?“ Mr. Wordley inclined his head. “The estate is not entailed, as you say. Lord Bannerdale; and any client. Miss Ida Heron. inherits everything." They drew a breath of relief, and nod- ded assentingly; and presently they made a general movement of departure. Lord Bannerda‘le lingered behind the others. "I )won't ask the poor child to see me. Mr. Wordley," he said. "Will you there- fore be good enough to give her Lady Bunnerdale's love. and to tell her that, as Lady Bannerdale has written to her. we shall be more than pleased if she will come to us at, the Court. She is (0 con- sider it her home for just as long as she should please; and we shall feel i: ll "It is a matter of opinion. of convic- tion, of principle," said Mr. John Heron. grimly. as if he were in the pulpit. “We must be gmded by the light of our con- sciences: we must not yield to the se- ductive influences of creature comfort. We Mp told that strong drink is rag- mg~â€"’ Mr. John Heron stood grim and gaunt opposite Ida. as if he were a figure carv- ed-out, of wood, and showed no Sign . 0" ammation until the end of the servxce’ when he looked round with a. sudden eagerness, and opened his large square lips as if he were ooing to "improve the occasion" by an aadress; but Mr. word- lay, who suspected him of such intention. nllp eg‘ it, in ghe bud by saying; ' family, presided. It. was a. melancholy mead; for most of those present rwere tlnnking of the orphan girl in her room above. They spoke in lowered voices of . 'udices o‘bviouslv‘ had no effect in the dead man and of the great fwmxly J ~ 7 from which he had sprung, and recalled the FTanCO‘German “313 Acco'rd' stones of the wealth and lavishnese of'ing t0 Molltke‘ who wrote the of. past Herons; and when the meal was . .‘ V f h '. flh over, there suddenly fell a silence. and E10131 hlbtoile‘ 0 t ‘3 campdlgnv 6 French prmoners reached the ex- fall eiee were turned upon Mr. Wordlei'i:l t L . . ‘ _ , £2 of fiffiifiLh” auwed for the rea [traordlnal'y totalflo‘f 21,008 ofllcers Bismérck may have olbjected to the taking of prisoners, but his pre- Mr. Wordley rose. coughed. and wiped 1115 eye-glasses. and looked round gravely. “As the legal ud|vlser of my late client. Mr. Godfrey He: ‘1. I have to inform you, gentlemen. that there is no will. My client died intestate." sun’s rays- RAMSAY & SON c0. (Established 1842) MONTREAL, Que. Ramsa reinstating mutt There is never a time when the skill, ex- perience and resource back of V’Vaterman’s Ideal is at rest. « Can anything more be done for its userSAPâ€"is the constant problem â€"-â€"the aim of its makers. Users of Water- man’s Ideals have the world’s best to-day. If to-morrow can improve the slightest detail, they’ll have it. Try Them at Your DeaIeI‘s .0 L. E. Waterman Company, 7 Subst â€".â€"this Wa n’s ideal? Fm: flit? Pen '5 are r a honest be sure whc know you 0 nt lasts, and Limited, Montreal. $1133; Heâ€"Why did y Lady three tunes I a “1‘”- mine '2 > her. ‘ a will Sheâ€"Because honest} weve rel . declared and 702,048 men. But of these near- ly 250,000 were the Paris garrison, who were only‘mominally prison- ers, and over 90,000 represented the French troops disarmed and internâ€" ed in neutral Switzerland. Still, with these deductions, more than 380,000 officers and men were actuâ€" ally imprisoned in Germany, and weve released only when peace Was iesl “What the devil do we want with prisoners! Why don’t they make a battue of them?” To Francsâ€"tireurs he strongly object- ed to mercy being shown. and stormed because Garibaldi's “free company” of 13,000 volunteers were granted terms of surrender. “Thir- teen thousond prisoners who are not even Frenchmen!” he cried. “Why on earth were they not shot?” pleasure and a.n honor to have her' amongst us as one of our own. Of courqe‘ she cannot remain alone here, in mm great place." The old lawyer bowed. ', "I will give her your kind message (01" which I thank you on her behalf. Lord Bannerdale. I do not know what, she! will do, or where she will 20' at, presen} she is not in a. condition to i-scues an , plans for her future, though toâ€"day she expressed a, desire to remain at, the 11311."; He paused. for a moment, before he adglfi Proferrcd Killing Prisoners to Tak- ing Them Captive. Reports that the Germans have been giving “No quarter" to any of the Belgian peasantry who op- posed them are, it is to'be hoped, exaggerated, but such methods commend themselves to Bismarck. “Prisoners! More prisoners!" he exclaimed at Versailles after one of Prince Frederick Charles‘ victor- When they had all said: BO. “We had better go to the library and’ talk matters over. I will send for Misq Ida. It seems cruel to disturb her at. such a. moment, but, there is no help 101‘ “You speak as if you had bad tidin . Mr. Wordley. to give us," said Mr. Jo u Heron. “IVA-in afraid I have." responded the old lawyer. shaking his grey head sadly. (To be continued.) I 35.155 khoTv’Gfi’éihér’Ehé 32m do‘ asts, a BISMARCK‘S WAY. m 31' .Vlothml In nd lasts wear and tear 1 SEN go'ne, Mr. Wordley' :cst he first to be uard