The Hennessey Clipper. (Hennessey, Okla.), Vol. 15, No. 50, Ed. 1 Thursday, May 11, 1905 Page: 2 of 8
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ifwiw
HOPE.
You speak of Hope and point me to a
child
'Neath blossom-laden boughs, with face
upturned
In golden sunlight free and lindeflled
With smiling ryes wherein tears never
burned.
That Is not Hope—that Is not Hope, my
soul,
'TIs only youth's glad confidence and
glee,
What when the crashing storms of sor-
row roll?
What when Spring's blossoms lost and
scattered be?
Hope—the far light that steals across
the Kloom,
Hope—the one star that shines through
prison bars;
Though all the rest go crashing down to
doom,
Unconquered still, she watches 'neath
the stars.
Frail yet undying when all else hath died
Hent low by pain, blinded by grief and
tears,
Still through the dark ami storm what-
e'er betide
Still Hope lives on through all the
weary years.
Drooping and faint, blinded and far from
light
With frail hands to the broken harp
she clings.
Oh sweetest of all music! through the
night
The one sweet note amid the shattered
strings.
bit!
They do I
light
And glad of heart,
in woe,
We who have
the night
Of death and pain
fered, know.
—Jennie Bell Kos«'
call tlie
wrong whi
r who were lost
heard the music through
who have suf-
ln
t Iona I is t.
Little France
A ROMANCK OF THE DAYS WHJ \
"THE CKKAT LORD HAW Kh" WAS
KING OF THE SFA H' *•< ^
Cyrus Townsi.nd Hrady
Author nf •• Commodore Paul Jonei
"Reuben J ones." l or the Free-
dom of the Sea,'' etc.
Copy right, l«)l, by 1 . Appletou A Co.. New York.
CHAPTER VII.—CONTINTKD.
"Have you forgotten me. Sir Philip?"
she questioned him jealously; "were
you thinking of
"Of home for a moment, my child,
of old England, and a better-loved
shore farther away. Those are English
ships and—but. never mind, we were
talking of the lady's lover. Yes, I
can see bow he might have come up
the wall."
"And of course 1 will not let you do
that now because—but would you do
it for mp some da> ?" she asked anx-
iously.
"Some day. perhaps, I shall show
you," he replied. "I could do harder
things than that for you. But com >
let us seek the dragons in the garden
beauteous dame. 'Tis a long time
since we have had an adventure of
any sort. Call Josette for your court,
and after battle 1 shall crown you
Queen of Love and Beauty anain. I
an beat you down the stair." he added
as they raced away.
CHAPTER VIII
THE END OF THE PLAY.
I n .\ r night he determined to
put in practice the attempt
to escape, the first definite
possibility of which had come
to him that afternoon. Indeed, it had
grown upon him with each pas sir.
moment. He lay awake for hours after
lie had retired and Anatole hod been
dismissed, waiting until the people in
the chateau, except the guards at the
gate and the watchmen on the walls,
had all gone to sleep. And for a true
knight his thoughts at least were re-
creant. since he dreamed not of the
Lady Anne but of freedom.
Toward midnight he arose, dressed
himself quickly, and softly stole
through the deserted halls until he
came to the unoccupied chamber in
the round tower. No especial watch
was kept upon him. no guards were
stationed upon the tower and but few
on the seaward side of the chateau.
Moving circumspectly he had met no
one nor had he attracted the atten-
tion of any sleeper.
He stepped quickly through the great
room to the oriel. He stood for a
moment on the balcony looking out to
sea. It was a bright moonlight night.
Away on the horizon twinkled the
faint yellow light of the English ships
Far below him in the shadow of the
cliffs the waxes were btv:i nu; in sul-
len splashing upon the splintered
shore.
He hesitated os he surveyed tin-
scene: although his purpose was un-
saved the descent he should ho parted
from her forever. In death or In liber
ty they would be equally separated.
The little Rose of Rohans—to see he
no more! The thought gave him a
peculiar feeling. He paused, reluctant
He was surprised at himself.
The little maiden with her mingling
of childish innocence and womanly
charm had grown very dear to him
and the joy he anticipated in soon
regaining his liberty was sadly dimmed
by the certain sadness of that inevlta
ble parting. Yet the feeling was not
strong enough to deter him—then. I
was deep enough, however, to give
him pause. He lingered, thinking
swiftly. It was duty that turned the
scale—duty and love are antagonists
of old.
He had learned something about the
French fleet in Brest and the location
of the defenses In the harbor in his
rapid ride through the town when he
came to the chateau, and from his
frequent although apparently cursory
examinations of the position from the
towers and walls he had learned more.
His information would be of great
\alue. He was an officer of the king
and when the possibility of escape pre-
sented itself, at all hazards he must
make an effort to reach the ships. The
marquis had spoken once or twice
about exchange, but nothing had yet
come from it and such matters were
slow at best. •
As it seemed more feasible, as the
possibility approached nearer, his de-
sire grew. The detaining image of the
French girl grew fainter. Duty, lib-
erty, freedom, action—what child could
stand in the way? Therefore again lie
determined to attempt the descent
Yet it was a forbidding undertaking
now that he had settled upon it. It
had seemed easier in the daylight than
at night time. The bend of the wall
cast the corner in a black shadow, the
more intense on account of the bright-
ness of the moonlight beyond.
His mind was in a strange turmoil.
Death love—liberty—what would be
the end? Pshaw! He would think no
more, he would do it!
He climbed up on the stone railing
of th" balcony, turned his back toward
the tower, slid along the coping stone
until he could feel the angle between
the walls with his hand, his shoulders
touching either side of the angle. He
held firmly to the coping of the bal-
cony. which he determined not to let
go of until he was sure of a foot rest.
Then ho stretched out his right leg
and felt about in the shadow until
finally bis foot hit the first projection.
He breathed a prayer and prepared to
descend. He was glad the angle was
in the shadow. He could not see what
T
KT 1IKU ON
k N KI:
w:ts beneath him. The black cliffs un-
• er his feet hid their terrors from him.
He intended to try it with his face
outward, his back in the angle, his
hands and feet outstretched, clutching
at or feeling for every inequality. He
was about to let go. Another moment
and he had gone, when he felt a
fnmiliar little hand laid upon his arm.
"Come back, come back, you will be
Killed!" whispered a small frightened
voice. He was so startled in spite of
the quietness of her address that he
nearly lost his hold and fell. He re-
covered himself, however, by a pro-
digious effort, anil aided by the girl's
nervous, clinging hands he drew him-
self up slowly, and swinging his legs
back over the coping landed once more
on the solid floor of the balcony. The
idea of disregarding her summons did
not once occur to him.
"Were you doing this for me?"
asked the girl innocently, still clinging
to him as if afraid to release him.
"Mademoiselle Anne!" he cried in
great surprise and annoyance, "why
are you here?" lie was trembling vio-
lently from his exertions and thf* tenso
• motions of the past few moments.
' Why not. Sir Philip? You are here
yourself, you see," she answered un-
suspiciously, approaching him and lay-
ing an innocent hand on bis arm and
looking steadily at him.
"Yes. but 1—come into the tower,"
he said drawing her back through the
window into the room. How her eyes
he exclaimed In astonishment, but not
raising his voice for fear of attracting
attention. "Your feet are bare and on
these damp stones! You'll catch your
death of cold! My dear child!"
He forgot that he was her knight,
and stooping down lifted her slender
form in his strong young arms. She
half-struggled a moment and then ac-
quiesced. What was he to do with
her? The carpet less room was bare of
furniture and, save for themselves,
empty. He hesitated, stepped into the
window, sat down upon the low sill,
and set her on his knee, holding her
firmly, carefully, tenderly. She, too.
forgot that she was a lady, and nestled
against him as any child might have
done.
"Now tell me," he whispered—they
spoke softly all the time—"why did
you come here. Anne?"
It was the first time he had ad-
dressed her without a title.
"I do not know," she answered. "I
—my room is over there, you know.
I couldn't sleep. I was thinking about
the Lady Jehane and her lover the
Baron tie Croislc—and about you, Sir
—Philip." The pause between the
"sir" and "Philip" was a long one.
which sweetened the name in his ears
as she continued, "I heard a sound and
1 thought it might be his ghost. So
I came—I hurried too. I had no time
to dress."
'Were you not afraid?"
The marquis says the de Rohans
are never afraid. I didn't like it, but
I came on tiptoe, and then I saw some-
thing black outside on the balcony
and 1 walked over there. I was a little
afraid, I think, perhaps because I am
part American," she added naively.
Americans are never afraid, either,"
interrupted Grafton promptly.
Well, anyway, I saw it was you
and I was not afraid any more. And
I watched you stand and look, and
then 1 saw you get over the wall, and
then I was fearfully afraid—for you,
Philip. 1 thought you might be killed.
I slipped out and caught hold of you,
you came back, and now we are hoi"
together."
There was a long pause. She slipped
her arm about his neck and held him
is if she feared again that he might
all. He scarcely knew what to say.
so he held her close and kept silent
until she spoke once more, drawing
herself away from him a little as she
lid so. "I don't think knights carry
their ladies around like this, do they?
don't think it's quite proper, is it?
Jut theso stones are so cold, and 1
forgot my slippers. I was so anxious.
Is it all right. Sir Philip?"
She wriggled her pretty toes as she
inxiotisly sought for reassurance from
her admirer and companion.
Proper? Of course, and where is
losette?" he answered, glad to get back
to the form if not the spirit of the
play.
Asleep," she answered, "the great
stupid! She doesn't care'whether there
are any knights in the world or not.
But what are you doing here? You
have not told me yet."
"I — I — I thought I'd try the tower,
you know—the wall—to go down."
"Yes, and was it for me?"
For the life of him he could not li -
to this confiding and innocent little
girl.
"Lady Anne." he whispered, "it was
for "
But he did not seem to be able to
tell her the truth either.
"Yes, Sir Philip, it was for "
"For freedom then!" he said desper-
ately.
"Oh!" she quivered, "and you were
going to leave—me?"
There was ji world of reproach in
her voice and then silence. Presently
he discovered that she was weeping,
ller small frame shook with subdued
sobs. The sight alarmed him. pained
him deeply; he could not throw off
a guilty feeling as he held her closely,
trying to soothe and quiet her. He
was desperately uncomfortable, yet
the scene must be ended if he were
to get away. He could meet her in
laughter on a common ground, but
sobs were foreign to his philosophy.
He had not enjoyed experience of this
womanly weakness, which is the
weapon of the helpless, and he was
powerless before her tears. He could
not bear to see her cry, and suppose
the marquis should see him. what
would he think? Would he not ton-
dude that Grafton had broken faith
with him? And yet there was a pass-
ing sweetness in the situation too He
had no wish to terminate the inter-
view; he forgot for the moment that
be intended to escape that night.
"Now. my dear little girl," he began
at last, "it's all play, you know."
This was a most unfortunate state-
ment. All her youthful energies hat!
been bent toward the obliteration of
this bitter fact. That is a moment of
the greatest sadness when we find out
our hardly maintained realities have
only been some other person's play!
'it's been play all the time," she
sobbed impulsively "I knew it was
so! I tried not to believe it! Josette
told me so. and I said she was stupid;
but she knew more than I! You have
actly—and if I lingered there on the
balcony—if you saw me pause, it was
because I did not wish to leave you.
Tis truly so. Dear little lady, little |
playfellow and comrade, I am your
knight and will be."
"And is there no other lady in En-
gland or America? You said 'no' once,
but was it true?"
"It was true and it is true; there is
no lady in England or America, or any-
where in the world, for me, except,
in this little corner of France, and if
I hesitated about going away, it wa3
for you, but don't you see? My duty
—I am an English officer. My king is
at war with yours. I must go back!"
"Yotf love your country, monsieur,
more than—but you do not love mo
at all, do you?" she asked piteously.
"Of course I do," he answered
promptly. "I love you very much in-
deed; you are the sweetest little girl
I know."
"Oh, the marquis loves me that way,
and Jean-Renaud, and Josette. and—"
"It's different with me, you know.
Not like that at all. You see. men do
A PRINCESS AND A NOBLEMAN
KNOWN AS THE "ALTONS."
SHE IS LEOPOLD'S DAUGHTER
Pair, Weil-Known in High European
Circles, Live as Man and Wife
in Secluded Part of Mil-
waukee, Wis.
slan hound3 aild driving Russian
hordes.
Ruined by unfortunate inveBtr.'.'ii'.s,
her guardian committed suicide and
the princess was thrown upon her own
resources.
She at first opened a studio. but later
became attracted by the life behind the
footlights and went on the stage, tak-
ing the name of Lou Arlie.
While playing in New York she met
her husband, who had been forced to
give up his work at the hospital owing
to an attack of pneumonia. One night
he went out with a number of com-
panions. they met several actresses and
during the supper which followed tne
Belgian actress in the role of an ob-
scure actress and the Venetian noble-
man. known only to his companions
as a doctor whose success had been
indifferent, fell in love.
A quiet wedding at the Little Church '
!orner followed, both
Milwaukee. — Masquerading^ under
the unpretentious names of Mr. ami j
Mrs. Philip Alton and living quietly in ! Around the""c
a humble cottage on the South side oi masqueraders giving their real r<pn;es
his city, are a woman who claims to | „ was ,hrpp years a(a, whon the .uar.
I a i aug i er oi King Leopold of Bel- r|age 0f princess Vetva Marie Von
gium, who is being besought by iier
their duty because they ought to, nnd I father to return to his palace and glad-
amed In the moonlight! What [ been playing with me from the tirst.
changed, he realized as lie had no; ; depths were there, what unfathnmahb , haven't you? Let tne go back to my
before, that his undertaking was
fraught with the greatest dar.uer. He
might reach the foot of the cliff aliv
or he might not. The chances were
against him. Things looked different
ly In the nigh t time. A slip 11
a fall, and death would be the end.
death on the rocks 200 feet below,
with the white foam for a shroud, and
mysteries lurked within their shadows! j dolls, monsieur, 'tis all I'm fit for."
He had never seen them so before. 1 She tried vainly to break away.
They startled him- those eyes so soft- | "My dear child," he replied, still
ly tender, so deeply blue. And the ex- holding her. but utterly at a loss to
qttisite pallor of that face framed in know what to do or say, "you see
the misty blackness of her floating 1 —"
hair the girl was beautiful. i "You never were my really truly
Following him into the chamber she knight, were you?" she went on
stopped unconsciously where the moon- through her tears. "You never .cared
they love people because they have to.
"Do yoti have to love me. Sir Philip?"
"Yes, and I am glad to, my dear
little girl. I am afraid if I stay here
any longer and you grow any older—"
He hesitated; was he actually about to
propose to this child? He resumed,
rather tamely. "I had to go away, you
see. Now let me go. and some day
I will come back to you and "
"Put me down, monsieur." she said
gravely, with one of those swift
changes of mood which he had often
noticed before. "I insist upon it!
There, you may go now. but you will
never come back to me. I know it.
You will be somebody else's knight,
and I "
Her little head dropped forward. He
lifted his band to her chin, turned
her face upward and kissed her. and
then drew her nearer to his breast
as he might have done a little sister.
Yet it was not such a kiss as a brother
might have given, nor was if a sister
whose lips met his own. If was the
first time he or any man had kissed
her. save her grandfather, whose love
did not express itself in frequent ca-
resses. She was but a child, yet some-
thing thrilled and leaped in her heart
at his touch, and there was a faint
echo of her feeling, a brief response
to her heart-throb, in his own breast. |
But in a moment she broke from !
his arms—never again could he hold ;
her so as before. She stood and looked j
at him from those glorious eyes of •
hers, and time, in one swift moment, j
in the meeting kiss, wiped out the dif- j
ference in years between the two. His
thoughts changed as he gazed upon
her. A new idea came to him. In a i
few years she would have grown—why
not9
"Monsieur," she said at last, and the
change in her was evidenced by the
gravity and the added dignity of her
manner, "you have kissed away the
child. I am a woman; you cannot go
now." ,
"Why not, Mademoiselle Anne? I
can love you—from a distance—for I
swear, child or not, I love you—and I
can come back."
den his remaining years with her pres-
ence, and a Venetian nobleman, who,
it is asserted, has been disinherited by
his titled and wealthy family because
of his marriage to the princess, who
has been an actress.
The story goes that not only have
letters of personal appeal from the
Dernberg and Philip Louis Preleau was
recorded, and after a time the princess
returned to the stage as a chorus girl
and came to Milwaukee.
When the company left she remained
behind and for a time she lived at tlie
Plankinton house, being known as Miss
Alton. A short time afterward her
husband came on from New York and
the couple went to the Blatz hotel.
King been received by Mrs. Alton, but j wbere thev were known as brother
the Belgian legation at Washington is aml sister.* Since then they have lived
also keeping close track of them, audi in various bouses on th& "outh side,
letters of inquiry concerning them j always renting furnished rooms in un-
have been sent to Milwaukee parties ( pretentious houses. The husband found
by the legation. I employment. Gradually the handsome
In Belgium. Prance, Russia and oth- [ jewelry which Mrs. Alton owned when
er European countries Mrs. Alton is s]le came to Milwaukee disappeared,
known as I rincess Velva Marie von and. while she always dresses well, her
Dernberg, youngest daughter of King personal effects are thought to be few.
Leopold. Not always a favorite with .
her father, she now appears to be the WIDOW PAYS A
center of his affections, since his
estrangement with Clementine, tne
only one of the daughters of the queen
who has be?n able to keep on friendly
terms with him.
Mr. Alton's real name Is Philip Louis
Preleau. and he is said to be a member
of a wealthy and titled family ol" Italy,
■ '.M r.\ i: A TI v ]•: puvkhty.
LJVKS IN-
MERE BOY TO WED HER
Youth of 18 Receives Suit of Clothes
and $25 for Marrying Wom-
an of Twenty-Five.
Westboro, Mass.—"I will give you $2Ti
and a suit of clothes." rapturously ex-
claimed Mrs. Maria Rogers, drawing
nearer, enticingly to Walter Finney.
The midnight's unclouded moon
shone refulgent ly on the porch of the
Westboro insane asylum. Wanned by
her rays, the inmates' hearts beat a
happy luna tic-tac. Even Walter Fin-
ney. 18 years old. an employe in the asy-
lum, usually sane, could not but feel the
moon's softening influence.
"Why the suit of clothes?" he cried,
rapturously. "I will—I will—marry—
you—Mar-ia."
Finney threw his arms around Mrs.
.Rogers. While the moon shone on her
back no one could have guessed that
she is 52 years old. is twice a widow, and
has a son six years older than Finney.
She cooked for the inmates of the asy-
lum.
Chastily she returned youthful Fin-
ney's salute. Then, coyly crying. "The
suit of clothes goes, too." she tore her-
self from his arms and went to the tele-
phone.
"Is that John Ford, the livery stable
j it being thought that he is the great-
Love has nothing to do with this, ! fandson of tne last doge of Venice.
He is also a man of high culture, broad JveePer; asked. ^ es? \\ hat ? No?
education and professional training, ' umhulanee? Certainly not. A car-
having been graduated from a south- course, right away. \\ e are
em college and a medical college and soing to be married to-night. And not
having served lor two years as interne ,a wor(^ John tord.
in a New York hospital. Ford drove his best carriage to the
In spite of this fact, he and his wife as>^,,ni- Mrs. Rogers stood by the road-
are living in humble circumstances in , ^anS^ng on Hnneys arm
monsieur, now; I am a French wo-
man. You must not go; you shall
not! You are a prisoner. The mar-
quis is absent. The castle is mine tin-
til he returns. I am the chatelaine.
I could never look my grandfather in
the face again if I allowed you to es-
cape."
[To Be Continued.]
Her "Vocation.**
Postmaster General Payne is a mas-
ter of the epigram. Ife demonstrated
that, fact recently when he was ques-
tioned about some charges that had
been brought against one of the officials
of his department. Shrewd political
organizer and manager for many years,
one of the kitchen cabinet of several
administrations, systematic, quick and
unhesitating in his own private busi-
ness policies, bis command of incisive
speech on occasion and aptitude at
epigramatic replies are not to be won-
dered at.
"It is not clear who brought tlieso
charges," said Mr. Payne.
"They were worked up by Charlotte
Smith." suggested his interviewer. "She
is a reformer who is a familiar figure
at the capitol."
"Charlotte Smith!" repeated the
post-master general. "Yes, I know her.
Fathers everything; mothers noth*
ing!"—Collier's.
\ ii Orpluiii Defined.
The word "orphan" appeared in the
Sunday school lesson. Miss Ida V.
Stamps asked if any of the little boys
in the class knew what an orphan was.
There was no response. Thinking to
help the little fellows to search out
the right answer. Miss Stamps, the
teacher said:
"Why. children, I'm an orphan; now
can't you tell me what an orphan is?"
1'p went the hand of a boy.
"All right, Johnnie," said the teach-
er. "that's a good boy. You tell us
what an orphan Is."
"An orphan." replied the I It 11 • fel-
low. without the slightest hint of a
smile and with deep earnestness—"an
rphan Is a young lady who wants to
tret married and can't." Silas Xavler
Floyd in Lipplncott's.
NI-.MI.M1 \\ ii Iiiitu.
Senator Proctor h id seated himself
at the table in a small western hotel
the ebbing tide to bear him far out light streamed in through the window. 1 anything for me; you were just anius- Hni' WBS critically holding his tumbler
to sea. | For tlie first time he noticed what she ing yourself weren't you? Making > !° "1'1 "^ht. The landlord, desirous of
Yet he must needs go on But as h wore In the bright illumination. Ap-, fun (1f « foolish girl. Oh. monsieur ! leasing his distinguished patron,
made ready to descend, Ills thoughts pan ntlv she was clad In her nlglit- bow
suddenly went back to the little girl dress with a loose wrapper hastily going to leave me'
who had been Ills playmate during thrown about her shoulders; her little
the past few weeks. He bad almos' bare feet gleamed like marble on the
forgotten her for the moment. Was stone floor. One hand hung by her
he a recreant knight thereby? His side, with the other she instinctively
conscience reproached him. Strange gathered the wrapper across her breast
as It may seem, he felt a pang of re- j with a movement at once modest yet
gret when he realized that once he charming.
•tepped uver the balcony wall and e - ' "Why, you are In your night-robe!"
girl. Oh, monsieur,
ould you? Anil now you arc came hurrying with a pitcher of water.
• Mr. Proctor, however, was In no haste,
and, circling the tumbler in his fingers,
said:—
"I enjoy this; it reminds me of the
Sabbath."
It.'cause everything is so quiet about
here?" suggested the landlord.
"Anne." he said at last, "you are
only a little girl, and I am a grown
man."
"Yes, I remember I said you were old
for a knight, but you were all I had!"
she walled.
"But do you know," he continued,
"it waan't all ulay after all—not nx-
'his city, he having found employment
as a bookkeeper in the office of a man-
ufacturing company, where he is now
in charge of the office force.
Fiction is not stranger than the al-
leged romantic story of the princess
who found it advisable to leave her
European home, where she was at-
tended by ladies In waiting from the
court, and who is now living in com-
parative poverty with her nobleman in
one room, rented from a woman who
keeps a few boarders and roomers.
The experiences of life in a foreign
convent, In court circles in Russia and
Belgium, in extended travels which
are said to have taken the princess
entirely around the world, three times
on the stage, in leading New York
hotels where she also lived incognito
under the protection of a wealthy
guardian who is said to have been the
foster brother of the czar of Russia,
in the straitened circumstances which
followed her guardian's failure and
suicide, her romantic marriage, her re-
turn to the stage, her drifting to Mil-
waukee as a member of a company,
her leaving the company here ami be-
ing joined by her husband and the
unique adventures which have attend-
'Hurry. before Dr. Adams wakes up."
whispered Ford, who is frequently em-
ployed by the asylum.
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Rogers.
FINN ICY
M ItS K( Ml Kits
AUMS -MtOt'ND
"Isn't it an escape?" asked Ford.
"He's going to marry me," cried tin
widow.
"That's why I asked," said Fortl
ed her life in this city have followed j studying Finney's face intently if,
eacn other with rapidity and In spec- drove to the parsonage of i be Evangel!
tacular contrasts. cal church.
During the year which Mr. and Mrs. "Do you take"- asked the itev
Alton have lived In Milwaukee she is John Walker.
said to have received personal letters' "For better," promptly answered the
from King Leopold, the letters bear- ■ then Mrs, Rogers.
ing the royal crest. | "For—for," stammered Walter Fin-
In them tlie king addresses her as : ney.
his dear daughter and urges her to -e- ! "A suit of clothes and |W." whispered
turn to Belgium and make her home j Maria, encouragingly.
with him at the palace. The condition j "For worse." desperately exclaimed
imposed is that her husband shall take j young Finney.
the oath of allegiance to him and lie- ; Dv. D. S. Adams, superintendent of the
come a Catholic, and It Is understood insane asylum, has discharged .Mr. and
that this last requirement is the bar 1 Mrs. Finney.
which prevents the immediate return
to Belgium.
The princess is a highly educated
woman and her bearing reveals bo ti
the refinement to be expected of a
woman of exceptional birth and breed-
ing and the theatrical love of effect
which hints strongly of her career on
the stage.'
Fond of excitement, it was deemed
advisable to send her out of the coun-
try. and she was placed In a convent
in Montreal. The guardian also came
to this country, lived at the Waldorf-
Astoria and operated on the Stock Kx-
ehange. He took his protege from the
"No: but this privilege of looking t convent and for a time she lived In
through staiued glass."—N. %. Herald. [ New York city, having her owu Run-
Finds Mother After Seventeen Years.
Robert Vliet. of Now Brunswick, N.
J.. a youth 19 years old who has al-
ways been known us "Jake Brown,"
found his mother u few days ago,
whom he had never known after an
absence of 17 years. He also discov-
ered that he hail luft to him some
property by his father, who died re-
cently. He had been brought up by
Mrs. Stella Brown, the widow of a
policeman uf Elizabeth. Tile Vllets
then lived In Plalnfleld and gave their
two-year-old boy to the Browns to
care for. The Browns later moved to
New Brunswick, and Mrs. Vliet iatua
loat trace of her sou
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Miller, C. H. The Hennessey Clipper. (Hennessey, Okla.), Vol. 15, No. 50, Ed. 1 Thursday, May 11, 1905, newspaper, May 11, 1905; Hennessey, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc105418/m1/2/: accessed April 24, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.