The Capitol Hill News. (Oklahoma City, Okla.), Vol. 8, No. 28, Ed. 1 Thursday, March 27, 1913 Page: 3 of 8
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[Issssssll
MAX—OR HIS PICTURE
HIH
mm
By OCTAVE THANET
Author of
The Man of the Hour." ’The Lion's Sharo."
"By inheritance." etc.
(Copy right by the Bob be-Merrill Ou.)
KNOCK sounded on
the principal’s door.
"That's Florence," she
thought; and she sigh-
ed in the same breath.
The principal had se-
cretly liked Florence
Raimund, the best of
lier two hundred girls, for
three years; and. sometimes,
she suspected that Florence knew it.
Miss Wing sat at her desk. It was a
large desk of oak, always kept in
blameless order. No ne could recall
seeing more than one letter at a time
lying on the blotter. Any others, yet
.unread, lay in the wicker tray to the
left; the letters read but not answered
were in the wicker tray to the right;
*he answered letters were in appropri-
ate pigeonholes or in ashes, Miss Wing
being a firm believer in fire as a confi-
dential agent. About the desk hung
the most interesting object in the
.room, to the schoolgirls; in fact it
would be hard to gauge Justly the in-
fluence this one, mute and motionless,
had over their young imaginations;
or how far it was responsible for the
rose-tinted halo that beyond doubt,
glorified the principal for them. The
object was a picture, the picture of a
young man In the uniform of a captain
in the Germau cuirassiers. Ills thick
light hair was brushed back from a
fine and candid forehead. A .smile
creased his cheek under the warlike
curl of his mustache. It was a smile
so happy and so friendly in its hap-
piness, that it won the beholder. The
eyes were not large, but even in the
black and white of a photograph (the
portrait, was an ordinary cabinet
carte) they seemed to sparkle. The
young fellow’s figure was superb, and
held with a military precision and
jauntiness. One said, looking at the
whole presence, "This man Is a good
fellow." Viewing him more closely,
one might add, "And he is in love."
The picture was framed handsomely
In a gilded frame. On the desk below,
an exquisite vase of Venice lifted a
single, perfect rose. For 15 years a
flower had always bloomed thus. Miss
Wing had hung the picture herself, 15
years ago. Then, she was the new'
principal, and the school was but half
its size; and the village people ex-
claimed at trusting “such a girl" with
ao much responsibility. During those
15 years the new building had been
built, the school had grown and flour-
ished; and the gray had crept Into
Margaret Vr,*jg’s bright hair. She had
so often put on mourning for her near
kindred that she had assumed it as
her permanent garb. To the certain
(and ecstatic) knowledge of the school,
she had refused divers offers of mar-
riage from citizens of good repute
and substance. Hut during all the
chang'ng years, the picture had kept
Its place and the fresh flowers had
bloomed below. No girl could remem-
ber the desk without the picture; and
when tne old girls visited the school,
ibeir eyes would instinctively seek it
in Its old place; always with a little
moving of the heart. Yet no one
*ver alluded to it to the principal;
and no one, not her most trusted
teacher, nor her best loved pupil, had
ever heard the principal spenk of it.
The name of the pictured soldier, his
etory, his relation to Miss Wing; Miss
Wing’s nearest kindred and friends
knew as much about all these as the
school—and that was nothing. Never-
theless, the school tradition reported
part of a name on the authority of a
single incident. Years ago an acci-
dent happened to the picture. It was
the principal's custom to carry it with
her on her Journeys, however brief;
always taking It down and putting it
back in its place herself. On this oc-
casion the floor had been newly pol-
ished, and In hanging the picture her
chair on which she stood slipped and
.she fell, while the picture dropped out
of her grasp. One of the girls, who
was passing, ran to her aid; but she
had crawled toward the picture and
would have It In her hands before she
-allowed the girl to aid her to .ise—a
circumstance, you may be dure, not
likely to escape the sharp young eyes.
Neither did these same eyes miss the
further circumstance that the jar had
shifted the carte to the frame nnd a
line of writing, hitnerto hidden, was
staring out at the world. The hand
was the sharp, minute German hand,
but the words were English; the girl
took them in at an eyeblink, as she
handed the picture to Miss Wing:
"Thine for ever, Max.” Miss Wing
made no comment; perhaps she sup-
posed that the girl had not seen, per-
haps—in any case she was silent.
Of course, the new light flooded the
school gossip Immediately. But there
never came any more; every new girl
was free to work her own will on Miss
Wing’s romance. Was "Max” dead?
Had they parted because of any act on
the woman’s part? Surely he could
not have been false, to receive that
♦’ally oblation of flowers. It was more
likely that she thus expressed an Im-
perishable regret. Youth, ever fanci-
ful. played with all manner of dainty
and plaintive variations on the theme.
Its very mystery was its poignant
charm; since each tender young soul
created a new romance and a new ap
peal. Elusive and pathetic, it hovered
on the edge of these young lives, like I
the perfume of a flower. And Its in-
fluent* was the more potent that It
asked for nothing. It is not too much
to lay that the spectacle of that gen-
tle and reticent faithfulness was the
strongest element in the school at-
mosphere. Certainly, because of it,
Miss Wing had greater power over
her scholars. She was a woman of
ability and gentie force; by nature a
little aloof, a little precise, able to
feel deeply, but not able to express
her sympathies or her pain. Without
her mysterious sorrow', she would
have seemed to young girls a thought
too admirable; they would have been
chilled by her virtues; but as it was,
the!** perception that she had lived
deeply, that she had suffered, that she
had been loved and had loved eternal-
ly, opened their hearts. They would
have admired her, now they adored
her. By degrees, and insensibly to
herself, she became the confessor of
her little world. After they left school,
her girls brought her their perplexities
of the he*»rt.
Today, however. Miss Wing sat be-
fore the picture which so many young
eyes had studied with such vague, yet
ardent, sympathy, and pondered over
a confidence that hod not come. The
lack of its coming hurt her; and the
tap on her door was welcome, for she
thought, “It Is she—coming to tell me.
Oh, I hope he is the right man."
At her response, the door swung
open with a jerk, and the dark-eyed
girl who entered was catching hef
breath, although she tried to make the
quick intakes noiseless. There was a
look of pale resolution on her features.
"Have you come to let me congrat-
ulate you, my dear?” said the princi-
pal, rising. The girl colored scarlet.
"I’ve come because I had to, because I
couldn’t deceive you," she blurted.
"Miss Wing, it isn’t so. I let Miss
Parker think so; but I’m not engaged
to him." ,
"Sit down, dear," said Miss Wing.
The soft cadence of her voice did not
roughen. She sat down when her guest
sat, and leaned back in her desk chair,
folding her slim, white hands. There
were flashing rings on her hands; and
the girls used to wonder which ring
"Max" had given her. They favored
the sapphire, set between two dia-
monds, because of its beauty ("a real
Cashmere, you know”), and because,
whether she wrore other rings or not,
this always kept its plaoe.
“Now, tell me,” said Miss Wing.
T had a letter from him this morn-
ing; it was just a note in one of Helen
Grier’s’’—the gill’s lithe form was
erect in the chair, every muscle i^nse;
she looked past Miss Wing to the wall
and spoke in toneless voice; no one
could see that she was driving straight
on to her purpose, over her own writh-
ing nervec—“all he said was that he
had been called back to Germany—**
"Is he a German? Miss Parker said
his name was Cutler.”
“It is Butler,” the girl said, flinging
her head back, while a spark crept in-
to her liquid, troubled, dark eyes, "but
he is a German. Don’t you know the
Butlers in ‘Wallenstein?’ You know
he was a real man; and he founded a
family. He—ray—my friend is the
Count von Butler." Miss Wing’s chair,
like other desk chairs, was set on a
pivot; she turned very slightly and
slowly, at the same time resting her
elbow’ on the desk. The girl ventured
a timid glance at her, and thought
that she looked sterner, wherefore her
heart sank; but she only continued
the faster: “He isn’t in America just
to travel; he was sent by his govern-
ment to watch the Cuban war. He’s
very brave; and he isn’t a bit like a
foreigner and hasn’t any nasty super-
cilious notions about women. Mr.
Grier says he has a future. And real-
ly, MIbb Wing, he is just like a—a—a
kind of knight.”
"Where did you meet him?"
"At Helen’s last summer. And he
was going out to Minneapolis to see
papa, I—I think. But he got a cable
of his uncle’s death. And his two lit-
tle cousins died last year; so now he
is the head of the family; and he must
go to Germany at once. For his father
is dead, you know. So he wrote (in
Helen's letter, because he is so—so
awfully proper!) asking to let him
come here and take me to drive—in
the American fashion. I know who
put him up to that scheme; it wras
Helen. 1 had to ask Miss Parker, be-
cause you were out; and she said if
he wasn’t a relation or the man I was
going to marry 1 couldn’t go. ‘Of
course, if hfc were the man you expect
to marry,’ she said, and—ahd 1—I said,
‘But he Is!’ Just like that. I can’t
fancy how I came to say such a
thing, but when it was said I didn’t
know how to explain; and I was so
awfully ashamed; and, besides”—she
lifted her eyes In the frank and direct
gaze that Miss Wing always liked—
"besides, I do want to see him.”
“And do you expect him to ask you
to marry him?” said Mias Wing, with
a deepening of the color on her cheek,
which went out suddenly like the
flame of a lamp in the wind.
Florence Knimund blushed again,
but this time she laughed: "I don't
know. He is so awfully proper,” said
she. "and he hasn’t had a chance to
ask papa; but—I think he wants to."
"Id that case. Isn’t he the man whom
you expect to marry?- asked Miss
Wing dryly. "But It was deceiving
her just the same. 1 am glad you
came, Florenoe.”
Miss Wing stifled a sigh; It may be
that she was not ao sure of the firm
purpose of a lover; she spoke more
gently: “It Is only the disappoint
ment. then, if you can’t see him?"
The girl's face quivered a little.
"Perhaps I am foolish," said Miss
Wing, "but 1 think it would be a dis-
appointment very hard to bear. Still,
you must admit that parents do not
send their children to school expecting
them to become engaged to be mar-
ried; on the contrary, there is a tacit
pledge that we shall protect our wards
from any entanglement. But this did
not happen at school; the only ques-
tion is, ought I to prevent it going any
farther? My dear, do you have confl
dence in me?”
“Yes, Miss Wing,” said the girl.
"Of course, I do not think that 1
ought to consent to your driving alone
together.’’
The girl drew a long sigh. "I su*
pose not,” she breathed, in dismal
resignation.
"But I should like him to come
here, to see me; and theu, if I find
him to be what your father would ap-
prove, you may see him here; and we
shall all have to explain things to-
gether, I fancy, to your fatser."
The girl drew another, a very dif-
ferent, sigh, and impulsively kissed
Mlsn Wing’s haud. She tiled to speak,
and could only murmur, "Oh, 1 do love
*>u!”
"And so, If ynu will tell Graf von
Butler—what is bis Christian name,
Florence?"
"Max,” said the girl, very low, for
she felt the presence of tho picture,
on which she had not once turned her
eyes.
Miss Wing stood In the center of
the room, smiling, until the door
closed. But then !n a second she was
at the door, almost fiercely, but noise-
lessly, twisting the key in the lock.
From the door she passed to the win-
dows and dropped the shades. At
last, safe from every chance of espial,
she sat down again in her chair be-
fore the dtsk, leaned her elbows on
the desk, and looked desperately, mis-
erably, into the joyous face of the pic-
ture. She did not speak, but her
thoughts took on words and sank like
hot lead into her heart. "Ma: But-
ler! Max Butler! The little nephew
he told me about. And he has been
alive all these years; and happy; with
little sons, while I—I have lied to
those trusting girts. It was wicked
and shameless. I deceived myself;
then I deceived them. I wonder why.
I knew what they were thinking. How
dared I look that honest child In the
face! I suppose she wonders like the
rest why I have not told anyone of my
romance. And it is simply that there
was nothing to tell. Nothing.” She
looked Into the soldier’s happy eyes
while her lips curled and she mur-
mured, drearily and bitterly, "I haven’t
even the right to be angry with you,
poor lad. What diu you do? You are
not my Max, I only made him up out
of my heart—like children playing a
game!” Her mind drifted dizzily
through shapeless and inconsequent
visions of the past. She was seeing
again the grim pile of the ruined cas-
tle, the masses of broken shadow, the
Intricate carving on arch and archi-
trave and plinth, the wavering mass
of limbs and tree-trunks on the green
sward; and she, with her twisted
ankle, was kneeling, trying to peer
through the shrubbery for her lost
companions. D*d he come by chance?
She had seen the handsome young of-
ficer daily, for a week. His great-
aunt was Margaret’s right-hand neigh
bor at the pension table d’hote, a
withered relic of Polish nobility with
fine, black eyes in a face like a hick-
ory nut; who wore shabby gowns and
magnificent jewels, frankly smoked
cigarettes, and seemed to have a
venomous tale ready to fit any name
mentioned In conversation—with one
exception, her nephew's. Margar-
garet’s first sight of him was not un-
der the shelter of conventionalities.
It happened that the countess’ feroci-
ous pet (and the terror of the pen-
sion), a Great Dane, was trying to eat
up a little girl, but fortunately had
begunwith her petticoats. The court
of the house was the scene of the
fray; a large, timid cook, the only wit-
ness, was waving a copper kettle full
of the meringue that she was beating,
In one hand, and the great wire whip
in the other, while she shrieked im-
partially on heaven and the police.
Margaret heard the din. She ran to
the spot. Being a New England worn
an, she didn’t scream; one svuft
glance went from the child’s writhing
body and the dog’s horrible head to
the wailing cook. In two strides she
caught the kettle out of a fat and agi-
tated German hand and hurled the
whole sticky, white mass full at the
dog’s eyes; then, as the blinded and
astounded beast flung his head back to
howl, and spattered the world with
meringue, she snatched up the child
and sent her flying into the door and
the cook. The dog was smeared with
meringue, she was smeared, the child
was smeared, the cook was smeared;
Rnd now a beautiful white and gold
officer, who bounded over the wall and
fel1 upon the dog with his saber and
two heels, was smeared the most lav-
ishly of alii No wonder Frau Muller
(visible aloft, in* an artleBs German
toilet of ease and without her te^th),
the countess (who was a gazing stock,
for the same reason), and Augustine,
her maid, the three Russians on the
second floor, and the three Americans
on the third, filled the windows with
polyglot consternation! The conse-
quence of It all was that when the
Count von Butler was formally pre-
sented to Miss Wing that evening, she
blushed. She was too pale and list-
less to be pretty, but when she blushed
the meringue, she smiled and ventured
an upward glance; and, for the first
time in bar life, met the admiration in
the eyes of a man. At thia time Mar-
garet was thirty years old and had
never been asked In marriage. She
had spent most of the thirty years In
a boarding school, as pupil or as
teacher, and she had brought from
her cloistered life a single vivid feel-
ing, a passionate friendship which
death had ended. The sapphire ring
was her poor friend's last token.
To be thirty and never to have been
sought like other glrla. leaves a chill
tn the heart. It may be lonely never
to have loved, but It ia bleak never to
have been loved. Margaret remem-
bered her delicate, girlish dreams with
a recoil of humiliation; they seemed
to her almost Immodest. She thought
she was too old to wear hats, and
wondered whether she ought not to
discard the pinks and light blues
which poor Elly had liked ou her, for
more sedate colors. But she wore
pink after she met Max Butler. Yet
never saw her save in the pres
of others. He was full of little,
graceful attentions, but he showed the
sune attentions to the portly clergy-
man’s widow and the meritorious but
cross-eyed teacher of fifty, who formed
Miss Wing’s "party"; it was only hln
eyes, his eyes always following her,
approvingly, delighting. admiring,
pleading, speaking to her aa they
spoke to no other woman. She told
herself that it was Juat the pleasant,
foreign way; and she wrote to her
friends in America, “The German of
fleers have very agreeable, deferential
manners; I think they are much more
gentle and polite and have a higher
respect for women than the French or
Italians." And he said no word, even
of friendship, until that afternoon at
the He!».*elberger Schloss.
He came upon her almost imme-
diately, scrambling up the bank at a
rate which had worked woe to his uni-
form. He was torn, he was scratched,
he w’aa stained .with mud and grass;
and he wae beaming with delight. "I
have seen you from below," he ex-
claimed in his careful English, "so I
came up. Will you excuse?" Then
his mood changed, perceiving her
plight, and lin insisted on tearing his
handkerchief into strips to bind her
ankle. It semed absurd to refuse his
aid, which he offered quite simply;
but his hands trembled a little over
the knots. "It will be most easy, I
think," said he, “that you should let
me assist you a small way, to the rcs-
tauraclon; so I can get the carriage,
and you can have some ice cream.
Again, to-day, is it burned—”
She ha.1 laughed and said that she
never had heard of burned Ice cream.
He laughed, too, and explained that
it was burned as a custard, and some-
how under cover of this she let him
put her hand on his shoulder and his
arm about her waist. She was grate-
ful to him for the matter-of-fact man-
ner in which he did it all, saying,
"You will have to be my comrade that
has been wounded, and I will help
him off the field; so I did, once, with
my colonel; it is better than to wait
until I could bring help." In this fash-
ion they walked for some twenty min-
utes. ^
He f.cJd her of bis country and his
home; and how he loved the hills
that his fathers had always owned,
and the rugged, simple, faithful peo-
ple; he tokl her of the plans of hi:;
father ard himself for them; he 'old
her of his fax her, who had the best
heart in the world, but was credited
with a fierce temper simply because
his voice was loud; and his mother,
who was so gentle that every one
loved her; and his handsome sister,
and his brother, who was a diplomat
and far cleverer than he; and his lit-
tle brother who died and would have
no one carry him in his pain but Max
By now they were rattling through
tho modern town of Heidelberg, the
plain walls of which looked bare after
the lawless pomp of carving and form
on the old castle; they had not even
the bizarre, affected grace of the ar-
chitecture then decking American
countrysides. But Margaret thought
how homelike and honest the houses
looked; staunch and trusty, like the
German. Butler, just then, was prais-
ing American buggies, from which he
made a general transition to the cus-
toms of society. Tn America, is It
not," says he, "the young ladies drive
alone with young men?”
“Yes, very often. But not with
you ?”
“Oh, no, mein frauleln, this is the
first time I am alone with a young
lady!”
She had called herself old for so
long that there was a distinct pleas
ure In being “a young lady” to him,
and she had not time to remember it
partook of the nature of deceit, be-
cause he sent a wave of confusion
over her by continuing: "In America,
also, one would propose marriage to a
lady, herself, before to her father?”
“It Is our custom,” agreed Margaret,
"but”—with her prim teacher’s air—
"your custom is far more decorous.”
His face fell, then promptly bright-
ened. “Perhaps it would he best to
speak to both, so near the same time
one can. But this is another thing
you must explain me. How is it most
preferable to the lady, that one shall
write or shall come—"
"Oh, write,” said Margaret quickly.
"I/ook!" he exclaimed, "at the sun-
set. Ah, is it not lovely?”
Of a sudden they were looking, not
at the sunset, but into each other’s
♦‘yes; and all about them was that
wonderful, transfiguring glow, and it
seamed as if there were nothing In
[the whole world that he had not said.
^“Is It to the right, Herr Captain?” j
risked tho driver, turning on his seat
to divide a benign and seml-lntoxlcat-
ed smile between them.
Then It was hardly a moment until
the yellow stucco of the pension
enchanting. Remembering j Jumped at their eyes, around a cor-
ner; and there were the clergyman's
widow and me teacher at the door.
They fell upon the carriage in & clam-
or of explanation aud sympathy; they
were at her side when he bowed over
her hand and kissed it, saying, “Auf-
wiederselien.”
That was all. There was never any
more. He did not come again. Or if
he came, she was not there, since the
next day they were on their way to
Breraeu, summoned by cable to *er
sister’s deathbed. She never heard
from him or of him again. Yet she
had left her American address with
his aunt for any letters that might
need to be forwarded, and a stiff little
note of thanks and farewell—a per-
fectly neutral note such as any friend
might give or reoelve. There followed
ness (the sister was a widow without
children, and she shared her estate
weeks crowded with sorrow and busl
with her other sister); and Margaret
Imputed her deep depression to these
natural and sufficient causes. She rat-
ed herself for vanity in reading her
own meanings into a courteous young
man's looks and his Intelligent inter-
est in national difference of manners.
She fostered her shame with the New
Englander's zest for self-torture. But
one afternoon, without warning, there
fell upon her a deep ana hopeless
peace. It was ns if some invisible
power controlled and changed all the
currents of her thought. She knew
that her friend was not faithless
careless; he was dead. She began to
weep gently, thinking pitifully of his
old father with the loud voice, and his
fragile mother and the sister and
brother hnd the little nephew. "Poor
people,” she murmured, wishing, for
the first time in her life, to make
some sign of her sorrow for them to
them, she who always paid her toll of
sympathy, but dreaded it and knew
that she was clumsy. She remem-
bered the day at the castle, and went
over again each wrord, each look. A
sensation that she couui not under-
stand, full of awe and sweetness, pos-
sessed her. It was indescribable, un-
thinkable, but it was also irresistible.
Under its Impulse she went to a trunk
In another room, from which she hnd
not yet removed all the contents, and
took out her Heidelberg photographs.
She said to herself that she would
look at the scenes of that day. In her
search she came upon a package of
her own pictures which had come the
morning of the day that she had gone.
She could not remember any details
of receiving them, except tnat she had
been at the photographer’s the day
before and paid for them. When they
came she was in too great agitation
(they were Just packing) to more than
fling them into a tray. She could not
tell why she took the cartes out of the
envelope and ran them listlessly
through her fingers; but at the last
of the package she uttered a cry. The
last carte was a picture of Mux, with
the Inscription In his own hand,
“Thine for ever.” It is not exact to
say that with the finding of the pic-
ture her doubt of his affection for her
vanished; for in truth, she had
doubts, the possession wire too abso-
lute. But the sight came upon her as
the presence of a mortal being, alive
and visible, comes on one when he
enters a room. And there Is no ques-
tion that it was a comfort; If she had
really loved Max, at this time, the
knowledge of his death would have
been her crudest shock; for then she
could have no hope to meet him again
in the world—no hope of some expla-
nation and the hardiness of life to-
gether. But she was not In love with
the young German, she was touched
by his admiration, she admired him
tenderly, she felt the moving of a sub-
tle attraction which she called friend-
ship and which might pass into a
keener feeling; but she did not love
him. Not then. Therefore, she felt a
sweetness In her pain; she could re-
spect herself once more; she had a
new and mystical Joy; for was she not
beloved above women? Had not her
lover come to her, through what
strange paths who may know, to com-
fort her? This is the story of the
picture. She could not tell It. Nor
did she; but she hung Max's portrait
on the walls of her little parlor; and
she hung opposite a picture of the
castle; and from that day, never a day
passed that it did not influence her.
She used to think her thoughts be-
fore it. She came to it with her grief
for the loss of kindred and friends,
with her loneliness, with her anxie-
ties, with her aspirations, her plans,
her cares for others, her slowly dawn-
ing interests and uffectlons. She was
a reticent woman, who might never
have allowed her heart to expand to
her husband himself, beyond a certain
limit; but she hid nothing from Max.
In time, she fell into the habit of talk-
ing to the picture. She called him
Max. The first time she spoke his
name she blushed. She made her toi-
lets for him more than for the world;
but whether Max could admire them
or not, it is certain that the girls knew
every change In her pretty gowns.
Now she began to pace the room,
trying to think clearly. Was it her
duty to tell Florence the story and
let her tell the girls? The red-hot
agony of the Idea seemed to her ex-
cited conscience an intimation that It
was her duty from which she shrank
because she was a selfish, hysterical,
dishonorable coward. Horrible as
suoh abasement would tie, if It were
her duty, she could do it; what she
could not, what she would not do, was
to tear the veil from the pure and
mystical passion which had been the
flower of her heart. “Not If It cost
me my soul,” she said, with tho fro-
zen quiet of despair; “it is awful, but
I can’t do it!” One thing did remain;
she could remove the picture. That
Jfalse witness of what had never been
should go. No eyes should ever fall
pn It again. It should never deceive j
more. She walked toward It firmly. I
can't!** she moaned. “I'll do It to-
morrow.” 8he could not remember, in
years, so weak a compromise offered
her conscience.
But she felt a sens* of respite, al-
most relief, once having decided, and
she recovered her composure enough
to go to her chamber and bathe her
eyes. While she was thus engaged
she heard a knock. "It is he,” she
said quietly; “well, the sooner the bet-
ter.”
It was he; he had come earlier than
he expected, he explained; he was
most grateful for Miss Wing’s kind
message. He looked like his uncle, as
the members of a family will look
alike. He was not so tall; be was not
so handsome. Perhaps most people
would call him more graceful. And
his English was faultless; he must
have spoken It from his childhood. In
the midst of his flrst sentences, be-
fore they had permitted him to take a
chair, his eyes traveled past Miss
Wing’s face. She perceived that he
saw the picture; she knew that she I
grew pale; but, to her amazement, a
calm like the calm which had wrapped
her senses on the day of her finding
the picture, closed about her ugain.
”1 beg pardon?” said he.
“Yes, that Is Count von Butler’s por-
trait," said she, in a clear voice, with-
out emotion. He was not so com-
posed. "Then it was you," he si!d.
Following her example, he took a
chair and looked earnestly at the pic-
tured face. “When Miss Raimund
spoke of you so warmly, I noticed
that the name was tho same, and I
determined *o inquire, hut it seemed
to mo unlikely. Yet it Is. Miss Wing,
I hnve a message to you, from my un-
cle.”
“I was with him when he died."
That was a strange thing to heat
when the message of his uncle’s death
had come to him In another country;
she hoped that her brain was not go-
ing to play her false.
"It was fifteen years ago last July,
you know. I never knew how many
details you received, or only the bare
fact in the papers.’
^ FOLEY’S %
STOPS COUGHS - CURES COLDS
aim N» Opiat— U Sale For ChiUrM
MU. Kgrtp-aVili
IS I. BwWi M . CkiM**
Too Much.
"My feelings have been lacerated."
"Did it take?”
When a married man has a good
disposition it’s probably because hia
wife won’t stand for any other kind.
ITCH Relia**«| in SO Minute*.
Woolford’a Sunilary Lotion fur all kind* of
Mtsf oua itch. A; Druggist*. Adv.
A man's children, like their mother,
are apt to ask a lot of embarrassing
questions.
ASK FOR ALIEN'S FOOT-EASE.
tha Antiseptic powder to ahuke Into vnar
shoes Relieves Corns, Uunlona, Ingrowing
Nalls, .swollen and Sweating feet, blister*
and Callous spots. Sold everywhere. 2Bo.
Don't accept any substitute. S-imple KRKU,
Address Allan K. Olmsted. Lsltny, N.T. Adv.
His Contribution.
“Did old (‘loseflst give you anything
for thp charity benefit fund?”
"Oh, yes; he gave mo his candid
opinion of It."
Not Oulte.
"Is he what you might call a police
captain at large?”
"No; he's only out on bail."—Town
Topics.
Important to Mothers
Examine carefully every bottle of
CASTORIA, a safe and sure remedy for
lnfunts and children, and see that It
Fifteen years! fifteen years! What “ Po£°vJr T*?"-.
was that date he was giving? That
was the day on which she sailed for
America, the day after—what was that
story he was telling of a visit and a
fire and a child rescued nnd an ac-
cident? But still she listened with the
same iron composure. The next
words she heard distinctly.
"It was like him to lose his life
that way; and he did not grudge it.
Yet it was hard that I should be the
only one of his blood with him. He
could speak with difficulty when he
told me to tnke a lock of hair and his
signet ring to you. He dictated the
address, himself, to me. 'You must be
sure and take it,’ he said. ‘It is to
the lady that I hoped would be my be-
trothed; you muBt tell grandmamma
about It, too. She has my picture and
she knows—but tell her’—and then,
think his mind must have wandered a
little, for he smiled brightly at me, say-
ing, 'I’ll tell her myself,’ and then the
doctors came. He said nothing more,
only once, they told me, he murmured
something about his betrothed. But I
hnd the ring; he took It off his finger
and kissed It and gave It to me. Child
Children Cry for Fletcher’s Castoria
Modest.
A clerical looking gentleman, in the
hope of obtaining a contribution, en-
tered the office of u newspaper and,
finding the editor In, began:
"I am soliciting aid for a gentleman
of refinement and intelligence who Is
in need of a little ready money, but is
too proud to make known IiIb buffer-
ings.’’
"Why!” exclaimed the editor, "I’m
the only man In town answering that
description. What's the gentleman’s
name?”
'Tin sorry to say I am not at 11b-
| erty to disclose It.”
“It must be me, parson. Heaven
nd > prosper you in your good work," Baid
j • the editor, wiping away a tear.
The Summer Silo.
The use of the silo throughout ths
! year is finding favor with many stock
keepers. It is quite difficult to obtain
a profit on pasture which is on land
worth $100.00 or niorG per acre. Dur-
| ing drouth seasons, the pasture 1s
often so poor that it affords little or no
as I was, I knew that it was sacred. I | °,,en 80 *>oor inai 11 anoras or ,i0
wrapped it In the paper, and after- ! ,eed’ bul thn illtercBt 'he Invest-
She lifted her hand—and It ..L "I {band!"
ward I put the lock of hair beside it
8o soon as I could, I went to Heidel-
berg, to the pension. You had gone
and there was no address, no trace—”
"I left my address with the coun-
tess—”
"My aunt Is dead,” said the young
German gravely. "I would not criti-
cize her, but she had her own choice
of a wife for my unde; I do not think
one could trust her with addresses.”
"We all gave ours to her to give to
Frau Muller."
"That Is why, then, I could not find
you. My grandmother also tried. But
you W'ero gone. I thought of the
banks, long after, but I found noth-
ing. Often it has seemed dreadful
that you should learn of this only
through the papers. But I could not
tell whether—anything. When I came
to America, I confess it was always In
my mind. I always carried my un-
cle’B little packet with ma I tvlll i
have It sent to you."
"Excuse me," paid Miss Wing gent- I
ly. "Will you please bring me the j
glass of water—I—am afraid—I can't
walk to it.”
But she would not let him pour the j
water on his handkerchief to bathe
her head. She sipped the water, and
very pale, but quite herself, brought
him back to his own matters. She
found that it was a cousin, miscalled
an uncle, in the German manner, who f
had died. It did npt seem to her that i
Max’s nephew could be unworthy of i
any girl; yet she conscientiously ques- |
tloned him regarding his worldly af-
fairs, for Florence was an only daugh- j
ter whose father had great posses- :
sions and a distrust of adventurers,
and at last she sent him forth to walk j
In the grove with his sweetheart, i
"And speak to her,” she said, with a j
look that sank into his heart; "it is i
the American w*ay; don’t wait to ,
write, the American way is best."
So, at last, she was alone. Alone j
with her lover who had always been !
true; whose love many waters could j
not quench, and It was stronger than j
death.
She never touched the picture, save
reverently to dust it, to take it down
when she went away, to replace It in |
its station when she returned. But now, I
trembling, yet not blushing, she took
the picture Into her hands. She looked
long into Its eyes; she kissed it with
a light and timid kiss, and swiftly hid j
the smiling face against her heart, |
pressing the frame In both hands, and
touching It with her cheek bent over
It, while she whispered: "You did tell
me. You came back and told me. 1
l«ve you. Max, my knight—my hus-
ment, and the taxes roust be found.
There ia no question but what ths use
of the silo for summer feeding will
make rapid gains during *hc next few
years and will soon come into common
use The millions of tons of corn
stalks and rough forage which ure
now annually going to waste will find
use in the form of silage and will
Liake possible not only a cheaper pro-
duction of Htock and stock products,
but will also make it p>'.36ible to at
least double the profit of stock raising.
Farmers who are complaining of low
profits from cattle, should make a
study of the silo, as they will here find
a means to increase their profits and
do this with less labor. The silo Ib a
forage bank which If put Into general
use will have a vast amount of valu-
able feed and bring a great wealth to
our people.—A. L. Haecker.
A Jolly
Good Day
Follows
A Good Breakfast
Try a dish of
Post
Toasties
tomorrow morning.
T hese sweet, thin bits made
from Indian Com are cooked,
toasted and sealed in tight
packages without the touch
of human hand.
They reach you fresh and
crisp—ready to eat from the
package by adding cream or
milk and a sprinkling of sugar,
if desired.
Toastie
dish-
are a jolly good
Nourishing
Satisfying
Delicious
a
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Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
Rugan, E. E. The Capitol Hill News. (Oklahoma City, Okla.), Vol. 8, No. 28, Ed. 1 Thursday, March 27, 1913, newspaper, March 27, 1913; Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc860066/m1/3/: accessed April 19, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.