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"Not a grandpa—except in New England way-way deep in the far-away, old-fashioned places where there are still wood-lots and turkeys and littie boys who perch on the worm-fence of twilights and mimic the call of the moose — or down South on a white veranda with a mint-julep at his elbow-—or—oh, I did see grandfathers, coming through Iowa in the rolling farm-country—grandfathers with snowy whiskers and bowed backs calling 'pig-o-eee!' and watching the train flash by. "But in the city—no! A grandfather is a legend—a story of something that was—a feeble story written by his wife. Her husband's wife, an absorbing serial, combining the elements of romance, adventure, and intrigue. SYNOPSIS. Leslie Morne, a governess, goes to walk by the sea and is spoken to by a man she does not know. She is rescued from his attentions by Victor Steele, a sergeant in the British army, and the two hope to meet again. (Dramatic translation and all others rights secured. Copyright, U. S. A, 1913, by London Daily Mail Serial rights in U. S. held by International News Service.) Victor Resolves to Stand by Leslie. She smiled bravely, and looked up at him, “I'd rather you went now, and we got over it,” she urged him. “You talk silly,” he broke out, sharply and gripped her arm. “It's not likely I'm going to leave you in a hole like this. Look here. I'm a poor man, but I love you. That's straight.” “Go on,” she said, nerving herself, “Well,” he stammered, flushing all over his fair face, “I wish I could help you some other way, but it—if I thought you would have me, I would ask you to marry me." “To marry you?” She had not expected him to say that. “Yes.” He turned and faced her, “noting the surprise in her tone. Then he comportended. “Good Heavens! What did you think? Oh, I see.” No, I'm not that sort.” He faced her with a defiant smile. “You not a gentleman?” she faltered. "But I thought— I had the idea you were a squire's son, or in the army—” “I am in the army. I am a sergeant in the Twenty-fifth Lancers.” “A sergeant?” She looked at him blankly. She had allowed herself to be made love to by just a common soldier. She wondered if that other man would find this out also. He winced at the disappointment in SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES Jefferson School of Law For men and women. Tenth year opens October 1st. Prepares for bar in all states, Access to 24 courts. Self-help bureau. For free catalogue, etc. write G. Peanebaker, Secretary Louisville Ky, Y. SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES The Beautiful New Mount St. Joseph Conducted by the Sisters of St. Joseph, Augusta, Ga. MONTE SANO, Building School for Young Ladies, delightfully situated in a city far-famed as an ideal health resort; all pure and invigorating. Every educational advantage given the preparatory and high school departments. Affiliated with the Catholic University of America (Washington, D. C.), also fully accredited to the State University of Georgia. For Catalogue, address THE SUPERIORESS.” Her voice. “That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?" he said, mockingly. “If I had a star on my shoulder instead of The stripes on my arm. I'll have a star yet, and a cross on my breast, too!” he burst out with sudden violence. “Well,” looking at her, “I'm sorry to have disappointed you. I hope you don't feel disgraced because I've made love to you. I never intended you to know. At any rate, you must let me help you out of this. He gazed miserably at the dull gray sea. She saw the pain in his eyes, and the next instant was aware only of the beauty of his profile and the martial erectness of his form. She forgave her desperate plight, and knew only that she could not bear to lose him. She slipped her cold hand into his. "I'm a snob and a fool, I know," she said, in a sobbing voice, "but I do love you. Take me and marry me if you like, dear." Leslie Morne, a governess, falls in love with a British sergeant, who saves her from insult. Steele marries Leslie and takes rooms for her. CHAPTER III It was just a fortnight after her marriage that Leslie Steele began to wonder whether she was happy or miserable. She put down her novel, borrowed from the public library, yawned, and, putting her hands behind her head, surveyed the garish little sitting room. The gaudy china vases on the mantelpiece, the photographs of the landlady's departed relatives, the oleo graphs on the walls—to such adornment she had been accustomed all her life. Behind the folding doors was her tiny bedroom—really a box room, as Mrs. Jones, in an outburst of candor, admitted. Through the open window she could hear the whirring of the cars along the Chiswick highway. But for that welcome sound she could almost have fancied herself back in her aunt’s second best parlor at Leflingham. How very different all this was from the home to which she had so often in imagination seen herself brought as a bride! Somehow the two little rooms had not seemed so bad the night that her elder lover had brought her there after their departure from Hastings. It had had all the romance and excitement of an elopement, that journey to London, these two alone together while the train roared through a night of storm and rain. And then the drive through an unfamiliar part of London—their passionate embrace as he left her with a promise to see her again the next day. That night she had had no misgivings, no regrets—only exultation and a delicious sense of security in his love. Two mornings Later, she had gone alone to be married to him at the Hounslow Registry Office. For the first time, she saw him in uniform. How gallant and splendid he looked— his spurs made the merriest music, He was taller by an inch, she noticed with intense pride, than the two comrades he had brought with him. They were very good fellows, he had told her, and she liked them, but she wished that they had not conducted themselves with such rigid stiffness during the brief ceremony, or congratulated her with knowing winks that Steele was one of the best, a regular out-and-outer. She Finds It Delightful To Go to Meet Him. Happily, Victor had invited no one to share their wedding breakfast at a pretty riverside inn at Hampton. They had spent the afternoon roaming in the gardens round the old palace, returning in the misty autumn twilight to their home—these furnished apartments at Chiswick. Their honeymoon lasted less than 24 hours. It was with difficulty that Victor had obtained leave for so long immediately after his extended furlough. “It's no good asking you to stand the life in the barracks," he said. "I've ten or twelve pounds put by. With that and my pay we'll manage somehow." He looked a trifle worried as he said that, but all further discussion of ways and means and prospects she had cut short with a kiss. There were no difficulties she was sure that he could not overcome, no hardships that would not seem light with him. It was delightful going to meet him at Kew Bridge or Isleworth in the early afternoon, and bringing him Back to their little home, or going for a walk in New Gardens or to Richmond. She was no worse off, she supposed, than all young wives whose husbands were engaged throughout the day. But no—these had friends and relatives and money to spend. She knew no one. Victor, she had learned, was the only son of a small Bristol tradesman—a second-hand bookseller—who had cast him off when in pursynce of his boyish enthusiasm, he enlisted. The smile faded. She wished for the first time since her marriage that Victor was not obliged always to wear his uniform in London—at least, not in the streets. She sighed. This was in faded ink that we cannot read anymore! It doesn’t matter if he’s seventy—oh, he still gets seventy, you know—but the heels of him are so light—and if he creaks, nobody knows it, I can tell you—the silver hair is worn off the pink top of his head—his eyes are dim a bit—but, oh, the light heart and the heels and the laugh of him! “For I danced with him the other night—the CITY and TOWN grandfather—and that is how I know all this. All the bright young dancing pumps in town were twinkled into the background—I couldn’t trip him up on a step—and I'd rather dance with him than all the blonde and black-bird boys in town all together! There are no grandpa anymore!”—NELL BRINKLEY. At all like the life she dreamed of, the entrance of the landlady with a parcel put an end to her reverie. It had been forwarded from the local post office. ice and was addressed in the faint, crabbed handwriting of her aunt to “Miss Leslie Morne.” Dreadful her only relative's reproaches, she had simply informed her of her departure from Hastings by telegram. Inside the wrapper, she found a note. "I hear from Mrs. Richards," it ran, "that you have left your situation all on account of your wicked courses and bad behavior. I have done my duty by you all these years and now I wash my hands of you." She Discovers Notes Written to Her Mother. So her aunt believed that she had run away with some aristocratic literature, Leslie smiled wryly. However, the terms of the letter made a reply or explanation impossible to her pride. She turned curlously to the remaining contents of the package. There were a number of books, most of them her own, but four or five inscribed with her own initials in a faded, unfamiliar hand, had evidently belonged to her mother. On the flyleaf of one—a volume of poetry—was written in a masculine hand, "To my dear one, from R. 6-5-88." She turned the pages. Several passages were marked—it was significant that they all related to man's infirmity. She came at last upon a thirtier bundle of letters tied with a satin ribbon. She took it in her hand and flushed deeply. She felt rather than knew that these contained the story of her mother's love—would reveal the secret of her own origin, which she had always feared to penetrate. It was a hackneyed story that the few letters told, and one not greatly different from what she had always suspected. Indications of the writer's rank were not wanting. “As you know, I am heartily heartless.” he wrote, “my title, such as it will be, will bring no money with it.” Nothing remained in the package sent from Norfolk except a plainly bound book. Leslie glanced at it. It was entitled “Self Help,” and was inscribed, “A parting gift from your affectionate Brother Jim.” The uncle who had gone to America, she said, "She took no interest in her mother's relatives. She felt compassion for them now.” So her father was a man of title. Well, she had always suspected that her blood was different from that of the people with whom she had so far associated. She came of another stock. She sat her elbows on the table, staring into space. The first faint thrill of pride had passed now. What did her high-horn ancestors matter? She was the wife of a sergeant, of a man who two or three years before had been bullied and sworn at by other sergeants, who would take orders from men of her father's rank. Leslie Hides Her Face and Weeps. By marrying him she seemed to admit in the law's injustice—to admit herself to be of inferior rank to her own father. She hid her face in her hands and cried silently for a few minutes. To Be Continued Tomorrow. How He Won Promotion Inside the door leading into the private office of the managing director, Celestin stopped and hesitated. The consciousness of his miserable appearance held him back. He realized that he was a failure, that he was now nearly fifty, without any resources or connections and without any hope of improving his position but the step he was about to take. He thought of his crippled mother, whose only support he was, sitting alone in their miserable apartment, needing strengthening food and medicine. He thought of his debts, of his greenish black coat, his frayed trousers, and his worn-out shoes, but with the courage of despair he opened the door and entered Mr. Bauce's sanctum to ask for a raise of salary. He could not go on existing on his present salary, he had an old mother and pressing debts. He had no decent clothes, no underwear, no shoes. He had sold or pawned all the valuable things he possessed and he could not get along on $20 a month. "You forget that I provide your lunch," said Mr. Bauce. But Paponel went on describing his miserable situation, and said that $30 a month would make him a healthy, self-respecting man, and he would be glad to do any amount of extra work. His voice broke, and in dreadful suspense he waited for the answer. At last Mr. Bauce, who was playing with a paper cutter, did reply. He Gets a Body Blow. He was sorry. It was impossible, absolutely impossible, and he must add that Paponel's personal appearance was so seedy that it was a disgrace to the firm. When he had kept him it was from sheer pity, and if Paponel felt that he might do better elsewhere, he would be most happy to dispense with his services. Paponel shuddered at the threat. He saw himself and his mother starving, without a roof over their heads, and he stammered that he appreciated the honor of working for Mr. Bauce. He promised to be more careful in regard to his personal appearance and left the room with a thousand humble apologies. When he went home he had quite decided to have one last jolly evening and to try to forget his misery for a few short hours. He told his mother nothing of the attempt to better himself, which had failed, and wrapped up the last trinkets he possessed, and went out and sold them for $20. Having thus supplied himself with money, he went to a little café he used to visit daily when he was a student and dream of the literary fame and glory that was to be his. In these familiar surroundings his enthusiasm revived after he had four drinks. He told himself that the battle was not lost yet, that he might yet become famous, and soon renewed his friendship with a red-haired philosopher, one of life's failures like himself, and several seedy and bewhiskered individuals, and went for a stroll. He Sees His Employer, It was about 1 o'clock when they entered a fashionable night restaurant, Paponel leading the way. Suddenly he turned cold with terror. He had caught sight of Mr. Bauce sitting at a table staring, open-mouthed, at Paponel and the strange company in his wake. Paponel was not even astonished to find his chief. The shock had paralyzed his power of reasoning, and for a moment he grew sober, but the next moment he was as intoxicated as ever, and his hatred of his tyrant, of the man who had ground him into the dust under his heel, broke out and made him lose all self-control. “Look at him, all of you,” he cried. “Look at that wicked, fat plutocrat!” And, raising his finger, he yelled, addressing his chief: “Curse you! Your greed has made me the miserable wreck I am. A thousand curses on you! I despise you, Nestor Bauce!" Mr. Bauce stood up. Paponel was intoxicated, but he was able to see that his chief was little better off, and that he had to support himself by the edge of the table. “Paponel,” said Bauce, with considerable effort, “you don't exactly look like a dude!” “He is intoxicated,” cried Paponel, “And why shouldn’t I be, Paponel?” said Mr. Bauce gently. “But why didn’t you tell me that pitiful old tale about your paralyzed old mother and all that? Instead of simply saying, ‘Bauce, I want a raise in order to go on a spree!' I thought you a soft-brained, saintly kind of a fellow, and I humbly beg your pardon--Paponel. From today your monthly salary is $10, and you are to be my assistant. Do tell your friends, the anarchists, to do me no harm, and don't look for another job. I need a confidential man who is discreet. I am glad to see you know how to enjoy yourself. And now I am sure we are all thirsty. Sit down here next to me and introduce me!" Peruvian Sugar. The enormous production of sugar cane to the acre is one of the surprises of Peru. Where it is grown the land is level and planting is an easy matter. When the cane reaches the height of two feet further attention in regard to cultivation is said to be unnecessary, and in from eighteen to twenty-four months maturity is reached. That the growth is luxurious may be seen from the fact that an average crop of 40 tons an acre is obtained, while 60 and even 70 tons is not uncommon. In other sugar-growing countries, countries, including Cuba, 25 tons per acre are considered a good average, according to sugar experts. This Peculiarto Women AT S W | — 51 S ——" - There is one remedy which has for over forty years been instrumental in restoring full health and strength to women who have suffered from weaknesses and irregularities peculiar to them. That remedy is DR. PIERCE'S FAVORITE. PRESCRIPTION (In Tablet or) It will help you. Dr. Liqueur's BY NELL BRINKLEY Another Lot. An amusing story is told of Mr. Caillaux, who made such a desperate fight for his wife's life in the Paris murder trial. At last the deputation emerged. M. Caillaux came out soon afterward and cordially shook hands with the journalists and invited them into the room. They entered, and were pressed to take seats at a table. M. Caillaux seated himself at the head, and sat with an expression of grave attention. There was a silence. At last M. Caillaux said he was afraid there had been some mistake as to the time. “The deputation,” he said, “kept me longer than I expected.” “What shall we say about the interview?” one of the journalists asked. A look of bewilderment came over the minister's face, and then a light broke. “Oh, you are Reporters!” he said, with a merry laugh. “I thought you were another deputation!” L Cup Emmawell House A liberal education. In Sealed Tins at Grocers. 18 'P&/ CHEEK-NEAL COFFEE AT Nashville Houston Jacksonville Snap Shots By ANN LISLE. Maiden Medicines, Men who are blind to their own faults may be deaf to their own consciences and unable to walk what they know is the straight and narrow path as well. The woman who insists on the last word has probably had the first word in the engagement, too, and about 95 percent of what went in between. When a girl is mighty well pleased with herself, all the other girls are pleased to remark how little it takes to please her. When a man gets drunk on success — or champagne — he is all too likely to forget to reckon a discount on his joy in terms of the morning after. The man who doesn’t trust to luck or pin all his faith in it — is lucky! It is the height of many a woman's ambition to reach the point where she can say what she thinks and dress as she likes. When she arrives there she finds no pleasure in doing either. When a man loses his heart his head does double work. When a girl loses hers her head does none at all! Old maids know all about how to bring up children, and it takes a man who never had a wife to understand how to manage one successfully. About the only new things in all this world are antique jewels, old furniture and ancient titles! On Fifth avenue a curious glance can be made to do more deadly work than any number of swear words in. ‘Mulberry Bend.’ "This vain to call old notions fudge and bend your conscience to your dealing, The Ten Commandments will not budge, and stealing will continue stealing." —JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. "Who near has bread in sorrow ate — who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Disheartened on his bed and sat, he knows ye not, ye Heavenly Powers!" —GOETHER. "Friend Advise Mother's Friend" - AN B %) N¥ = @ h;" ‘.“'A‘,‘J}iﬁ:'%‘ ~ } i TR 2, N 1 T (= | k.'£ WY TR E S ﬂ WA N o= l Because it is so perfectly safe to use and has been of such great help to a host of expectant mothers, these women experienced in this most happy period, advise the use of ‘‘Mother’s Friend.” Applied externally to the abdominal muscles; its purpose is to relieve the undue tension upon the cords and ligaments resulting from muscular expansion. Beneath the surface is a network of fine nerve threads and the gentle, soothing embrocation, “Mother's Friend,” is designed to so lubricate the muscular fibers as to avoid the unnecessary and continuous nagging upon this myriad of nerves. It is a reflex action. Applied to the breasts it affords the proper massage to prevent caking. Thousands of women have reason to believe in this splendid help under the trying ordeal of motherhood. Their letters are eloquent evidence of its great value to women. In use for many years, it has come to be a standard remedy for the purpose. There is scarcely a well-stocked drug store anywhere but what you can easily obtain a bottle of “Mother’s Friend," and in nearly every town and village is a grandma who herself used it in earlier years. Expectant mothers are urged to try this splendid assistant to comfort. Mother's Friend is prepared by Bradfield Regular Co., 410 Lamar Bldg., Atlanta, Ga. Send for our little book. 