Chapter I: NEVER recall it without shuddering, though it happened over thirty

years ago.

I was then a young man, occupying a position of trust in the banking firm of Dillard & Hatch. One day I was sent to carry five thousand dollars in gold to Caleb Parton, a very eccentric man living in an isolated house in a wild, hilly part of West Virginia.

Parton was the bank's heaviest depositor, and his wealth was said to aggregate a half million. The day before, his servant, a large negro, had appeared at the bank with a message requesting Dillard to send him eight thousand dollars in gold. He arranged that I was to be the one to carry the amount to him, and further suggested that I should make the trip in a wagon, so that I could take back a cask of rare old wine, which he begged to be permitted to present to the firm.

It was a hard journey over rough, stony roads, which were seldom traveled, except by the plodding mountain folk of that region; and not until two hours after sunset did I reach the queer stone dwelling where Caleb Parton lived a hermit-like existence, shut away from all the world. The place was a lonely one, in the heart of an uninhabited, hilly tract of country covered with extensive forests.

I was impressed with the deepest sense of this loneliness, as I drew rein before the solitary stone house. Hitching the horse to a tree, I was guided up the indistinct path by a meager, yellowish light that struggled through the panes of an upstairs window.

Although I knocked loudly at the door, it was fully ten minutes before I heard any sound within. Then, half cautiously, the thick oaken door opened, and a dark-faced, wiry man, somewhere between fifty and sixty, looked out at me.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"Hope, of the firm of Dillard & Hatch," I returned.

"Ah! It's you, come at last, is it?" he said, holding the lighted candle so as to get a better view of my face. "Well, come in, Mr. Hope."

He led the way up a flight of stairs and through a hall into a wide room, lighted by a brass lamp. The furniture was scant, but of a heavy, antique pattern. A faded Brussels carpet covered the floor, and in one corner stood a desk with a small iron safe near by. A narrow table in the center of the room held a decanter and glasses with the remnants of a lunch.

Motioning me to a chair, my strange host took the sacks of gold, which I carried in a stout bag, and threw them against the safe. The clang of the falling coins sounded dismally through the silent apartment.

"What a curse love and gold can be to a man!"

He spoke bitterly. I had never met Caleb Parton before, and as he uttered these words I looked at him carefully. His face was of a dark olive tint, while his deep-set eyes were small and intensely black. They were full of magnetism and subtle cunning.

He became conscious of my scrutiny, frowned a little, then turned toward the door.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Hope," he said, "I'll bring you up some refreshments. You must be tired and hungry after your long ride."

In a short time he returned, bringing a tray on which was a choice repast, with a bowl of strong coffee.

"You see I'm my own servant, Mr. Hope," he said, putting the tray on the table. "My man, Joe, is off to a camp-meeting and won't be back before daylight."

As I ate the lunch which Caleb Parton had brought me, he emptied the gold from the sacks upon the floor and counted it over carefully.

"Correct!" I heard him chuckle to himself, as he flung the refilled sacks into the safe.

After I had finished my lunch, Parton exhibited two fine pipes and invited me to join him in a smoke.

"Excuse my oversight. There's not a drop of wine left in this decanter," he said, after examining it.

"No matter," I returned. "I never drink wine."

"Tut, tut, man! you miss half your life. Now, I have a very choice collection of wines. Come, I'll give you a peep at my vaults."

He arose as he spoke and took up a candle. I had no interest whatever in wines, but I accompanied him.

Descending to the lower hallway, we passed through a long, dreary room, then down narrow stone steps into a capacious cellar, walled on every side with heavy masonry.

The place was damp and musty. Dust and cobwebs covered the casks and bottles that littered the whole end of the cellar. My host did not halt till we reached a heavy iron door fastened with a large, rusty padlock. I noticed a demoniacal expression on Parton's face, as he held the light close enough to the lock to examine it.

"No, it's never been meddled with," he remarked with a chuckle. "Ten years is a very long time for a man to live on wine—but he was very fond of wine—very—ha, ha!"

I looked at Parton in amazement, much puzzled as to the import of his strange words and manner.

He turned to me with a quick gesture.

"A thousand pardons!" he said. "You think my actions strange. But—shall I?—" a wild flash in his eyes. "Yes, Mr. Hope, you shall have the story. I must tell it to some one. It's too good to keep. Ha, ha!"

"Take a seat," he continued, pushing a cask towards me, upon which I dropped, not certain that I was not in the presence of a madman.

Taking up a bottle, he brushed the cobwebs from it, then, breaking off the neck, passed it to me, saying:

"Take a pull. It's damp in this cellar, and this will take the chill out of your blood. This is an excellent wine—it was a favorite brand with Judson Pickford. Yes, sir; and Judson was a competent judge. Ha, ha!"

His laugh made me shiver. It sounded like the exultation of a fiend. But I declined the wine, and Parton himself drained the bottle.

"You've never heard of Judson Pickford?" he asked.

"No."

"Of course not. That was before you came, and it isn't likely that excellent Messrs. Dillard & Hatch would mention him to you. But they could tell you a great deal about Judson if they were so disposed."

"Judson Pickford was a strange, dark man. I met him first in society in Baltimore. And, strange to say, many declared that there was a strong resemblance between Pickford and Parton. Be that as it may, fate decreed that we should both love the same girl,—beautiful, winsome Mabel Raymond. I loved her from the hour we first met, and I've no doubt my rival's passion was as intense as my own. I was a rich wine merchant, and Pickford a wealthy, brilliant stock-broker. Both of us vowed to win Miss Raymond, but from the first I saw that she favored Pickford's suit. This made me hate my rival with deepest hatred. After they were married I went about for months like one stupefied. In losing the only woman I loved I lost all interest in life. I drank heavily, but the more I drank the more I felt myself urged on to revenge. Then I began to lay plans for Pickford's ruin.

"When he and his wife were in Europe I saw an excellent chance to mature my scheme for his destruction. I first converted all my property into cash. Then I came to this secluded place and had this house built, where I might live apart from the world I hated. Afterward I went to Dillard & Hatch, and placed five hundred thousand dollars in their bank. I knew Dillard to be a noted schemer, so I took him into my confidence, and got his promise to help me. Hatch, being a weak man, was not hard to rope into the plot. No need for me to go into details of the steps by which Dillard and I artfully spread a net for our unsuspecting victim. It is enough to say that soon after Pickford's return from abroad he was a ruined man. Penniless though he was, he didn't lose heart. He moved into plainer quarters and took up the practise of law, a profession which he had followed before he became a stock-broker. But my vengeance was not yet satisfied. Mind you, though, I took pains never to let him suspect I was even most remotely connected with the cause of his ruin.

"Just when Pickford was having his hardest struggle I went to him with an offer to start him in business. He gratefully accepted my offer. I sent him alone to New York with a large sum of money. Then, disguising myself, I followed him. In the city I removed my disguise and sought out Pickford, telling him I had changed my plans for him. I directed him to come here the next night, but to tell no one of our business. He kept the appointment. We met at the station, six miles below the hills, and walked here to this house. It was a dark night. No one saw us. He was fond of wine, so after I had urged many a glass upon him I conducted him to this vault. In his drunken condition I had no trouble to get him to enter it. Then I shut and locked that iron door upon him. He had only a cask of wine to keep him company. That was ten years ago, and that door has never been opened since."

A low laugh from the narrator ended his grewsome tale, while a gleam of fiendish triumph flitted across his swarthy face.

A cold chill crept up my spine, and I arose involuntarily.

Was there truth in his awful narration, or was it merely the ravings of a maniac?

"A wholesome tale to go to bed on, eh, Mr. Hope? Ha, ha!" he laughed, as he arose and led the way upstairs.

When I was alone in the room where I was to spend the night, I decided that the wine which Parton had drunk was responsible for the horrible story to which I had listened.

Next morning, while I was despatching an early breakfast, Negro Joe and Parton carried out a cask of wine, which they placed in my wagon.

Just before starting, my strange host handed me a sealed letter, saying:

"Give this to Dillard, and tell him I hope he'll find the wine superb. Good-by, Mr. Hope," and he waved me off.

When I reached the bank I gave the letter to Mr. Dillard. As he read it his face turned a sickly hue and his mouth twitched nervously. Recovering himself, however, he ordered Hatch and me to open the cask which Parton had sent him.

We obeyed at once. As the top of the cask was broken open, we started back in horror.

There, preserved in wine, was a _human head_,—the head and face of Caleb Parton, the recluse millionaire!

Then Dillard explained that his letter was from Judson Pickford, who, with the help of Negro Joe, who hated his harsh master, Caleb Parton, had effected his escape from the vault. But a month later, his wife having died, Pickford had returned one dark night and killed the man who had so cruelly ruined him. The head of his enemy had been put in a cask of wine to send to the banker, who had aided in accomplishing his financial ruin. With peculiar cunning, he had appropriated not only the name and looks of Parton, but his property and bank account as well. In carrying out this deception, he had a faithful ally in Negro Joe.

It was Pickford himself who had related the dark story to me. It seemed almost incredible. A visit to the lonely stone house with two officers discovered a headless body in the vault. But Pickford and his ally had disappeared.

Stateroom Six.
BY WILLIAM ALBERT LEWIS.

THINGS have changed greatly on the river. There are no open bars, no card playing, no shooting; much less travel, for that matter.

We were a half dozen at supper. I sat opposite a gray-bearded man, who, when he had completed his meal, closely scrutinized a modest-appearing young woman quietly supping at another table. She finished and departed. When she was gone my neighbor leaned across and said:

"Perhaps you thought it funny I watched that lady so closely? But that's 'Sis.' I remember her twenty years back, on this very boat. My! but what a look at her brings to my mind!"

He leaned back, his eyes on the table, a grim smile broadening a kindly countenance, and pushed both hands deeply into his pockets.

The man had something he wanted to tell.

"A romance, I suppose? I'd like to hear it."

"It was twenty years ago, and on this boat, the Hester Hale. Professional gamblers were always aboard, looking for victims. None were more daring nor more lucky than 'Ready' Rankin. A handsome fellow, of good family, with a heart big and manly, if he was a cut-throat gambler and a bad man all around. Down at that landing we left before sundown,—Kellyville,—an old man was waiting, one night, with a wee tot of a girl. He brought her aboard. You know how natural it is to consign children to the care of some person? The child was the old man's granddaughter. She was to get off at Low Water Landing, which is the next stop we'll make, a few minutes from now. He happened to put the child in 'Ready' Rankin's care. He agreed to see her safely ashore and to deliver her to her ma. 'Ready' got a stateroom, put the child in one of the berths, and gave her a bag of candy to keep her from crying. Then he went below for a game. The play chanced to be tolerable heavy that night, with Rankin an eight-thousand-dollar winner. But it ended in a row; and Rankin, seeing trouble ahead, rolled his pile in a newspaper and laid it beside the sleeping child in the stateroom. The boat was then a half hour from the landing. 'Ready' got into a fight with the man he beat at the table, and was badly shot. His last words were confused. He said something about:

"'Stateroom six—little one—Low Water Landing—money.'

"The boat made the landing. They woke the child up, put all the bundles into her arms, and turned her over to her ma.

"Sis's mother soon discovered the package of money, and met the boat at the landing on her down trip next night, to make inquiries of the captain. But he knew nothing. Rankin had been buried that day up river. Nobody knew anything about any money. So Sis's mother kept it, trying all the time to get some knowledge of Rankin's family. That she could not do. They had disowned him.

"About three years ago a party of young men came up the river hunting. They stopped off at Low Water Landing and boarded with Sis's ma. One of the young fellows was teller in a bank down in Natchez. He fell head over ears in love with Sis. You can't much blame him, can you? She's awfully handsome. Naturally enough, they got to comparing notes; and the story of the money came out. Do you know, sir, it turned out that the young bank teller was Rankin's son? Fact! He and his mother and step-father lived together, and all they'd ever heard was that 'Ready' had been killed in a fight on the river. They didn't mourn overmuch, although 'Ready' wasn't the worst chap that ever lived.

"There! We're just blowing for Low Water now. Let's go on deck and see Sis land. Up to visit her ma, I reckon."

"Rankin's son is going to marry her, I suppose?"

"Married, man! Year ago, last Christmas. They live as cozy as you please down in Natchez. He's cashier of that bank now."

We stood by the rail as the boat made fast. The young lady tripped lightly ashore and greeted a white-haired old lady.

The Hester Hale resumed her way.

"Step this way. I'll show you where 'Ready' was killed."

We strolled to the gangway. He pointed to a little bullet hole in the casement.

"There were three shots fired. 'Ready' fired one and I—"

I looked up quickly into his patriarchal face. He paled, and fixed his eyes on me.

"I didn't mean to say so much, friend; but I believe you are a square man. This spot has a fascination for me. And it is twenty years ago, twenty—years—ago."

His head drooped. He seemed to be thinking of something beside what he uttered.

"I understand you," I said.

I pressed his hand, and went to bed.

Her Eyes, Your Honor.
BY H. D. UMBSTAETTER.

THE witness is yours."

As the prosecuting attorney sat down, the spectators craned their necks and eagerly leaned forward. Every one expected a merciless cross-examination, as the reputation of the young lawyer, who had been brought two hundred miles to defend the prisoner, had preceded him. And though Delos McWhorter had thus far taken no part in the proceedings, he was the most conspicuous figure in the great trial. One person alone rivaled him,—the mysterious woman who stood at the bar, charged with murder. The hush that fell upon the packed courtroom as the man slowly rose to his feet resembled the awful silence with which the death sentence is awaited. As he stood silent and irresolute for a moment, the color rising to his plain, youthful face, his fingers nervously fumbling with a pencil, the spectators were conscious of a feeling of disappointment.

With almost boyish embarrassment, his eye sought that of the presiding judge; next he scanned the faces of the jury, and then, turning to the witness, in a voice at once gentle, sarcastic, and magnetic, he began:

"Mr. Slade, I will trouble you to look once more very carefully at the prisoner. Perhaps she will rise that you may see her better. You have testified that shortly before eight on the night of the murder you saw this woman enter the apartment house of which you are the janitor, and in which the body of Charlotte Ames was found. Now, I would like to have you tell the jury just what it was in the appearance of the woman you say you then saw that enables you to swear to-day that she and the prisoner are one and the same person."

The witness, fearing a trap, hesitated, and nervously eyed the lawyer.

"I would like you to tell us," calmly continued the questioner, "whether you took such particular notice of her height, her face, her complexion, her hair, her nose, and her teeth during the few moments that you say you saw her in the dimly lighted hallway, four months ago, as to enable you to swear to-day that you cannot be mistaken. Was it her size, her apparent age, perhaps, or the color of her hair, or what?"

"It was her looks," answered the witness, squirming in his seat. "It's the same woman."

"Yes, her looks; but I must trouble you to answer my question so that the jury may have the whole truth before they are asked to send any one to the gallows. Remember, Mr. Slade, you are under oath. Now tell us, what was it?"

"We object," came from the prosecuting attorney as he sprang to his feet. "We object, your honor, to this attempt to intimidate the witness."

Before the court could pass upon the objection, the witness, turning from his questioner to the court, exclaimed half defiantly:

"It was her eyes, your honor!"

"That is all," came from the lawyer for the defense, as he resumed his seat; and the spectators relaxed into a condition of restlessness that clearly showed their further disappointment.

Each of the succeeding witnesses declared without hesitation that the prisoner was the woman they had seen near the scene of the murder, either just before or shortly after the deed was discovered. As one after the other was dismissed by the defense, upon insisting under cross-examination that he could not possibly be mistaken, the faces of the government counsel beamed with satisfaction, while those of the spectators assumed the blankness of mystification. What was the strange lawyer there for? they whispered among themselves, and many turned toward the prisoner as though to ascertain whether she realized how surely her life was being sworn away. In his opening address the prosecuting attorney had said:

"On the second day of last November, a woman residing in this town, young, rich, and notorious for her gay and reckless career, was found murdered in her bed at half past eight at night. Everything about the room was in perfect order. There had been no robbery, and the instrument used was found in her breast, where it had been driven to the heart. It was a gold ornament, such as a woman wears in her hair.

"We shall not attempt to defend the character of the dead woman, but we shall ask that justice be done.

"It is true that many a woman in this town had good reason to wish the murdered woman ill. It is true that there are men in the community who might have been driven by desperate hate, desperate love, or desperate jealousy, to do the deed, but, fortunately, before cruel suspicion made any blunder of that sort the police discovered the criminal. Almost simultaneously with the rumors of the murder came the reports of a mysterious woman found leaving the city. Within twelve hours this woman, who now stands at the bar, had been identified by no less than four people, who saw her in the vicinity of the scene of the crime either before or after it was committed.

"No one knew her. She refused to give any account of herself. She appeared to be in a state of great nervous excitement. The government will show that she entered the house shortly before the murder was committed; that she left it a few minutes after the deed was done; that on the very day of the murder she had high words with the dead woman, and that the instrument with which the deed was done was such an one as the prisoner was known to possess. Gentlemen of the jury," he concluded dramatically, "Fate plays no tricks of that sort. Fate fashions no such chain of circumstantial evidence as that which establishes the guilt of this woman and upon which we ask her conviction."

These were his words, and now that the janitor had testified that he saw the prisoner enter the building, a patrolman had declared that he saw her leaving it within fifteen minutes before the crime was discovered, and the dead woman's coachman had sworn to having overheard the prisoner using threatening language to his mistress,—after this and other circumstantial evidence had gone before the jury and remained unshaken by cross-examination, the prosecution announced that the case for the government was in.

In spite of the disappointment with which the spectators regarded Lawyer McWhorter, a nervous dread of the man possessed the minds of the opposing counsel, as he rose slowly and deliberately clasped his hands behind him. He was so calm. His methods were so unfathomable that they began to feel a vague conviction that he mastered them and their methods, while to them he was a closed book.

A moment he stood silent, and when he spoke, utter consternation fell upon the court. The words were the last they had expected.

"Your honor, the defense has no evidence to offer."

Even the court could scarce control its amazement. Inch by inch the ground upon which the prisoner stood had been carried away, until now nothing but the personal appeal of her counsel could save her life. Was this possible? Did this young stranger really possess that rare eloquence, that fatal magnetism, that sometimes blind strong men to all sense of reason and right? Did even he hope to save his client? His looks betrayed nothing. As he took his seat his face was that of a sphinx.

The attorney for the government lost no time in beginning his closing speech. "We commend the judgment of the distinguished counsel for the defense," he began, "which deterred him from attacking the overwhelming proofs we have submitted of the prisoner's guilt. We commend the keen judgment which prompts him to rely upon the famed magic of his own voice rather than to seek hope for his client in the uncertain words of unreliable witnesses. The defense, too clever to attack such proof as we have presented, will now rely upon silvery tongued oratory and superb rhetorical appeals to secure from these twelve men a verdict of acquittal. But, may it please the court," he concluded, "our learned brother mistakes the intelligence of these gentlemen of the jury, if he supposes, for one moment, that fervent appeals to their sympathies can make them forget their duty to themselves, to civilized society, and to womankind." So well satisfied, however, had the spectators become of the prisoner's guilt, and so completely did all interest now center in McWhorter's anticipated speech, that the remarks of the prosecuting attorney were listened to with indifferent attention.

Now, surely, the brilliant advocate would demonstrate his ability, even though he could not save his client.

"The woman," he began, amid oppressive silence, "who was arrested on the second day of November last, stands charged with murder. As no testimony has been offered to show that she committed murder, the defense will not waste your time or insult your common sense by unnecessary argument. You have been told with great clearness by the witnesses for the prosecution that the prisoner was seen to enter and leave a certain house at certain hours; also that on a certain day she had high words with a certain woman. But, gentlemen of the jury, under the laws of your State that doesn't constitute murder. A woman may pay a visit to an apartment house at eight o'clock at night, she may have high words with another woman in the public highway, she may even wear a gold ornament in her hair,—she may do all this without becoming a murderess. The evidence adduced is purely circumstantial. No proof whatever has been offered that the accused woman killed Charlotte Ames. In the absence of such testimony, it is your duty to yourselves, to civilized society, and to womankind, to acquit the prisoner." Before the last word was spoken he sat down.

The entire courtroom was again taken by surprise. While the brief speech had the ring of cleverness, it fell far short of the general expectations.

After hearing the judge's charge to the jury not one person in that vast assembly doubted the result. Few felt any sympathy for the woman, and those few were men. The members of her own sex were as a unit arrayed against her. The pride of her pale beauty antagonized them. The very women who in their hearts had wished the dead girl ill and who would have committed the crime themselves, except that they lacked the courage, had no pity for the accused. There was something in her beauty above and beyond them, and, womanlike, they hated her for it.

Not a soul left the courtroom as the jury filed out, for all expected a prompt verdict. In this they were not disappointed. Ten minutes later the twelve men filed solemnly back. Not an eye sought the face of the prisoner, who, like her counsel, sat entirely unmoved.

As the clerk rose the silence became deathlike. "Prisoner, look upon the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoner. Have you agreed upon a verdict?"

"We have."

"Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime charged against her?"

"Guilty."

With difficulty the demonstrations of approval that broke out in every part of the room were checked by the court officers.

Moved by that inevitable heart-stopping vision of "hanged by the neck," every spectator turned to the handsome woman in the dock.

The calmness with which she received the stares of a thousand eyes was marvelous. No one expected that she would now break her mysterious silence. When, therefore, she rose and turned her eyes towards the court the spectators sat fairly spellbound with surprise.

"May it please your honor," she began in a firm, clear voice; then, lifting one slender white hand, she pointed to the door at the back of the witness stand.

Every eye followed her gesture. A tall female figure, heavily veiled, accompanied by one of the associate counsel of the defense, stood in the doorway. The next moment she raised her veil, advanced rapidly, and took her place beside the prisoner.

The scene that followed resembled a street riot, rather than the solemn proceedings of a courtroom. Men, wild with excitement, mounted their chairs, women rose in their seats, pushing, jostling, and crowding each other in their frantic efforts to get a better view of the highly sensational proceedings. The confusion was indescribable, the noise deafening. Not until McWhorter was seen to spring to his feet did the court officers' vigorous rapping and loud cries for order produce any effect. Instantly all was silence. Rigid suspense held the spectators breathless. With the light they had missed in his eye and the fire they had longed for in his voice the young lawyer spoke, addressing the judge:

"May it please the court,—nice customs must bow to desperate needs. When a man is called upon to face in defense of a woman's life such odds as I found in this case, when he sees justice outwitted by the devil's trick,—circumstantial evidence,—he must resort to the devil's weapon,—cunning. Such evidence as has been here given has hanged many a man, and I believe that when a man of any heart, any soul, any chivalry, sees that it is likely to hang a woman it becomes his duty to combat fate as the defense has done in this case.

"I ask your honor, I ask the jury, I ask the witnesses, to look upon these two women. As they stand there side by side, there is a marked difference in their heights, a decided difference in the color of their hair, a striking difference in the color of their eyes, a very perceptible difference, even at this distance, in the tone of their skin; and, I may add, a difference of eight years in their ages. The woman who has just been pronounced guilty of murder is the wife of a gentleman who throughout this trial has sat within the shadow of the jury. She is innocent, as God is my judge. Every moment of her life up to this very instant can be accounted for. In substituting her to-day for the real prisoner, the defense had no desire to circumvent justice. We merely wished to save this court, this community, from the everlasting shame of hanging a woman whose guilt has not been proved. We wished to show to your honor and to these gentlemen of the jury that it is monstrous to accept as conclusive such evidence as has been given in this case. May it please your honor, this jury has just pronounced a verdict of 'guilty' against my own wife. I move that here and now this verdict be set aside."

The request was granted, and, although McWhorter was charged with unprofessional conduct and threatened with disbarment, his client was promptly acquitted on the new trial which the court ordered.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

Hair Cloth Crinoline,

NOTWITHSTANDING the great number of imitations and substitutes advertised to be twice as wide and twice as cheap, has a hold upon the fashionable dressmakers and fashionable women that cannot be shaken. It was only a matter of time for the old adage, "_The best is the cheapest_," to be proven, and now the demand for the genuine Hair Cloth Crinoline, of which every strand of the weft is _pure hair_, promises to exceed the output. Experience has also taught the best manner of using it, and the fault of shrinking or cockling, which by the unthinking ones has sometimes been attributed to hair cloth, without for a moment looking for the real cause, _that of putting two fabrics of different nature together, either of which may shrink a little_, has been overcome by scientific methods of interlining. Shrinking, ironing, and binding hair cloth before putting into a dress has also produced satisfactory results, more than compensating for the little extra trouble in so doing. To make certain of the genuine hair cloth take out a few strands of the weft, pull them, and if found to be elastic it is hair cloth, otherwise imitation.

It is quite easily understood why hair cloth is so elastic and resilient if one will only stop to think that, no matter how many ways human hair is combed, whether twisted, curled, braided, crimped or frizzled, wet or oiled, it will resume its natural position, and, so, too, will Hair Cloth Crinoline, having a weft of _pure hair_, resume its normal condition.

Such HAIR CLOTH CRINOLINE as above referred to is made by the American Hair Cloth Company, of Pawtucket, R. I., the largest hair cloth manufacturers in the world, whose goods are recognized as the leaders throughout the country, and are superior to any foreign or domestic make. They manufacture several grades, suitable for skirts and sleeves, for both day and evening dresses; =10/4=, =14/4=, =10/5=, =200/4=, =98/3=, usually sold for Skirts; =84/3=, =146/3=, =170/3=, =200/4= for Sleeves.

American Hair Cloth Company. PAWTUCKET, R.I.

CHARLES E. PERVEAR, Agent.

High Grade Salad for High Grade People

Book about real Olive Oil—Nature's best refined—appreciated by folks of educated taste—free if you mail us your calling card—we don't want postal card folks—A. G. Belden &. Co., 145 Maiden Lane, New York, Importers.

O
TO
O

Everything in Carpets, Rugs, Hangings, and Upholstery, from the Oriental to the Occidental, from the superb antique to the attractive modern, from the choicest luxury to the plainest every-day necessity—if it's worth having, you'll find it among our stock, and at prices that bring wholesale and retail buyers from everywhere. John H. Pray, Sons & Co., 658 Washington St., opposite Boylston St., Boston, Mass.

Stock Buyers and Bankers

Take care of money—subject to check—give interest on deposits.

Buy and sell for cash or margin ONLY the securities listed on New York Stock Exchange

Investors of money

Givers of stock information, by mail or wire.

A member of our firm always on floor of Stock Exchange.

Wayland Trask & Co.,
18 Wall St., New York.

Free Magic Lantern Book

All about lanterns, stereopticons and views, for Public Exhibitions—Schools—Home amusement and for everybody How to make money—265 page illustrated catalogue free.—Send to McAllister, 49 Nassau Street, New York.

Joy, wealth, and health, and hope long fled
We drink, and sorrow bury,
In draughts from Nature's fountain-head,
Of SPARKLING LONDONDERRY.

Copyright, 1895, by Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Co., Nashua, N.H.

To give you some idea how entirely different the Bridgeport "New" Rochester =is from all other lamps=, we give the No. 2 burner photographed exact size; are these draft holes likely to get filled up to endanger your life?

We cannot tell you here _why_ there is =no climbing= of the flame, =no soiling= table covers, =no breaking= of chimney springs, no =running over= in filling, etc.; but our new Catalogue will—and give other important information which every lamp user _ought to know_—free for the asking—but mention this publication.

=Don't jeopardize the life of your family=, as we can supply new fonts to fit your old unsatisfactory and unsafe lamps.

_Don't mistake and think we are advertising a burner; this illustration shows that part only of the central draft_ =Bridgeport "New" Rochester Lamps=—_the Catalogue explains everything you want to know; send for it now, please_.

Bridgeport Brass Co.

Bridgeport, Conn.,
or 19 Murray St., N. Y.

THE ONLY BICYCLE LANTERN BURNING KEROSENE OIL SEARCH LIGHT SEARCH LIGHT BICYCLE LANTERN MANUFACTURED BY BRIDGEPORT BRASS CO. BRIDGEPORT, CONN.

_It cures from head to foot._

Puritana

Trade Mark Registered.

Nature's Cure

For diseases of the
Stomach
Liver
Blood
Kidneys
And for
Weak Lungs
Starved Nerves
Fagged Brain

It cures after everything else has failed. It cures cases that have been given up as hopeless. It cures pleasantly. It cures positively. It cures permanently.

_It cures from head to foot._

Puritana is the prize formula of Prof. Dixi Crosby, M.D., LL.D., for over 30 years at the head of Dartmouth Medical College.

If you are a sufferer, get of your druggist this great disease-conquering discovery (the price is $1 for the complete treatment, consisting of one bottle of Puritana Compound, one bottle of Puritana Pills, and one bottle of Puritana Tablets), or write to the undersigned, and you will bless the day when you heard of Puritana. The Puritana Compound Co., Concord, N. H.

The Story of Puritana.

Prof. Dixi Crosby, M. D., LL. D., who for thirty-two years was at the head of Dartmouth Medical College, belonged to the famous Crosby family of physicians, which for several generations has furnished more distinguished medical men than any other family in America. His father was Dr. Asa Crosby, of Dartmouth, who procured the charter of the State medical society, of which he was for thirty years a conspicuous member; one brother, Dr. Josiah Crosby, invented the invalid bed and the method of making extensions of fractured limbs by adhesive strips; another brother, Dr. Thos. R. Crosby, was chief surgeon in Columbian College Hospital during the war, and later professor of animal and vegetable physiology at Dartmouth College; while Dr. Dixi Crosby himself was the inventor and discoverer of various important improvements in medicine and surgery, including a new and unique mode of reducing metacarpophalangeal dislocation, opening of abscess at hip-joint, etc., etc.

At the early age of twenty-four his extraordinary skill and success in overcoming disease had already attracted the attention of medical men throughout the world, and won for him the highest honors. His greatest achievement was the discovery of an original method for perfecting and compounding in permanent form what has become known as his "prize formula," and which, under the name of Puritana, is legally protected.

The foundation of this remarkable medical discovery consists of simple New England roots and herbs, and the original family recipe for it has descended to the long line of Crosby physicians from their Puritan ancestors. Its peculiar vegetable composition rendered it necessary to brew it whenever needed in the early days of its history, and after the scattering of the Puritan families to remote localities, where the necessary ingredients were not to be found, many attempts were made to put it up in permanent form, all of which failed until Dr. Dixi Crosby discovered means and methods, the result of which is: Nature's Cure compounded in the laboratory of Common Sense.

_It cures from head to foot._

Puritana
Nature's Cure

_OFFICIAL._

Seal of New Hampshire.

The cures effected in this State by Dr. Dixi Crosby's prize formula Puritana are so astonishing and the results with which we personally have used this remarkable medical discovery are so entirely satisfactory that we deem it our duty to accord it our public indorsement and private recommendation.

Signature of the
_Governor of New Hampshire._

Signature of the
_Ex-Governor of New Hampshire._

Signature of the
_Secretary of State._

Signature of the
_R. R. Commissioner._

Signature of the
_Mayor of Concord._

Signature of the
_Sec'y Board of Agriculture._

Signature of the
_County Solicitor._

Signature of the
_Insurance Commissioner._

Signature of the
_Cashier Merrimac Co. Bank._

Signature of the
_Practising Physician._

Signature of the
_Treas. Loan and Trust Savings Bank._

Puritana has cured case after case that had been given up as hopeless.

It has cured case after case from head to foot, whether the suffering was due to disordered _Blood_, _Liver_, _Stomach_, _Kidneys_, _Lungs_, _Brain_, _Nerves_, or _Skin_. A trial proves its worth.

If you are a sufferer get of your druggist this great disease-conquering discovery (the price is $1 for the complete treatment, consisting of one bottle of Puritana Compound, one bottle of Puritana Pills, and one bottle of Puritana Tablets), or write to the undersigned, and you will bless the day when you heard of Puritana. The Puritana Compound Co., Concord, N. H.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.'S AUTUMN FICTION.

A Singular Life.

By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, author of "The Gates Ajar," etc.,
16mo, $1.25.

A story of remarkable power and significance, depicting the heroic
career of a singularly conscientious minister among fishermen, and the
sublime success he achieved.

A Gentleman Vagabond, and Some Others.

By F. HOPKINSON SMITH, author of "Colonel Carter of
Cartersville," "A Day at Laguerre's," etc. 16mo, $1.25.

A book of short stories by a man who always has exceptionally
interesting stories to tell and who tells them wonderfully well.

The Life of Nancy.

By SARAH ORNE JEWETT, author of "Deephaven," "A Native of
Winby," etc. 16mo, $1.25.

A book of short stories as good as Miss Jewett has ever written, and
who has written better?

The Village Watch-Tower.

By Mrs. WIGGIN, author of "The Birds' Christmas Carol," etc.
16mo, $1.00.

Several short stories containing admirable studies of New England
village life—bright, witty, extremely readable.

The Wise Woman.

By Mrs. BURNHAM, author of "Sweet Clover," "Miss Bagg's
Secretary," etc. 16mo, $1.25.

The aim of this charming story is to do away with artificial
conventionalities and promote a more sincere social life.

The Coming of Theodora.

By ELIZA ORNE WHITE, author of "Winterborough," "When Molly
Was Six." 16mo, $1.25.

A novel that may well cause discussion. The scene is a semi-rural
neighborhood, the characters true to life, the incidents natural and
the narrative fresh and attractive.

Clarence.

By BRET HARTE. 16mo, $1.25.

In a Hollow of the Hills.

By BRET HARTE. 16mo, $1.25.

"Clarence" is a story of war time and introduces President Lincoln.
"In a Hollow of the Hills" is a story of far Western life, in which
figure robbers, a mysterious lady, a lonely young girl. The incidents
are highly dramatic and the story is told as only Bret Harte can tell
such a story.

The Mystery of Witch-Face Mountain.

By CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK, author of "The Prophet of the
Great Smoky Mountains," etc. 16mo, $1.25.

A book of several powerful stories of the region and characters which
Miss Murfree knows so well and "plays" so effectively.

The Cup of Trembling, and Other Stories.

By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE, author of "Cœur d'Alene," "The Chosen
Valley," etc. 16mo, $1.25.

A collection of short stories, admirable in plot, characters,
narrative, tone, and purpose.

The Madonna of the Tubs.

_New Popular Edition_ of one of Miss PHELPS'S most
striking and touching stories. With illustrations. Uniform with Mrs.
Wiggin's "The Birds' Christmas Carol." 75 cents.

Mr. Rabbit at Home.

A sequel to "Little Mr. Thimblefinger and His Queer Country." By
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. With 25 illustrations by Oliver
Herford. Square 8vo, bound in very attractive style, $2.00.

The Nimble Dollar, and Other Stories.

A group of capital stories for boys. By CHARLES MINER
THOMPSON. With a frontispiece illustration. 1 vol. 16mo, $1.00.

Sold by Booksellers. Sent postpaid by

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON.

Free for a Postal

If you want to obtain WITHOUT COST a Bicycle, Piano, Organ, Sewing Machine, Fountain Pen, a Carriage Lamp, Bicycle Lantern, Camera, Winchester Rifle, a Revolver, Typewriter, Carpet Sweeper, Roll-top Desk, Frank Leslie Pipe, Etchings, an Encyclopedia, any Standard Work, Popular Books, Silverware, New Sets of Standard Works, etc.

Send us your name and address and mention THE BLACK CAT. These substantial and valuable premiums, the best ever offered by a reliable publishing house, are given _absolutely free_, with the wonderfully improved

Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly, The Great Family Magazine.

Contains each month: Original Water Color Frontispiece. Over 100 New and High Class Illustrations, 128 Quarto Pages of Reading Matter.

Publishes more illustrations and literary matter than any other magazine in America.

25 Cents. $3.00 a Year.

=Frank Leslie's Pleasant Hours for Boys and Girls.= A Bright, New, Wholesome, Juvenile Monthly. Fully illustrated. The best writers for young people contribute to it. 20c. a copy. $1 a year.

=Frank Leslie's Budget=. A monthly of humor, satire, and tales of adventure. Thoroughly up to date, and fully illustrated. 20c. a copy. $1 a year.

20c.
sent at once, in stamps or coin, will
bring you a specimen copy of all
three magazines.

Frank Leslie's Publishing House,
42-44 Bond Street, New York.

"The Handsomest of Special Numbers."

The Magnificent Christmas Double Number OF THE NEW YORK LEDGER

Forms will close Monday, November 25.
Unusually large extra edition to be printed.
Limited space.

Send order and "Copy" at once to
EDWARD P. CONE, Manager Advertising Department,
Ledger Building, New York City.

"GOLD MEDAL AND DIPLOMA, CONSTITUTING HIGHEST AWARD, MUNICH INTERNATIONAL EXPOSITION, 1895. AN UNPARALLELED VICTORY IN THE VERY HOME OF BREWING."

THE HISTORY OF BREWING BEGINS WITH EGYPT

PABST MILWAULKEE

SUPREME AWARD WORLD'S FAIR

Life's...Struggle Becomes more and more intense as the Nineteenth Century advances. Mentally and physically we must conserve our energies, build up our strength, and equip ourselves for the contest. We must have sleep, good digestion, steady nerves, bone and muscle, clear minds. These can be secured, maintained and enhanced by the use of Pabst... MALT EXTRACT The "Best" Tonic

MILWAUKEE BEER IS FAMOUS
PABST HAS MADE IT SO.

The Hook That's Flat

The Hook that shows isn't so good as the Hook that doesn't. There's no show to the Singer Hook and Eye. Sold everywhere.

Singer Safety Hook & Eye Co.,
GRAND RAPIDS, MICH.

The Barta Press Printers of The Black Cat. Artistic, Original, and Unique Typography. Boston, Mass.

The Ink used in printing The Black Cat is manufactured by Geo. H. Morrill & Co., Boston, Mass.

HYACINTHS. TULIPS.

ELEGANT FLOWERING BULBS.

_Sent by Mail, postpaid, at the following special prices._

3 named =HYACINTHS=, different colors, fine, for 10c.
5 " =TULIPS=, lovely sorts, all different, " 10c.
4 " =NARCISSUS=, " " " " 10c.
3 =JAPAN LILIES=, " " " " 10c.
10 =CROCUS=, 5 sorts, named, - - - " 10c.
10 =FREESIAS=, fine mixed sorts, - - " 10c.
1 =BLACK CALLA=, new, from Palestine - " 10c.

or the whole =36 Bulbs=, postpaid, for 50 cents.

Our Catalogue,

=ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED, of all kinds of Plants and Bulbs=, for Fall Planting and Winter Blooming, also new Fruits, Shrubs, etc., is now ready, and will be mailed =FREE= to all who apply. Choicest Hyacinths, Tulips, Narcissus, and other Bulbs, at greatly reduced prices. Write for it at once. Address

JOHN LEWIS CHILDS, FLORAL PARK, N. Y.

"My Boy— LE PAGE'S LIQUID GLUE will not mend broken bones but I don't know anything else it won't mend—and mend it so that 'twill stay mended, too."

Ten-cent bottles for household use.
CANS with patent cover for Mechanics.

Copyright, 1895, by Russia Cement Co., Gloucester, Mass.

Copyright, 1895, by The Shortstory Publishing Co.

5 CENTS

_=New York Tribune=_:—The average American can always
find time to read such fascinating stories as are published in the
attractive new story magazine, The Black Cat. Brief, stirring, well
handled, and uniquely original, these tales are distinctly a new
departure in story-telling.

_=Boston, Mass., Daily Herald=_:—The Black Cat has reached
the climax of the story-telling art. Both press and public seem to
have agreed upon this. In street cars and hotels, in drawing-rooms
and in railroad stations, this magazine's outward attractiveness and
interesting inwardness are the subject of continued conversation.

_=Philadelphia, Pa., Evening Telegraph=_:—The new Boston short-story
magazine, The Black Cat, with its complete, stirring tales, exquisite
cover, clear type and captivating initial cuts and tail-pieces—all
for five cents—will repay the buyer a dozen times over.

_=Woonsocket, R. I., Daily Reporter=_:—The Black Cat
presents an entire departure from the beaten path. It is marked to
become _the_ magazine of story lovers.

_=Cumberland, Md., Daily Times=_:—The prettiest, most
unique, and most interesting story magazine on the market is The Black
Cat. It is a gem and will become a great pet.

_=Hartford, Conn., Daily Times=_:—What sets the Black Cat
magazine apart from any other is the fact that its stories are not
only absolutely new, but that they are well told, and offered on their
merits as stories. 'Tis unique in contents, unique in make-up, and
compact in form.

_=Springfield, Ill., Daily News=_:—The Black Cat is exactly
such a new departure in story-telling as any man or woman will
appreciate. It furnishes the most delightful five cents' worth ever
put into print.

_=Boston, Mass., Daily Post=_:—Surely any one who buys
a copy of the new five-cent story magazine, The Black Cat, will
pronounce it the most fascinating five cents' worth on earth.

_=Portsmouth, N. H., Daily Post=_:—The Black Cat, with its
clever, original stories—all good stories, well told—is undoubtedly
destined to become the most popular magazine ever published.

_=Detroit, Mich., Journal=_:—In The Black Cat the reader
will find, not fairly good stories, but the best stories, gotten up in
the cleverest form, and offered for the least money,—five cents.

_=Burlington, Vt., Free Press=_:—The outward attractiveness
of the Black Cat magazine is more than fulfilled by the interest of
the original, stirring, complete tales that make up its contents.

_=Boston, Mass., Daily Globe=_:—Its captivating
contents,—stories that _are_ stories,—render The Black Cat
emphatically the periodical for the story-loving public everywhere.

_=Manchester, N. H., Daily Mirror=_:—The most uniquely
fascinating magazine ever published is the Black Cat. Certainly any
one who spends five cents for a copy will find his investment repaid
many times over.

_=Lynn, Mass., Daily Item=_:—The Black Cat is the most
original and captivating story teller ever published. It lives up to
its watchwords—fascinating tales, cleverly told.

_=Baltimore, Md., American=_:—The literary contents of the
unique new Boston magazine, The Black Cat, are quite as fascinating as
its exquisite covers.

_=Evansville, Ind., Daily Courier=_:—With its beautiful
appearance and excellent short stories—all for five cents—The Black
Cat is bound to become a general favorite and popular success.

_=New York Mail and Express=_:—The Black Cat will prove
a literary pet. It publishes good, strong short stories,—the most
difficult literary product to obtain. It is clean, stirring,
enterprising.

_Story Tellers_

Will simply waste time and postage in sending us manuscripts which do not in every particular meet the following requirements:—

We can use only such stories as, both in plot and handling, are of striking originality and universal interest, stories which never, either in whole or part, have appeared in print before, and which are free from padding, commonplace and attempted fine writing. No dialect stories, poetry, or translations will be considered. The Black Cat will give space only to

Fascinating Tales, Cleverly Told.

To receive attention, all manuscripts must bear the writer's full name and address, together with the number of words, which may range from fifteen hundred to five thousand, but must in no case exceed the latter number; they must be very legibly written, sent unfolded, and accompanied by sufficient stamps for their return. Manuscripts will be received and returned only at the contributor's risk. All stories will be judged purely on their own merits, and the writer's name or reputation will carry no weight whatever. Payment for accepted manuscripts will be made not according to length, but according to the editor's opinion of their worth. Manuscripts will be paid for on the day of acceptance.

THE SHORTSTORY PUBLISHING CO., 144 High St., Boston, Mass.

Some New Fiction.

=Jude, the Obscure= (Hearts Insurgent). By THOMAS HARDY.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_About Ready._)

=The Red Cockade.= By STANLEY J. WEYMAN. Illustrated.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.50.

=Against Human Nature.= By MARIA LOUISE POOL. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=Sunshine and Haar.= By GABRIEL SETOUN. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. (_Ready._)

=A Cumberland Vendetta=, and Other Stories. By JOHN FOX,
Jr. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=The Veiled Doctor.= By VARINA ANNE JEFFERSON DAVIS.
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=My Lady Nobody.= A Novel. By MAARTEN MAARTENS.
Author of "An Old Maid's Love," etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. $1.75.

=His Father's Son.= A Novel of New York. By BRANDER
MATTHEWS. Illustrated by T. DE THULSTRUP. Post 8vo,
Cloth, Ornamental. $1.50.

=People We Pass.= By JULIAN RALPH. Illustrated. Post
8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_Just Ready._)

=Red Men and White.= Stories. By OWEN WISTER.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. (_About Ready._)

=The Day of Their Wedding.= By W. D. HOWELLS.
Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth. (_Just Ready._)

=The Sowers.= By HENRY SETON MERRIMAN. Post 8vo, Cloth,
Ornamental. $1.25.

=With the Procession.= By HENRY B. FULLER. Post 8vo,
cloth, Ornamental. $1.25.

=The Front Yard=, and Other Italian Stories. By CONSTANCE
FENIMORE WOODSON. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth. $1.25.

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers, New York.

_Every Description of Printing Plates made by us, by every process._