NEWPORT DAILY INDEPENDENT
PERCY H. VA« DYKE, Publl$b« «n4 E4lt»f.
NEWPORT. - * ARKANSAS.
THE PEACE OF SLEEP
Refreshed and vigorous may I awake.
To bear the burdens of another day;
And wiser paths In Thy great vineyard
make,
That follow Christ more closely all the
way.
0 may the peace that so pervades Sleep's
sphere
Hush storm of strife, soothe Sorrow's
plaintive wall.
Heal wounded hearts and dry the flowing
tear,
So Love and Mercy with good cheer
prevail.
1 thank the Love that rules this border
land.
Where blessed angels wait to serve; and
stay
To lead us gently on, with helpful hand,
O’er life's uneven, dark and toilsome
way.
Beneficent and sanatory land,
Where healing power these machines re
pair,
Machines so long In use, complex and
grand;
Yet so abused, worn out, and wanting
care.
The Love Divine that broods o’er mystic
Sleep,
Which sweetly typifies our final rest.
Shines through the pearly gates, that
open keep,
Near Sleep's kind vestibule to mansions
blest.
So. tranquil now, I lay me down to
sleep,
And sink away from self, into Thy will.
Till morning dawn, no more to watch or
weep,
For one Is softly breathing ’’Peace, be
still.”
•—Mrs. R. C. Mather, in Boston Transcript.
iTjansan
BY CLAUDE ASKEW. |
CLARA Stanhope looked hard at her
partner; he interested her and it
wAs seldom a man did that. She had
actually danced four times with Rog
er Meredith; it was quite against her
strict code that now she was sitting
out with him in a dark corner. It
was the evening of the Medford ball;
all the country was (here—the big
fish and the small fry; it was a gay
and animated scene; curious glances
were east at Clara anti her partner,
for she was the big eatcli of the coun
try. Little was known of Roger Mer
edith beyond the fact that he was
a Handsome scapegrace, and the
bishop of Radford’s nephew.
“He is almost a man I could care
for,” laughed Clara Stanhope to her
self; “and what is there to prevent
him liking me? 1 have youth, good
looks and money, and I um fired of
a lonely life; he may be a scamp—
very likely he is, but 1 can afford to
marry whom I would, and I like this
man—hugely.”
“I am leaving this section to-mor
row morning,” Roger Meredith’s
voice broke in suddenly on the girl’s
meditation; “so to-night will mean
good-by for many years, I am afraid.
I am off to the far west.”
"You are going abroad?”
“YeB—for some time. Hark! they
are striking up a waltz. Shall wo
dance it together?”
“Impossible. Lady Halcross, who is
chaperoning me—I am staying with
her, you know—ordered the carriage
at 2:30 sharp. It is nearly that now,
and she hates to keep the horses
waiting. 1 am afraid I must go and
get my cloak. You will not be stop
ping with your uncle again befor'
you go abroad?"
“Mo; so this is good-by. I have
barely known you for three weeks,
Miss Stanhope, yet 1 can assure you
that you are the only woman I have
ever regretted saying good-by to.”
His speech and manner were uncon
ventional, but there was a ring of
truth in his voice.
Clara Stanhope caught her breath;
she realized that for the first time
in her life a man had touched her
heart. She found no pleasure in her
wraioVn frwdom and almost mascu
line independence!; she became frank
ly primitive and wholly natural.
Crimsoning even to hew brow, she
aske*d slowly:
“Why should we say good-by?"
“Mv friends call me a bad card:
v (
besides, I’ve fallen on evil ways. If
I had met you earlier in my life—welf,
well, we are all pawns on Fate’s t
chessboard; se> good-night. Miss Stan- |
hope—and good-by.”
“As you like, but remember if you !
ever care to see me again, I am 28, j
and my own mistress.”
She gathered up the folds of her I
tulle ball gown and stood up. a tall j
and splendid specimen of young wo
manhood. She was brown-haired i
with deep coloring; she carried her
self superbly, and wore, as few wo
men could, a magnificent tiara o'
emeralds—a famous Stanhope heir
loom.
Roger Meredith caught her hand;
impulsively.
“If you were only a beggar girl,
I’d—take you abroad with me; out
to a new life in the west.”
“T might not go.”
“Ah! but yon would go.” He
dropped her hands, saying, as he
turned away, “To each one his own
destiny. I have met you a year too
late.”
“Have you?” She spoke in a clear,
low voice, then moved f or ward, and
in a few seconds was lost to sight.
Roger Meredith followed her with
his eyes till the crowd hid her from
view, then he sighed shortly, and
turned irritably on a nervous-looking,
fair-haired man who was advancing
to meet him and said:
“1 thought you were never coming,
Harry. Is my horse ready?”
“Yes; Jim is waiting with it in
the shrubbery; it’s almost time to
start. Have you found out from the
girl what time the Halcross carriage
Was ordered?”
“Yes, for 2:30; and it wants four
minutes now.”
“We are in luck to-night, Roger.
Lady Halcross is wearing moat of
her diamonds. You will scoop an
immense sum with the old lady’s jew
els, to say nothing of Clara Stan
hope’s emeralds.”
“I cannot do it; I throw up the
job.”
“What! Showing the white feather
at this hour? Besides, there’s no risk,
my dear boy! Who could recognize
you in a erape mask, or suspect the
bishop’s nephew? There’s not been
a knight of the road in these quiet
country lanes for the last 80 years.
It will wake the good folk up—give
them something to talk about!”
“D-the good people; it’s a hate
ful job robbing women. I tell you
I won’t do it, Harry.”
“You seem to have forgotten that
women have pretty well robbed you.
Also, that unless you can square old
Levi within the next few weeks he
will come down smartly on that young
brother of yours. The youngster
was n deuced fool to forge your fa
ther’s signature, of course; still, you
took him to see Vera, knowing her
and her kind."
“I know I did. Well, he shall have
the $4,000 all right, and get back the
bill. Cheer up, Harry, old man. I’m
going to see the game through. For
get my momentary hesitation to be
come a scoundrel. I know it’s im
possible to raise the money in any
other way, so here goes.” And with
a light, mocking laugh Roger Mere
dith turned on his heel, and his
friend whistled softly.
The moon had gone in, and the
dark country side seemed deserted;
Lady Halcross’ carriage rumbled
safely along, her ladyship dozing hap
pily, while her pretty debutante
daughter and Clara Stanhope kept up
an animated, if whispered conversa
tion. After a while the younger girl
ceased to prattle, her pretty head
iiCHiueu in uiiL'imseiuus jniiiuuuji ui
her mothers, but Clara Stanhope
sat erect and upright, thinking new
thoughts, dreaming new dreams.
“I shall meet him again,” she
thought; “and then——”
Her reverie was suddenly inter
rupted.
The click of a revolver resounded
through the country lane, and the
forgotten cry of a past century,
“Your money or your life,” roused
sleepy James and the easy-going old
coachman to a state of cringing ter
ror.
A highwayman seemed to have
started out of the hedge. The car
riage lumps revealed that he was tall
and thin; he wore a crape mask and
a riding eloak, and carried himself
with an assumed swagger.
“Hands up, my good men, or I fire!
Now, ladies, while I cover the serv
ants with my revolver, I am afraid I
must ask you to step out of the car
riage, and hand me your jewelry. I
want all the valuables that you are
wearing, and as 1 mean business and
have no time to waste, 1 must have
the jewels before 1 count ten, or-”
A horribly suggestive click of his
revolver sent Lady llalcross flying
out of the carriage with an agility
remarkable in a stout and elderly
chaperon.
“Take my diamonds, take them all,
you wicked, cowardly man!” she
sobbed, tearing off her gleaming,
glittering gems. “Only spare our
lives, (lime him your pearls, Janet,
my darling.”
Poor Janet stood trembling by her
mother’s side, but as Lady Halcross
spoke she put up her little shaking
hand, and offered her pretty trinkets
to the highwayman, who seemed to
take them against his will.
“I\ suppose you want my jewels,
too?’\ Clara Stanhope spoke, in im
perious1 Jones, and faced the assailant
boldly. -The two frightened women
had slunk! back into the carriage and
were cowering together; the coach
man and fVtotman on the box had
their arms tup. leaving the horses to
chance and rate.
“I certainly do,” was the stern,
short answer.
“Then take them, thief!” As the
girl spoke site held out her wonder
ful tiara auid as the man seized the
glowing gr«t*en jewels she sprang at
him like a! young tigress, and half
tore the crape mask from his face.
Then a sharp cry broke from her.
“I know you!” she cried. “Oh, I
know you!”
Before she could say more she was
struggling in the highwaymans
grasp, and his hand was over her
mouth.
“Can I trust you to keep silent—if
I spare your emeralds?”
Siie nodded her head; and, as lie
removed his hand, “I will keep si
lent—on my honor,” she whispered.
“Very well, take the stones.” He
handed her the jewels; then added,
half under his breath. “I’m not rob
bing for my own sake.”
It was doubtful if the girl heard
him, for she had sprung back into
the carriage.
The highwayman looked in, and as
he met tlie look in Clara Stanhope’s
eyes, he realized what he had won
and lost.
“Drive on you pair of frightened
curs!” lie cried to the coachman and
footman, and the carriage rumbled
swiftly away. Suddenly, above the
sobbing of the women inside, he
heard a cry, and the carriage window
was flung open.
“Here, I don’t want your bribe;
take it.”
A flash of green shot through the
air, and Clara Stanhope’s emeralds
fell on the path. The highwayman
left them there. People supposed
afterward he had dropped them in
his flight
Lady Halcross never recovered her
diamonds, and tlie mysterious high
wayman was never discovered. The
detectives had many theories, and
were quite certain who the man was.
He had been wanted for some time,
and was a notorious criminal, they
said. Clara Stanhope used to smile
when she heard them talking; hut
her smile was a very sad one.
And, out in Texas, Roger Meredith
was learning to write his name on a
clean slate, the name of an honest
man, the memory of a girl’s face ever
with him, and her indignant ery ring
ing in his ears. The words Clara
Stanhope spoke when she hurled her
emerald tiara through the carriage
window were branded upon his soul.
The life he lived was a hard one,
hut at least a clean one; he was alone
for days, hut the wild life of the
ranch suited him, and the loneliness
of the young country appealed to
him. He liked to look at the stars
at night and remember that they
shone on the land of his birth; that
the same noonday sun poured its rays
on the old land and the new. lie felt
that he was done with his home for
ever; that he was exiled by his own
deed from intercourse with the wo
man he still loved; but, all the same,
he intended to work out a new life,
for—well, perhaps for her sake, per
haps for liis own, for his old life and
old sins had grown distasteful to
1? / wvnr \farorliili Mo L’TtPW f ll (ifP IV fl <5
something better in life than any
thing he had found yet, and he had
a strange sort of feeling that Clara
would understand one day the real
Roger Meredith, understand and for
give him.
So the days passed on—-days in
which the man's character ripened
and strengthened, and the careless,
good-for-naught developed into a
grave, reliant man, a man who did
his duty, neither asking nor expect
ing reward.
Clara waited at home, waited as
women have to wait, keeping her love
story to herself—her unbroken, un
finished love story.
She sometimes heard news of Roger
through the bishop of Radford, who
delighted to speak of his nephew to
a sympathetic listener.
“(letting on splendidly, my dear,
splendidly. Put his shoulder to the
wheel at last. Ah! I always said
there was good stuff in Roger. Texas
is making a man of him."
Clara used often to go and lunch
at the bishop’s residence and t.ulk to
the old man. She was very fond of
the bishop, but not even to herself
would she confess that she still eared
for the bishop’s nephew-—the high
wayman, the thief. One day she heard
a piece of news that colored her face,
and set her heart beating wildly.
“My nephew Roger has had to
come home. My brother is not at
all well, and he wanted to see Roger
again before he died. The dear boy
arrived last week; he will be staying
here for a night, or two soon, so you
must dine with us, Clara, and meet
him.”
The bishop may have been getting
blind, but Clara’s telltale pink blush
gave him a sudden clew to the girl’s
throbbing heart.
“He's been turning over a new leaf,
my dear,” he said, gently, “it’s a
great comfort to me, Clara, a great
comfort; and God bless you for it,
my child, if it’s your work.”
Clara said nothing; what was there
to say? She privately determined not
to dine with the bishop; but of
course, she went.
She found a very different Roger
from the man she had parted from
nearly five years ago; and Roger no
ticed that some of the freshness of
youth had left Clara’s face, to be rc
ulaced by a softer, sweeter look. The
1
hard. brmtat7irih7<l -oftened Into
a tolerant and merciful noma .
Kocrer flushed under his bronze as
he touched Clara’s hand; she^notice
the shame in his eyes, and hei heait
bled for him. „
“I am very glad to meet you again
she said very slowly, looking steac
ily at him; “very glad, indeed.
“I do not deserve this, was hi.
low answer.
Somehow, after dinner—hmv it hap
pened neither Clara nor Roger was
ever quite aware—the two oum
themselves alone in a small inner
parlor, the other guests having con
gregated in the larger room, where
singing was going on.
Roger looked at the woman he
loved, the woman he should love to
the end of his days, and an intense
desire came to him to tell her the
truth, to let her know he had not
robbed for his own sake, and so re
deem himself ever so little in her
“I want to tell you something. Miss
Stanhope,” he said in low tones.
“Will you hear me? It’s quite a short
story.”
Clara inclined her head silently.
She looked at the man as he stood
up in front of her, and she knew
whatever his faults were that she
loved him, loved him as only a strong
woman could. What was he going to
tell her? She could not trust her
self to speak.
In a few words Roger Meredith ex
plained why he had stolen the jewels.
“The boy was saved by my theft,
he finished, in a whisper; ‘ and my
brother runs straight enough now.
lie has had his lesson.”
A long pause followed. (lara
looked at Roger. His eyes were fixed
on her, but he said nothing.
“Why have you told me this story?”
She tried to speak calmly.
“Because 1 love you—forgive a thief
for his presumption. Clara—Miss
Stanhope, I return to Texas next
month; say you forgive me before I
go. I shall never see you again after
to-night. Say you understand ever
so little-”
Clara interrupted him.
“Do you still want my emeralds?”
Roger flushed to his eyes.
“I beg your pardon—well, perhaps
I deserve that speech.”
“I accompany my emeralds,” mur
mured Clara.
“Clara, my dear, you don't mean—
oh, no, it is impossible. I’m not worth
your love.”
“Perhaps not.” was Clara Stan
hope’s answer; “but you have it all
the same.” Then she added, shyly,
“Dont’ you want to keep it?”
Roger gave her the best answer
to her question.—N. Y. Weekly.
A Remedy for I.eisnl Rnit.
The young lawyer was floundering
in a tangle of his own making in a
case he had before a supreme court
justice, who is known, says the New
York Tribune, as the humorist of the
I bench.
The justice listened attentively to
the young man’s efforts to disen
tangle himself, but after a while he
was visibly impatient, and the young
man perceived that the time had
come for excuses. So he began:
“You see, your honor, to be per
fectly frank with you, I am the least
bit rusty on methods of procedure in
cases of this nature. I trust that
your honor will bear with me and
advise me in the matter.”
“Why, certainly,” replied the jus
tice, smiling. “I will be only too glad
to advise you.”
The face of the young lawyer began
to brighten, only to be shrouded ia
gloom a moment later, when the jus
tice added:
“My advice to you, young man, is
that you go and study law.”
Had Been I'nnlithrd Enonsh.
It was a boy with a very subdueu
aspect and a long scratch on his nose
who came to his teacher in one of
the large London board schools and
bunded her a note before taking his
seat and becoming deeply absorbed
in his hook.
The note read as follows: “Miss
B.: Please excuse James for not be
ing there yesterday. He played
trooant, but I should think you
needn’t lick him for it, as the boy
he played trooant with an’ him fell
out, an’ the boy licked him, an’ a man
they sauced caught him an’ licked
him, an’ the driver of a cart they
hung on licked him, an’ T gave him
another one for saucing me for tell
ing pa; so you need not lick him un
til the next time. 1 should say he
thinks he’d better keep in school
hereafter.”
The Motion Prevailed.
An old town official of the city of
Macon, Georgia, says in Short Stories
that during the night of the earth
quake disturbances of 1886 the city
council was in session.
When the quake shook the city hall
from basement to attic the council
men ran out, thinking the house would
topple over. Whereupon the wag
who kept the minutes of the meeting
concluded his record with the fob
lowing sentence:
“On motion of the city hall the
council adjourned.”
WIT AND WISDOM.
Tt, is the will to be grateful which
constitutes gratitude.—Joseph Cook.
Good humor is the health of the
soul; sadness its poison.—Stanislaus.
Those are generally good at flatter
ing who are good for nothing else.
—South.
Friendship has a power to soothe
affliction in her darkest hour.—H. Kirk
White.
Probably there is- nothing so pain
ful to a.stingy man as another man’s
wealth.—Chicago Daily News.
We may not recognize our short
comings, but it’s a pretty sure thing
that our friends know them by sight.—
Puck.
Speaking of dyspepsia and progress
we observe that ifc is not until a man
can’t eat anything without causing
himself pain that he does much of
anything but eat.—Puck.
Two Points of View.—Singleton—
“A pretty girl’s face is her fortune.”
Wederly—“Yes, and it usually turns
out to be some poor fellow’s misfor
tune.”—Chicago Daily News.
Mrs. Given—“Did you try that recipe
I gave you for ‘French fried?’ " Mrs.
Newliwed—“Yes, but it turned out a
domestic broil. My husband hasn’t ^
spoken to me since he ate the stuff.”
—Philadelphia Press.
How much should one talk in order
to be interesting, and yet do no dam
age? It is a pity such things cannot
be measured in pin<|*; and quarts, so
that everyone could know when he has
had his share.—Atchison Globe.
DESTRUCTION OF ST. PIERRE
Whether It Wm by Hent-Ulnst or
Aerial Gan Explosion Henmlnii
to lie Decided.
The problem of exactly how St.
Tierre and its inhabitants were de
stroyed is still before us. There are
two theories, says Century.
1. The heat-blast theory. This as
sumesthat. the lapilli. gases, and steam
of the cloud were ejected with suffi
cient initial force to destroy buildings
from two to five miles distant, and
were sufficiently hot to inflame the
city and destroy the people by singe
ing, suffocation and asphyxiation.
2. The aerial gas explosion theory.
This postulates that the weight of
the cloud, causing it to descend, the
exhaustion of air. the flame, and the
great aerial force developed, were the
products of an explosion caused by
the union of gases .of the cloud with
the oxygen of the air.Avhieh took place
in the air, but near the surface of the
ground.
From whatever point of view the
subject is approached, all the evidence
focuses upon a single deduction: that
there was a terrific aerial explosion
wdthin the cloud after it erupted from
the mountain, which developed tre
mentions destructive forties, unit that,
the situation of St. Pierre adjacent to
the bluff behind it was such that the
reverberation caused therefrom as
sisted in its destruction.
The position of the cliffs enclosing
the area of devastation would have
hid much to do with the destruction
of St. Pierre, inasmuch as places out
side of the cliff-bound amphitheater
and upon the edge of the plateau
above its depth were spared from de
struction.
The aerial explosion, if it occurred,
involves the presence within the cloud
of a combustible gas, but science is
still tumble to state its nature. The
distinguishing of explosive gas- in
volves a faculty of scientific special
ization which the writer does not pos
sess; but as sudden and mysterious as
was the great secret, it has left its
traces and clews, which the detectives
of science will follow up. Metal sur
faces of objects in the ruins will beex
imi ' and analyzed for traces of sul
hloride. The deposits from
be ous steaming fumaroles are
a vithin the chemienl labora
tory Even the ash and rocks of the
island will be submitted to minute in
vestigation.
Haunting my mind is a hypothesis
which may be but a dream, and which
cannot be proved, yet is one which
would explain all the phenomena.
On that fatal morning two clouds
erupted almost simultaneously from
the mountain, one following the other
at a slight interval. The first of these
came from the open flue of the summit
chimney and floated southward hori
zontally toward Mont Vert. In this
cloud developed a violent storm of elec
tric discharges. The second came
from lower down the mountain at the
spot ^probably known as La Soufriere
or L Estang Sec. The ejecta from the
latter vent were not from an open flue,
as the summit cloud, but were from
the initial explosion of an ancient vent
long clogged up by an accumulation
of old material and sulphurous gases.
Being heavy with gases, and while roll
ing toward the city, what would have
happened had that host of electric
sparks from the upper cloud flashed
into the lower aerial mass of super
heated gases. even though they had
ot ierwi.se refrained from already
uniting with the oxygen?
SUrM Ii«ive>.
*°'-e ^.eec^s 011 *ce cream soda,
am , like it, is too delicious to last
long.-"C hicago Journal.