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 ^-:t:^- y rmP [Now FlKST PTBLISmO).! [All Rights Biskbtxo.] J. I ' â- m- â- â- 's â- , THE MESSAGE OF THE BELLS AN EHGLISH CHRISTMAS STOKTi By ADELINE SERGEANT. Author of "Jaoobi's Wife," "Undeb Falsi Pbktbkoss," c., 0. IIL A woman, carrying a chfld, stood in the garden-path. Her iMck was to the western li^ht, which had nearly died ont of the windy sky. He saw that she was tali and â- light, and that she trembled aa she stood before him. Her dress was black, and the sleepy child nestling in her arms wore a black frock too. "Dots Stephen Hatfield live here " she asked in a low nosteody voice. The tones thrilled him. To his ear they were wonderfully sweet. Where had he heard that voice before " Yes. I'm Stephen Hatfield. " " You -Stephen Hatfield T" Then her voice broke. She let the child slip gently from her arms to the ground and stretched out her shaking hands. " Oh, Stephen, Stephen, don't yoa know n.e? I'm Grace." His face blanched to an awful whiteness. He looked over her shoulder, away into the distance, as if he -saw some one behind her. But there was no accusing figure at her buik, no ghostly voice came out of the ?Ioom, requiring at his hands the blood of the man whose life he had virtually taken. His eyes wandered back to her, and he said in a hoarse whisper " Grace, is it yoti " 'Yes, Stephen," she said, sobbing, "and I'm in sore trouble." His face hardened he thought he knew what she was going to say. She went on " It's nigh upon three months since George left me." And then she broke into a wailing cry, almost like a shriek, and put her hands before her face. " And now he's dead," said Stephen, scarcely knowing what he said. The words gave her a shock. She let her hands drop and gazed at him with wide- open, panic btrittken eyes. The child clung to her garments, frightened by what she beard, and still more by the sight of this "Strange, dark man. " Oh no, no " cried Mrs. Dene. "Why should you say he's dead? Have you heard of him, then Oh no, he's not dead, Ste- phen 1 Tired of me, perhaps," she said, sobbing, ' and gone to seek his fortune â€" or ill in hospital may be, and not able to write to me â€" but not dead, Stephen, nay, not deadl" He did not know what to do with a woman in such a passion of grief he took hold of her hands and gently dre^ her within bis door. His one thought was to screen her from the unkind notice of passers-by, but once inside, more hospitable thoughts occur- red to him. " You'd better come in and sit by the fire," he said, awkwardly. " Don't take on in that way, Grace. I thought you meant me to understand that George was dead. If it is as you say â€" why, no doubt, he'll be back again before long." He turned his back on her as he spoke, and led the way into the kitchen. " You've not heard ot nim then " said Grace, commanding herself and following him obediently. " He's not been here " "No," he answ. red in a low voice; " he's not been here. " He could not tell her the truth. He would get some clergyman, s jme person in author- ity, to let her know that Georee was dead. He shook all over at the thought of telling her himself. Noâ€" not yet in the morning, perhaps, or in a day or two "Sit down," he said, lighting a candle, and hurriedly stirring the dying embers of the fire. " You'll be tired if you have come from Woodley to-day." She opened her great dark eyes with a look of pathetic surprise. " To-day " she said. " It's three weeks since I left Wood- ley. I walked most of the way. Look at my shoes." They were worn nearly off her feet. Hat- field felt his heart contract with an unwont- ed pang of pity. He looked at the shoes, at the threadbare garments, at the thin, sunken face, and did not say a word. " It was fine weather, most of the way,' Grace went on, half absently, " else I could never have done it. We got a lift in a c«ul now and then. I could not tear to wait any longer. George had never written, but he told me before he went away that he was coming to you. Did yon see him " There was a scarcely perceptible pause before Stephen answered " No. " My mother die i suddenly 0D|che|iay after Christmas Day," she went on. " It took all the money I had to bury her. I was staying with herâ€" Geor?e had already sold our furniture and t:^en the money with him, and I expected him back every day. The neighbours at Woodley began to say â-  that he had deberted me, and I could not bear it any longer. I came after him â€" to Bedford- to find you." " Why did yon not write V he asked. " I don't know. I did not think of it." The colour ebbed out of her face as she apoke, leaving her cheeks and lips as white as snow. " You used to be his friend," she murmured. " Have you forgotten us " " No, no. I have never forgotten yon," he said, in a strange, confuwd way that surpris^ her, "Here, I have made acme tea. Polly would like some milk, perhapa T" "How did yoa know that her name waa Polly?" said Grace, looking at him with attention. " I heard it â€" didn't you call her so just now " he said, still more and more troaUed in maimer, aa he reflected tiukt he had gained this piece of infonnatiaD from her husband. Grace waa too tired to disnote the matter. She ate and drank at hia bidding aad saw the child'a hunger latiafied, and when the meal waa finished ahe made an attempt to riae. " Fm rare I thank yoa for your Undaaa, Ste^um." â- hsMid.tiaidly. «* Ftoriajpe yoa can tell me « ft lodfteg home -wlMre wooea r» to for tt* nkdit. Tt Tmt !nr n Trhmn iwiei " Yoa aMife aaveB ^t^Jatn," mti WU- field, ia»ktmkni^ Ub^^ mA ^ri* » oarioa* â- nltanpeii milmtn/nin. ** n«n's to place looking for lodginga at this time of night the child is asleep already." Grace accepted his offer thankfully. She was a simple-hearted, gentle- natnred wo- man, not very self-reliant, and it seemed na- tural that he shonld be kind and helpful to her. As a sort of excuse for having come to the house, she ventured to say " I thought yon were married, perhaps, and that your wife would put me in the way of getting a lodging." He looked her full in the face, and did not speak for a moment. She quailed a little before the fire of those dark eyes, and be- thought herself of some words that her mother had let fall in the early days of her marriage with George Dene. Was it pos- sible that this man, Stephen Hatfield, had once wanted to marry her She felt a sen- sation of alarm at the thought. But after a moment's space, the light died out from Hatfield's eyes, and he looked down in his usual sombre, brooding fashion. "No," he said, "I've never been married." When he opened the door of the room up- stairs, he seemed to feel that some explana- tion of its disorder waa required. " I've had noboay to do for me lately. The place is like a pigstye, but maybe you can manage with it to-night. Is there any- thing I can get for ye " The manner was rough, but thekir'^H -ess of his meaning unmisti^eable. Grace tri.uk- ed him and held out her hand as isii' .id good-night. He did not seem to see u ne turned his back on her and wentduAU- stairs. She slept long and heavily. When she awoke and dressed in the morning, Stephen ad already gone to his work. He had lighted the fire and left food ready for her- self and the child he himself had taken his dinner with him and did not mean to be back till evening. It was after six when he returned. As soon as he set foot within tixe house, he was conscious of a change in it. Grace had been busy. To make the place clean and tidy was her way of showing gratitude. The kitchen fire was burning brightly in a clean grate, the floors and tables had been scour- ed, and the cooking utensils cleaned. There was an air of neatness, almost of brightness about tbe room which moved Hatfield to wonder. " What have you been doing " he said, rather roughly. " Only tidying up a bit," Grace answered. " I hope you dou't mind 7" she added meek- ly, seeing an inexplicable expression upon his face. " Not a bit. Do what you like," he re- plied, bending his brows. She looked at him in silent wonderment, never suspecting that he felt a great throb of anguish and shame at the nocion of her working for him â€" the man to whom her husband owed his death. After tea, she began timidly to talk to him about her positirn. Sha was possessed with the idea that Georg o was somewhere in Bedford, and that she would be able to find him if she looked carefully enough. In the meantime, she thought that she could earn a livelihood by taking in plain sewing, or going out charing^though this latter work, as Hatifield knew, would have been consider- ed far beneath her in Woodley. If she could find a cheap lodging for herself and child she would not trouble Mr. Hatfield any longer. There was a new humility in her voice that cut Stephen to the heart. " It's no trouble to me," he said gruffly. He was sitting by the fire as he spoke, and just then something soft touched his hand. He drew it away and looked down hastily. It was Polly, who had drawn a wooden stool to his side, and had tried to slip her little fingers into his palm. She looked up at him smiling, and put her little pink hand on his knee. After a moment's hesitation, he laid his rough fingers tender- ly upon it and held it there. The touch sent a new seaaation through him. It seemed to make the blood rush more quickly through his veins, to break up the ice about his heart. It influenced his tone and look as he addressed the child's mother. " You've no need to hurry yourself," he said, " take time. And don't go making en- quiries here and there and everywhere utont Dene. I'll do that for yon. I should be glad if you would stop here a bit, and pnt my house straight. It seems to want a woman's hand. If George Dene's anywhere hereabouts, he'll find yon, never fear. There's been some mistake, no doubt, and he's wondering why yon don't come to him." "Oh, if only I could think so " said the poor woman, her eyes filling with tears. " Yon don't know what it is to be pointed and jeered at as I have been in the village â€" the wife whose husband got tired of her and left her in the lurch. He always seemed so proud and fond of me. Do you think it's possible that he could get tired all at once and go off without a word " " 1 don't think it's poesible," said Hatfield in a low voice. Ah, no 1 What man would cast away from him this sweet wife, this cooing, careeafaig little child? And heâ€" he knew 90 wdl what Geoige Dm* thoogfat of theiM two, how mach he loved thrai, and he dared not say a word to set tne grieving woman's heart at rest. For, as it aoon ap- peared to him, die doubt u to Ceom's love was even more preeent to her mind Wan the uncertainty about hia lif«v ^^ â- at aiIenM^»liMk!%^S^ S hinds folded lb lieie lak She l«a notgivdi to iwtoy dem«matr»lloM of any Jtftij^., When â- he felt calm, m**"" to gM»tly; ^;^ litOe time, Mx. tfield. |f ImlZ Uvm talked aiionlt y9nr-*wn» awi- jubl Y«o donVknolr; inajl^ kiiw 1^ i;rUe of doubt and aorrow than any that he had had to bear, never lepining, never showing bittamea or â- ollennM^ She waa braver than he had been. Hia thooghta were Su- ed witii her night and day a« tivft vent oB. Ua i««0tM W thflfait, th«^ f*^* became so blended wish hialove for Mr that it lort ita haidnew M»d painfolneM. Be even dreamed of a time when he might teU her that George waa dead, and aak her to be his wife. He oonld give her a peaorful home, a sure, strong love would she refose the ^t ^^ He dreamed thus one night â- â€¢ he waa walking home from his work, which, on thia occasion, had been prolonged nntil elvven o'clock. His house was near the station, but two or three not very rospecUble little streets had to be travened bdore he reach- ed it, and it was in one of these streets that he saw a sight which froze the blood within his veins. Was it George Dene's (ihost There were no such things as ghosts, he argued passionately with bimself. The par- son at Woodley had always said so. His eyes had played him a trick. His head was muddled with long hours of work. Spirits from another world never came back now-a- days to trouble their worst enemies. It could not be. And yet he was surerâ€" as sure as of his own existence â€" that George Dene's face had looked at him out of the darkness of the un- lighted street. He had been absorbed in his own thoughts. He had heard no footfall on the pavemnet, had seen no figure coming towards him, and yet, without warning, the dead man's face, white, rigid, stem, had hovered before his eyes. If he had been able to move, it seem- ed to Stephen that he might have touched those pallid features with ms hand. aI enac- ing, ajcusing, reproachful, all at once, those eyes which had once been so friendly sought his own then for a moment everything grew dim to Hatfield's sight. When he recovered his calmness tnere was nothing to be seen. The vision had faded away into the dark- ness, and he went unhindered upon hia way. But from that moment he was free no more. The face haunted him. Now and then he saw it in a crowd once in a railway carriage; several times at his window be- fore the blinds were down at night. It came to him in hiij dreams the memory of it, the fear of it, haunted him night and day. The dead man would not let lum rest. He began to look wild and haggard, to cast strange looks over his shoulder, to mut- ter to himself. " Hatfield's going out of his mind," one of his companions whispered to anotlver. " He's mighty queer." £ven Grace, with all her placidity, wondered at and pitied him. She was never afraid of him, he waa glad to see. He could not have borne that. When be was alone he used to cry out upoa George Dene's unqaiat spirit to leave him in peace. " What do you want, Greorge " he muttered with qnivering lips. "How can I atone for what my hand has done It's too late â€" too late I can do no- thing for you now." CHAPTER IV. It had been the height of summer when first Stephen Hatfield saw that terrible vi sion of the dead man's face. As summer passed into autumn, and autumn into win- ter, its recurrence becanre more frequent, and had a very disquieting effect upon Hat- field's nerves. It became plain to him that if he saw that face much oftener he would have to give up his work. Eyes, hand, brain, all seemed paralysed at times by fear 8md agony. Gr ice, not knowing what was wrong, entreated him to see the parish dtjc- tor. But Hatfield shook his head. "No doctor can do me any good," he answered, gloomily. One day in December he came home and found her in tears. On asking what was the matter, he elicited from her a ^le of how Polly had run in fro a the* street, cry- ing out that her father had looked at her over the fence. "The child would not remember him," Slid Hatfield. " She's five years old, and she was very fond of her poor father," said Grace. Then, wiping her eyes, she added indisticctly " 1 thoughtâ€" I thought I saw him mvself last night." But this was more than Hatfie'd could beai. He went out again without waiting for the conclusion of her little story. " Are we all to be haunted by George Dene's ghost?" he asked himself, almost angrily, "for me, it's natural enoughâ€" but what have they done?" Grace Dene felt a little hurt by his abrupt departure. She sat down and cried, cares- sed Polly, and gave herself up for a few minutes to the luxury of indulgence in her own quiet sorrow but then she remember- ed that she had a good many things to do, and so betook herself, somewhat leas tran- quilly than usual, to her household tasks. Ic was Christmas Eve, and she had determ- ined that her own sorrow, her own sad memories, should not bring sorrow to other peoBle. For Stephen's sake she meant to be SiMrf al, and to make him think that she waaoontent. She wondered that he did not oome badk to tea. jg»i» Jilt 3Ml7.««lMdtvaiii^^M^ tiie fire wttb MOM needlewoEk. The night was ^na bat windy, and «ii tb« wind Aere came from thne to time the sound of the Quiatmas bells. ' Her hands liad fallen Ob her lap: her eyes Hf^ fixed in moarnfol reverie upon the glowihg embers of the grate, when a soond at thadbor arrested her attention. Stephen stood in the doorwayâ€" the Utehen door opened upon a little bricked yardâ€"and his hand was still upon the lateh. A goat of cold air blew in, extingnishing the candle at Grace's side. She sprang np, and then stood stilL She could just see Stephens face there was a ghastly smile upon it that made her heart beat strangely fast. " What is it, Stephen!" she said, nerrons- He lifted np one finger, as if warning her to be silent. " Do yon know who stands outside " he asked her, with the same weird smile upon his face. " 1 saw him as I came in I shonld see him still if Hooked again. Your husband, Graceâ€" George Dene." " My husband I" she cried, flinging np her hands. " Not in the flesh, Grace not in the flesh- You would not see him if yen looked, but I see him â€" I see bim wherever I ^o. He was here at your window not long ago." " Oh, Stephen, you frighten me 1" said Grace, sinkin? down in her chair and cover. ing her face witn her hands. The sight of her tears calmed him. He closed the door softly and advanced towards her, looking earnestly at her bowed head. " I don't want to frighten you, Grace," he said. "It was those accursed bells that sent me home to you. They rang and rang till I could bear it no longer. Go back, go back,' they said. 'TeU her the truth. Go back.' And so I thoupht that if I came to you and told you the whole truth, I might perhaps be delivered from the terror that follows me night and day. Night and day, sleeping or walking, I see him," Hatfield went on with a startled glance over his left shoulder, "and I know that he comes to punish me for what I did. Perhaps if I tell all the truth and give myself up I may yet know peace. The balls have driven me to you." "But â€" why? What do you mean, Ste- phen?" said Grace, beginning to tremble with an inexpressible fear. He took no notice of her question. " L7ok at me," he said. " Have I not suffered Am I the msm I was a year ago I do not know how I live, how I eat or sleep. The misery that has fallen upon me is more than I can tear. For I never meant to be a murderer, Grace I never meant to hurt him, thou b I thrust him away from me and struck him in my wrath. Grace, Grace, believe me, I never meant to harm a hair of his head " He fell down on his knees before her as he spoke, stretohing out his hands to her in a blind groping way. She drew back an inch or two, looking at him with a strange expression, half of repulsion, half of pity, in her eyes. In after days his face came back to her as she had seen it then, and she re- membered how wasted it was, how worn with grief and care. Bat just then she thought only of his words. " Tell me what you mean," she gasped out below her breath. " Is George dead What do you mean " " I mean, Grace, that I â€" I â€" killed yoyr husband, George Dene." A low cry escaped her lips. " Not by my hand," he said, looking down at the thin fingers that shook as with an ague while he held them out. " Tvlot by my own hand. He cams to me on Christ- mas Eve â€" a year ago this day â€" and the bells were ringing overhead as they ring now. He told me of his happiness with you, and I could not bear it. Don t yon know, Grace, how I have loved you all these years. He stole you from me, or I should have won you â€" I swear I should have won you if he had left me time. But he took everything from me â€" home, wife, children he had all and I had none. I was alone in the world a miserable wretch, cast off by God and man. I had no hope of happiness. Then he came to me and he spoke of you. I struck him^I thrust him out of my way. He fell over the line. I did not stay to help him up. I forgot that the express was near- ly due. He must have been stunned â€" in- sensible â€" when the train came up." Hia voice failed him. He bowed himself to the ground, and lay at her f^et. There was silence for a time. "God forgive you, Stephen," said the woman at last, in a brokeii voice. She sat very still, white as death, with the tears dropping over her pale cheeks. The gentie- nesi!, as well as tie infinite sadness of her tones, unloosed his tongue once more. He did not rise, but faltered out disconnected words and sentences that she could scarcely hear. "Yousay 'Godfoj for those words." nearer not Jng sue sooner it ends thil.* '•CT 1 rivemyself up to the Ji£jl4 I wish they would hW».*"^»Sr witihit. Wh«I.?^^«;dW^ perhapc, yon U forgive m« fi.**^ Otto my love, you'll neferCw^ ^tR loved you And you Cw ™» ««4 ri if I'd £ad the time-l' **»« Wj What voice was that »l.!.k ear would have noted? n*li««»i» lateh, the sound of a footf ji '»*k7t hold^They didnot h«S^°" *^ W ' Stephen Hatfield. ^SZ "l^M with a false belief. I g J'^« l«m\ loved you. if we had livSr? l*" thousand years. IneveMfe.'^*«. â- never loved hit, in my life nor ever shaU aZ iT" as you well know, was Geo^rn^^ you that killed «.im.»Xl^S^ into tears " ask Gti to L!?^ """"« I'll pray t; Him t2He5'»\f«j«l, morning I'U pray for vnn^^*"*^ happy soul, Stephen Hatfield ;bnuln.'*- away from your house now wSr ""I would have entered if Ih^kt^"" truth; and never, never wSlte^' your face again." "P"" She rose from her seat. Hatfield rt» gled into a.kneeling posture. tSuul dress and pressed it to his lipa. ' ** " God wUl forgive me if yon a,k Hia." he said. " on give me hope by thS 1 Grace. No, I slfaU never s^/ou!^'" don't think it will be long before I » .h J George has gone. Perhaps I may 'egt^ somewhereâ€" perhaps I may ask him to r' give meâ€"" ' He has risen to his feet and turned awif I Grace gave a little cry. Who was it snJ' ' ing Who was it standmg in the open dw' XT li^?j?^o*° «° f"" for that. StepW Hatheld, said a voice which had a stranialt familiar sound. " I amhere.andyornui ask me what you like." The room swam before Hatfield's tronhW eyes. When they cleared again he m\ Grace clinging to a tail, gaunt, feeble-look- ing man, whose arms were clasped tended; around her. whose lips were pressed to hJtl fair face. It was no dream! ThiswuH vision of the night. George Dene was alinjl and had come back to claim his wife. Wlutl waa he saying » It seemed to Hatfield tiill he could scarcely hear for the tnmultaoti| beating of his heart, the surging troableoll his brain. " I've been in hospital until a fortiiiglit| ago," George said. " I lost my memmj for a time.- It was some other chap wIk was killed by the express, not me. Igot up after you pushed me away, Stepha, and walked out of the town. I hadn't besj well all day, and I felt dizzy and Strang They told me afterwards that I most hm had a fever coming on, and that the fall- well, perhaps it made me a trifle won, there *vas some sort of concusion, they .allti it. Anyway, I waa found by the road siiitl and taken to a hospital five miles from Red- ford, and there I stayed. My mind seemelj gone, even when my body was stronger. I came fully to myself only a month go. Then I went to VVoodley and found Grw gone. I hunted for her everywhere. Tha| I came here." 'He stopped to embrace hia wife once more and to glance at Hatfield, who was AiM beside the table with hia face hidden iipoi| his folded arms. " I inquired about Hatfield, and little bj little I pieced together the whole story. 1 knew that he, at least thought me deai I saw Polly to day, and I had a glimpse oi you, too, Grace, but I did not know whethsl you had a place for me in your heart orKJl I thoughtâ€" snail I tell you what Ithoughtr " No,"8he answered, laying her hand apa his lips. "I can guess, George. Bntl should never have loved any other manba] yon" " Ah. so I heard you say, my darling m I knowâ€" I know-how true and faithful JM have always been. I had rancour in m heart against my old friend here,â€" y^i ^^, call him my friend, for I know how sad aU bitter his life has beenâ€" but if I had jiir thing against him, I forgave him as I rtoj* at his door and heard the Christmas belli overhead. 'Peace and goodwill,' tte? *^| ed to say. And I thought to myself, J^e'"^] gones be bygones between Stephen d»ffie» and me 1' Let us thank God that I bi« come back to you, Grace, and that our w friend Stephen can be our oldfriend stiu. They heard Stephen give a gaspmg, stW glin^ sigh, almost Uke a sob. They tnwj sUently for a moment, but he did not ii» his head. he saw you-iM^ Of the Davy family, oi eldest ?irl is in the gible, the father is gaoled as a Bsan, the eldest son. aged "^f-r^firt home in charge of his three n^tM ,bfl« six and eightT took them ».f. SikyB* the whoUparty ^^^ " "" aSr 1^ books Midfaii. and -got ^^^^^l they were overhauled bj_»_P»J!i;^f* There^*»^*^ji watohes were fornd in E»n'» ^^^ '» taken to the station. and his sisters were sent â- titation. tb» Frendi Academy dfateftated tiie annual Ap. Ma»y«it pciM of «priz* the 0^ of 2.«)p_wr,cit X119. ^namyait PPfl-T i,-T)«l«ii*»' •#M»d ti» Jean Adolphe DW»^ ^airaX Who has twen^-ffS^ 1 â€" ^Zto^ ««rioos illnes **! Siarheir to the Ger SJ^^tnuSety to his fa ^in^JS^ been wmtohed w tbll^^^ of his death, the g P*!52uie Bmperor WUliam *»rS,mother, give a very â-  « ""^t to the condiuon of '^CiSr^i ninetv fii •Jfto Xm he always rei ^£i pride, should after **S, before him, while the *i?w5^ the brave Crown ^IZ^aetm before it the •fi* l2^ «^ occupy th« ft'tii.^xt Emperor will be ' --PriBoe William. fc!!!S£?« the Crown Prince felSK insph^e his country â- ^aa and affection. Comioi f^mtary stock, he has been « |f^S2n;.r between Pr« ' i in 1866 he was one of Jta the decisive battie of Side ,Ws after, when he coinma fthOwmw legions on the fields c \S;, a ndlitary renown eqt r, to that of any German g fffl^racter, aside from his g '"^ts. is such as to increas. which they have caUed f( -.husband and father, " Una* Germans endearingly caU TiSi, faithful and true, L» treated the Emperor with tiUa UJlss reverent affection, and ha I » large family of sons and dan kfglinefflbers of society. [bah of his sons has been thoro and has, by his father's w tt to practise some handicraft ,^f»y, the young princesses, b hikve been carefully taught 1 lent, and the homeliest M. In this domestic policy tl been cordially supported by KPrinoess-Boyalof England. [The Crown Prinfce has always be Uover, for bis cheerfulness, his 1 [heart, and his chivalrous beaii saons. During his military ci itittly his courage in the face c it hii frank cordSality to his con fiU lanks, his genial smile and g 'â-  his oonsttmt care for the v ihis humblest followers have I of the troops which have.ser Kt is not usual for the heirs to t Iketn active part in the political m countries, and throughout h nan Crown Prince has kepi [from public office or activ â€"jerland. |Si tutes are almost wholly mil i of his aged father, and he 1 joned from attaching himse Ktical party and cause. Ilhe probable death of the aged â- -d d the Crown Prince within a Itoansfer the German crown llism. the Crown Prince's eldes nij-dgbt years of age. Of li htHe is known outside of I kkii been reported that he, tod pby a dangerous disorder audi be short-lived, the crown i to the fourth generation. J. J nearly mx years old. Ijiithel^ht of these facte, tl e Germany is a perplexed The German crown still f w much real power, that 'pis may well mean a â€" policy. Much, tberefoi] 1 tiie inroads which death c t upon the reigning family. said Grace, shuddering a littl«" "Stephen thought times," said Grace, 8uu.»- â€" -n v- the memory of his words came back wn°j^ "He must have fancied it. ' Bedford yesterday-the first ttme!"*^g| past. Come. Stephen, my old irien^^i up your head and give me your h»w I ^Hl'put his hand on Hatfield's^ould«l| and Grace bent over him with tender wo^ " You'U be our brother now, Sjepne^ love us both as we love you. J^^' Christmas bells ' Peace and gooa it's twelve o'clock strikmg. i'" Dayl Stephen, a happy, ChnstoM' happy Christmas to ua all 1 -jgnoi But Stephen's happy Christmas w» of thiK world. [TheEkd.] Rochester, as tooo" I Ib It Oapt. Eidd's Ti [B»i«port of the finding ot • bad long been buried in the â- * of New Brunswick is of iii 1-tiasescaichers for Capt. Kl â- "â- ws. The search for thJ I extended as far as the tri kboocaneer, whose ravages! â- â€¢ stretched from Newfoun [jwbdies. There are no grj ^wthat he buried other tr -•â- â- ft-eastom coast or in tt â- â- as Hudson than those whic. "^•ftsr he Lad buried them i 1 when he sailed up tol t*ad went into Oyster Bf 1^ Kidd captured nJ jnek coast waa a Frencl y *»«, so far aa is kno^ _, » pet of gold worth t400, I A BaqiMBt Qiant j^-tofrad Man (to barb I T7*** tracts in here, myl L2!**««â€" Yes, you canleal S^:*^ I want the toes ' «Sl!^^^hat makes you I Bobinaon Yon L â- â- â- iiii(]itnraing) -I knd ^l£ *• teuth. Brown, nape (rffh« ••*What ia tbel liwi itintiSSe ivel .?S:\ ABbbIUIo^ •« If he te^ wvcidlan â-  liitlTi