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l 7 ALLEGANY COUNTY NEWS, WHITESVILLE, N. Y. memmi H/VRY RAffOSD a/BP/Wi ANDREVvO lABIiCR Hit PfRFECT TRipurt, THC prTTrf? mrASURr, n c .: : ttIW 5 T iFA O T 3 ^ rLL5VpRm\D\7NG ---- - ifOPttH&fT f$/2 o r GOQQ5 U U f f SY N O P 8 J8. peasant babe of musing incident In !S, is made I^Yancols B ^ u u p re. 'tbree shears, after an ami ^biciii M arshal N e y figures, is ------- < 3 i«val|er o f France by the Emperor who prophesied that the boy xn lj^ t one liay be a m arshal of France nunder aaoliier Bonaparte. At the age of ten Fkajscois visits General Baron Gas- Gourgaud, who w ith A lixe, his ■tteven-year-old daughter, lives at the \•Chateau. A soldier of the Empire under IKTapoIeon he fires the boy’s imagination •TVith stories of his campaigns. The boy vhecomes a copyist for the general and 3eaxns o f the friendship between the gen- •«ral and Marquis Zappi. who campaigned \WiUx the general under Napoleon. Mar- <ltils Zappi and his son. Pietro, arrive at th e Chateau. The general agrees to care -for th e Marquis’ son while the former ^ o e s to America. The Marquis asks Fran c o is to be a friend of his son. The boy :.Solemnly promises. Francois goes to the ::iiateau to live. Mar( ing Pietro as & t^-ai A iixe, Pietre and F r a Iwy ■ of the ger Vancois meet a strange o y w h o proves to he Prince L.ouls Na- -t^ieon. Francois saves his life. The gen- '«ral discovers Francois loves Allxe, and -extracts a promise from him that he will aiot interfere between the girl and Pietro. •Francois gbcs to Italy as secretary to iPietro. Qu^en SCortense plans the escape o f her son Louis Napoleon by disguising Ifim and Marquis l^appi as her lackeys, l^ am n c o is takes Marquis Zappl’s place, iriio is ill, in the eftcapee of H ortens^ and ■\ 'is. ' a s Ix>uis’ brothi Zappi co is tak e s Marquis ’Who Is illt in the eftca p ----------- ZiOu Dressed a s Ix>uis’ brother Fran- •«Ois lures the Austrians from the hotel al- 4owinsr the prince jwnd his Mip'e. Francois is ft prise other to es- •oap’e. Franco is is ft prisoner of the Aus- 'tlRans for five years. In the castle owned t?y Pietro In Italy. H e discovers in his igtiard one of Pietro's old fam ily servaifis, fluid through him sends word to hij friends of his plight. The general, ^llx< 1 PJ P ietro plans ___ iceives a note fi lag In detail how to Sirispn. <Ktis recei sends word t. The general, 'ancois’ escape, Fran- 1 from Pietro explain- In detail how to escape from his pn. A lixe aw a its him on horseback : ^ d leads him to his friends on board ••She American sailir-g vessel, the ' Lovely Z a c y .” Francois. »is a guest of H a r ^ M am p ton, on the “t^ovely Lucy,” goes to A m e r ic a to m anage Pietro’s estate In \Vtiginia. Lucy H tm p ton falls in love •qgith Francois. C H A P T E R XlCm.— Continued. The female mifid paid no attention the disgression. Lucy had long a ^ , finally if unconsciously, put her father’s personality into its right “Father, is the prince really poor ■ and alone in this country?” “Poor—yes, I fancy—I am quite cer tain, in fact. Alone—^that depends, The authorities of Norfolk received him with some distinction, the Herald afates, hut he is putting up at the inn —one would conclude that he w a s an Invited guest at many of our great houses.” Lucy flew like a bird across to the fireplace. Her hands went up to eith- side of the colonel’s face, “Father, quick! Have Thunder saddled, and ride in—quick, father—and bring the prince out here to stay with us. Give the order to Sambo, or I shall.” Colonel Hampton’s eyes widened with surprise. “Why, but Lucy,” he stammered. “Why—but why should I? What claim have we—” “Oh, nonsense,” and Lucy shook her head impatiently, “\Who has more claim? Aren’t we Yirginians of the Jfames river princes in our own coun try, too? Hasn’t our family reigned hi Roanoke longer than ever his reigned in Europe? Haven’t we enough house room and servants to make him as comfortable as in a pal ace? But that isn’t the most impor tant. It is a shame to us all, father, that no one has invited him before, ' th a t a strange gentleman of high sta tion should have to lodge at an inn. \Why hasn’t Cousin George Harrison .asked Mm to Brandon? And the Car- .ters a t Shirley, and the people at Berkeley—what do they mean by not asking him? But we won’t let Vir- .ginian hospitality be stained. We will ask him. You wid ride to Norfolk at •^nee, will you not, father dear?” The touch on his cheek was pleas- ^ant to the vain and affectionate man, hut the spirit of the girl’s speech, the suggestion of the courtesy due from 3iim as a reigning prince, to this other prince forlorn and exiled, this was pleasanter. He pursued his lips and snaiiied down. “Out of the mouth of babes,” he re marked, and drew his brows together 3is if under stress of large machinery behind them. “My little girl, you have rather a sensible idea. I had •ajveriooked before, that”—^he cleared bis thro&t and black Aaron standing feay ixt hand across the room, jumped .and E€fll^ Ms eyes—“that,” he contin- “a man of my importance has du- Cfes o f hospitality, even to a foreigner who cx>mes without introduction into the «Kintry.” \Aaron tell Sambo to saddle Thun- •dear,” he ordered. Iftnmce Louis, in his dingy parlor at ISeas inn, looked at his visitor from be- half-shut eyelids, and measured Warn, soul and body. He considered mvitation for a silent mojneqt. was one of the great men of the country- The prince had already his name and the name of his ^astoric home. It was well to have l&^nentlal friends, more particularly 3JS H£> letter aw’aited him as he had &om his uncle, Joseph Bona- ^paste^, with the American introduc- for which he had asked. A visit & few days at this place of Roan- ,oJie csosiJd do no harm and might lead iSxf ssod. \I e$ank you very much. Monsieur CcSonel,” he said gravely, yet gra- ^‘You are most good to de- '.sireE I visit you. I will do wStb pleasure.” €3 q ± ^ e y rode through the si wind-whipped country, dezing jrestfkilly through its last winter’s nap, 1 stirring already at the step of lively April on the threshold. The air was sharp, and nipped at the prince’s fin gers and toes, hut it was exhilaration to be across a horse again, and the exile’s spirit—^the case-hardened heart of steel which failure and misfortune never broke till it broke forever at Sedan—grew buoyant. That “some thing about the outside of a horse which is good for the inside of a man” worked its subtle charm on this fin ished horseman and horse lover, and he was gently responsive as the col* onel talked fluently on. “Does it so happen. Monsieur le Colonel, that there is in these parts Frenchman of—of instruction—a man whom I might use as a secretary? I shall have need tomorrow to write letters. . Would you know of such a man. Monsieur le ,Colonel?” Nothing pleased Monsieur le Col onel more than to be master of the sit uation. “Most certainly/ he an swered blandly and felt that the prince must notice how no demand could find Colonel Hampton at a loss. \Most certainly. My daughter’s French master would be the very fel low. He is intelligent and well edu cated, and what is more, he is a most ardent adherent of your family, prince. He has talked to Miss Hampton with such a vehement enthusiasm that, by the Lord Harry, I believe she expects to see you fly in with wings, sir—I be lieve she does,” and the colonel laugh ed loudly and heartily. It was as good a joke as he had ever made. And before them, at that mo ment, rose a stately picture. A large old house, built of dark red brick brought from England, towered sud denly from out of the hare trees of its park like a monument of calm hos pitality. Its steep roof was set with dormer windows; its copings and its casements were white stone; a white longed for his own people as he went over again that time of excitement and sorrow, ending with the older boy’s death at Forli ^ d his own ill ness and narrow escape from capture. “What a mother!” he cried aloud, tossing up his hands with French dem onstrativeness, as the memory came to him of the days In Ancona when he lay at death’s door, hidden in the very room next that of the Austrian gen eral, saved only at last by the mar velous mother’s wit and courage. The journey through Italy to France, that was drama enough for one life. Rec ognised at every turn, betrayed never, and ending with—Prince Louis smiled his slow dim smile—a flitting ending indeed to days whose every minute was adventure. He thought of the landlord of the Inn, the old cavalry man; the young Frenchman—^Beaupre —that was the name; it was set in his memory; had been in that tenacious memory since an afternoon of 1824, when a runaway schoolboy prince had slipped over the Jura, and played with three other children, about a ruined castle; he saw Pranc::is Beaupre take reverently in his hand the sword which Napoleon had held—and then the alarm! That was a fine sight—^the dash of the youngster through the startled mob of Austrians; the flying leap to the horse; the skirmish to get free, and, at last, the rush of the chase. He had seen it all, watching quietly while his mother and the land lord implored him to hide himself. That young Frenchman—if he should be alive—if ever he should meet him again Prince Louis would not forget. It was psychological that he should have been thinking this when a knock sounded deferentially on the door of the room. But picturesque coinci dences happen in lives as well as on the stage; In Louis Napoleon’s there was more than one. “Bntrez!” he called sharply, and then, “Come in!” The door swung slowly and Aaron, white-aproned and white-eyehalled, stood in it. “Marse Prince,” he stated with a dig nity of service which crowned heads could not daunt, “ole Marse sen’ me bring you dis hyer Marse Bopray.” A light figure stepped before the black and white of Aaron, and halted, and bowed profoundly. The light from the window shone on his face and the dark immense eyes that lifted toward Prince Louis, and for a m o m e n t h e stared, puzzled. Was h e in the pres- people. “Your are welcome prince,” he said. to Roanoke, CHAPTER XXIV. Brothers. Colonel Hampton’s study was dark from floor to ceiling with brown oak wainscoting and was lightened by a dull brightness of portraits. An an cestor in a scarlet coat, the red turn ed yellow and brown with time; an ancestress in dimmed glory of blue satin and lace and pearls; a judge in his wig and gown, gave the small room importance. A broad window looked through bare branches, lacy- black against sky, across a rolling country and groups of woodland. On the morning of the first day of April, 1837, Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte stood at this window, star- a B H B He Considered the Invitation for a Si lent Moment, ing at brown fields and trying to trace a likeness between this new world and the ancient country which he call ed his; Prance, where, since he was seven years old, he had been allowed to spend but a few weeks; Prance, which had freshly exiled him; France, the thought of which ruled him, as he meant one day to rule her; Prance, for whom he was eating his heart out to day, as always, thousands of miles from her shores. He recalled the happy life at Aren- enberg, in Switzerland, and the work and play and soldierly training which all pointed, ip the hoy’s mind, to one cud—to serve France—a service which did not at that time mean sovereign ty, for the Duke of Reichstadt, Na poleon’s son, was alive and the head of the house of Bonaparte. He thought of his short career, his and h is w e ll-beloved brother’s togeth e r , with the Italian insurgents against the Austrians, and the lonely man's heart With a quick step forward he threw himself on his knees before the quiet figure in the throne-like chair; he aeix- ed the prince’s hand and, head bent, kissed It with passion. There was a line of color in each cheek as his face lifted, and his brilliant look was shot with a tear. “If I may die believing that I have helped to win your throne, I shall die in happiness.” Prince Louis had his mother’s warm heart, and this went to it. He put his hand on the other’s shoulder, famil iarly as If the two were equals, kins men. The brotherly touch on Francois' shoulder was withdrawn, and with gen tle dignity, with a glance, the prince lifted him to his feet, and Francois stood happy, dazed, before him. He found himself telling his plans, his methods, his efforts to fit himself for the usefulness that might be on the way. “I have studied enormously, my prince. All known books on warlike subjects, all-1 could borrow or steal I have studied. Ah, yes! I know much of these things.” Louis Bonaparte, with an exhaustive military education, a power of appli- stone terrace stretched before it. Atf Surely this man was part of the one front, as they came, was the car-1 which he had been reviewing, riage entrance, and the squares of a ' Surely he had played a role in the formal English garden, walled with f prince’s history where? With a box hedges, lay sleeping before the ~ flashing thought into the years he springtime; at the opposite side wide lawn fell to a massive brick wall, ^ “Mon ami!” cried Louis Bonaparte, spaced with stone pillars, guarding; and sprang forward and stretched out the grounds from the flowing of the ^ both hands, his royalty forgotten in James river. Colonel Hampton gazed the delight of seeing a face which re- at the home of his people and then at called his youth ^nd his mother, his guest, and he cast the harness of Francois, two minutes later, found his smallnesses and stood out in the himself standing, bursting with loyal- simple and large cordiality which is ; ty and pride, with the prince’s hands the heritage above others of southern clasping his, and the prince’s trans formed face beaming on him. “You rode like the devil,” said the prince. “But the Austrians had the horses. That poor Bleu-bleu! How did you get away? Where have you been? Mon Dieu, hut we looked for you, Zappi and I!” “But no, your highness, I did not get away,” smiled Francois Beaupre as if imparting a joyful bit of news. “They caught me.” And he told briefly his story' of the five y e a r s in prison, of th e d e s p e r a te escape, of the rescue and voyage to A m e r ica, of h is w r e c k e d h e a lth , n o t yet re-established. Through the ac count shone the unconquerable French gaiety. Another thing there was which a Frenchman and a Bonaparte could not fail to see—that the thought of his service to the house of Bona parte had been a sustaining pride, and the hope of future service an in spiring hope. Superstition and gratitude laid hold together on the prince’s troubled mind. He threw himself back into Colonel Hampton’s leather arm-chair, throne-like in impressiveness and size; the mask of impassivity closed on his colorless featues. “Sit there. Monsieur,” he ordered, “and tell me your life.” Simply, yet dramatically as was his gift, the young man went over the tale which he had told to Lucy Hamp ton, that and more. And the prince listened to every word. He, too, had the French sensitiveness to theatrical effect, and his ovqr-wrought imagina tion seemed to see the hand of destiny visibly joining this story to his. Here was a legacy from Napoleon; an in strument created by his uncle, which he, the heir, should use. There was a long silence when Francois had fin ished, and Louis’ deep-pitched voice broke it. '“ One day perhaps a marshal of France under another Bonaparte,' ” he repeated thoughtfully. “It was the accolade, the old right of royality,” and gazed, if reflecting, at the other man’s face. Heightened color told how much it meant to Francois Beaupre to hear those words spoken by the prince. “My prince, I will tell you—though it may be of little moment to know— that it is not for my own advance ment that I care. It is the truth that I would throw away a hundred lives if I had them, to see the house of Bon aparte rule France. It Is only so, I believe, that France can become great once more. We need heroes to lead us, we Frenchmen, not shopkeeper kings such as Louis Phjllippe; If it has not a hero the nation loses courage, and its interest in national life. But the very name of Napoleon is inspira tion—^it pricks the blood; a monarch of that name on Prance’s throne, and oup country' will wake, will live. Y o u , my prince, are the hope of the house of Napoleon.” “Mon Ami,” Cried Louis Bonaparte. cation and absorption beyond most men in Europe, let the gleam of a smile escape. He listened with close attention while Francois told of his organization of the youth of the neigh borhood into a cavalry company, and of their drill twice a week. “And you are the captain. Mon sieur?” Francois smiled a crafty, worldly- wise smile—or perhaps it was as if a ch ild w o u ld seem crafty and w o r ldly- wise. “No, my prince,” he answered, shaking his head sagely. “That would not be best. I am little known, a for eigner. They think much of their old families, the people of these parts. So that it is better for the success of the company that the captain should be of the nobility of the country. One sees that. So the captain of the com pany is Monsieur Henry Hampton, the younger, the kinsman of Monsieur le Colonel, and a young man of great goodness, and the best of friends to me. Everything that I can do for his pleasure is my own pleasure.” The prince turned his expression less gaze on the animated face. “Mad emoiselle Lucy likes the young mon sieur?” “But yes, my prince—she likes ev ery one. Mademoiselle Lucy. It is sun shine, her kindness; it falls ev«5T- where and blesses where it falls. She loves Henry—as a brother.” “As a brother!” the prince repeated consideringly. “Yes, a brother. You find Mademoiselle Lucy of—of a kind d isp o s it ion .” “Beyond words, and most charm ing,” Francois answered steadily, and flushed a little. He felt himself being probed. With that the facile, myste rious, keen mind of the prince leaped, it seemed, a world-wide chasm. “That most winning little girl of the ruined chateau of Vieques—our playmate Alixe—^you remember how she stated, ‘I am Alixe,’ and was at once ship wrecked with embarrassment?” “I remember,” Francois said shortly, and was conscious that he breathed quickly and that his throat was dry, and that the prince knew of both trou bles. “Is she still ‘Alixe’—the same Alixe?” inquired the prince, turning os tentatiously to the window. “Has she grown up as sweet and fresh and bril liant a flower as the rosebud prom ised?” F r a n c o is, hearing his own heart beat, attempted to answer in a par ticularly casual manner, which is a dif ficult and sophisticated trick. He fail ed at it. “They say—I think—she has—oh, but yes, and—I think”—^he stammered and the prince cut short his sufferings. “Ah, yes! I see that it Is with you, as with Monsieur Hen ry, a case of devoted brotherhood. You love her as a brother—-you will not boast of her. “You have done well, Chevalier Beaupre. You have done so well that when the time is ripe again—it will not be long—for Strasburg must be wiped out in success—that I shall send for you to help me, and I shall know that' you will he ready. I see that the star which leads us both Is the only light which shines for you. It holds your undivided 'Soul, Chevalier —I am right?” Francois turned his swiftly chang ing face toward the speaker, drawn with a feeling which swept over him; for a moment he did not answer. Then he spoke in a low tone. “When a knight of the old time went to battle,” he said, “he wore on his helmet the badge of his lady and carried the thought of her in his heart. A man fights better so.” And the silent prince understood. CHAPTER XXV. How Lucy Told. The prince was gone. There l^ad been festivities and formalities, great dinners, gatherings of the Virginia no bility to do honor to his highness at Roanoke house and elsewhere; every where the Chevalier Beaupre had been distinguished by his highness’ most marked favor. And Lucy Hampton’s eyes had shone with quiet delight to see it and to see the effect on her fa ther. For the colonel, confi^sed in his mind as to how it might be true, re luctantly acknowledged that there must be something of importance about this Chevalier Beaupre, that a prince should treat him as a brother. He believed that it would be best to treat him—^he also—at least as a gen tleman. So the French lessons were continued and the Jefferson troop was encouraged, and Francois was asked often to Roanoke house. And as the months rolled on he tried with every thoughtful and considerate effort to express to the little lady of the manor his gratitude for the goodness of her family. It troubled him more than a little that the early friendliness and intimacy of Harry Hampton seemed to be wearing off. The boy did not come so often to Carnifax, and when he came he did not stay for hours, for days sometimes, as was his way at first. He was uneasy with his friend, and his friend wondered and did not understand, but hesitated to push „ way into the lad’^s heart. “He will tell me in time,” thought Francois, and, sure of his own Innocence, wait ed for the time. Meantime he was going home. Go ing, much against the advice of the Norfolk doctor, who warned him that he was not yet well or strong, that the out-of-door life in the mild Vir ginia climate should be continued per haps for two years more, before he went back to the agitation and effort of a Bonapartist agent in Prance. But he could not wait; he must see his old home, his mother, his father, and all the unforgotten faces. He longed to watch the black lashes curl upward from the blue of Alixe’s eyes. He longed to hear her clear voice with its boyish note of courage. It would put new life into him, that voice. It was seven years now and more since he had left them all at a day’s notice to go to Pietro in Italy—to a living death of five years, to many undream ed of happenings. The fever was on him and he must go home. There was to be a celebration for the new and very fashionable cavalry troop of which Francois was the un official backbone and author. In the great grassy paddock at Bayly’s Folly the proud mother of eighteen-year-old Caperton Bayly—first lieutenant, and the most finished horseman in the Vir ginia country—had invited the gentry from miles about to feast with her and to watch her son and his friends show how the Chevalier Beaupre had made them into soldiers. They came in shoals, driving from far off over bad roads in big lurching chariots, or rid ing in gay companies, mostly of older men and girls and young boys, be cause all of the gilded youth were in the ranks that day. When the drill was over there was to be rough riding and jumping. Hur dles were swiftly dragged out and placed in a manner of ring. “This one is very close to the hank,” said Lucy Hampton, standing by Blue bird and watching as the negroes placed the bars. “If a horse refused and turned sharp and was foolish, he might go over. And the bank is steep.” “Lucy, you are a grandmotherly per son,” Clifford Stewart—who was an other girl—threw at her. “You would lik e th e m a ll to rid e in w a d d e d w o o l dressing gowns, and to have a wall padded with cotton batting to guard them.” And Lucy &miled and believed herself overcautious. The excited horses came dancing up to the barriers and lifted and were over, with or without rapping, but not one, for the first round, refusing. Then the bars were raised six inches; six inches in mid-air is a large space when one must jump it. Caperton Bayly went at it first; his mother watched breathless as he flew for ward, sitting erect, intense, his young eyes gleaming. Over went his great hors© Traveler, and over the next and the next—all of them; but the white heels had struck the top bar twice— the beautiful, spirited performance was not perfect. Harry Hampton came next; all of the kindly multitude gazed eagerly, hoping that the hoy to whom life had given less than the others might win this honor he want ed. The first bars without rapping; the second; and a suppressed sound of satisfaction, which might soon be a great roar of pleasure, hummed over the field. Black Hawk came rushing, snorting, pulling up to the third jump, the jump where Lucy stood. And as he came a little girl, high in a car riage, a chariot as one said then, flour ished her scarlet parasol in the air, and lost hold of it, and it flew like a huge red bird into the course, close to the hurdle. And Black Hawk, strung to the highest point of his thoroughbred nerves, saw, and a hor ror of the flaming living thing, as it seemed, caught him, and he swerved at the bar and bolted—bolted straight for the steep slope. A gasp went up from the three hun dred, four hundred people; the boy was dashing to death; no one stirred; every muscle was rigid—^the specta tors were paralyzed. Not all. Fran cois from Ms babyhood had known how; to think quickly, and these boys were his pride and his care; he had thought of that possible danger whiph Lucy had forseen; when the jumping began, mounted on his mare Aquarelle, he was posted near the head of the slope, not twenty yards from the hur dle, to be at hand in any contingency- When Harry’s horse bolted, one touclfc put Aquarelle into motion. ,JAke a line of brown light she dashed at right angles to the runaway—a line drawn to intercept the line of Black Hawk's flight. There was silence over the field—one second—^two seconds—^the lines shot to the angle—^then it came —^the shock they awaited. Black Hawk, rushing, saw the other coming and swerved at the last mo ment—too late. The animals collided, not with full force, yet for a moment it looked like nothing but death for riders and mounts. Harry Hampton was thrown backward to the level field; Black Hawk galloped off, frantic and unhurt, across it; Aquarelle, One ^ saw, lay on the very' edge of the drop ^' and was scrambling to her feet with liveliness enough to assure her safe ty; of Francois there was no sign. In half a minute the breathless still crowd was in an uproar, and a hun dred men were jostling one another to reach the scene of the- accident. It was two minutes, perhaps, before Caperton Bayly, with a negro boy at his heels, with Jack Littleton and Harry Wise and a dozen other lads racing back of him, had plunged over the drop of land where Francois had disappeared. Two minutes are enough sometimes for a large event. In that two minutes Lucy Hampton, without conscious volition, by an Instinct as simple and imperative as a bird's In stinct .to shield her young, had slipped from her horse Bluebird and flown across the level and down over the steep bank till she found herself hold ing Francois’ dark head in her arms and heard her own voice saying words she had never said even to herself. “I love you, I love you,” she said, and if all the world heard she did not know or care. There was no world for her at that minute but the man lying with his head against her heart —dead it might be, but dead or alive, dearest. “I love you—love you—love you,” she repeated, as if the soul were rushing out of her in the words. With that the luminous great eyes opened, and PTancois was looking at her, and she knew that he had heard. And then the training of a lifetime, of centuries, flooded back into her, and womanly reticence and maidenly shame and the feelings and attitude which are not primeval, as she had been primeval for that one mad mo ment. She drew hack as she felt him trying to lift himself, and left him free and was on her feet, and then with a shock she was aware of another pres ence; turning she looked up into the angry glow of her cousin’s eyes. He was not looking at her, but at the man who, dazed, hurt, was trying painfully to pull himself up. Harry Hampton glared at him. ‘We will settle this later,” he brought out through his teeth. “I hope I can kill you.” And Lucy cried out: “Shame!” she cried. “He has just saved your life!” “Damn him!” said Harry Hampton. “I do not want my life at his hands. I hate him more for saving me. Damn him!” And Francois, clutching at a hush, things reeling about him unsteadily, looked up, friendly, wistful, at the boy cursing him. With that there was an influx of population; the whole world, appar ently, tumbled down the steep hank,. She Found Herself Holding Francois’ Dark Head in Her Arms. every one far too preoccupied -with help for the hero to remark Harry Hampton’s grim humor. (TO B E CONTINUED.) Bobbie Burns’ Granddaughter. An action has been entered in Dum fries sheriff court by Miss Annie Beck ett Bums of Cheltenham, the only sur viving granddaughter of the Scottish poet, claiming “to have herself, as the nearest of kin, declared executrix of certain hitherto unconfirmed personal estate of the said Robert Bums.” This xj is a sequel to the recent announce ment that the Liverpool Athenaeum had sold for-£5,000 the two volumes of Bums’ poems and better known as the Glenriddell manuscripts, and that they were likely to go to America, an annoimcement which brought strong protests from Lord Roseherry, Dr. Wil liam Wallace and others.—Westmin ster Gazette. Old American Coins. Robert Morris, the financier of the Confederation, early in 1783, arranged with Benjamin Dudley to strike off some “pattern pieces” that could be placed before congress. On April 2 Dudley delivered to Morris some pieces, which were In reality the first coin struck having the name “United States coin.” The particular speci mens are known to numismatists as the “Nova Constellatio Paterus.” They were of silver and denominated the “mark” and “quint.” The first coins struck by the United States mint were some half dimes, in 1792. 4 I
