SICK WOMEN
OF MIDDLE AGE
Can Be Carried Comfortably Over
The Critical Period by Lydia L
Pinkham's Vegetable Compound
—Note Mrs. Headden's Case
Macon,Georgia.—"During the Change
of Life I suffered with my whole right
; side and could not lie
on my left side. I
was in bed about two
months and could not
jU&fc get up only as my
ggK&L loraal son would lift me.
flp Afterdoctoringwith
out relief a man who
' was rooming with us
told my Hon that Lydia
lilffwfllfflftl E " Plnkham ' B Vege
riMMroKfflH tableCompoundcured
I his mother at the
Change of Life, so
'I began taking your medicine.* After
taking it for two weeks I could get/out
of my bed by myself. I am now 53
years old and in better health' and
stronger than ever in my life. I have
recommended the Vegetable Compound
to many suffering women, young and
old, ana you may use my name any
where as long as you please. I will be
glad to answer any letters sent to me."
—Mrs. F. B. HEADDEN, 6 Holt Avenue,
Macon Georgia.
In a recent country-wide canvass of
Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Com
y pound, over 200,000 replies were received
and 98 out of every* 100 reported they
had been benefited by its use. For *«le
by druggists everywhere.
; |ttjk
Is Your Blood
Starved?
ARE you unknowingly handi
capping yourself in thia
life race? Is it blood starvation—
lack of energy-building elements
—that is heading you toward
failure . . . unhappiness?
Examination shows that 80
out of 100 men and women are
Anemic ... and don't know that
thia condition Is responsible for
their loss of energy ... ambition.
Press your thumbnail as illus
trated above. Unless the blood
comes rushing back Anemia la
Indicated.
Glide's Pepto-Mangan Is the
tried way to revitalise the blood.
Foe thirty-two years physicians
have prescribed it. Its rich iron
and manganese content have
restored health to thousands.
Your druggist has Oude's
Pepto-Mangan in either liquid or
tablet form.
i Gude's
Pepto-Mangan
* Tonic and Blood Enricher
JflSf*
SICK BABIES
Ropond instantly, to
a short treatment of
Dr. Thornton's
EASY TEETHER
Ask Your Druggist
I j
I Household Necessity |
H Altt ■
U "Vaseline I
PCTftOLKUM JKULY I
SINNERS in HEAVEN
'By CLIVE ARDEN
Copyright by Th« Bobbi-MerrHl Co.
PART FOUR—Continued
—l9
"This wns our wedding rlniv" she
whispered.
The Involuntary start which the
other gave was quickly contro'led.
She met steadily, albeit with mine ap
prehetiMlotf" girl's searching look—
seeming to probe to her very soul,
proving it/s faith.
encouraged. "You—mar
ried him? Tell me everything; will
jou?"
"You understand?" The searching
look never rt taxed. "You do under
stand
The appeal In that passion.ite re
g:ird and qufstlon brought quick re
sponse.
"Hear," she replied, pulling het
down on the couch by the fire, "I
understand. You loved each other end
acted In accordance with—honorable
convictions. In extraordinary
stances. Is that enough? What more
can I say?"
Barbara drew n breath of Inexpres
sible relief. Holding fast to that sym
pathetic hand, she recounted with sim
ple fervor the whole history. Nothing
was omitted up to the present. When
her voice ceased, there fell a long
silence. From somewhere In the house
came a merry laugh ; un opening door
let out « brief flood of dance music.
. . . Then a piece of coal dropped
Into the fender, and Mrs. Field movfd.
"Ah. my dar'ing!" she cried. "It Is
bitter ... I know 1
know. . . ."
That was the first of many ta'ks
together during that Christmas season,
which brought with It such acute mem
ories. . . .
On the ufternoon of Boxing day,
as (lie girl nut alone. Hugh suddenly
appeared—a grave-faeed Hugh, with
the bewildered '"doggy" look still In
Ills eye. She rose to meet him, with
some embarrassment.
"Mrs. Field's with the old people.
She suld you uere alone," he blundered.
In explanation. "Bab—l've missed
you. old thing!"
The simple directness touched her.
She, too, had been conscious of a gap
In the surface of her life, among the
old haunts of their childhood, which
had added to her wretchedness. Im
pulsively. *he gave him her other hat)d.
"I have missed you, too. llughle!"
Hugh clearly had something m his
mind.
"I wanted to say." he blundered on,
•• —to tell you—l was a rotter—that
day! I've been thinking the deuce
of a lot lately, Bab! And I wanted
you Just to know —you can count on
me tin)' time to—bnck you and Croft
up, 1 mean." . . .
It was clumsily expressed; hut she
understood what the effort cost him.
and the genuine feeling behind It all
Hugh looked at her diffidently, then
away throuKh the window, speaking
quickly and huskily. "And I wanted
you to know that If—later on, per
haps—you felt you could marry me,
after all—" he paused, glancing at her.
"I shall always be there —Just the
same."
The eyes that met his were swim
ming In sudden tears. "Sly dear!"
she cried "But It can never be now—"
"You need not aay anything, or
bother about It," he said simply.
Impulsively she pressed his hnnds
against her cheek; then he drew him
self free. Hugh Intensefy disliked
scenea. Having said what he wanted,
he turned the subject. "Mrs. Field
told me to have tea with you. She
said there were loada of muffins! Let's
sit on the hearth-rug and toast them,
as we used to do."
So they sat together on the floor
toasting muffins, the barrier breaking
down between them. Thus Mra. Field
found them on her return: nnd a cer
tain look of relief crossed her face.
•••• , • • •
It was one of those days when ev
er) thing goes wrong. The village
"help" did not come; and Martha
therefore considered herself top much
overworked to complete any one Job.
Lunch was late, the soup tepid, the
potatoes were bard, coffee was luke
warm. The clogging of the well-oiled
wheels of this small groove naturally
resulted In "nervea" on the part of
Mrs. Stockley. These, working up
gradually, found relief In an explo
sion, when Barbara announced an af
ternoon's golf with Hugh. Surely
there niuai tie work of some sort for
her to do Ui this tragedy of an un
"help"-el household? Thla led to a
heated argument, which took a sudden
deflection down an unexpected chan
nel.
"Of course. If you have renewed
your engagement with Hugh—"
"5 have not mother. I never can."
"And why can you never marry
Hugh J" her mother asked testily. "Is
It still because of that ridiculous In
fatuation? Barbara. I Insist upon your
forgetting such nonsense."
"You don't understand, mother. I
csn never forget."
"No," s greed Mrs. Stockley with
some heat; "I do not understsnd; and
I think It Is time I did!"
She turned to her sister, as ususl,
for support, which wss speedily forth
coming.
, "Barbara." began that worldly wom
an. her curiosity at laat given lagttt-
mate rein, "how far did this Infatu
ation go? What can you never for
get ?"
The girl looked at her, startled, at
a momentary loss. Her sensitive face,
:in enemy to subterfuge, flushed an
grlly.
"Ah!" exclaimed her aunt meaning
ly, "1 thought from the first there
was something 'wrong."
"Wh-what do you mean, Aunt Mary?
There was nothing—wrong!"
"Then why maintain such mystery?
Why are you afraid to talk of the
matter—to tell the truth?"
A rush of loathing, contempt for
all the suspicious minds about her,
recklessness, which, in Impulsive na
tures, has far-reaching effects, swept
the girl away. After all. what did
their feelings matter? What their
opinions to the man whose memory
she had tried In vain to shield from
vulgar calumny? Barbara turned and
faced the two women, tossing back
the hair from her brow.
"You shall have the truth!" she
cried, with suddenly blazing eyes.
"This 'lnfatuation' you talk about went
—to the end. He returned my love.
We became husband and wife."
VII
The silence was awful. A dormant
volcano could not have seemed more
vibrant with. foreboding. The two
women snt, bereft of speech, gazing
blankly at the girl, who faced them
fearlessly from the From
Mrs. Stockley's face every vestige of
color had fled. She looked suddenly
old; her features were haggard.
Then Barbara, as she had done twice
before, held out her left hand.
"This," she said, breathing fast, "!•
my wedding ring. He was my hus
band."
The tension broke. Mrs. Stockley
gasped, nnd her sister gave a snort
of contemptuous laughter.
" 'Husband' I" she mocked. "Pray—
who was the priest? Where was the
church? Or —had you a native reg
istry office?"
The sarcasm was to the girl merely
as the heat of an extra candle to
one already enveloped in flames. She
Ignored the speaker, fixing her eyes
upon her mother.
"Do you understand, mother?"
At that moment the sight of her
mother's deathly face struck, like a
blow, upon her heart. Her anger sub
aided as quickly as It had arisen; In
Its place a huge pity arose, making
It suddenly Imperative that the wom
an who had borne her should be saved
the suffering of misconstruction.
Impulsively she moved forward,
stretching out both hands.
"Mother?"
Mrs. Stockley rose slowly to her
feet, Ignoring the hands, still staring
at her daughter as If she were some
hideous snake seen In a corner of
her comfortable room.
"You!" she muttered. "You—my
daughter—you dare to face me with
those—lies?"
The hands dropped and clenched at
her sides. "They are not lies! It
was ftaposslble to get married accord
ing to English law. We therefore per
formed the ceremony for ourselves.
We took the same vows—lt was per
fectly honorable."
Miss liavles broke In with another
harsh laugh.
"Did he actually succeed In stuffing
you with all that, to cloak your Im
morality?"
"Aunt Mary! How dare you—T"
"Oh! It's always the sume! H aven 't
I dealt with hundreds of cases In
siy work wheh have been 'perfectly
honorable'? Foola! Dupes! You weak
women believe anything*!"
"You—y-you—" Barbara choked, In
her furious Indignation
"Immorality I" Mrs. Stockley caught
at the word "Immorality) In one of
our family? My own daughter—?"
"You got off lightly," broke in her
slater, watching the girl narrowly,
through her lorgnette. "Without pay
ing the price! Most girls are not so
fortunate. But I suppose yon took
good care to prevent—"
"Yet!" cried her mother almost hys
terically, "suppose then had been chil
dren?'
"There would hare been," she ra
llied with unnatural calm, her eyes
burning In an ashen face. "That la
why I was so Ul at Singapore."
For a moment both women were
again bereft of speech, Barbara turned
to the fir* and atood gating Into Its
depths.
"Ha her aunt, at last. "1
always thought there waa something
suspicious In that Illness."
Then the girl flashed round, con
tempt ringing In her role*.
"Yea, Aunt Mary, yon would! Peo
ple like you would And something
suspicious In—an archangel. Oh!" ahe
cried passionately, "I know all the
rilagustlng. vulgar gossip concerning
Alsn and myself I I knew It before I
reached Kngland. Now, ] suppose,
you will all purr la your self-righteous
ness. thinking how wise you were- "
"B-Barbara I" spluttered her dum
fonnded aunt.
"Oh. yea. you will! But"—turning
bluing eyes upon Mlaa Dairies' furi
ous face —"you are all wrong 1 How
THE ALAMANCE GLEANER, GRAHAM, N. C.
can you tell what was right and what
was not—out there? What do you all
know of real, fundamental life? What
experience have you had of—love,
temptation—any problems—that you
should dare—dare to Judge? You all
carry out your religious observances
to the letter —but what about the
spirit of It all?"
The two women were staggered by
her furious flow of words.
"I understand," cried Mrs. Stock
ley, In weak Impotent rage, "(hat you
have disgraced our name! Sin can
not be excused. Whatever the man
was—and thank heaven he Is dead!
—you should have shown strength.
You—you—are nothing but a—wan
ton !"
"Mother!" The girl recoiled, as If
she had been struck, catching at a
chair for support.
Her mother broke Into a storm of
hysterical weeping.
"Go!" she cried, between her sobs.
"Leave the house! I—l refuse to own
.you! Go to your friends who—con
done Immorality—who encourage sin.
« . . Join Jenny Grant—"
"Mother!" «tie cried igaln, with
white Hps, "you don't realize what
yon are saying—"
"I do! I do!—Go!" Weakly she
stamped her foot, then sank into her
chair, burying her face in her hand
kerchief.
A wild caricature of a laugh broke
from Pi-tiara's Up«. She looked at
her motor's shaking form, then at
her aunt's rigid figure and hostile
countenance.
"Very well," abe Bald slowly, "I
till go." . . . As U dazed, she
ut up her hand to her and gave
one look round the familiar rowrf. . . .
Presently the drawing room door
closed, with deliberate quietness, be
hind her.
• ••••••
Barbara's sudden appearance at the
flat brought Mrs. Field little surprise.
She had heard the rumblings of the
storm approaching In Darbury, had
seen the lowering clouds; but, with
j,—
"Very Wall; I Will Go."
rare Insight, she forebore to Interfere*.
Some storms, being inevitable, are
beat left to themselves. "Forewarned
and forearmed," one's work comes
later with salvage and reconduction.
Not a whole regiment of ££ineera
could pull down the wall encircling
Mrs. Stoclcley'a horizon; of that Mrs.
Field waa certain. In time, when the
■hock, and—above all—the talk, had
subsided, a few brlcka might, with
Infinite tact, be drawn away, allow
ing an occaalonal glimpse of wide up
lands beyond. . . . But that would
not be yet ... In the meantime
it was the girl's quivering soul which
needed infinite delicacy in handling;
which wavered, straggled, sank gradu
ally lower Into the dark wilderness
of mort>ldlt.v, from which those who
get lost therein take long to discover
a way out; and, when thoy do. And
the burrs and thorns still sticking to,
them, never to be quite shaken off.
Margaret Field had been through
all this herself, years ago. No words,
she knew, could help. She watched
the girl closely, but made no attempt
to force her. Patting back the dock
of her own daya, she entered the
black pit with her, understanding her
darkness.
Barbara went away. Bhe gave no
address. "I want to feel cut off from
everything and everybody who knowa
me—for a time," she said, when her
friend expostulated.
• ••••••
A remote Cornlah village, trailing
Its whitewashed cottages down a pre
cipitous narrow lane bordered by lit
tle cobbled ditches 'wherein ducks
waddled and talked together—winding
round a comer between fragrant gar
dens that merged Into gray walla of
bouses and banks which. In summer,
oo'sed ferns from every crevice, bum
forth Into flm of purple-red fuchsias
and bulged out into gnat clumps at
hydrangeas; pausing for breath, while
the lane dropped to the old inn In
the valley below, the white and gray
cottages straggled along on either side
the stream gurgling over Its stony bed
between rolling coombs in the valley
behind, to the harbor which was Its
goal. . . . Such was the' retreat in
which Barbara found herself.
The chance memory of a friend's
rapture had led her weary footsteps
thither—to a small gray house near
the river, kept by a bright young wom
an and her true-hearted husband.
Here, unknown and unnoticed, away
from the stings of malicious tongues,
the Inquisitive world —not even see
ing a newspaper—she wrestled with
the questions and doubts and miseries
of her heart
"If the Joy of your own personal
love Is withdrawn," Margaret Field
had said, one day in London, "the
seed is never lost You may think it
is for a time; but, later. It shoots up.
nourished by experience, growing Into
a strong plant which will develop Into
a flowering tree of many branches."
The truth of that, too, was dimly In
her mind as sne watched the stars
come out above the harbor —In her
heart the tired peace of one who, giv
ing np tilting at windmills he can
never conquer, lays his hand upon
the plow which needs it. If solving
the mystery of suffering could never
be accomplished; If her own personal
keynote to happiness were lost; then
content she must be to hold out the
hand of fellowship to those compan
ions in bitter waters —to help find it
for the world starving for love. . . .
Perhaps—who knows? —that Is the an
swer to the riddle.
As darkness fell, she turned down
the path over the rocks; crossed the
little bridge spanning the river; and
made her way to the gray house, from
which cheerful lights beckoned. . . .
She fumbled with the handle, turned
It; opened the door; then stood for a
moment blinking confusedly: for
something big and dark had loomed
up in the small passage, hiding the
hanging lamp. . . .
A great cry burst suddenly from the
girl's lips. ... In the dark she
turned ashy white; swayed; clutched
vainly at the door-post; and would
have fallen, had she not been caught
by arms that held her so strongly that
they stopped her breath. . . .
Alan stood on the threshold.
VIII
It was only a small sitting room,
with an oil lamp ard a crackling flre.
But all the words and all the heav
ens were enclosed -within Its walls to
the two who clunj '.ogether In their
rapture.
Wonderlngly, almost reverently, the
girl passed her hands over the arms
that clasped her —touching the dark
hair and bronzed cheek half-fearfully,
scarcely believing In their reality,
looking upon him with bewildered,
darkened eyes almost afraid to trust
their own sight. The tall broad-shoul
dered figure had lost not an Inch of
its uprightness, nor had the head lost
its old dominant poise. The few extra
lines round the smiling lips and glow
lng eyes were swept up into the radi
ance which seemed to envelop him.
Yet, in the dark clothes of civiliza
tion, he appeared subtly strange to
the half-clad, barefooted overlord of
savages- of other days.
-Yes," he said at last, catching her
hand lightly wandering over bis arm.
"It's all real. Solid flesh—no ghost!"
He raised her chin in the old pos
sessive way, and looked long into the
thin face and dark-ringed eyes, which
told their own tale of suffering en
dured ; then he pressed her head to his
breast and held her close again In
silence, as if defying any fate to sep
arate them now. . . .
"But," she stammered faintly at
last, "how la it—why—l don't under
stand—T"
"Why I'm not aleeplng with my te- J
then, as you all surmised? Well
that la your fault"
"Miner
He nodded. "When Baboo ma was
about to send me to my gods, yon
conveniently sent him. Instead, to the
shades of Valhalla —that last bullet
you know!"
Her eyes opened wide, and she
caught her breath.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Got Loans From "Aunt"
In Parla and other big French cities
the pawnbroker Is called "my a tint."
in France one needn't blush in doing
business with the pawnbroker, for ha
is the state; that la, the government
conducts the pawnbroklng business. It
does It very well, too, if I am to be
lieve the testimony of some Americans
who have "traded" with "My Aunt"
while awaiting delayed remltta&cea
from home. "My Aunt" baa had a
good year's business. She does llttls
business nowadays with the working
man, for he la always in work. The
center of poverty has moved. It Is the
while-collar brigade which, unable to.
make both ends meetxresorta to "Hj"
Aunt." Oddly enough, Adit's
shop la Parts Is on "the HIH of Piety."
Not a misprint for pity.—A. B. I*, la
World Traveler Magadan
KITCHEN]
i CABINET I
■ ■
((g). 1925, Western Newspaper Union.)
Out of the air a subitance.
Out of the mind a thought,
From the dim unknown
A hidden truth—
And a miracle lq wrought.
Thl* Is the world of
Nothing Is left to chance.
But science Is born
And bred of dreams,
And her spirit Is romance.
—Ann Bird Stewart.
EGG DISHES
Eggs when plentirul and at a rea
sonable price should be served in
various dishes for lunch
-600 an d supper, taking
the place of meat.
Green Pepper Omelet,
k —Wash six green pep
\ \T9VJ pers, remove the seeds
\ and white fiber, break
\~j( into small pieces and
saute in four tablespoon
fuls of butter until ten
der. Beat two eggs and add one
fourth cupful of milk, three-fourths
cupfals of grated cheese, salt one-half
teaspoonful, and one-eighth teaspoon
ful of paprika. Cook over a slow Are
until the omelet Is a golden brown on
the bottom. Bun a spatula around un
der the omelet, make a slight Incision
on opposite sides and fold over. Turn
on a hot platter and serve at once.
It Is a good plan to set the omelet
Into a hot oven for a minute to Insure
a good cooking on top, before folding.
Peasants' Omelet. —Melt three table
spoonfuls of butter In a double boiler,
add one tablespoonful of flour, and
when well-blended and smooth add
one teaspoonful of salt and one
eighth of a teaspoonful of pepper.
Add one cupful of cold diced potatoes.
Beat six eggs until light and pour Into
a well-buttered omelet pan. Cook
slowly, lifting the mixture often at
the sides. When the mixture begins
to thicken spread over It the hot po
tatoes. Fold and serve. The potatoes
may be moistened very slightly with
a cream sauce. String beans, peas
or other vegetables may be used, but
should be hot when spread over the*
omelet.
Bhlrred Egg*. —Blend together one
cupful of mashed potatoes, one-half
cupful of cooked minced ham, one
half teaspoonful of salt, one-fourth
teaspoonful of pepper, and one beaten
egg; mix well and cover the bottom of
a buttered baking dish. Break five
eggs over the potato mixture, making
a depression to hold each. Dot with
bits of butter, dust with salt and pep
per and bake until the eggs are firm.
For Dinner.
Those who like chillies will enjoy
one made from this recipe:
Chilli Con Car.
nl.—T a ke one
— IRJT - ha " poind of
_ , i VLU/S with some fat,
" 4 . one and one-half
Y pounds of round
steak, all put
through the meat
grinder. Brown three good-Blzed sliced
onions, add the meat, a dried chilli
pepper,' two quarts of tomato, salt,
pepper, and two or three tablespoon
fuls of chilli powder. Cook very slow
ly for three hours, then add two cans
of kidney beans and let the whole
cook another half-hour. Serve In
bowls.
Dinner. Cheese.—Put through a n _'al
grinder one-half cupful of stuffed
olives; add one cream cheese, and
wtien well blended add two cupfuls ot
grated American cheese. Season well
with salt, roll In a long roll and dec
orate with a few thinly sliced stuffed
olives. Pass on a cheese plate with
knife.
Baked Ham and sweet Potatoes.—
Grease the bottom of a round bak
ing dish and place a slice of ham
about one-half Inch in thickness In it
Pepper and sprinkle with a few cloves.
Spread with mashed sweet potato to
the depth of the ham. Season the po
tatoes with butter and pepper, then
add another slice of ham and top off
with potato and finish with a third
slice of ham. Baek in a hot oven un
til the meat Is tender.
Kitchen cupboards and drawers may
be looked over, repainted and made
ready for spring at this time; when
the warm, bright days come it is not
so easy to work Inside.
B*an Stsw. —Take a pound or mors
of navy beans, soak until slightly
soft, then put on to cook with a half
pound of salt pork and two or three
pounds of fresh pork. Simmer and
cook in plenty of water until the
beans are soft and the meat tender.
Serve with rye bread- sandwiches on
s chill/ winter night.
Horseradish Bauce. Blanch and
chop two dozen* Jordan almonds very
fine Tress the vinegar from four ta
blespooflfuls of grated horseradish,
season, with salt and cayenne and add
to the almond* with two tablespoon
ful* of thick sweet cream. Mix well
and serve with boiled flsh.
When using grapefruit for various
fruit salads or cocktails, save some of
the Juice, thicken with, gelatin and
serve o>.t into cubes with rich cream
cheese or with cottage cheese and
crackers with coffee for dessert.
Orange-Cider Frapp*.—Boll together
one and one-half cupful* of sugsr snd
two cupful* of wster for Ave minutes.*
Adfl one quart of sweet cider, two enp
fuls of orange Juice; cool, strain and
freeze to a mush.
AlabasHrae
instead of
Kalsomine
or Wall Paper
Pound for pound Alabastine
covers more wall surface than
any substitute.
So easy to apply you can do a
satisfactory job yourfelf. Ask
your dealer for colorcard or
write Miss Ruby Brandon, the
Alabastine Company, Grand
Rapids, Michigan.
Alabaatine —a powder in whiteand
tint*. Packed in 5-pound packages,
ready for use by mixing with cold
or warm water. Full direction* on
every package. Apply with an or
dinary wall bniah. Suitable for all .
interior surface*— plaater, wall
board,brick,cement,orcanva*.Will
not rub off properly appliad.
all colors
ler all rooms
V
S Sw iC "' ■
°oW ■
SSsSJSSrgs'
ft V** Sasd**
■ 1)00,1 tbeC 4 -
E take it]
best I
with I
Don't Fuss With
Mustard Plasters!
Musterols Work* Without thm
B list or—Easier, Quicker
There's no sense in mixing a mess of
mustard, flour and water when you can
easily relieve pain, soreness or stiffness
with a little dean, white Musterole.
Musterole is made of pure oil of
mustard and other helpful ingredients,
combined in the form of the present
white ointment. It takes the place of
mustard plasters, and will not blister.
Musterole usually gives, prompt relief
from sore throat, bronchitis, tonsillitis,
aoup, stiff neck, asthma, neuralgia,
headache,congestion, plemsy, rheuma
tism, lumbago, pains and aches of the
* joints, sprains, sore muscles,
bruises, chilblains, frosted feet, cotdsof
the chest (it may prevent pneumonia).
To Mothers: Muatarola la also
mad* In milder form for
bsbi— and small children.
Ask for Children's Musterole**
35cjand^65c,^jars
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Beauty