rHE CHARLOTTE NEWS JANUARY 29. 1911
7
I
HEMAN HICHHMP
Jfk of dim Am&-im
i N RY RUa S^ILL MI LLFRl
Cofrrncht. loi*. The B«tikrMerrin I'W
Flook Two.
THE MOULD.
" prople. was being
; ht»l(l into slavery.
. wrong. In denial of
r >pimonwealth, in
(' iia nral law which
r»'W anl be nieas-
■ !■» humanity.'■ He
• > (ii.'tiiih the just
•'». to h1. executive
;iU'l »'iuilihriiini
,i.‘ Ht’t there was
means by
rotiul be rorreeted.
■ -1 Mild Thp reward
‘I'aWy distributed.
froMoiind the rein-
r ' !h‘ knew—the
Pi’ r..nll never ho
r I-' mnchinerv of
: in ihe power of
. . li ‘ remedv was
I - ( Continued.)
-■f ti'c Shadow.
is pa»‘t‘’ That
nnswerod when
li-^ city's sorrow-
I'liese i)oople—
•' iirul used as a
I t wer that lie
worsliip hi.-^
Morod tlie sliame-
li:id '^^tood lf*y-
;im. had bared
when it seemed
was luimblod to
♦‘ven In hl« Ir.i-
.T’.un by tlu' in-
m-vt'r U) forsake
' n\\
i 1.'
,'d
'.ib'i'O " thoiiqbt this
■ nt success a natioi.
• ■iidorinuly. "since 1
iiu^aninp: of life,
n il*', they iipod nie.
’ H.Ue I he last
Kathleen repeated
.1' ones heart bare
\ i i voice was hus-
;'i when he s))oken
. woniau whom ho
n l'v.> many thin.^rs
' lU'Oiile. Au(i I
' l.iivp misusefl my-
■ now—what I’vo re-
n;\ life. Kathleen.
out nf me.’*
o ,-;nd jiently. “that
!i.- into your heart—
Things."
' -'r. It seemed to
’ thin, ucly face,
m w inspiration, was
■''il in the world.
' bo iu»ppy. ({oh. a.s
'••t n." There was a
.ri-,werpd sravely.
' :>.ist that I thouRht
: I'm not think-
hr :
moie in his
.• ■! V r to her room
■ . li** vain iinnj^er
■' oiu of her reat.
APTER II.
? -Which Is Love.
'• Rob's illnci-s
r'loM'I re.^tlessly
■^. ruM r hou'.ne in i)as-
1 If-hate. Durinc
• , ;i^>'C( nee tlio lest:
■iitiniied in nunpled
' '• iliiv. When the
- ft-ver had been
■ ■ '•vernor letnrned
I’.ii: Mrs. Dnnmeade
I' i’rnt' with Klea-
■ ■ 'I f - heart ached
• ' she Knew not
' Sander, too. saw
1 '' niaiked in F’Jea-
ni«ir»' pron(nmced;
Not until Mrs.
i n
e Stieff
and
n
a
a
Shaw
ihe Player
Pianos
? sntlsfactlon
r ' xpressing the
■ ’ nuisic of the
n ■ V. oil as Facred
‘d sun£;s. negro
' ‘ ra^edest kind
itil with never a
' ■! in perfect time,
1 reach of the
il buyer. Write
ij. M Stieff
■ ircr of the
* Stieff Self-player
Shaw Sclf-player
r.RN WAREROOM
p-c Trade Street
- N. C.
■ • ‘ I' 'TII. Maraeer.
Dunmeade was preparing to return
home was the amazing reason dis
closed to him.
It was the day when the doctors fin
ally pronounced Bob out of danger.
Mrs. Dunmeade had spent the after
noon with the Plinns and returned ear
ly in the evening to find Eleanor and
her brother alone in the firelit libra
ry. Eleanor turned to her with an
inquiring glance.
lie is much better,” Mrs. Dunmeade
aiis'wered the glance. “The doctors
say that unless a relapse occurs—and
careful nursing will prevent that—It
Is only a matter of regaining his
strenpth.”
Eleanor made no answ'er. But San
der saw a- stranr^e lisht—to him. a rev
elation—come into her face. He gave
no hint of the light dawning upon
him. but chatted impersonally for a
few minutes. When he came to a pe
riod. Kleanor quietly arose and left
the room, followed by Sanger's incred
ulous eyes.
“Absurd! Incredible!” he muttered
to himself.
Then he turned swiftly, an.grily, on
Mr.-^. Dunmeade. “Is this some of
your work?”
She answered quietly. “It is the
work of something which you, Henry
Sanger, or 1 can neither help nor im
pede.”
“Ah! I remember, your husband has
a theory." he sneered.
".Tohn recognizes a fundamental
principle of existence. Some day
you. i think, will recognize it as a
force you can’t resist."
He shruesed his shoulders skepti
cally. "You and I always did disagree,
Katherine.”
"That’s the weakness of you rich
men. You are anachronistic. You
thinlv in terms of several centuries
nso. Yt)U won’t see that the ))rinci-
,)al of social responsibility has come
; Into its own—until too late to save
I yourselves.”
“You would be impressive on the
I stump, Katherine.” Sanger w'as his
imj)a.-sive self again. "But how am
1 roncernod with that principle?”
“In this—the people that recognize
it won’t long tolerate your antequated
methods of philosophy. And in this
—even your triumph wouldn’t bring
you liapj)iness or content; selfish vic-
jtory never does. Henry. You can
jiranijde underfoot the happiness of a
i gteai people without regret. Yon can
: destroy the work of good men—and
I that v.oiildn’t co\’.nt with you, either.
I But even you, Henry Sanger, have one
j love. And you know now that every
jste}) ,\o'i taie is on Eleanor’s heart.”
i Me ciid not answer at once. He
I frowned irritably.
I “I have a responsibility.” he said at
last, dispassionately, “^o my wealth
land to my class. Incidentally 1 have
an ambition. If between them Eleanor
must be hurl—I’m soiry. If you
tiiou'j^ht to spike one of the enemy’s
,u:uns. you have failed. Katherine.”
“You tan hardly expect ever to be
shown meicy. ’
“I’m not asking mercy,” he replied'
coniplacenrly. “I don’t need it. I nev-
(>r shall. What you visionaries close
youi- eyes to is that the world is ruled
by its necessities, by its pocket-book,
You’r on the crest of the w’ave now—
but our time is coming. We don’t ask
mercy, because we don’t intend to
show mercy.”
“Poor Eleanor!"
“I'm not responsible for that,” he
answered sharply, rising. “Ii’s Mc-
.\doo’s ambition and yours—or mine.
It may take ten years or twenty, but
in the end it w’ill be mine—neither you
nor your husband nor McAdoo—nor
Eleanor—shall stand in my way. We
haven't taken you reformers seriously,
we men of wealth. But we haven’t
developed the nation's Industries to
let a few dreamers take them from
us. Now," his eyes gleamed, “we ac
cept your challenge. It means war,
Katherine. And your friend McAdoo
shall he the first to go under. Tell
hinj that.” He left her abruptly.
And yet. that evening at dinner,
Mrs. Dunmeade thought she detected
in his manner an unwonted gentleness
toward Eleanor.
One evening—Mrs. Dunmeade had
returned to her home and Bob’s con
valescence was progressing rapidly—
Eieanor and her brother were alone at
dinner. At its end he accompanied
her to the library.
"Henry,” she asked abruptly, “do
you know where Paul Remington is?”
"I do not,” he returned calmly. "He
visited my office tw'Ice the day before
the election. On his second visit
we had a difference of opinion as to
what should be done with a certaii>
document. I maintained my position.
He seemed disturbed by that fact. I
haven’t heard of him since.”
“Then he had the decency to be
ashamed, at least."
He made no answer, although she
fancipd she saw a slight flush rise to
his face; but it might have been the
firelight. She looked at him steadily
a moment. Then she dropped her
eyes to the floor, thoughtfully. After
a short silence, she raised her eyes to
his once more.
“Tbre is one thing I’d like you to
do. if you will.”
“You have but to name it.”
“Tnder Uncle Henry’s will, I be
lieve, he left me this house and
annuity?”
“Yes.”
“Will you give me the value of the
anniiity and buy the house from me ’”
“It shall be done tomorrow,” he
answered abruptly. “May I ask what
your plans are?”
“They aren’t settled yet, except that
I am going away in a few' days.”
“When do you expect to return?”
“Never.”
“Ah! Then I am to understand that.
In the parlance of the stage, I am
cast off? You doubtless class me as
the villian in the recent episode?”
She sighed wearily. “I blame you
no more than myself—not so much.
I’m not very proud of myself, Henry.”
“I suppose most people would re
gard it a queer evidence of affection,
btit—I care too much for you to urge
you to stay, Eleanor.
“You refuse to take me seriously?”
"I’m not joking,” he said quietly,
and the Sanger manner for once was
absent. “You’re the only person I
ever cared for, Eleanor.”
He was manifestly telling the truth.
Her astonishment was genuine and un
concealed. “I can’t believe it. You
cared for me—and yet you could—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, still quietly.
“And w'ould do it again. My emotions
are under perfect control.”
S’nc rose impulsively and took a
step toward him, her lips parted as
if to speak. But his uplifted hand
stayed her.
“Under perfect control,” he repeated
sharply. “I beg that you make no de
monstration. I understand the situa
tion better than I did. Your feeling
over that Remington matter is quite
.justified—from your point of view.
Therefore I am ready to assist you, as
far as you will allow me, In the cast
ing-off process. You have gone over to
the enemy; rather, you never were on
my side, really. Our points of view
differ radically. I think you are very
w’ise. It will save us both some—
discomfort.
“That Remington affair,” he contin
ued, rising, “w’as very amateurish, and,
in so far as you were concerned, in
I)oor taste—”
‘‘I was concerned in it all, Henry.”
“For that, accept my profound apol
ogies. ‘And now—don’t you think we’d
better end this little scene. My sec
retary will bring you the necessary
papers tomorrow for your signature.”
She made no answer. He left her
alone. Her lonelinesa seemed to her
immeasureable, complete.
The next day, as Sanger had prom
ised, his secretary presented to her
the papers necessary for the convey
ance of the house and the release of
the annuity; also there w'as placed in
her hands a certified check for a gen
erous sum.
At last—so proclaimed the dally re
ports from the convalescent’s room—
the time came when she could fulfil
her promise to Kathleen. For a week
longer Eleanor postponed the dreaded
visit. It was no easy task Kathleen
had set for her; Eleanor could avow
her love to Paul, to Kathleen, to Mrs.
Dimmeade. but the fear lest she be-
trny her heart to Bob stirred up agon
ies of pride. But one day she sum
moned her resolution and w'ent brave
ly forth to abase herself before the
man who. she believed, must hate her
bitterly. She ordered the automobile,
but on reaching the door, changed her
mind and walked to Bob McAdoo’s
home, as she had done the night
when all supposed that he must die.
More than once her heart failed her,
crying out, “I can’t!’’—to be answered
with, “You must!”
Fiob and Kathleen were sitting by
the window of his library. It had be
come her daily custom, when school
was over, to hasten home for an hour’s
chat w ith him before dinner. But they
were not talking now. He was staring
absently into space, a habit that had
fixed itself upon him since his illness.
But not thinking of her, she knew;
so easily could he forget her!
Suddenly Kathleen, looking out of
the wMndow, started. Quietly she rose
and left the loom. At the door she
stopped to look back; he had taken no
account even of her departure.
The maid, instructed by Kathleen,
led Eleanor upstairs and left her at
the open dooi‘ of Bob’s room.
And as she stood on the threshhold,
the need of her courage passed away.
Strangely enough, this meeting to
which she had looked forw'ard with
such painful uncertainty, no longer
seemed unnatural or difficult. Fear of
him and of his .iudgment fell from her.
P"or one thrilling instant she looked
at him. the mask of expression drawn
aside, all her heart in her eyes.
He did not observe her entrance at
once. He was reclining in his big
chair by th window, a heavy
shawl thrown loosely around his shoul
ders. The ravages of his illness were
plainly apparent. The big hands, wiiite
and bony, drooped inertly from the
chair’s arms. His close-cropped head
rested passively on a pillow\ His po
sition by the window threw the angu
lar, uncomely profile into sharp relief,
marking the hollows and pallor of his
face. In his eyes was the tired, wist
ful expression peculiar to fever con
valescents. She felt in them still an
other quality, a deep sadness bred
of no mere physical weakness.
He felt her gaze. His head turned
slowly to face her. He looked at her
wonderingly, without speaking. His
hand brushed across his forehead in a
troubled gesture, as one would brush
aside a dream that lingers overlong.
She strove to give her w-ords a conven
tional tone.
“I’m glad you are recovering so rap
idly, Mr. Mc.Aidoo.”
“Are you—real? I was just think
ing of you. And sometimes my fan
cies get the better of me nowadays.”
He got to his feet uncertainly. She
saw the effort it cost him in his weak
ness. Slowly she crossed the room
to his side. He held out his hand hes
itatingly. She put her gloved hand
in his; he caught it in a strong clasp.
“You musn’t stand,” she said anx
iously. “Y’’ou aren’t strong yet.”
He sank back into his chair. As he
did so, the shaw'l fell from his should
ers. Tremblingly he stooped to re
cover it. But she w'as swifter than
he. She threw it around him again.
As she drew her arm away. It brushed
against him. For the first time their
ej'es looked away.
She took the chair where Kathleen
had been. For a few minutes there
w'as an awkw-ard silence. She gazed
steadily out of the window, lest her
eyes outrun her tongue in explaining
her coming. He could not know that
in his weakness and new-found hu
mility, his appeal was stronger to her
than in his old superb, arrogant
strength. It was he w’ho at last broke
the silence. The words fell haltingly,
uncertainly.
“I can’t quite realize it. Often I
have thought of you as being here—
there are so many things I wanted to
say to you. Now—seeing you there—
in that chair—”
She turned to him eagerly, her eyes
pleading with him not to misunder
stand. “I had to come—to acknow
ledge my fault.”
“Your fault? But—”
“Yes. My shameful fault! Don’t
you see, I owed it to myself to come.”
With an effort he seemed to bring
himself to the reality of her coming.
In the sudden forcefulness of his re
ply she saw a hint of the Bob that had
been.
“You mean—Paul Remington? But
that is not your fault. I—I only—am
responsible for that. I tried to shape
his life after mine—a poor model, Mrs.
Gilbert. I tried to cut him off from
his happiness. Being what he was,
he had to leave me. And there were
—others—who were tempting him. W^e
were too much for him.”
“Ah! But I made it easy for him
to yield by making him discon-
tened—”
“It began before that. But that was
your right, too. I tried to cut you
off from your happiness.”
“But—it makes what I did the more
shameful—my happiness was not in
volved, Mr. McAdoo.”
He shook his head gravely. “It
might have been. He was very lova
ble.” He used the past tense in which
w speak of the dead.
Again their eyes fell apart, and
there was a silence. He looked out
of the window^; his face was sad. Ab
sently she stripped the glove from her
right hand, her fingers twisting and
untwisting it nervously. She forced
herself to speak.
“You have learned the le.sson of
generosity w'ell, Mr. McAdoo.”
“I have to earn the charity that
has been given me—from every one
—now from you.” A tinge of color
came into his pale cheeks, as unce
more the face of the stricken woman
came before him. ‘T was cruel, bru
tal, to you—yet you could come here.
Doesn’t that prove that you, too, have
forgiven much—far more than I?”
“No! For what you said was true.”
A*ain he shook his head gravely.
“You musn’t say that. I have learned
to see things more clearly, I was
cruelly unjust.”
“Ah! you are generous! And I was
afraid to come—afraid of your judg
ment! You make me the more
ashamed—”
“Don’t!” he cried sharply, as if in
pain. “It hurts to see you abase your
self before me!”
Again a silence, w'hile his eyes held
hers. The quality of his gaze fright
ened her. It was saying too much—
breaking dow^n her self-command,
drawing her to him. She spoke hasti
ly.
“Mr. McAdoo, do you know that he
has disappeared?”
She saw then the hurt that had been
put upon him. “Yes. I have tried to
have him found, but they can discov
er no trace of him. But I will not
give up until he is found—and our
fault repaired.” He used the plural
unconsciously.
“When you find him, will you let
me know ? I shall send an address to
the Dunmeades.”
“You are going away?”
“Yes. Tomorrow."
“And you will not come back.” He
did not ask a question.
He turned once more to look out
into the street. But he saw nothing
there. He was measuring the mean
ing of the moment. It w'as the first
time they had met without that un
natural. disturbing sense of hostility.
She had changed, as had he; he felt
it in her every word, in her presence.
Yet her humility mat him strangely.
Those who have suffered are quick to
sense sorrow in others; he felt that
somehow% in the collapse of his tem
ple of self’ she, too, had been borne
down, crushed. He had “many things
to make up to her”—and he would
never have the chance; she was going
away, out of his life, as suddenly as
she had come. . . Both feared the
next meetings of eyes. Each had a
secret that must be withheld. Y"et by
that telepathy which informs hearts
even across the distances, each guess
ed the other’s secret, knew' that the
frank intimacy of the moment sprang
from more than a common regret, was
more than the death of an unreason
ing hostility. But they w’ere not chil
dren. The scales had fallen from their
eyes. Both knew that they, in the
game of cross-purposes, had assumed
a responsibility which was not yet ful
filled. Because the lesson was but
newly learned, they enjoined them
selves the more sternly to abide by it:
She rose. He. too, got to his feet
She held out her ungloved hand. He
took it again in his strong clasp. Her
lips tried . to fashion a conventional
farewell.
“I hope you will soon get your
strength back—and that you will be
successful alw'ays—and happy.” At
the last words her voice began to fal
ter.
“I pray that life will be kinder to
you than it has been, Mrs. Gilbert.
And that you will forget all this—and
me.” Unsteadiness was in his voice,
too.
“Can we forget?”
“Nor do I want to forget!” The
crimson flooded to her cheeks. But the
unruly tongue ran on. “I couldn’t for
get, if I would! That night—when we
thought you w’ere dying—it is before
me always. When I saw you lying
there—it seemed to me that I had
struck you dow'n—”
“You w'ere her—! I don’t under
stand. Y'ou came—”
“Ah! can’t you see? I had to come
—to make my acknowiedgenient. I
thought you were dying—Miss Flinn
was nearest to you—I told her. She
made me promise to come to you when
you were able. That is why I am here
now-—”
She would have w'ithdrawn her
hand, but his clasp tightened. His left
hand fumbled at his throat, as though
he were choking. “I don’t understand.
Y^ou cared enough to come—”
“Ah! oM’t you see?” she cried pit
eously.
“Why did yon come into my life—
to teach me my lesson—to go away
now? Why, since you must ge away,
were you chosen by the Force, which
is—”
Before him flashed the interpreta
tion of the past few' months, of the
memory that had outlived the busy,
crowded years. His face lighted up
with a look no man or w’oman had
ever seen there.
“It w^asn’t 3’ou I hated—it wasn’t
you I fought against, but—love!”
W’ords that spoke of themselves! He
lifted his heard sharply, as does the
stag in the forest when he hears the
call of his far-away mate. His eyes
caught hers in the grip that would
not be denied, crying out that she was
his—his! His weakness was forgot
ten. His physical being thrilled in ev
ery fiber. . . .The crimson ebbed.
Her eyes wavered, fell—returned to
his, luminous w'ith the answ^er. . .
The moment ended.
“Mr. McAdoo, there is a ruined life
between us!”
She was gone, leaving Bob alone.
And yet not alone. For with him
was the memory of a thrilling mo
ment when he had looked into the
depths of a woman’s heart. And be
tween them laj>^ an impassable barrier,
a barrier of their own building.
He bow'ed his face in his hands and
prayed—prayed for courage and pa
tience and faith to bear his punish
ment—and to atone.
(CONTINUEL- * TOMORROW.)
Cot. Russell Seriously III.
By Associated Press.
Washington, Jan. 28.—The condition
of Colonel Edward L. Russell, vice
president of the Mobile & Ohio Rail
road, who is ill here, is unchanged
from last night. His condition is se
rious.
PURCELL’S — Ladies’ Ready-to-Wear Garments — PURCELL’S
One More Week of Bargain Giving
All Winter Garments Marked at a Fraction
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DRESSES
$8.95—For choice of every winter Dress in store. Exceptional values. Thev are worth $19.50 to
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NNever were such bargains offered in Muslin Underwear. Some of them slijrhtlv mussed from
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urni'+Vi 95\r* r>A/1itrkA/^ 4-r\ *
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Handsome Spring Suits now on display at !!! !!
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Ask our Corsetier to show you these new models. They have wonderful advantage? foi the medium
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. 49c
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DR. A. D. GLASCOCK
OST&OPATHv
Office* Sixtn Floor of Realty BIdg.
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And by Aprpoi.ntment.
Office ’phone 1073. Residence 1037.
Conaultatioa Utern.
Ofnce 'Ph»i e 326. Residence 962-J,
!• Jmnlefion
OENTISl,
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Or. hi. H. Ray
OSTbur/^iri . . . t"&REO
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Hours d to.«2; 2 to 5.
Phone, Office, 830; Kctsidence 371-J*
Con»;iitation 4t Office, gratia^
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aRCHi l ECT
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; I s., w.
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HUGH W. HARRIS
ATTORNEY
Law Building. Chanotte, N. C.
N. & W. Railway
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Schedu-o in May 15, idia
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Additional trains leave Winston-Sa
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Connects at KoanoKe for the East
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Rooms $1.60 per Day and Up.
Rooms with Private Batli
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150 Elegant R«»om«.
76 Private Baths.
L4>cated In tbe beart ot Char*
lotte, convenient to railroad
station, street cars and the l>usl*
nees and shopping centre. Cater
to higii-clasa c::nmercial and
touriat trade.
Pure Water from our Artesian
Well, 1-2 feet deep, for sale.
So gallon at HoteL
lOo gallon in 6-gallon lotSi
Delivered in Charlotte or at IL
R. Sutlon.
EDGAR B. MOORE, Proprietor.
FRIENDS
^ile the rumor that our school Is crowded is a compliment It is mis
leading. It IS true that we have a very large schmd, yot we arc comforts
able, and can comfortably accommodate you. A good situation is assured
every graduate. Male stenographers are in great demand.
Charlotte, N. C.
(Inooipfvated.)
and
Raleigh, N. 0.
The Classic in
4
See our beatitiful display of Oriental
Wiltons. Rugs of all kinds. When it
comes to the taiiteful and refined, we
have thorn that will certainly meet the
most exacting requirements, and the
price will not excecd that of the ordi
nary, and wordiless class. W'c are
experts in this line and can tell you
all about the different Kn:des an**
brands and protect jou from the infe
rior makes.
It’s dan2:erons ;o be careln.ss iu buy
ing Rugs.
Lubin Furniture Co.
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We Are Ready
With the largest stock of WATCHES, DIAMONDS and JEWEL
RY that It has ever been our pleasure to show. Two stores de
voted exclusively to Jewelry, Cut Glass and Art Goods, gives us one of
the largest c’:plays ot Holiday Goody to be found in tae South. A
visit to loth stores from our friends and cuHtome.3 will be appre
ciated.
I
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1 Garabaldi, Bruns &. Dixon \
J 12 AND 14 SOUTH TRYON ST. 4
expectations
(x>ere
£ invite you to experience
reality^ in the form of superb
Uprights and Grands now being
shown at our warerooms.
If you are yet unacqueiinted with the
faonous
KNABE TONE
take the first opportunity when down town
to he«r its wonderful sweetness and depth,
its richness and power. Pianojone will have
a new meaning for you and you will know
why the KNABE is regarded as the reigning
Queen among pianos.
Parker-Gardner Co.
V