ICOPYRTC7MT 1914 4P
CHAPTER XVIII-Continued.
It had an overwhelming effect upon
joe. I had been very near death. Sui
cide must have ended the struggle in
which I was engaged, had not this
knowledge of actual and unpunished
irime come to ease my conscience.
Johfi Scoville was worthy of death.
and, being so, should receive the full
reward of his deed. I need hesitate
'o longer.
That night I slept. But there came
a night when I did not. After the pen
alty had been paid and to most men's
Ayes that episode was over, I turned
the first page of that volume of slow
oetribution which is the doom of the
man who Bins from impulse, and has
the recoil of his own nature to face
relentlessly to the end of his days.
Scoville was In his grave. I was alive.
Scoville had shot a mab for his money.
l.had struck a man down in my wrath.
Scoville's widow and little child must
face a cold and unsympathetic world.
with small means and disgrace rising,
like a wall, between then) and social
sympathy, if not between them and
the actual means of living.
Oliver's future faced him untouched.
No shadow lay across his path to hin
der his happiness or to mar his
ehances.
The results were unequal. I began
to see them so, and feel the gnawihg
of that deathless worm whose rav
ages lay waste the breast, while hand
and brain fulfill their routine of work,
as though all were well and the foun
datlons of life unshaken.
I suffered as only cowards suffer. I
beld on to honor; I held on to home;
I held on to Oliver, but with misery
for my companion and a self-contempt
which nothing could abate. Each time
I mounted the bench I felt a tug at
ny arm at of a visible, restraining
presence. Each time I returned to my
home and met the clear eye of Oliver
beaming upon me with its ever-grow
Ing promise of future comradeship. I
experienced a rebellion against my
own happiness which opened my eyes
to my own nature and its inevitable
demand. I must give up Oliver. or
yield my honors, make a full confes
sion and accept whatever conse
quences it might bring. I am a proud
man, and the latter alternative was be
yond me. I could forego pleasure.
travel, social intercourse, and even
the companionship of the one being in
whom all my hopes centered, but I
could not, of my own volition, pass
from the judge's bench' to the felon's
cell. ,There I strpck the immovable
the impassable.
I decided in one awful night of re
bunciation that I would send Oliver
out of my life.
The next day I told him abruptly
..hurting him to spare myself .
that I had decided after long and ma
ture thought to yield to his desire fpr
four nalism, and that I would star-t him
In his career and maintain him in it
for three years if he would subscribe
*to the following conditions:
,They were the hardest a loving fa
ther ever imposed upon a dutiful and
loving son.
First, he was to leave home immedi
- ately . . .. within a few hours, In
fact.
Second, he was to regard all rela
tions between us as finished: we were
to be strangers henceforth in every
particular save that of the money ob
ligation already mentioned.
Third, he was never to acknowledge
this compact, or to cast any slur upon
*the father whose reasons for this ap
parently unnatural conduct were quite
disconnected with any fault of his or
* .ny desire to punish or reprove,
Fourth, -he was to pray for his fa
ther every night of his life before he
slept.
Was this last a confession? [lad I
meant it to be such? If so, it missed
*its point. It awed but did not frighten
him.
I had to contend with his compunc
tIons, as well as with grief andl dis
may. It was an hour of struggle on
uis part and of implacable resolution
on mine. Nothing hut such hardness
on my part would have served me.
Had I faltered 'once he would have
won me over, and the tale of my sleep
less nights been repeated. I did not
falter, and when the midnight stroke
j rang through the house that night
it separated by its peal a sin-becloudled
but human past from a futuire arid
with solitude and bereft of the one
*possession to retain which my sin had
been hidden.
I became a father without a son-as
* onely and as desolate as. though the
separation between us were that of
the grave I had pnerited and so weakly
shunned.
But I was not yet satisfied. How
' could I insure for myself the extreme
punishment which my peace demand
ed, without bringing down upon me
* the full consequences I refused to
* acpt,,
- V'0i besyve seen -how I ultimate
an &fl5red this question, A convidt's
be!a vict's Iso ft .
' C D Qhoes
would mean the discovery of my se
cret. And this fence was built.
This should have been enough. But.
guilt has terrors unknown to Inno
cence. One day I caught a small boy
peering through an' infinitesimal crack
in the fence, and, reinembering the
window grilled with iron with which
Bela had replaced the cheerful case
ment in my deri of punishment, I real
ized how easily an opening might be
made between the boards for the con
venience of a curious eye anxious to
penetrate the mystery of my seclusion.
And so it came about that the inner
fqnce was put up. This settled my po
sition in the town. No more visits.
All social life was over. It was meet.
I was satisfied at last. I could now
give my whole mind to my' one remain
ing duty. I lived only while on 'the
bench
March 5, 1898.
There is a dream which comes to
me often-a vision which I often see.
It is that of two broken and irregu
lar walls standing apart against a
background of roseate sky. Between
these walls the figures of a woman
and child, turning about to go.
The bridge I never see, nor the face
of the man who died for my sin; but
this I see always-the gaunt ruins of
Spencer's Folly and the figure of a
woman leading away a little child.
That woman lives. I know now who
she is. Her testimony was uttered be
fore me in court and was not one to
rouse my apprehensions. My crime
was unwitnessed by her, and for years
she has been a stranger to this town.
But I have a superstitious horror of
seeing her again, while believing that
the day will come when I shall do so.
When this occurs-r:hen I look up and
find her In my path, I shall know that
my sin has found me out and that the
end is near.
1909
0 shade of Algernon Etheridge, un
forgetting and unforgiving! The wom
an has appeared! She stood in this
room today. Verily, years are noth
ing with God.
Added later.
I thought I knew what awaited, me
if my hour ever came. But who can
understand the ways of Providence or
where the finger of retributive Justice
.will point. It is Oliver's name and not
mine which has become. the sport of
'calumny. Oliver's! Could the irony
of. life go further! Oliver's!
There is nothing against him, and
such folly must soon die out; but to
see doubt in Mrs. Scoville's eyes is
horrible in Itself and to eliminate it
I may have to show her Oliver's ac
count of that long-forgotten night of
crime in Spencer's Folly It Is naively
wr-itten and reveals a clean, if reticent,
nature; but that its effect may be
unquestionable i will insert a few
lines to cover any possible misinter
pr1etation of his manner and conduct
There Is an open space, and our hand
writings were always strangely alike.
Only our e's differed, and I will be
careful with the e's.
Her confidience must be restored at
all hazards.
My last foolish attempt has undone
me. Nothing remains now but that
sacrifice of self which should have
been made twelve years ago.
CHAPTER XIX.
Sunset.
"I do not- wish to seem selfish. Ol
ver, but sit a little nearer the window
where I can see you whenever I open
my eyes. Twelve years Is a long .time
to make up, and I hnve such a little
while in which to do it."
Oliver moved The moistuire sprang
to his eyes as he dId so. He had caught
a glimpse of the face on the p1116w
and the changes made in a week were
very apparent. Always erect,' his fa
ther had towered abov'e them then
even In his self-abasement, but heI
looked now as though twenty years,
lnsteadI of a few days, had passed over
his stately head andl bowed his -in
comparable figure. And not that
alone. His expression was different.
had Oliver- not seen him in his old
likeness for that one terr-ible half- hour,
he would not kniow these features, so
sunken, yet so eloquent with the peace
of one for whom all str-uggle Is over,
and the haven of his long rest near.
llad he been able at this inoment to.
look beyond the fences which his fear
had reared, he would have seen at
either gate a silent figure guarding the
walk, and recalledl, nerhaps, the hor
ror of other (lays wheni a~t the contem
lplation of such a prospect, his spirit
recoiled upon itself in unimaginable
horror and revolt. And yet, who ~
knows! Life's passIons fade when the
heart is at peace. And Archibald Os.
trander's heart was at peace. Why, r
his next words will show.
"Oliver"-his voice was low but
very dlistinct. "never have a 'secret;
never hide within your bosom a
thought you fear the world to know. If
you've done wrong--if you have dis
obeyed the law either of God or man
seek not to hIde what can never be
hidden so long as God reigns or men
is ke laws. I have. suffered, as few
a nm have suffered said kept their rea
~npiat, Ndw that -m wicked ness
is known, the whole'page of my life
defaced, content has come again. I
am no longer a-'deceiver, my very
worst is known."
"Oliver?"-This some minutes later.
"Are we alone?"
"Quite alone, father. Mrs. Scoville
is busy and fReuther-Reuthqr is in
the room above. I can hear her light
step overhead."
The judge was silent. He was gaz.
ing wistfully at the wall where hung
the portrait of his young wife. He was
no longer in his room, but in the
cheery front parlor. This Deborah had
Insisted upon. There was, therefore,
nothing to distract him from the con
templation I have mentioned.
"There are-things I want to say to
you. Not many; you already know my
story. But I do not know yours. and
I cannot die till I (1o. What took you
into - the ravine that evening, Oliver.
and why, having picked up the stick.
did you fling it from you and fly back
to the highway? For the reason I
ascribed to Scoville? Tell me, that
no cloud may remain between us. Let
me know your heart as well as you
now know mine."
, The reply brought the blood back
into his fading cheek.
"Father, I have already explained
all this to Mr. Andrews, and now I will
explain it to you. I never liked Mr.
Etheridge as well as you did, and I
brooded incessantly in those days
over the influence which he seemed to
exert over you in regard to my future
career But I never dreamed of do
ing him a harm, and never supposed
that I could so much as attempt any
argument with him on my own behalf
till that very night of infernal compli
cations and coincidences. The cause
of this change was as follows: I had
gone up-stairs, you remember, leaving
you alone with him as I knew you de
sired. How I came to be in the room
above I don't remember, but I was
there and leaning out of the window
directly over the porch when you and
Mr. Etheridge came out and stood in
some final debhte on the steps be
low. He was talking and you were lis
tening, and never shall I forget the ef
fect his words and tones had upon me.
I had supposed him devoted to you.
and here he was addressing you tartly
and in an ungracious manner which
bespoke a man very different from the
one I had been taught to look upon as
superior. The awe of years yielded
before this display, and finding him
just human Jike the rest of us, the
courage Wi'ch had aiways lacited in
approaching him took instant posses
sion of me, and I determined with a
boy's unreasoning impuls6 to subject
him to a personal 4ppeal not to add
his influence to the distaste you at
present felt for the career upon which
I had set my heart. Nothing could
have been more foolish. and nothing
more natural, perhaps, than the act
whieh followed. I ran down Into the
ravine with the wild intention, so
strangely. duplicated in yourself a few
minutes later, of meeting and pleading
my cause with him at the bridge, but
unlike you, I took the middle of the
ravine for my road and not the se
cluded path at the side. It was this
which determined our fate, father, for
here I saw the stick and, catching it
up. without further thought than of the
facility it-offered for whittling, started
with it down the ravine. Scoville was
riot in sight.-- The moment was the
:me when he had quit looking for Rou
ther and wandered away up the ,'a
vine. I have thought since that per
baps the glimpse he had got of his lit.
:ie one peering from the- scene of his
3rimne may have stirred even his guilty
3onscience and sent him off on his
nurposeless ramble; but, however this
wvas, I did not see him or anybody
aise as I took my way leisurely down
owards the bridge, whittling at the
stick and thinking of what I should
iay to Mr. IEtheridige when I met him.
And now for fate's final and most fatal
:ouch! Nothing which came into my
nind struck me quite favorably. The
mcounter .which seemed such a very
uimple matter *when I first contemn
ilated it. began to assume quIto a dif
erent aspect- as the moment ror It ap
)roachedl. fly the time i had come
thrcast of the hollowv, i was tired of
lhe wvhole business, and hearing -his
vhistle and knowing by it that he was
ery' near., I plunged upj the slope to
Lvoidi him, andl hurriedl straight away
nto town. Thatt is my stor-y, father.
f I heard your stelps approaching as I
ilunged across the path into wvhich I
had thrown the stick in my anger at
iaving broken the point of my knife
ilade upon it, I thought nothing of
hemr then. A fterwvards I believed
hem to be Scoville's, wvhich may ac
ount to you1 for my silence about this
vhole mat ter both before. and during
he trIal. I was afraid of the witness
tandl and of wvhat might be elirited
rem me if I once got into the handse of
he lawyer-s. My abominable reticence
a regard to his former crime would
*e brought up against me. and I was
oo.-young, too shy and uninformed to
sce such an ordeal of my own veil.
ion. Unhappily, I was not forced Into
1, and-- But we will not talk of that,
ather."
"Son,"-.-a long silence had inter
ened-"there is one thing more. When
-how-did you first learn my real rea
on for sending you from home? I
aw that my position was understood
y you when our eyes first met in this
om. But twelve years had passed
ince you left this house in ignorance
f all but my unnatural attitude to
~ardis you. When,.Oliver, when?"
"That I cannot answer, father; it
-as just a conviction which dawned
radually upon me. Now, it seems as
I had known it always; but that
mn't so. A boy doesn't reason; and
Stook reasoning for me to--to ac
ept-".
"Yes, I understand. Add that was
our secret! Oh. Oliver, I shall never
uk for your forgivenes I am not
worthy of it. 1 only ask that you wiD
not let pride or any. other evil pas
sion stand in the way of the happi
ness I see in the future for you.
cannot take from you the shane of m3
crime and long deception, but spare
me this final sorrow? There is noth
Ing to part you from Reuther pow
Alike unhappy in your parentage, yot
can start on' equal terms, and ' love
will do the rest. . Say that you will
marry her, Oliver, and let me see her
smile before I die."
"Marry her? Oh, father, will such
an angel marry me?"
"No, but such a woman might."
Oliver came near, and stooped over
his father's bed.
"Father, If love and attention to my
profession can make a success of the
life you prize. they shall have their
opportunity."
The father smiled. If It fell to oth
ers to remember him as he appeared
In his mysterious prime. to Oliver it
was given to recall him as he looked
then with the light on his face and the
INN
"This ts My Story, Father."
last tear he was ever to shed glitter
ing in his fading eye.
"God is good," came from the bed;
then the solemnity of death settlet
over the room.
The soft footfalls overhead ceased
The long hush had brought the twC
women to the door where they stooe
sobbing. Oliver was on his knees be
side the bed, his head buried in hi
arms. On the face so near him ther
rested a ray from the westering sun
but the glitter was gone from the ey
and the unrest from the heart. N
more weary vigils in a room dedi
cated to remose and self-punishment
No more weary circling of the hous
in the dark lane whose fences barred
out the hurrying figure within fron
every eye but that of heaven. Peace
for him; and for Reuther r#nd Oliver,
hope!
(THE EDND.)
Gems That Brought Misery.
The history of diamonds and the
many other preciou: stones, ruby, tur
quoise, emerald, opal, topaz, sapphire,
chrysollte, sardlonyx, amethyst, nearly
all of wvhich are nmerntioned in the
Scripture, goes rat' back of historic
times, and Is lost In a maze of religion,
superstition andl legend. It has been
intermingled with intrigue, politics
and diplomacy; murders galore: scan
dials unnumbered; imprison ments and
beheadings. The story of the "Dia
mond Necklace," which, possible inno
cently on her part, smirched the fame
of Marie Antoinette was ~one of the
factor's in agitation that led to the
great F~ren ch revoluitIon. The Bastile
opersed to several or the actors In the
scandal, one of thtem CardInal dec Ro
han, who was arres5ted~ in hils robes in
the midst of his court. Cagliostro, the
famous.-magician swindler, was anoth
er of the Bastile prisonera, and Coun-.
tess laamotte-Valois of royal lineage,
w'ho was the chiecf conspirator, for pe
cuniary gain, escapjed from the p~risonl
to London, where she (lied In penury.
Live as in Olden TImes.
in castern P'alestine and ArabIa are
to be found the Ilnost leittlrosltte race
in the East, those strange, nomadic
tribes, the lHedonins.
Their mlOdeO of lIfe has not greatly
changed since lihblical times, and to
day they steal cattle and camela, and
their young men steal wives, as was
their wvont in Old1 Testament days
indeed, the pur'loining of cattle and
camels is considieredl kiwful among
them, and the more a tribe or an in
dividual can enrich himself in tis
manner the more their prowess comes
to be recognized,
These people. howvever, who live by
thieving and move by stealth, are inva
rlbly- hospitality itself to the stranger
wvithin their gates.
He Knew,
A teacher In a children's institution
was giving the geography class a les
son on the cattle ranches. She spoke
of their beef all coming from the
West, and, wishing to test the clii
dren's observation, she asked:
"And what else comes to us fror..
theee ranches?"
This was a poser. She looked at
her shoes, but no one took the hint
She tried again:
"What do we get from the ('attic
besides beef?"
One boy' eagerly raised his hand.
"I know what It is, it's tripe." be
annoupcod triutnphantly.
CHANGE IN SOCIXL HABITS
Telephone Has Been Cr'edited With
Dispensing With Many 6f the
Former informalitiles.
It Is really curious to note the
change In our social habits that has
been brought about by the telephone,
the Brooklyn Eagle states. Informal
evening visits or afternoon calls have
almost disappeared. To "drop in" un
announced in the friendly, old-fash
ioned way is no longer good form. We
"dine out" or we entertain, we are
asked to tea or to bridge at a definite
hour on a definite day, when we wish
to see our friends we send out cards
carefully announcing the limited
space of hours within which they will
be welcome, and woe to that uniniti
ated out-of-towner who breaks Into our
date book leaves unheralded by pen or
te'ler,hone!
We are all so frightfully busy! "You
can never get your really nice friends
unless you date them up threc weeks i
in advance," is the wai' of many a
would-be hostess. "What evening next
week can you dine with us?" the
query goes over the telephone. "Just
a MOment, dear; let me consult 'ny
date book-Monday we have the social
service lecture, Tuesdty the symphony
concert, Wednesday If Ueorge's brwl.
Ing night, Thursday we have the
chl'rh committee i't our house. Fri
day we are asked to the Millers'. Sat
urday-well, you know we always go
to the theater on Saturdays, and Sun
days I can't get (leorge to stir out
,of the house. He .nsists on going to
bed early. I'm awfully sorry, dear:
try us again, won't you?"
Justice Cheated of its Victim.
0. lIenry's letter of the man who
couldn't get himself arrested was re
peated when a young farmer walked
int', the ofilee of a justieb of the peace
ardi" annonneed that Ie desired to be
fined for assault and battery.
"I heet up a fellow, squire," he
said, "and I want to ste.nd trial for it."
"But where's the other follow?" do
mand"d the justice.
"I reckir, he's on the road to have
me arrested,'" said the youth, "that's
the reason I wanted to get it done
first."
The Justice -plalned that to be ar
rested and tried a man must have a
charge filed against him, and advised
him to wait until the prosecuting wit
ness arrived.
lie waited, but the injured nAan
never arrived and justice was cheated
of its victim.
Home Talent.
A man from "up-tate" had gone to
a theater in New York. In an inter
m val be.tween tt.e acts he turned to
3 the netr.politan who had Athe - seat
; rext tr hilr..
"Where do all them troopers comai
from?" he inquired.
"I don't think I understand," said
the.eity dweller.
"I mean them actors up yonder enL
the stage," exdlained the man from
afar. "Was they brought on speicially
for this show or d, they live here?"
"I believe most of them live here
in towr-," said the New Yorker.
"Well, they .1' purty blamed well
for home taleit," aid the stra mger.
Philadlelphmia Chr'onicle-Telegra ph.
Adaimieas Eden.
Lady of the House to Wine Agent
I'm .sorr'y, but .vou've had your trouble
for not hing I lis time, Mir busbhn.1 isi
ait the frC-nt, end I don't -Irinik win ..
Wine Age.nt--Hutt, nay~ dl'4r mavrdiO,
don't f'orget that in theae wvar' times. i
you must alwvays have ready itn the
bmouse at le'ast a light winue suitauble for
celebira ting vic(toi'W.
Seasonable.
Knieker-What is a pesimisit?
Boecker-A mnan who believes the
snow always drifts on lis side of the
street.
I Why All ti
Ever smnce the public
Toasties, the factories have be<
the demand.
These new flakes are d
and form. A distinguishing
on each golden-brown flal<
patented process of manufac
New Post Toastis are not
they don't mush down whea
like ordinary flakes; and
flavour-the true flavour of
brought out for the first time.
A wholly satisfying food
New Post
4-.
RIGID OLD SCOTVS0 .
Al! Men at the Age of
Might Be Called Uppn t
fend the Count9
More than half in earieot, a
Pers in Scotland have'tilisheid, o
"auld Scots laws" that .shold.
into 1ho field, for. home protectio."r.
least, many thousands of me4
have a special bearing upon toii pres.
ont situation in Britain, 4n e*ch4ilge
states. These ancient lawi go back'
to the reigns of James. f Iand, Jases
II- fng1preceding the union withug
land, and flourished in the days AWhe
"blue bonnets came over the borderfi
These old laws provide in Aubstanco$
That all manner of men between W
Rixty and twenty-six be ready to come
to the borders and defend the realA.
That all the lieges be re'ady for w
Apon eight days' warning to come te
the king for defense of thp realm.
That neither football nor golf nor
sport unprofitable for the defens4 of
the realm is used, but shooting and
bow marks as before appointed.
That the old alliance with France
be. renewed and confirmed.
TOO MUCH OF ONE THOUGHT
French Wine Growe.'s Contributed
Little to ,he Bodily Comfort of
Their Beloved Pastor.
There is an old but very good story
told of a peabant congregation in the
1outh of France which decided to pro
'ent Its well-beloved pastor with a
:ask of wine.
The wine of that 3ection is goodi
Ind the peasant wine growers are very
Economical.
The wine is likewise very uniform
in quality, and to facilitate the dona
tioni it was decided that each contrib
utor should bring in a flagon and emp
ty it into the cask of the good old cure.
The venerable priest was much do
light.ed at thils exhibition of generosity.
1lowever, when he came to bottle
the cask for winter use only clear
spring water ran fron the faucet.
E'ach thrifty contributor'had figured
that his flagon of water would not be
noticed in that cask of generous dl
mensions--13onfort's Wine and Spirit
.lourn~al.
More Chances of Excitement.
Old Captain Bowline usually spends
his time lpottering about in a little
sailing boat. Recently, he was chat
ting with a friend on the subject of
hii1 hoby.
"I think I'll get a motor boat next
summer," said he.
"Whatevar for?" asked his friend.
"I thought you were so keen on sail
Ing?"
"Well, I am, but motor boats are
much more exciting," replied the
hardy okd chap. "In a sailing boat you
can only drown, while in the other
you can be drowned, burned to a cin
der by a petrol explosion. or even
starved to death if your engine breaks
down ten miles from land."
"Safety First."
Elbridge was over at his grandmoth
tr's for luncheon. They, knowing
tiow fond he was of cornstarch pud
Jing, had th~ amaid, Louise, make
some1 ini individual cups. At lunch
'Coa lbrl~id&e refused repeatedly to
invE. any. They coaxed and coaxed,
>ut lhe wouldn't touch it. All the
'esi enajoyed it. Aftc-r- luncheon his
tunt aisked him wh'y he, wouldn't cat
any of the l'-udding.,
"Well," he said, "when Louise was
nlaking it I saw the (log lick one of
ham, and I didn't know which one It
Same Class.
"They tell ma the lrksadg
ioiclr wih avolmein his hand is
"Ye,, he and thie hook lie is holding
~re two Qf our best s'-llers."
1e Hurry?
irst tasted the New Post
en heavily taxed to supply
ifferent--better in flavour
feature is the tiny bubbles
:e, produced by a new,
ture.
"chaffy" in the package;9
'1 milk or cream is added
there's a delicious new
>rime, white Indian corn
-these
Toasties
Sold by Grocers now.K