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lewis m. grist, proprietor.' ^it Jndepfiulcnt Jamily |lcit!ipappr: Jor the fromofion of the folitical, Social, Agricultural and Cfommcrrial Jntercsts of the $onth. J TERMS?.$2.00 A YEAR IX ADVANCE VOT, 4-0. YORKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 81, 1894. NO. A4-. raw ? * ? BY RIDER : Author of "King Solomon's I "Allen Qua 1*1 Copyright, 1893, by the Author. CHAPTER I TTtE STOIIV OF THOMAS WtSuFIELD. I, Thomas Winglicld, was born here at Dltchlngham anil in this very room whero I write today. I am sprung from tho family of the Wingflclds of Wingfleld castle, in Suffolk, that lies somo two hours on horseback from this place. My grandfather was a shrewd man, more of a yeoman than a squire, though his birth was gentle. He it was who bought this placo with tho lands round it and gathered up some fortune, mostly by carefully marrying and living, for though ho had hut one son ho was twico married, and also by trading in cnttlo. Now, my grandfather was godly minded even to superstition, and, strange as it may seem, having only ono son, nothing would satisfy him bil that the boy should be made a priest. But my futher had little loaning toward tho priesthood and life in a monastery, though at all seasons my grandfather strovo to reason it into him, sometimes with words and examples, at others with his thick cudgel of holly that still hangs over tho inglo in the smaller sitting room. Tho end of it was that tho lad was sent to tho priory hero in Bungay, whero his conduct was of such nature that within a year the prior prayed his parents to tako him back and set him in some way of secular life. Not only, said tho prior,did my father cause scandal by his actions, breaking out of tho priory at night and visiting drinking houses and other places, but such was tho sum of his wickedness ho did not scruple to question and mako mock of tho very doctrines of tho church, Alleidnff even that there was nothing sa crod in tho imago of the Virgin Mary which stood in the chanccl, and shut his eyes in prayer before all the congregation when the priest elevated the host. "Therefore," said tho prior, "I pray you to tako bf""k your son and let hiui find some other road to tho stako than that which runs through tho gates of Bungay priory." It was believed both by my grandfather i and tho prior that tho true cause of my father's contumacy was a passion which ho had conceived for a girl of humble birth, a miller's fair daughter who dwelt at \Vaingford Mills. So tho end of it was that he went to foreign parts in tho caro of a party of Spanish monks, who had journeyed hero to Norfolk on a pilgrimago to tho shrino of Our Lady of Walsingham. Thus it chanced that when ho had sailed from Yarmouth a year and six months there camo a letter from tho abbot of tho monastery in Seville to his brother, the prior of St. Mary's at Bungay, saying that my father had fled from tho monastery. Two more years pusscd away, and then camo other news?namely, that my futhcr had been captured; that he hud been handed over to the power of the holy office, as the accursed inquisition was then named, and tortured to death at Seville. When my grandfather heard this, ho wept. Still he did not belicvo that my father was dead in truth, sinco on the last day of his own life, that ended two years later, lie spoke of him as a living man and left messages to him as to the management of the lands which were now his. . . And in the end it became clear thnt this belief was not ill founded, for one day, three years after the old man's death, thero I landed nt tho port of Yarmouth none other than my father, who had been absent 6omc eight years in alL Nor did ho como alone, for with him ho brought a wife, a young and very lovely lady, who nftcrwurd was luy mother. She was a Spaniard of noble family, having been born at Seville, and her maiden name was Donna Luisa de Garcia There wero three of us children?Geoffrey, my elder brother, myself and my sistor Mary, who was one year my junior, the sweetest child and the most beautiful that I hnvo ever known. We were very happy children, and our beauty was the ; pride of our father and mother and the envy of other parents." I was the darkest J of the three, dark indeed to sworthiness, but in Mary tho Spanish blood showed only in her rich eyes of velvet hue, and in the glow upon her check that was like tho blush 011 a ripe fruit. My mother used to call mo her llttlo Spaniard because of my swarthiness?that is, when my fulher was not near, for such names angered him. She never learned to speak English very well, but he would suffer her to talk in no other tongue before I him. Still when he was not there sho J spoke in Spanish, of which language, how ever, I alone of the family became a master. and that was more because of certain volumes of old Spanish romances which she had by her than for any other reason. ' From my earliest childhood I was fond of 6uch tales, and it was by bribing me with tho promise that I should read them that she persuaded mo to learn Spanish, for my mother's heart Scid yearned toward her old sunny home, and often she would talk of it with us children, more especially in tho winter season, which she hutcd as I do. Once I asked her if she wished to go back to Spain. She shivered and answered no, for there dwelt one who was her enemy and would kill her, also her heart was with us children and our father. Now, when I was 18>?j years old, on a certain evening in the month of May, it happened that a friend of my father's, i Squire Bozard, lute of the hall in this parish, called at tho lodge on his road from Yarmouth, and in tho courso of his talk I let it fall that a Spanish ship was at anchor in the roods laden with merchandise. My father pricked up his ears at this and asked who her captain might be. Squiro nncwnmd that, lin did not know his name, but that he had seen him in tho market place, a tall and stately man, richly dressed, with a handsome face and a 6car upon his temple. At this news my mother turned pale beneath hcrolivoskin and muttered in Spanish: ''Holy Mother, grant that it bo not he!" ! My father also looked frightened and questioned tho squire closely as to the man's appearance, but without learning anything mora Then he bade him adieu with littlo ceremony, and taking horse rode away for Yarmouth. That night my mother never slept, but sat all through it in her nursing chair, brooding over I know not what. As I left her when I went to my bed so I found her when I came from it at dawn I can remember well pushing the door ajar to see her face glimmering white in the twilight of tho May morning as she sat, her largo eyes fixed upon the lattice 'You have risen early, mother," I said. ''I have never laid down, Thomas," she answered. "Why not? What do you fear?" "I fear the past and the future, my son Would that your father were hack." About 10 o'clock of that morning, as I was making ready to walk into Bungay to the house of the physician under whom I was learning the art of healing, my father rode up. My mother, who was watching at the lattice, run out to meet him. Springing from his horse, he embraced her, saying: "Be of good cheer, sweet; it cannot be he This man lias another name." 'But did you sec him?" she asked. "No; he was out at his ship for the night, and I hurried home to tell you. knowing your fears." "It were surer if you had seen him, husband. lie may well have taken another name." '"I never thought of that, sweet," my father answered, "but have no fear. Khnnlil it lie lie mill should In- dure tn set foot in the parish of Ditchinghum, there am those who will know how to deal with him. But I am sure that it is not he." "Thanks be to Jesu then!" she said, and they lx'gan talking in a low voice. Now, seeing that I was not wanted, 1 took my cudgel and started down the ' bridgo path toward the common footbridge, when suddenly my mother called mo Ixiok. "Kiss me Ix'fore you go, Thomas," she said. "You must wonder what all this may mean. One day your father will tell you. It has to do with a shadow which lias hung over my life for many years, but that is, I trust, gone forever." "If it be a man who flings it, he had best keep out of reach of this," I said, laughing and shaking my thick stick. "It is a man," she answered, "but one to be deult with otherwise than by blows, Thomas, should you ever chance to meet him." "May be, mother, but might is the best i'S llfllfEl, "* j >Iines," "Sho," "Ho," "Joss," i terniatn," otc. - >1 ' ' I I llll.v I I I "Kiss me before you go, Tiiomas," she said. argument at tliclast, fortnemost cunning | have a life to lose." "You arc too ready to use your strength, son," sho said, smiling and kissing ma j "Remember the old Spanish proverb, 'He j strikes hardest who strikes last.' " "And remember the other proverb, mother, 'Strike before thou art strick- ' en,' " I answered and went. I never saw her again till sho was dead. : CHAPTER II. THE COMING OK THE SPANIARD. And now I must go tack and speak of my own matters. As I have told, it was my father's wish thut I should bo a physician, and since I camo back from my j schooling at Norwich?that was when I had entered on my sixteenth year?I had studied medicine under the doctor who j practiced his art in tho neighborhood of j Bungay. He was a very learned man and an honest, Grimstono by name, and as I had some liking for tho business I made good progress under him. Medicine was not the onlv thing that I studied in those days, however. Squiro Bozard of Ditchinghani, the same who told my father of the coming of the Span- ! ish ship, had two living children, a son and a daughter, though his wife had borne him many more who died in infancy. ! The daughter was named Lily and of my j own age, having been born three weeks ' after me in the same year. From our earliest days wo children, Bozards and Wingflelds, lived almost as brothers and sisters, for day by day we met and played together in the snow or in the flowers. Thus it would be hard for mo to say when I began to love Lily or when she began to lovo me, but I know that when j I first went to school at Norwich I grieved | more at losing sight of her than because I j must part from my mother and the rest. In all our gomes she was ever my partner, j and I would search the country round for : days to find such flowers as she chanced ; to love. When I came back from school, ' it was the same, though by degrees Lily i grew shier, and I also grew suddenly shy, i perceiving that from a child she had be come a woman. Still wo met often, and, though neither said anything of it, it was 6wect to us to meet. Thus things went ou till this day of my mother's death. But before I go further I must tell that Squire Bozard looked with no favor on the friendship between his daughter and myself, and this not because ho disliked me, but rather beeauso he would have 6cen Lily wedded to my elder brother, Geoffrey, my father's heir, and not to a younger son. So hard did he grow about the matter at last that wo two might scarcely meet except by seeming accident, whereas my brother wns ever welcome at the hall. And on this account some bitterness arose between us two brothers, as is opt to be the case when a woman comes between friends, however close, for It must be known that my brother Geoffrey also loved Lily, as all men would havo loved her, and with a better right perhaps than I hod, for he was my elder by threo years and born to possessions. Vnw ...km, T .itf.ll mirl 111 T u'no ' a man full grown, und, writing as I do in extreme old ago T innv say it without falsa shame, a very handsome youth to boot. I was not overtoil indeed, measuring but 5 foot 9J4 Inches in height, but my limbs were well made, and I was both deep and broad in the chest. In color I was, and, my white hair notwithstanding, am still, extraordinarily dark hucd; my eyes also were largo and dark, and my hair, which was wavy, was coal block. In my deportment I was reserved and grave to soilness; in speech I was slow and temperate and more apt at listening than In talking. I weighed matters well before I mado up my mind upon them, but being made up nothing could turn me from that mind short of death itself, whether it were set on good or evil, on folly or wisdom. In those days also I had little religion, since partly because of my father's secret teaching anil partly through the workings of ! my own reason I learned to doubt the doc- J trincs of the church as they used to be set out. On this sad day of which I write I knew j that Lily, whom 1 lovcil, would l>e walk- j ing alone beneath the great pollard oaks in the park at Ditchingham hull. Here, in Grubswcll, as the spot is called, grew, Indeed still grow, certain hawthorn trees that are the earliest to blow of any in these parts, and when wo had met at the church door on the Sunday Lily said that there I would be bloom upon them by the Wednesday, and on that afternoon she should go to cut it. It may well lie that she spoke ; thus with design, for love will breed eun- ! ning in the heart of the most guileless and 1 truthful maid. Then and there I vowed i to myself that I also would be gathering j hawthorn bloom in this same place, and j on that Wednesday afternoon?yes, even [ if I must play truant and leave all the sick of Bungay to nature's nursing. More- I over, I was determined on one thing?that ! If I could find Lily alone I would delay no t longer, but tell her all that was in my : j heart, no great secret indeed, for though j no word of love had ever passed between j us as yet each knew the other's hidden | thoughts. Now, it chanced that on this afternoon 1 J was hard put to it to eseapo to my tryst, for my master, the physician, was ailing j and sent me to visit the sick for hint, j carrying them their medicines. At the i last, however, between 4 and 3 o'clock, I j fled, asking no leave. Taking the Nor- | wich road, I run for a mile and more till 1 had passed the Manor House and the church turn and drew near to Ditching ham park. Then I dropped my pace to a walk, for I did not wish to come before Lily heated and disordered, but rather looking my best, to which end 1 had put on my Sunday garments. Now, sis 1 went down tho little hill in the man mat runs i past the park I saw a man on horseback j who looked first at the bridle path that at this spot turns off to the right. then back j across tho common lands toward the Vine- j yard hills and the Wnvonoy, and then along the road, as though he did not know j ! which way to turn. I was quick to notice things, though at this moment my mind ' was not at its swiftest, being set on other t matters and chiefly as to how I should tell i my tale to Lily, and I saw at once that I this man was not of our country. He was very tall and noble looking, j dressed in rich garments of velvet adorned by a gold chain that hung about his neck, and, as I judged, ubout -10 years of age. But it was his face which chiefly caught my eye, for that moment there was some* j thing terrible alnuit it. It was long, thin ! and deeply carved. The eyes were large I and gleamed like gold in sunlight; the mouth was small and well shaped, but it \ wore a devilish and cruel sneer; the fore- I head lofty, indicating a man of mind, and \ marked with a slight scar. For the rest the cavalier was dark and southern look- | ing; his curling hair, like my own, was J black, and he wore a peaked chestnut col- I ored Ix'urd. By the time that I had finished these observations my feet had brought me til- J most to the stranger's side, and for tho first time he caught sight of me. Instantly his face changed, the sneer left it, and it became kindly and pleasant looking. Lifting his bonnet with much courtesy, ho stammered something in broken English of which all I could catch was the word Yarmouth. Then, perceiving that I did not understand him, lie cursed tho Eiig llsh tongue, and all tliose who spoKC it, : aloud and in good Costilian. "'If the senor will graciously express his wish in Spanish," I said, speaking in that language, "it may lx? in my i>owcr to help him." "What, you speak Spanish, young sir!" he said, starting, "and yet you are not a Spaniard, though by your face you well might be. Cnrambu, but it is strange!" : and ho eyed me curiously. "It maybe 6trangc, sir," I answered, "but I am in haste. Be pleased to ask your questiSn and let me go." "Ah," he said, "perhaps I can guesstho reason of your hurry. I saw a white robe down by tho streamlet yonder," and ho nodded toward the park. "Take tho advice of an older man, young sir, and l>o careful. Make what sport you will with such, but never believe them and never | marry them?lest you should live to desiro to kill them!" Here I made as though I would pass on, but lie spoke again: "Pardon my words; they were well j meant, and perhaps you may come to learn their truth. 1 win actum you no more. Will you graciously direct me on my road j to Vurmouth, for I tun not sure of it, lmv- | ing ridden by another way, and your Kng- j lish country' is so full of trees that a man cannot see a mile?" I walked a dozen paces down the bridlo path that joined the road at this place and pointed out the way thut he should go, past Ditchingham church. As 1 did so 1 noticed that while I spoke the strungcr was watching my face keenly, and it scented to mo with an inward fear which ho i strovo to master and could not. When I had finished, ho raised his bonnet and thanked me, saying: "Will you bo so gracious as to tell mo your name, young sir?" "What is my muno to you?" I answered roughly, for I disliked this man. "You have not told mo yours." "No, indeed; I am traveling incognito, j Perhaps I also have met a lady in these parts," and he smiled strangely. "I only wished to know the name of one who had done me a courtesy, but who, it seems, is < not so courteous as I deemed." And ho shook his horse's reins. "I am not ashamed of iny name," I said. "It has been an honest one so far, and if you wish to know it it is Thomas WingflcliL" "I thought it," he cried, and as he spoke i his face grew like the face of a fiend. Then before I could find timo even to wonder ho had sprung from his horse and stood within threo paces of me. "A lucky day! Now we will 6ee what truth there is in prophecies," he said, drawing his silver mounted sword "A j name for a name; Juan do Garcia gives you greeting, Thomas Wingfleld." Now, strange as it may seem, it was at this moment only that there flashed across j my mind tho thought of all that I had heard about tho Spanish stranger, tho report of whoso coming to Yarmouth had 6tirred my futhcr and mother so deeply. At any other time I should have remembered it 6oon enough, but on this day I J was so 6Ct upon my tryst with Lily and what I should say to her that nothing clso could hold a place in my thoughts. "This must be the man," I said to my- : 6clf, and then I said no more, for ho was on me, sword up. I sow the keen point flash toward me and sprang to 0110 side, having a desiro to fly, as, being unarmed except for my stick, I might have done without shame. But spring as I would I j could not avoid the thrust altogether. It was aimed at my heart, and it pierced tlio 6lecvo of my left arm, passing through the flesh?no more. Yet at the pain of that cut all thought of flight left mo, nnd instead | of it a cold anger filled me, causing me to wish to kill this man who had attacked ' mo thus and unprovoked. In my hand was my stout oaken staff, which I had cut myself on the banks of Hollow hill, and if I would fight I must make such play with this as I might. It seems a poor weapon ; indeed to match against a Toledo blade in ' tho hands of one who could handle it well, j and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for i when a man sees himself threatened with \ it ho is likely to forget that he holds in j his hand a more deadly weapon, arid to j take to tho guarding of his own head in < placo of running his adversary through | the body. And that was what chanced in this case, I though how it came about exactly I can- ! not tell. Tho Spaniard was a line swords- j man, and had I been armed as he was | would doubtless have overmatched mo, j who at that ago had no practice in the art, which was almost unknown in Kngluiul. But when ho saw tho big stick flourished over him he forgot his own advantage and raised his arm to ward away the blow. Down it came upon the back of his hand, j and his sword fell froih it to tho grass. But 1 did not spare him because of that, ; for my blood was up. Tho next stroke ! took him on tho lips, knocking out a tooth ' and sending him backward. Then 1 caught him by tho leg and beat him unmercifully, not upon the head indeed, for now that I was victor I did not wish to kill ono whom I thought a madman, us 1 would that I had done, but on every other part of him. Indeed I thrashed him till my arms were weary, and then I fell to kicking him, and all tho while he writhed like a wounded snake and cursed horribly, though ho never cried out or asked for mercy. At last I ceased and looked at him, and he was no pretty sight to see. Indeed what with his j cuts and bruises and the mire of the roadway it would have been hard to know him I for the gallant cavalier whom I had met i not five minutes before. But uglier than j all his hurts was tho look in his wicked j eyes as he lay t here on his hack in the path- \ way and glared up at me. "Now, friend Spaniard," I said, "you have learned a lesson, and what is there to ! hinder me from treating you jus you would | huvo dealt with me who iiad never harmed > 011:'" And I took up his sword and held it to his throat. "Strike home, you accursed whelp!" ho I answered in a broken voice. "It is better to die than live to remember such shame as this." "No," I said; "I am no foreign murder- j cr to kill a defenseless man. You shall j awuy to the justice to answer for yourself. Tho hangman has a rope for such as you." j "Then you must drag me thither," ho groaned and shut his eyes jus though with faintness, and doubtless he w;is somewhat faint. Now, as 1 pondered on what should l>e done with the villain, it chanced that I looked up through a gap in the fence, and j there, among the (Jrubswell oaks 1300 yards i or more away, I caught sight of the flutter of a white rolx' that 1 knew well, and it ! seemed to me that the wearer of that rolxs was moving toward the bridge of t ho "watering," as though she were weary of wait ing for one who did not come. Then I thought to myself that if I staid to drag this man to the village stocks or some other safe place there would be nn end of meeting with my love that day, and I did not know when I might And another chance. Now, I would not have missed that hour's talk with Lily to bring a score of murderous minded foreigners to their do? * I thrashed him till my arms were weary. 6erts. And, moreover, this one had earned I good payment for his ltehavior. Surely, thought I, lie might wait awhile till I had done my lawmaking, and if he would not wait I could 11ml a means to make him do bo. Not 20 paces from us the horse stood i cropping the grass. I went to him and j undid his bridle rein, and with it fastened the Spaniard to a small wayside tree as best I was able. "Now, here you stay," I said, "till I am ready to fetch you," and I turned to go. But as I went a great doubt took me, i and once more I remembered my mother's i j fear, and how my father had ridden in ! [ haste to Yarmouth on business about a ! Spaniard. Now today a Spaniard had wan- j dered to Ditehingiiam, and when he learned my name had fallen upon me, madly j trying to kill me. Was not this the man ; whom my mother feared, and was it right j that I should leave him thus that I might go Maying with my dear? I knew in my breast that it was not right, but I was so set upon my desire and so strongly did my heartstrings pull 1110 toward her whoso white rubo now fluttered on thy slope of tho Park hill that I never heeded ' the warning. Well hud it l>een for me if I had done so and well for sonic who were yet unborn, j Then they had never known death, nor I the land of exile, the taste of slavery and the altar of sacrifice. CHAPTER III. THOMAS TELLS HIS LOVE. Having made the .Spaniard as fast as I could, his arms being bound to tho tree behind him, and taking his sword with j me, I began to run huril after Lily and caught her not too soon, for in one more ! minute she would have turned along tho road thnt runs to the watering mul over j the bridge by the Park hill path to tho hall. Hearing my footsteps, she faced about to j greet me, or rather as though to see who I " ?!...? 1 l.?- 'I'l.nn. clin ctru-ul 11/ AYUS L11UU IU1IU?M'U UVL. 1IIV1U nuu uvwwv. . in the evening light, h bough of hawthorn bloom in her hatul, and my heart .beat yet | moro wildly at the sight of her. Never ; had she seemed fairer than as she stood thus in her white robe, a look of amaze ! upon her face and in her gray eyes that ! was half real, half feigned, and with the j sunlight shifting on her auburn hair that { showed beneath her little bonnet. Lily was no round checked country maid, with few beauties save those of health and j youth, but a' tall and shapely lady, who had ripened early to her full grace and sweetness, and so it came about that, ! though we were almost of an age, yet in her presence I felt niways us though I were the younger. Thus in my love for her was i mingled some touch of reverence. "'Oh, it is you, Thomas, "she said, blush- { ing as she spoke "I thought you wero (^1 ? I Having made the Spaniard as hint as I j could. not?I moan that I am going homo, as it ' grows late. But, say, why do you run so j fast, and what has happened to you, Thomas, that your arm is hloodv and you carry a sword in your hand?" ' I have no breath to speak yet," I answered. "Come hack to the hawthorns, and I will tell you." "No; I must he wending homeward. I j have been among the trees for more than j an hour, and there is little bloom upon | them." ' I could not come before, Lily. I was ! kept and in a strange manner; also I saw ! bloom as I ran." "Indeed I never thought that you would | come, Thomas," she answered, looking ! down, "who have other things to do than j to go out Maying like a girl. But I wish ! to hear your story, if it is short, and I will walk a little way with you." So we turned and walked side by side ! toward the great pollard oaks, and by tho j time that we reached them I had told her ! the tale of the Spaniard, and how ho j strove to kill me, and how I had beaten him with my staff. Now, Lily listened eagerly enough and sighed with fear when she learned how close I had been to death. "But you are wounded, Thomas!" she broke in. "fe'ec, the blood runs fast from your arm. Is the thrust deep?" "I have not looked to sec. I have had no time to look." "Take off your coat, Thomas, that I may dress the wound. Nay, I will have it so.'' Sn T drew off the irarment. not without pain, and rolled up the shirt beneath, and there was the hurt?a clean thrust through the fleshy part of the lower arm. Lily washed it with water from the hrook and bound it w li her kerchief, murmuring wortls of pity all the while. To say truth, I would have suffered a worse harm glad- j ly if only I could liml her to tend it. Indeed her gentle care broke down the fcnco j of my doubts and gave me a courage that ] otherwise might have failed me in her presence. At lirst indeed I could liml no j words, but as she bound my wound I tent i down and kissed her ministering bund. ! She flushed red as the evening sky, tho I flood of crimson losing itself at last te- j neath her auburn hair, but it burned deep- i est upon the white hand which I had kissed. "Why did you do that, Thomas?" sho | said in a low voice. Then I spoke. ''I did it because I lovo I you, Lily, and do not know how to begin | the telling of my love. 1 love you, dear, I and have always laved, as I always shall j love you." "Are you so sure of that, Thomas?" sho i said again. "There is nothing else in the world of ! which I am so sure, Lily. What I wish | to be as sure of is that you lovo me sis I j love you." For si moment she stood quiet, her head j sunk almost to her breast. Then she lift- ; cd it, and her eyes shone as I had never : seen them shine before. "Can you doubt it, Thomas?" she said. And now I took her in my arms and kissed her on the lips, and the memory of that kiss has gone with me through my j long life and is with me yet, when, old and withered, I stand upon the borders of the grave. It was the greatest joy that has been given to me in all my days. Too i soon, alas! it was done, that first pure kiss of youthful love, and I spoke again, some- j, what aimlessly: "It seems, then, that you do love mo j who love you so well?" "If you doubted it before, can you doubt i it now?" she answered very softly. "But I listen, Thomas. It is well that we should j -i? ' ? ? i i* i iow earn inner, niruiMU'iv uum m n <um have no help in the matter, even if wo wished to iind it. Still, though love bo sweet and holy, it is not all, for there is 1 duty to be thought of, and what will my father say to this, Thomas!'" "I do not know, Lily, and yet 1 can j guess. I am sure, sweet, that he wishes you to take my brother Geoffrey and leave me on one side." "Then his wishes are not mine, Thomas; j also, though duty be strong, it is not j strong enough to foree a woman to a marriage for which she has no liking. Yet it may prove strong enough to keep a woman from a marriage for which her heart pleads. Perhaps also it should have been strong enough to hold me back from the telling of my love." "No. Lily; the love itself is much, and { though it should bring no fruit, still it is i something to have won it forever and a day.'' "You are very young to talk thus, Thomas. 1 am also young, I know, but i we women ripen quicker. Perhaps all I this is but a boy's fancy, to pass with boyhood. " ' It will never pass, Lily. They say that our first loves are tin- longest, ami that which is sown in youth will llourish in our age. Listen, Lily. 1 have my place to make in the world, and it may take a time in the making, and I ask one promise of you, though perhaps it is a selfish thing to seek. I ask of you that you will be faithful to me, and, come fair weather or foul, will wed no other man till you know me dead." 'It is something to promise. Thomas, "'i'li lit...., ,.1151,, irj.c i 11 I Hill bo sure of myself that I promise?nay, I swear it. Of you 1 cannot lie sun-, hut things are so with us women that we must risk all upon a throw, ami if we losegoodby to happiness." Then we talked on. and I cannot remember what we said, though these words I have written down remain in my mind, partly been use of their own weight and in part liceause of all that came about in the after years. And at last 1 knew that I must go, i though we were sail enough at parting. So I took her in my arms ami kissed her so closely that some blood from my wound ran down her white attire, llut as we embraced I chanced to look up and saw a sight that frightened me enough, for there, not five paces from us, stood Squire Hozard, Lily's father, watching all, and j his ftiee wore no smile. He had been riding by a bridle path to I the watering for'. :vl ' ing a couple i trespassing bencam Hie oaks Uisinou tiled from his horse to hunt them away. Not | till he was quite near did he know whom he came to hunt, and then he stood still I in astonishment. Tie was a short, stout man, with a red face and stern, gray eyes that seemed to he starting from his head with anger. For awhile lie could not speak, but when lie began at length the words came fast enough. All that lie said I forget, but the upshot of It was that he desired to know what my business was with his daughter. I waited till he was out of breath, then answered him that Lily and I loved each other well and were plighting our troth. ' Is this so, daughter?" he asked. "It is so, my father," she answered boldly. Then ho broke out swearing. "You light minx," he said, "you shall be whipped and kept cool on bread and water in your chamber. And for you, my half bred Spanish cockerel, know once and for all that this maid is for your betters. IIow daro you come wooing my daughter, you empty pillbox, who have not two silver pennies to rattle in your pouch! (io win fortune nml n. name lxiforo you dare to look up to such as she!" "That is my desire, and I will do it, sir," I answered. "So, you apothecary's drudge, you will win name and place, will you? Well, long before that deed is done the maid shall be safely wedded to 0110 who has them and who is not unknown to you. Daughter, sny now that you have finished with him." "I cannot say that, father," she replied, plucking at her robe. "If it is not your will that I should marry Thoinas here, my duty is plain, and I may not wed him. But I am my own, and no duty can make mo marry where 1 will not. While Thomas lives I am sworn to him and to no other man." "At the least you have courage, hussy," said her father. " But listen now. Kithcr you will marry where and when I wish or tramp it for your bread. Ungrateful girl, did I breed you to flaunt me to my face? Now for you, pillbox! I will teach you to come kissing honest men's daughters without their leave,'' and with a curse he rushed at me, stick aloft, to thrash me. Then for the second time that day my quick blood boiled in me, and snatching up the Spaniard's sword that lay upon the grass beside me I held it at the point, for the game was changed, and I who had fought with cudgel against sword must now fight with sword against cudgel. And had it not liecn that Lily, with a quick cry of fear, struck my arm from beneath, causing the point of the sword to pass over his shoulder, I believe truly that I should then and thcro have pierced her father through and ended my days early with a noose about my neck. "Are you mad?" she cried, "and do you think to win mo by slaying my father? Throw down that sword, Thomas." "As for winning you, it seems thatthero is small chanco of it," I answered hotly, "but I tell you this?not for the sake of all the maids upon the earth will I stand to be beaten with n stick like a scullion." "Ami there I do not blame you,*lad," said her father, more kindly. *'I see that you also have courage, which may serve you in good stead, and it was unworthy of me to call you 'pillbox' in my anger. Still, as I have said, the girl is not for you, so begone and forget her as best you may, and if you value your life never let me And you two kissing again. And knowthat tomorrow I will have a word with your father on this matter." "I will go, since I piust go," I answered, "but, sir, I still hope to live to call your daughter wife Idly, farewell till these storms arc overpast." "Farewell, Thomas," she said, weeping. "Forget mo not, and I will never forget my oath to you." Then, taking Lily by the arm, her father led licr away. I also went uway?sad, but not altogether ill pleased, for now I knew that if I had won the father's anger I had also won the daughter's unalterable love, and love lasts longer than wrath, and here or hereafter will win its way at length. When I had gone a little distance, I remembered the Spaniard, who had been clean forgotten by ine in all this love and war, and I turned to seek him and drag him to the stocks, which 1 should have done with joy and been glad to find some one on whom to wreak my wrongs. But when I came to the spot where I hud left him I found that fate had befriended him by the hand of a fool, for there was no Spuniard, but only the village idiot, Billy Minns by name, who stood staring first at the tree to which the foreigner had been made fast and then at a piece of silver in his hand. "Where is tho man who was tied here, Billy?" I asked. "I know not, Master Thomas," he answered in his Norfolk talk, which I will not set down. "Half way to wheresoever he was going, I should say, measured by tho pace at which lie left when onco I had sat him upon his horse. Lawks, but ho was glad to bo gone! How he did gallop!" "Now, you are a bigger fool even than I thought you, Billy Minns," I said in anger. "That man would have murdered me. I overcame him and made him fast, and you have let him go." 'Ho would have murdered you, master, and you made him fast! Well, he's gone, and this alone is left of him." And he spun the piece into the air. V??' cniiintr tlmfc thorn was TY'llSOn 111 Billy's talk, for tho fault was mine, I turned away without inoro words, not stnilght homeward, for I wished to think alone awhile on all that hud come about between mo and Lily and her father, but down the way which runs across the lane to the crest of tho Vineyard hills. These hills are clothed with underwood, in which large oaks grow to within some ?00 yards of this house where I write, and this underwood is pierced by paths that my mother laid out, for sho loved to walk hero. One of these paths runs along tho bottom For a while I xtood amazed with horror. of the hill by the edge of the pleasant river Wuveney and the other a hundred feet or more above and near the crest of the slope, or, to speak more plainly, there is but one path, shaped like the letter O, placed longitudinally, "tho curved ends of the letter marking how the patli turns upon the hillside. Now, I struck the path at the end that is farthest from this house and followed that half of it which runs down by tho river bank, having the water on one sido of it and the brushwood upon the other. Along this lower path I wandered, my eyes fixed upon tho ground, thinking deeply as I went, now of the joy of Lily's lovo and now of tho sorrow of our parting and of her father's wrath, and my eyes fell upon footprints in the wet sand of tho path. One of them was my mother's. I '-l 1 f,, if mil,UK, ,1 tlmiioinil uuum jia>rn?wui iw ^ .. ................ for 110 other woman in these parts had so delicate a foot. Close to it, as though following after, was another that at llrst I thought must also have been made by a woman?it was so narrow. Hut presently I saw that this could scarcely lie, because of its length, and, moreover, that the boot which left it was like none that I knew, being cut very high at the instep and very pointed at the toe. Then of a sudden it came upon me that the Spanish stranger wore such boots, for I had noted them while I talked with hint, and that his feet were following those of my mother, for they had trodden on her track, and in some places his alone had stamped their impress on the sand, blotting out her footprints. Here they were mixed one with another, as though the two had stood close together, moving now this way and now that in struggle. I looked up the path, but there were none. Then I cast round about like a beagle, first along the river side, then up the bank. Here they were again, and made by feet that flew and feet that followed. Up the bank they went 50 yards and more, now lost where the turf was sound, now seen in sand or loam, till they led to the bole of a big oak and were onco more mixed together, for here the pursuer had come up with the pursued. Despairingly as one who dreams, for now I guessed all and grew mad with fear, I looked this way and that till at length I found more footsteps?those of the Spaniard. These were deep marked, as of a I man who carried some heavy harden. I ! followed them. First they went down the ' hill toward the river, then turned aside to a spot where the brushwood was thick. In the deepest of the clump the houghs, now bursting into leaf, were bent downI ward us though to hide something beneath. ! I wrenched them aside, and there, gleam- , ing whitoly in the gathering twilight, was the dead face of my mother! CHAPTER IV. THOMAS SWEAItS AN OATH. For awhile I stood amazed with horror, I staring down at the dead face of my heloved mother. Then I stooped to lift her and saw that she had been stabbed, and through the breast?stablwd with the sword which I carried in my hand. Now I understood. This was the work of that Spanish stranger whom I hud met as he hurried from the place of murder, who, because of the wickedness of his heart or for some secret reason, had striven to slny mo also when lie learned that I was my mother's son. And I had held this devil in my power, and that I might meet my May I had suffered him to cscapo my vengeance, whereas had I known the truth I would have dealt, with him as the priests of Anahuae deal with the victims of their I gods. I understood and shed tears of pity, rage and shame. Then I turned and fled j homeward like one mud. At the doorway I met my father and my brother Geoffrey riding up from Ilungay market, and there was that written on my face which caused them to ask as with ono ' voice: "What evil thing has happened?" j Thrice I looked at my father before I could speak, for I feared lest the blow 6hould kill him. Hut speak I must at last, j though I chose that it should be to Geoffrey, my brother. ,lOur mother lies murdered yonder on the Vineyard hill. A Spanish man has done the deed Juan do Garcia by name." When my father heard theso words, his face became livid as though with pain of the heart, his jaw fell, ! and a low moan issued from his open mouth. Presently he rested his hand upon the pommel of the saddle, and lifting his I ghastly face ho said: "Where is this Spaniard? Havo you killed him?" "No, father. Ho chanced upon mo in Grubswcll, and when lie learned my namo ho would have murdered me. But I played quarter staff with him and beat him to a pulp, taking his sword." "Aye, and then?" "And then I let him go, knowing nothing of the deed lie had already wrought upon our mother. Afterward I will tell you nil." "You let him go. son? You let Jean do Garcia go! Then, Thomas, may the curse of God rest upon you till you find him and finish that which you began today." . j "Sparc to curso mo, fattier, wno am ac| cursed by my own conscience. Turn your horses rather and ride for Yarmouth, for | thcro his ship lies, and thither he has gono with two hours' start. Perhaps you may still trap him before he sets sail." Without another word my father and brother wheeled their horses round and departed at full gallop into the gloom of the . gathering night, j They rode so fiercely that, their horses being good, they ctimo to the gates of Yarmouth in littlo more than V/x hours, and | that is fast riding. But the bird was flown. They tracked him to the quay and found that he hud shipped awhile before in a boat which was in waiting for him and passed to ills vessel, which lay in the roads at anchor, but with the most of her canvas set. Instantly she sailed and now was lost in the night. Then my father caused notico to be given that he would pay a reward of 200 pieces in gold to any ship that would capture the Spaniard, and I two started on the quest, but they did not find her that before morning was far on I her way across the sea. At length the morning came, and with it my father and brother, who returned from Yarmouth on hired horses, for their own were spent. In the afternoon also news followed them that the ships which hiwl put to sea on the track of the Spaniard had l>een driven back by bad weather, having seen nothing of him. Now I told all the story of my dealings with the murderer of my mother, keeping nothing back, and I must liear my father's bitter anger because, knowing that my mother was in dread of a Spaniard, I had suffered my reason to be led astray by my desire to win speech with my love. Nor j did I meet with any comfort from my brother Geoffrey, who was iiercc against ! me because he learned that 1 had not pleaded in vain with the maid whom he desired for himself. But he said nothing of this reason; also that no drop might bo lacking in my cup, Squire Bozartl, who came with many other neighbors to view the corpse and offer sympathy with my father in his loss, told him at the same time that ho took it ill that I should woo his daughter against his wish, and that if I continued in this course it would strain i their ancient friendship. Thus I was liit on every side, by sorrow for my mother whom I hod loved tenderly, by longing for my dear whom I might not see, by self reproach l>ecausc I had let the Spaniard go when I held him fast, and by the anger of my father and my brother. Indeed those days were so dark and bitter, for I was at the age when shame and sorrow sting their sharpest, that I wished that I were dead ; beside my mother. One comfort reached me indeed, a message from Lily, sent by a servant girl whom she trusted, giving mo her dear love and bidding me to be of good cheer. At length came the day of burial, and ; my mother, wrapped in fair white robes, ( was laid to rest in the chancel of the ! church at Ditchingham, where my father has long lxsen set beside her, hard by the I brass cfllgies that mark the burying place I of Lily's forefather, his wife and many of their children. This funeral was tho saddest of sights, for the bitterness of my father's grief broke from him in sobs, and j my sister Mary swooned away in my arms. Indeed there were few dry eyes in all that i church, for my mother, notwithstanding | her foreign birth, was much loved because i of her gentle ways and the goodness of her I heart. But it came to an end, and the noble Spanish lady and English wife was left to her long sleep in the ancient church, : whero she shall rest on when her tragic I story and her very name are forgotten among men. Indeed this is likely to be I soon, for I am the last of the Wingficlds nlivo in these parts, though my sister ' j Mary has left descendants of another name, | to whom my lands and fortune go except i for certain gifts to the poor of Bungay and of Ditchingham. 1 When it was over, I went back home, j My father was sitting in the front room I well nigh beside himself with grief, and | by him was my brother. Presently he be' gan to nssail me with bitter words because I had let tho murderer go when God gave i him into my hand. ' You forget, father," sneered Geoffrey. "Thomas wooes a maid, and it was more to him to hold her in his arms than to keep his mother's murderer safely. But by this it seems he has killed two birds with one stone?ho has suffered tho Spanish devil to escape when he knew our mother feared tho coming of a Spaniard, and he has made enmity between us and Squire Bozard, our good neighbor, who, strangely enough, does not favor his wooing." "It is so," said my father. "Thomas, your mother's blood is on your hands." I listened and could bear this goading ; injustice no longer. "It is false," I said. "1 say it even to | my father. The man had killed my moth I cr before 1 met lum ruling to sock nissmp at Yarmouth ami having lost his way. How then is Iter blood upon my hands? As for my wooing of Lily IJozard, that is my matter, brother, and not yours, though perhaps you wish that it was yours and ' not mine. Why, fat Iter, did you not tell ; ino what you feared of this Spaniard? I heard some loose talk only and gave little thought to it, my mind being full of other things. And now I will say something. You ealled down God's curse upon me, father, till such time as I should tlml this murderer and finish what I had begun. So l)o it! Let God's curse rest upon mo till I do find him. I am young, but 1 am quick and strong, and so soon as may be I start for Spain to hunt him there till I shall run him down or know him to be dead If you will give me money to help me on my quest, so be it?if not, I go without. I swear before God and by my mother's spirit that I will neither rest nor stay till, with the very sword that slew her, I have avenged her blood upon her murderer or know him dead, and if I suffer my- I self to be led astray from the purpose of this oath by aught that is, then may a worse end than hers overtake me, may my soul Ixj rejected in heaven, and my name be shameful forever upon the earth!" Thus I swore in my rage and anguish, holding up my hand to heaven that I called upon to witness the oath. My father looked at me keenly. "If that is your mind, son Thomas, you shall | not lack for money. I would go myself, I for blood must be wiped out with blood, but I am too broken in my health; also I am known in Spain, and the holy office would claim mc there, uo, and my bless- 1 ing go with you. It is right that you should go, for it is through your folly that our enemy has escaped us." 'Yes,it is right that he should go," said Geoffrey. "You say that because you wish to bo rid of me, Geoffrey," I answered hotly, "and you would be rid of mc because you desire to take my place at the side of a certain maid l-'ollow your nature and do as you will, but if you would outwit an absent man no good shall come to you of it." "The girl is to him who can win her,'' ho said. "The girl's heart is won already, Geoffrey. You may buy her from her father, but you can never win her heart, and without a heart she will bo but a poor prize." ''Peace! Now is no time for such talk of love and maids," said my father, "and listen. This is the talc of the Spanish mur- j (Jerer and your mother. I have said noth- J ing of it heretofore, but now it must out: i When I was a lad, it happened that I also went to Spain because my father willed it. "I went to a monastery at Seville, but I had no liking for monks and their ways, and I broko out from the monastery. For j a year or more I niado my living as best I 1 might, for I feared to return to England as a runaway. Still I made n living, and not a bad one, now In this way and now in that, but, though I am ashamed to say it, mostly by gaming, at which I had great luck. One night I met this man Juan do Gnrcio^-for in his hate ho gave you his j truo nnme when he would have stabbed you?at play. Even then ho had an evil { fame, though lie was scarcely more than a j lad, but ho was handsome in person, set ! high in birth and of a pleasing manner. It chanced thnt he won of mo at the dice, and I being in a good humor lie took me to visit at the house of his aunt, his uncle's widow, a lody of Seville. This aunt hud one child, a daughter, and that daughter was your mother. Now, your mother, Luisa do Garcia, was aflinnced to her cousin, Juan do Garcia, not with her own will indeed, for the contract had l>ecn signed when sho was only 8 years old. Still it was binding ! ?more binding indeed than in this coun- j try, being a marriage in all except in fact. But those women who are thus bound for I the most part bear no wife's love in their i hearts, and so it was with your mother, j Indeed she both hated and feared her cousin Juan, though I think that lie loved her j more than anything on earth, and by one pretext and another she contrived to bring him to an agreement that no marriage should l>c celebrated till sho was full 20 j years of age. But the colder sho was to , him the more was lie inflamed with desiro to win her and also her possessions, which j were not small, for like all Spaniards he j was passionate auu use most gumcsien. and men of evil life much in want of money "Now, to be brief, from the first moment that your mother and I set eyes on each other we loved one another, and it was our j one desire to meet as often as might lie, j and in this we had no great difficulty, for her mother also feared and hated Juan do Garcia, her nephew by marriage, and ; would have seen her daughter clear of him ! if possible. The eud of it was that I told my love, and a plot was made between us i that wo should fly to England. But all this had not escaped tho'cars of Juan, 1 who had spies in the household and was jealous and revengeful as only a Spaniard can Ijc. First he tried to be rid of me by challenging me to a duel, but wo wcro parted before we could draw swords. Then he hired bravos to murder me as I walked the streets at night, but I woro a chain ! shirt beneath my doublet, and their daggers broke upon it, and in place of being slain I slew one of them. Twice baffled, Do Garcia was not defeated. Fight and murder had failed, but another and surer means remained. I know not how, but he had won some clew to the history of my life and of how I had broken out from the monastery. It was left to him, therefore, to denounce me to tho holy office as a renegade and an infidel, and this he did one night. It was the night before the day when we should have taken ship. I was sitting with your mother and her mother ] in their house at Seville when six cowled j men entered and seized me without a word, j When I prayed to know their purpose, they ' gave no other answer than to hold a cru- j cifix before my eyes. Then I knew why I was taken, and the women ceased cling- ! ing to me and fell back sobbing. Secretly and silently I was hurried away to tho 1 dungeons of the holy ollice, but of all that j befell mo there I will not stop to tell. '' Twice I was racked, once I was seared witli hot irons, thrico I was flogged with wire whips, and all this while I was fed on food such us we should scarcely offer a dog hero in England. At length, my offense of having escaped from a monastery and sundry blasphemies, so culled, being proved against me, I was condemned to death by fire. "Then at last, when after along year of torment and of horror I had abandoned , l 1 1 ,1 ,li? ?n,nr. J1U{M;1U1U uniynuu lllj.iv;u tu uiv, Iivif vuu*v. Upon the eve of the (lay upon which I was to be consumed by flame the chief of my tormentors entered the dungeon where I I lay on straw, and embracing mo bade mo bo of good cheer, for the church had taken pity on my youth and given mo my ! freedom. At first I laughed wildly, for I thought that this was but another torment, and not till I was freed of my fetters, clothed in decent garments and set at midnight without the prison gates would I believe that so good a thing had befallen mo through the haild of God. I stood, weak and wondering, outsido the gates, not knowing whero to fly, and as I stood a woman glided up to mo wrapped in a dark clonk, who whispered 'Come.' ! That woman was your mother. She had leariled of my fate from the boasting of Do Garcia and set herself to save mo. Thrice her plans failed, but at length, through the help of some cunning agent, j gold won what was denied to justice and to mercy, and my life and liberty were bought with a very great sum. "That same night we were married and lied for Cadiz, your mother and I, but not her mother, who was lx>driddon with a sickness. For my sake, you| beloved mother abandoned her people,^vhnt remained to her of her fortune after paying the price of my life, and her country, so strong is the love of woman. All had been made ready, for nt Cadiz lay an English ship?the .Mary of Bristol?in which pas sage was taken for us. But the Mary was delayed in port by a contrary wind, which blew so strongly that, notwithstanding his desire to save us, her master dared not take the sea. Two days and a night wo lay in the harbor, fearing all things, not without cause, and yet most happy in each other's love. Now, those who had charge of me in the dungeon had given out that I had escaped by the help of my master the devil, and I was searched for throughout the countryside. l)e Garcia also, finding that his cousin and alllanced wife was missing, guessed that we two were not far apart. It was his cunning, sharpened by jealousy and hate, that dogged us down step by step till at length he found us. "On the morning of the third day, tho gale having abated, the anchor of the Mary was got home, and she swung out into the tideway. As she came round and while tho seamen were making ready to hoist tho sails a boat carrying somo 20 soldiers and followed by two oth?r boats shot alongside and summoned tho captain to heave to, that his ship might be boarded and searched under a warrant from tho holy oflicc. It chanced that I was on deck at the time, and suddenly, as I prepared to i hide myself below, a man, in whom I knew Be Garcia himself, stood up and called out that I was the escaped heretic whom they sought. Fearing lest his ship should bo i boarded and he himself thrown into prison with tho rest of his crew, tho captain would then have surrendered me. But I, . * - UespiTUtO WWII It'llr, 11n't" III* 11U11K.U *?wu. my body and showed the cruel scars that marked it. 'You are an Englishman,'I cried to the sailor, "and will you deliver mo to those foreign devils who am of your blood? Look lit their handiwork.' And I pointed to the half healed sears left by the rcdhot pinchers. 'If you give me up, you send mo hack to more of this torment and to death by burning. Pity my wife if you will not pity me, or if you will pity neither then lend me a sword that by death I may save myself from torture.' "Then one of the seamen, u Southwold man who had known my father, called out: * 1 Jy God, I for one will stand by you, Thomas Wingfleld! If they want you and your sweet lady, they must kill me first.' And seizing a bow from the rack he drew it out of its case and strung it, and setting an arrow on the string lie pointed it at tho Spaniards in tho boat. "Then the others broke into shouts of: " 'If you want any man from among us, come aboard and take him, you torturing devils,' and the like. "Seeing where the heart of his crew lay, the captain found courage in his turn. He made no answer to the Spaniards, but bade half of the men hoist the sails with all i speed and the rest make ready to keep off the soldiers should they seek to board us. "By now the other two lnjats had coino ud and fastened onto us with their lawks. ' CTnc man climbed Into tlic chains and ' thence to the deck, and I knew him for a I priest of the holy oflice, one of those who j had stood by while I was tormented. Then I grew mad at the thought of all that I had suffered, while that devil watched, bidding them lay on for the love of God. Snatching the how from the hand of tho j Southwold seaman, I drew the arrow to its liend and loosed. It did not miss its mark, for like you, Thomas, I was skilled with the use of the bow, and he dived back into the sea with an English yard shaft in his heart. "After that they tried to board us no more, though they shot at us with arrows, wounding one man. The captain called to us to lay down our bows and take cover behind the bulwarks, for by now the sails began to draw. Then De Garcia stood up in the boat and cursed me and my wife. " 'I will find you yet,' he screamed, with many Spanish oaths and foul words. 'If I wait for 20 years, I will be avenged upon you and all you love. He assured of tills, Luisa do Garcia, hide where you will, I shall find you, niul when we meet you shall come with me for so long as I will keep you, or that will lie the hour of your death.' "Then we sailed away for England, and tho boats fell astern. ''My sons, this is the story of my youth nnd how I came to wed your mother whom I have buried today J uan de Garcia has kept his word." '"Yet it seems strange," 6aid my brother, "that after all these years lie should have murdered her thus whom you say ho loved. Surely even the cvilcst of men hail shrunk from such a deed." "There is little that is strange about it," answered my father. "How can wo know what words were spoken between them ix> foro lio stabbed her? Doubtless lie told 6omc of them when ho cried to Thomas that now they would see what truth thero was in prophecies. What did I)e Garcia swear years since??that she should come with him or he would kill her. Your mother was still beautiful, Geoffrey, and ho may havo given her her choice between flight nnd death. Seek to know no more, j son"?anil suddenly my father hid his faco in his hands and broke into sobs that 1 were dreadful to hear. "Would that you had told us this talo j before, father," I said so soon as I could speak. "Then there would have lived a devil less in the world today, nnd I should I havo been spared a long journey." Little did I know how long that journey would be I JHiSicllnncouo ^catling. SKXATOlt JONKSANI)OLD HHOW.V. j John Jones lives nest to Thomas Itrown, And both are farmers, too ; Hut Jones has credit In the town, While Brown has run his through. Both had an ?|Ual start in life, And both worked hard and well; But in the world's great din and strife One rose?the other fell. The one is known as "Old Man Brown"? Ilis folks arc stupid and good ; But Brown and family are "down"? So say the ncightioriiood. The other, known as "Senator Jones," Has a wife and children ten, And his wise head and silver tones Suit well this leader of men. nmau acres, iciiccu iinuuiu ami mini- ! Fair daughters, manly sons? A happy home, a purse well tilled, All these belong to Jones. If you would like to know the cause Of tills wide di Here nee. Now, mark you well, and pause? I'll test your common sense. The Browns no papers took?they thought It a waste, as some still do; But Jones?he books and papers bought? ; And his family read them through ! AFTER THIRTY YEARSThe Just Sentence of a Veteran of the Civil War. His was the last ease culled, and as | he stumped into the court-room behind the officer, his appearance excited the j mirth of the hardened habitues of the ; pluce, says the Minneapolis Journal. He wore an old and faded suit of army blue. His face was unshaven, and his i trembling hands and bloodshot eyes i tolil the story of the night's debauch. "What charge?" queried the court. "Drunk and disorderly, your honor." j "Anything to say ?" asked the court, turning to the prisoner. Then catching sight of his G. A. It. badge, and pointing to the one lie himself wore, he said, in a gentler tone, "What does this mean, comrade? How came you here? What regiment were you in?" | "The Eighth New Hampshire, your honor, Colonel Gray, of Suncook. I I was born there 55 years ago, and when the war broke out, Joe and I couldn't stay at home. Joe was my younger > 1 l-.l inol at fl I>rui HIT, unit null juot ^ Iiuuuivii ..V .. law 90I100I, mid had .begun to practice law. Our parents had been dead then a number of years, and, as neither of us had wives, you see there wasn't | anything to keep us at home, j though I tried to have Joe stay, and told him that one was enough for a family. It wasn't any use though for he was bound to go. and soon after the president's first cull we were on our way to the South. "At the battle of Corinth the company that I belonged to was ordered to make the charge on the Confederate works. I tell you, judge, that was the grandest charge ever made. We got in, but it was too hot. Flesh and blood could not stand the fire poured i into us as we were huddled in the trenches. When the boys finally retreated, I was left on the ground with j a bullet hole in my leg. "I was picked up and taken to Anderson villi*, where I stayed almost a year. When I was finally {parol- ! ed I was taken, more dead than j alive, to Washington, where my leg was amputated. It was another year before I could get out of there, and in all that time. I had not written a word or heard from home. "When I was able to get back, I found that word had been received | that I was dead, and that Joe had gone West. I stayed at the old town j for some time, but it was too lonely there without Joe, and I made up my mind to find him if I could. Last night I met an old comrade that was in Andersonvillc with me, and we made a night of it. I suppose we did ! drink a little too much, your honor, but it had been so long since I met any one that I knew, that I forgot myself. We did not mean to be disorderly, but perhaps the singing of the old war songs was a little too loud, and i maybe they didn't sound as well to outsiders as they did to us old fellows ' who had sung them to an accompaniment that they don't hear nowadays. I will plead guilty to being drunk, j judge, but I did not mean to lie disor- i derly. I hope your honor will be as easy on an old soldier as the law will JllloW. The judge remained silent a moment as if in thought, turning meanwhile the pages of a law hook 011 the desk I before him. Then in a tone of voiee meant to be more than usually severe, he said : "The sentence of this* court is that you he taken in my carriage to the best tailor in the town, and fitted to a suit of the finest clothes in his store. , That you he carried then to my house, and kept there the remainder of your life." The veteran raised his head as the sentence was ended, and looked at the judge. Then as memory shaped the features before him into the face of the brother he had sought so long, he cried out "Joe!" and sprang toward the bench. The judge met him over half way j with the word "Hill," and for a moment they stood locked in each other's arms, alternately laughing and sobbing. Then the judge drew his brother's arm in his own, and the two left the court-room. Tim Soldi Kits Aitkal to His Mit.k.?"As we all know," said a Confederate veteran, "horses became very scarce towards the end of the war, and as dismounted cavalrymen were sent to the infantry, a remount became a serious question with many troopers. Jim, of the Rockbridge troop had ' lost his horse, and, unable to get another, possessed himself of a white mule named Simon. Jim became very proud of his mule and was loud in his praises. 'lie never gels tired, lives on nothing, and has got more sense than the general,' asserted Jim. But one day a squad was enjoying a dinner with a sympathetic farmer, when a sudden alarm was given, 'ltun boys, run ; the Yankees are coming!' There was mounting in hot haste, and some escaped by the front gate and some by the rear. Jim dashed at the front gate ; but Simon, displaying his mule nature for the first time, balked. Jim wheeled him around and drove at the rear gate, but Simon balked again. Poor Jim looked over his shoulder, saw the blue-coats rapidly approaching, threw his arms around Simon's neck, and called in agonized tones, "Oh, Simon, for (tod's sake, go somewhere !" ? Baltimore Sun. ? ? BL'TLKK AM) FAKLKY. - '*" T ?l... I *??IT ?iii; tuc "?"?h ur?? tin* Daring. General Maury tolls a stoi v, woriliy of everlasting remembrance, about a South Carolina soldier, Colonel Haskell, whose arm was shattered so that amputation at the shoulder was necessary. The surgeon was about to administer chloroform when Haskell said: "Stop,doctor! You must have very little chloroform, since the enemy has declared it contraband of war. Is it not so?" "Yes, colonel." "Then keep it for some poor soldier who needs it. I can do without it." Another anecdote of a similar kind is thus related by General Maury : General M. C. Butler, of South Carolina, was seriously wounded and maimed for life at the battle of Brandy Station. He and a young captain named Farley had just come out of action in the early morning and were laughing together over some amusing incident they had noticed. At that moment a cannon ball came hounding at them. It struck Butler's leg above the ankle, tore through his horse and cut oil' Farley's leg above the knee. Down they all went. Butler began to staunch the blood with his handkerchief and advised Farley how to do the same. Captain Chestnut, Lieutenant Khett and other ollicers came running to Butler's help, but at that moment he observed that Farley's dying horse was struggling and seemed likely to crush its rider. "(Jo at once to Farley!" cried Butler. "He needs you more than I do." They did as they were bidden, and Farlev was placed in a litter. He asked tlrcm to bring his leg and put it, too, in the litter. Then he said : "Now, gentlemen, you have done all for me that is possible. I shall he dead in an hour. Hod bless you for your kindness. I bid you all an all'ectionate farewell, (io at once to Butler." That evening Butler's leg was dressed in the hospital just as poor Farley breathed his last. The two men never had seen each other until that morning. "Henceforth," says General Maury, "we need not go to Sir Philip Sidney for an example of noble self-sacrifice.?Youth's Companion." Respect for the Mother.?Mark the young man who is coarse and disrespectful to his mother. No roseate t%ntl.(a>,t?? I\a lini-l! u*Ua cltull utmluin II ?iv> uvio II Iiv ukui . to lum the relation of wife. Not the happiest \vil| be the lot of those who shall come to be his children. Not to be envied is the neighborhood even in which he must be reckoned as a citizen. It does not matter what the mental status of that mother is, how old, how bent, how decrepit, the man to whom she is mother owes to her gentleness, kinduess, tenderness, and consideration. Did she fall back and did the children with superior advantages pass her in the race? Hut think of her toil and trial, her devotion and denial, her mind and her years that she gave that her children might derive the benefit. Think of her sacrifice? no wonder if she fell behind, with her heart in her home, in the buds that were hers. There is no rank, no station, no condition that may exempt a manly man from a kind regard for a mother. Much might we learn from l'agan China and' Japan in filial tenderness and respect. Hkqukatiikd His Pension.?Said H. C. Rains, a special pension agent : "I had a peculiar case in Washington county, Tenn. A man named Adams drew a pension for total disability, and I was instructed to call and see if the disability was still total. When I reach eij the house a young man came to the door. I asked : " Ts this where John Adams lives?' " 'It's whar he did live, stranger.' " 'Where does he live now ?' " 'He don't live. He's been dead for going on five y'ar. I'm his son.' " Then I explained my mission, and he said : " 'Oh, thet'sall right. Walk right it) and take a cheer, l'ap could write, an' lie made a will; the pension war the only thing he had to leave, hut it's ruin in mighty handy.' "He produced the will, and, sure enough, the pension had been devised to him. I didn't have the heart to tell him that it was not valid, hut he receives no more pension."' What is Hard Wood??A recent issue of The Timberman contains the following legal decision in regard to what constitutes "hard wood." A certain man had a contract with a railroad company to deliver "hard" cord wood, and he delivered poplar in part fulfillment of the contract. The railroad company objected, hut the contractor won his case in court in consequence of the judge's decision that botaniealiy any tree that had a leaf as distinguished from a needle was hard wood, regardless of what the actual texture of its liber might be. This is strictly in accordance with decisions based upon the technical and commercial nomenclature of the wood. There may be no particular reason for saying that Lorn hardy poplar or basswood or cotton-wood is hard, hut such it is, commercially, as decided by the courts. If this new decision, based upon botanical consideration, is sustained, it will merely add strength to the old position. There are no tables in the houses of the Esquimaux, and the women are, therefore, in the habit of placing everything on the floor. A Danish lady employed several Esquimaux women to do some washing. Entering the washhouse, she saw them all bending over the washtubs that stood 011 the floor. To make them more comfortable, she had some stools fetched, and placed the tubs upon them, Ry and by she looked in to see how they were getting on, and to her astonishment discovered the women standing on the stools and stooping still more laboriously over the tubs, which still remained on the door. 8H?f* The bottom of the Pacific ocean between Hawaii and California is said to be so level that a railroad could be laid for 500 miles without altering the grade anywhere. This fact was discovered by the United States surveying vessel engaged in making soundings with the view of laying a cable. ?af" Even if your son comes in whistling Salvation army tunes, you had better kegp a tight hold 011 the latch-key all the same.