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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