The county record. [volume] (Kingstree, S.C.) 1885-1975, August 25, 1904, Image 2
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"Copyright 185* by 1
CHAPTER XXV.
DEATH.
The old man offered no resistance to
my violence, nor'did he utter a word.
A ghastly paleness overspread his face,
his head fell a little to one side, and he
looked a? if he would have fallen but
for the support I afforded him. His
apparent collapse under the sudden
attack which had been made upon him
excited my sympthy, and in less than
a minute I relaxed my grasp, saying:
"Tel) me where you have put those
coins, and not only shall you escape
punishment, but you shall be rewarded
, and allowed to remain here as long
as you live."
Tho old man made no reply, but
leaned against the wall, breathing
heavily, with a strange expression upon
his face, the like of which I had not
seen.
Again I approached him, and laying
my hand gently on his shoulder spoke
to him kindly, yet earnestly:
4,I am sorry I have frightened you.
As I live, I promise you shall come
to no harm. But please tell me what
you have done with those coins, for
I have a right to know."
With a great effort, pitiable for its
feebleness, the old man took a large
iron key from his pocket, and essayed
to step towards me, making as though
he would speak; but he failed of his
intention and fell heavily on the floor.
The incident seriously alarmed me.
In an instant 1 was on my knees at his
side, supporting his head on my arm.
But my utmost efforts failed to rouse
the old man; his attenuated form
waxed heavier and heavier, and his
half-closed eyes and lips lent an expression
to his face awful to behold.
. Quite terrified at his condition, I
An tlm flttnr QTlfl
BiaiiipfU > IViCUlij vu IUC MVV4 * ?
shouted so loudly for help that two
servants rushed into the room.
"Fqtch Dr. Thunow at onee; if he
iso t in, send the boy on a horse to
Ix worth for a doctor. Adams is ill?I
don't know how seriously. Aud bring
some water, one of you, quickly!"
The women hastily left to obey my
orders, and were met at the door by
my lather and Mr. Wolsey.
"What is the matter':" asjted my
faiher. stooping to look at the old man
ne lay on the floor. "What has
happened 7"
"I was talking to Adams, when he
suudenly reeled and fell down unconscious,"
I explained.
"He would be better on the couch,"
said Mr. Wolsey; and adopting the suggestion
we lifted the old man into that
position.
By this time a servant had returned
with some water; aud while I bathed
the face of the patient. Mr. Wolsey
and my father felt his left side and
watched intently for signs cf respira
tion, which could with difficulty be
discerned.
"I am afraid he is going," said my
father quietly.
Mr. Wolsey, to whom these ominous
words were addressed, signified his
assent by lightly inclining his head.
"O no!" I cried in an agony of fear,
oppressed with the consciousnes of
how largely I was responsible for this
catastrophe; "five minutes ago he was
well. He must surely revive soon."
My exclamation was Interrupted by
the entry of Dr. Thurlow, who at once
began a systematic examination of the
patient. He felt the old man's pulse
and the region of his heart, closed and
unclosed his passive hands, lifted one
of his eyelids and placed his finger on
the eye?an experiment which I could
not help but witness, though it horrified
me profoundly. These things accomplished,
Dr. Thurlow turned to my
father and said:
"I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Truman,
that your old servant is dead."
My heart sank within me as I realized
the meaning of the doctor's words.
This was my first experience of death;
and in presence of that awful mystery
I seemed to grow older by as many
years as minutes had elapsed since the
fatal accusation. I could not speak,
but stood in a sort of stupor, looking
down upon what had so recently been
instinct with warmth and motion. All
thought of the sequius was banished
from my mind, and instead I could
think only of the one who had taught
me to ride in the green lanes about
Holdenhurst when I was a child; who
had been first to impress upon me the
mimes of the trees, shrubs, flowers and
birds common in our neighborhood;
and who, so far as I could remember,
had never spoken harshly to me. And
now that one lay before me dead, he
who but for me would doubtless still
be performing his customary duties
about the place. My reflections were
too painful to bear undisturbed, and I
broke down utterly.
Dr. Thurlow was about to lead rac
from the room when ho saw the Turkish
daggers which lay on the table.
"What are these?" he asked, picking
up the weapons. "Has the man died
from an injury which has escaped my
notice?" and he turned again towards
the couch.
"Xo. no." I explained: "they have
not been unsheated for years. Lock;
you will find it so."
"Yes." assented Dr. Thurlow. who
irsfci'ilBalfj
'ALTER BLOQMFIELD '
iOBXBT Bonseb's Sons.
nevertheless thought tt proper to satisfy
himself of the truth of uiy statement
by making a careful examination
of the daggers.
"Of what has the old man died?" '
These were the first words that my
father uttered after he had been told
that his old servant was dead, and
his voice was tremulous with suppressed
emotion.
"I can't say until I have investigated
the case more particularly," replied Dr.
Thurlow; "but appearances seem to
j indicate syncope. His heart has been
weas ior a iun^ uuit*. uuu il is uui uu
unnatural termination for him; but at
the same time I should not have expected
it uuless precipitated by some
sudden excitement or passion."
While Dr. Thurlow was speaking.
Mr. Wolsey opened the door, and revealed
our servants standing in a
group just without. He informed them
of the melancholy event which had
occurred within, and they returned !
sorrowfully to the kitchen, whispering
together as they went; while Mr. Wolsey,
my father and I, and Dr. Thurlow,
crossed the hall to the dining room, ;
the latter carrying the Turkish daggers
and aigrette which he had taken
from the table, and a large rusted iron
key which he had found on the floor
close to where Adams had fallen.
CHAPTER XXVL
HOMELESS. '
"No, Ernest, I am not hard on you;
my fault lies on the other side. I have
been weak, and am justly punished for
my weakness; but I am not too old to 1
reform. Henceforward I will rule in 1
my own house; and anyone, not excepting
even yourself, who is indisposed to
anKmU +V? o* rnlo mor Kotnbo him. '
ouuuiu iv iauc t u<Vf
self elsewhere. Consider well uiy
words; they are not lightly spoken." !
"I protest that my conduct towards 1
you has never been anything but thai. '
of an affectionate son. Why has all
this trouble fallen upon me? Because 1
I have sought to make peace between 1
) you and your brother. Was that a ?
i bad task to set myself? I have always
: believed, and do now believe more 1
j strongly than ever, that your brother 1
j had no hand in the robbery of the (
sequins."
My lather smiled faintly, and re- <
marked in a somewhat sarcastic tone 1
that he doubted whether I should have i
assumed the Christian part of peace- i
maker so earnestly in this case if it :
had not also been the way to a closer 1
acquaintance with Miss Marsh. His i
words aroused the slumbering anger 1
within me, and I replied to them with I
more warmth than discretion: 1
"What you say is very true. When i
inclination and duty point the same t
way, the duty is well performed." 1
I "That has harrilv Iippii so in this 1
case," said my father.
"My purpose was defeated by a
natural though uuexpected event; and
I am no more responsible for the death
of the old man we followed to the
grave yesterday than I am responsible
for the death of Charles the First.
Dr. Thurlow has told you that. Adams'
heart was weak, and that it was a miracle
he lived so long as be did. It was
my ill fate to be the one to accuse
him of his crime. Uncle Sam's advice
was sound."
"Very sound!" echoed my father bitterly.
"And nearly all the property
found in the old man's room, including
the red Turkish chest, was placed there
with my consent when all the rest of
the house was being overhauled by
your uncle's workmen!"
"How about the key which Adams
was about to give me the moment
before his tinal seizure?"
"Ay, how about it? Have you not
spent two days ineffectually trying to
fit it to every lock within these walls?
Ernest, you have entirely exhausted
my patience. I must absolutely decline
to discuss with you again the
robbery of the sequins; and I repeat,
for the last time, my determination.
You may remain here as long as you
will, aud all I have is yonrs, provided
that you cease to correspond with my
brother, his wife, and Miss Marsh.
Unless you are prepared to adopt that
course you must no longer consider
this your home. I daresay it pains you
to be told this so bluntly; but you
must reflect that a man does not talk
in tills way to his only son without .
pain to himself, and surely never with- (
out great cause. I, at least, do not." ,
And with pale face, compressed lips. ,
and a strange light in his eyes, my ,
father passed out of the ro<yn. ,
For a few moments I stood still, ,
dazed by the importance of the decision ,
I had so unexpectedly been called upon (
to make. I never for a moment (
doubted that I was very ill-used: on
the' contrary, 1 considered myself most
unjustly punished. Ever since my uncle
was at Holdenhurst my policy had
been directed with a view to effect his
reconciliation to my father aud the 1
winning of Ccustanee Marsh for my- 1
self; and such desires, I conceived. :
were commendable and natural in any !
one circumstanced as 1 was. The terms <
imposed by my father as the price ]
of his continued friendship and pro- i
tectiou were too exacting for me to i
entertain. Deeply as it grieved me to i
ft
finally quit that sequestered spot where
I was born, whose 'every nook recalled
some pleasant incident or my childhood's
happy days when my father
had watched over nie With a tender
and anxious solicitude such as a man
only bestow, on a motherless child. I
was prepared to abandon it at ouce
and for ever rather thnu renounce the
dear girl whose love I had won. It was
hard for me to leave my home and live
estranged from my lifelong companion
and friend, the one to whom 1 owed
everything; but even that, hard as it
was, would be easier than the alternative
offered to me. These considerations
brought tears to my eyes, but
my purpose was never for a moment
weakened. Suddeuly I roused myself
from the reverie into which 1 had
fallen, and turning to go to my own
room, encountered Mr. Wolsey at the
door.
"What is all this trouble between
you and your father, Ernest?" asked
the old gentleman.
"You had better inquire for the particulars
where you learned the fact,"
I answered testily; for I could not
help thinking that Mr. Wolsey was in
some measure responsible for the
present resolute attitude of my
father; that he had been exerting his
influence to annul the friendship
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\ V LI IL" LI liU nuru CAJO ivu wvk?*wM ?
uncle and me. Without waiting to
hear any further remark from him,
I passed my interrogator abruptly
and continued my way to my room.
No sooner was I in assured solitude
than I sat down, and resting my
aching head on my hands, endeavored
to impartially review the whole
course of my life, which consisted, I
found, of two periods?nearly twenty
years of happy, careless indifference,
and six months of high hopes, grave
anxieties and bitter disappointments,
the division being marked by my introduction
to uncle Sam. The shorter
of the two periods seemed the longer,
the flight of time being appreciated
for the importance rather than the
number of its events. For two hours
did I wrestle with myself and suffer
indescribable anguish of spirit, vainly
desiring the Ugh? and guidance
which I knew not where nor how to
seek. The purest, most loving, most !
disinterested, most generous being I
had ever known was Constance
Marsh, and to her would I go to
oho hfld IDflde tO
become my wife. Would that I bad j
accepted ber advice, aud abandoned
all hope or thought of the cursed se- j
Quins! But the mischief was past and j
irreparable, and I could oniy resolve j
lhat never again?no, not even though ;
the clearest conceivable indications j
af success were placed before me?
would I so much as lift my band for i
the recovery of a treasure the very j
aame of which must ever be asso- i
elated in my mind with misery.
My resolution was taken: I would j
certainly leave home. Indeed, there ;
was nothing else for me to do, my j
father's terms being precise, and such ,
is I could not bring myself to accept; |
ret did I love my father as well as I i
aad ever done, and the thought that
[ was now going away from HolJenlurst,
perhaps never to return-^that ,
possibly I had looked upon my
father's face for the last time?cut
ne to the heart. I sat down at a
:able and wrote upon a sheet of
paper, which I could only dimly see, a
few lines addressed to my father, rerretting
that my conduct during the
last few months had been such as he
.*oukl not approve, especially as that
conduct had been based upon a sincere
belief in its righteousness, a beief
which I still entertained; and
:herefore, by his own ruling, Holdenlurst
was no longer my home. I
losed with many endearing expressions,
not forgetting to state that
should he ever desire to see me, it
ivould be my pleasure no less than
ny duty to come to him.
My painful task completed, I folded
he note, and rose to pack a handbag.
\s I did so the looking-glass revealed
ny face and startled me, so pallid
ind haggard had I become. I observed
my appearance for but a moDent,
and then hurried forward my
scanty preparations for departure,
fet a few minutes later, and I had
eft the house with no more than I
;ould conveniently carry, coming away
jnobserved through a door which led
:rom the garden into an orchard, and
hence along the footpath which
jerved us as a convenient short cut
nto the Bury road.
It was early morning, and the au:uinnal
mist which obscured the fields
tvas slowly disappearing before the
ising sun. When I reached the bend
>f the road I turned to take a last
ook at my old home, but it was enveloped
in the mist and could not be
seen. Resuming my journey at a
?reat pace, I endeavored by rapid
tvalking and clear thinking to emerge
"rom the mental depression which had
esulted. as I (lid not even then
loubt, from my errors of judgment
10 less than my peculiar circumstances.
Clear thinking! Alas! that
was a power which had never been
nine; and it seemed there was 110
way for me to attain tt but through
[he cruel discipliue afforded by a succession
of blunders and consequent
lisasater.
To be continued.
Hungary's Big Towns.
Hungary has eleven towns of 50,000
inhabitant or more, according to the
recent ceusus. Budapest has 732,000,
Szegcdin 103,000, Maria Theresiopol
>2.000, Debrcczin 75,000, Presburg Co,>00,
Hodmerovasarhely 01,000. Iveiskemet
57,000. Arad 50,000, Temesvar
53,000, Groswardein and Klausenburg
50,000 each. Agram, in Croatia, has
1)1,000 Inhabitants.
ffloldehhii
1-% by K? J
CHAPTER XXVL
Continued.
As I progressed along the lonely
road. I mercilessly dissected and criticised
my pasc conduct, resolving -with
all the strength of will I could exert
to be henceforth more sceptical in all
things, more deliberate in action, and
more secretive. The voluntary and
generous declarations of Constance
Marsh absolved me, I thought, from
my former cherished resolve not to
marry unless my resources were at
least as great as those of my wife;
and I would therefore at once return
to America, claim the hand and heart
I had won, and while endeavoring in
all things to gratify my youthful wife,
devote a large part 01 my time auu
mean6 to some work for the general
good*. Reconciliation with my father
could uot fail to come about after
the lapse of a little time; aud as
friendship is no less contagious than
enmity, might it not reasonably be
hoped that the peacemaking would be
yet further extended?
In this mood I arrived at Bury St.
Edmund's, and having walked up
Abbeygate street, turned aside into
the Butter Market, and entered an
inn there, where not many minutes
afterwards I was sitting in a private
room at a table spread with writing
materials.
The letter which poor old Adams had
brought from Chevington on the day
of his death had not yet been acknowledged.
It was an inquiry by
Mrs. Butterwell for the address of
the Rev. Mr. Evau Price. "That gentleman,"
wrote Mrs. Butterwell. "I
once or twice had the pleasure to hear
preach in the little church at Holoenhurst
Minor, and his manners impressed
me as everything that was
V i "? ~
rigut ana proper jij a curig j tiiuu?sum
charming elucidations of Scriptural
difficulties! such admirable discrimination
in his bearing toward proprietors,
tenants and peasantry! I have
long intended to beneiit ibis very deserving
young man as soon as the opportunity
to do should arise, and the
living of Kingsthorpe being vacant
just now in consequence of the death
of the Rev. Mr. Obadiah Hornblower
(poor dear man, he was only seventytwo,
and till this year was never
troubled with bronchitis in summer!)
I huve decided to offer it to Mr. Price.
The living of Kingsthorpe is worth
nominally ?1200 a year, but owing to
the badness of the times ibe income is
now not much over ?800. It is a great
depreciation, of course, but in these
days the living is still regarded as a
good one, and I have received hundreds
of letters from unbenedced clergymen
begging for the preferment some of
them written as soon as it became
known that Mr. Hornblower was not
likely to recover. Do pray oblige me
with Mr. Price's present address, for
I shall not offer the living to any one I
else until he has rejected it."
As I pondered over Mrs. Butterwell's
letter the bitter things?bitter chiefly
because 'they were true?which Mr.
Price had said of the Truman family
when conversing with Constance
Marsh at Tarrytown, were vividiy reproduced
by my memory, and I
thought, too, bow persistently he had
continued his suit after be had plainly
perceived that I was preferred to him.
Though I could not entertain these
recollections without some bitterness,
and in a foolish moment was half
tempted to withhold all knowledge of
the coveted preferment from my rival,
my better self prevailed. No; I would
not inaugurate my new course of conduct
with a splenetic freak; I should
be forgiving and charitable, and would
write a friendly though brief note to
Mr. Price, enclosing therewith Mrs.
Butterwell's letter. This done I wrote
another'note informing Mrs. ButterWell
of my action in the matter.
And now I had to communicate with
pncle Sam. What should I say to him?
Of the failure, or worse than failure,
of the course he had advised, he knew
bt present nothing. For a long while
I paused and stared vacantly upon a
blank sheet of paper with my pen
grasped ready to record ray thoughts;
but, alas! those thoughts were too
painful and too chaotic for me to give
them coherent expression, so after
much waste of time I contented myself
with inditing two telegrams. One was
to my uncle, and merely stated tiiat
my mission had failed, and I was on
my way to New York; the other, addressed
to Miss Marsh, van thus: "My
otvn! No treasure but you. Returning
to claim your promise. Yoir loving
Ernest"
CHAPTER XXVII.
AT THE WINDSOR HOTEL, NEW TO*K.
On a certain Sunday in the month of
October the good steamship Campania
was made fast to her berth at the
quay in New York City, and the delighted
passengers, hastily abandoning
the floating palace which had so quickly
and luxuriously transported them
from the old to the new world, hurried
hither and thither, greeting the
friends who awaited them, inquiring
after luggage, or hailing hackney carriages.
One passenger, however, quickly
made his way through the eager;
irst/HHaOM
" r?vi7
ALTER BLOOMFIELD
bet Bjmxib's Sok?
throng, and as he had no other Impedimenta
than a small handbag, and
was oblivious of the bawling of the
expressmen, he was the first whom
the Customs officials permitted to pass
into the street.
The weather was superb, the season
being what Americans call their
"Indian summer." The excessive heat
of summer had passed away, but its
brilliance remained, and there was a
delightful coolness in the air. The
foliage had put on a golden tint of extreme
beauty, the sky was cloudless,
and all external conditions of a sort to
exhilerate humanity. But the gloom
which had taken possession of me
when I embarked at Liverpool had
steadily increased during the voyage, I
J x T V? o t?/17 *r Uaan nhlo <
I UUU Ul (lUica x uju uaiuij ....... ,
j to endure my own communings. After
the exhaustive consideration of my i
position and prospects engendered by i
eight days of self-sought Isolation in i
my cabin, the vista before me did not i
appear nearly so rosy as I had at first
pictured it Thoughts of the death of <
Adams cow tormented me more than
was the case immediately after that
tragic event. Though I could not in j
Justice reproach myself with having
killed the old man, and was comforted
by the positive evidence of Dr. Thurlow
to that effect, yet I well knew that
at best my act had hastened the old
man's decease, and who could say by
how much? As I reflected how delicate
was the distinction between my
act and manslaughter I suffered pangs (
of remorse. Consideration, too, of my ;
other affairs was not calculated to af- ,
ford me much relief. Here was a ,
young Englishman with little or no ex- ,
perience of the world, homeless, heir :
to a small impoverished estate which (
he would probably not inherit for thir- ,
ty years, owner of 200 pounds and a
iw, rwiKo r. fnnio tn vpw York to marry
a young lady worth millions of dol
lars! Why, the idea seemed too pre- j
posierous for anyone but a dreamer ?
to entertain. But the die was cast. ,
and the course entered upou must be ,
persevered in to the end. Had It been
possible for me to live my days over j
again I should probably have made (
other and equally disastrous errors. ,
Though it was Sunday, and the great ]
stores were closed, Broadway was thronged
with well-dressed, prosperous j
looking people, not much unlike such (
as one seas in the principal thorough- |
fares of European capitals. After a j
loug sea voyage a walk is essential to |
most pcopie for adjusting the physical
equilibrium which has been so rudely j
disturbed. I found it so, and grasp- ,
1ng my hand sachel bent my steps up .
town as I had done on the occasion of ]
my first coming to New York. Not ,
long afterward I paused before my un- (
cle's house, and was struck with con- <
sternation when I obser^d that the ,
blinds were ail drawn down and the j
shutters closed.
Sounds of much unbolting and un- j
barring reacnea me Deiore me uw* .
was opened in response to my sum- ,
tnons, and then I was informed by a ,
man servant, whose face I remem- ]
bered, that Mr. Truman was staying }
at the Windsor Hotel, and had left \
word that he would like me to call ,
upon him there.
"Are Mrs. Truman and Miss Marsh 1
with him?" I inquired, greatly sur- <
prised at this Intelligence.
"I believe not," replied the man.
looking aside in a strange way that j
discouraged further questioning. How- |
ever, I inquired of him the where- ,
abouts of the Windsor Hotel, and <
being informed that it was close at
hand on Fifth avenue, I went there as
quickly as I could, more perturbed ,
than ever. When I presented my card j
to the clerk who had charge of the entrance
hall of that colossal hotel, he ,
at once deputed a waiter to conduct ^
me to my uncle's apartments, at the ]
same time telling me that Mr. Tru- ^
man had remained indoors the whole .
of yesterday in expectation of my arrival.
j
"Ah!" exclaimed uncle Sam, as he i
laid his cigar on the mantelpiece and }
advanced to meet me, "you are the
man I need! I received your cable- {
gram, and would have replied to it had
it been possible, but you were already ^
on the water. I perceive you are well,
so lose no time in telling me as briefly
as you can about those infernal se- ^
quins, for I am in haste to tell you
something of Infinitely greater importance."
My uncle's manner alarmed me. He 1
seemed to be laboring und^t- sup- ;
pressed excitement, and as he resumed ?
his cigar and walked up and down the ?
large room, his whole aspect impressed 1
me as strangely different from the self- c
possessed, confident man who had ex- \
cited ray boyish wonder. Could it be f
that the enormous resources of this x
able financier had at last been broken 9
by a combination for that purpose ;
such as one not unfrequently hears of t c
in the country of his adoption? I f
could not conceal my fear, and gave 1:
timid expression to it.
"No, no," said uncle Sam. impatiently,
as a forced smile overspread
his features: "nothing of the kind. Get a
on with your story." .1
To hear was to obey. At no time I
was uncle Sam a man to trifle with, t
ind least of all at the present monjpn^
tVhen I had completed my account of
ny mission to England be paused In
'rent of me (for during my recital he
lad not once ceased to pace the room),
md throwing away the end of hi*
:igar said: ^
"It is as I supposed. Though yon
ire probably now farther off than ever
'rom the recovery of the sequins, and
he result of your expense and trouble
s merely the addition of another inhabitant
to the unknown world. I
aave as little doubt as ever that the
)ld man bad the gold, and that he has
t>estowed it where it will rest until it
Is discovered by some other thief
4nd now please oblige me by never
mentioning this matter to me again,
Tor I do assure you I am most heartily
dek of it."
My uncle took two cigars from his
pocket. One of them he threw to me
icross the table, and having lit the
pther he again paced the room. A
minute or two elapsed before he
spoke. When at last he did so It was
with intense bitterness.
"Of all that you have done or failed
to do that which vexes me most is
pour forwarding Mrs. ButterweU's letter
to Price. But I don't blame you in
'inf Wfitr. (t irnrvwsihlp that VOU
could know of the deep hatred I was
so soon to bear to that unspeakable
humbug. The fault* is my own for
having, in the exercise of my natural
generosity. foolishly suffered myself
to befriend one of his canting, hypocritical
casie. When I picked that unconscionable
beggar out of the Suffolk
mud he was not tcu cents ahead of his
debts, and the utmost racking of his
wits produced him ;;u income abput
one-hf.h as much as I pay my cook."
Uncle Sam paused a moment, puffed
forth a cloud of smoke in a way suggestive
of ineffable contempt, and re
sumed:
"As you know. I brought him here
and gave him the management of a
newspaper I own, paying him largely
for his inefficient discharge of duties
which I had to teach him. He attached
himself to Connie, and did hi*
best to win her, but Connie, with prudence
worthy of her father, would i
have none of him. When you appeared
jpon the scene and gained almost without
effort the prize for which he had
contended in vain, he made the girl
for whom he used to profess the most
extravagant regard the victim of his
revenge. His inability to injure her
Without injuring Jirs. lrumau aiiuiue
in a greater degree did not derer the
villain. His method was this. Knowing
that Constance was devoted to her
sister, and that anything which would ,
rrouble one must needs disquiet the
ither, he showed her (in your presence, 'A
i understand) a letter he had received
from another pestilent Suffolk parson,
exposing Annie Wolsey?the writer, a
?raven-hearted windbag named Fuller,
having got his information from old
Wolsey or your father. Connie, wiier
than most women, kept her knowledge
to herself, and Price, suspecting this
from the fact that there was no upset
n my house, forwarded Fuller's letter
to my wife."
The malicious leer upon Mr. Price's
face at the moment when I last looked
upon him was pictured iu my memory
ind not likely to be forgotten. That
it was the outward and visible sign of
i diabolical nature I had never doubted,
and his strictures upon my family
in that occasion helped to confirm the
opinion, but none the less was I as ton- et\
isbed to learn in what circuitous
tvays this man had worked to injure
people who, so far from giving him
my cause for enmity, had done much %
to earn bis gratitude. As my uncle
igaln paused I ventured to congratulate
him on the futility of Mr. Prlce'S-^J
ict, seeing that Mr. Fuller's letter contained
nothing which aunt Gertrude
lid not already know.
"My affairs are hardly as smooth as
that," continued uncle Sam, forgetful
if, or diplomatically Ignoring, a pre- ,
rlous declaration he had made. "My 1
tvlfe has left me, and I cannot induce
tier to return Home except Dy suostan- i
tlal assurances that I have finally
ceased to correspond with Annie Wol?
sey."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, in #
?reat affright. "Do you know where
3he has gone? Is Constance with
aer?"
"Don't talk so loud. I am not deaf,
ind there is no necessity for Informing I
;verybody; the affair is sufficiently
tnown already. You have no cause j
.'or alarm. I shall give my wife the J
insurances she demands, and in a day I
?r two at farthest she will reassume I
aer rightful position. It la a pity you
forwarded that old lady's letter to w
lim."
"Where Is my aunt and Connie?" I $
tsked bluntly.
'In Orange, at a house where their 7
'ather used to live."
"Is that far from here?" j
"Only a few miles. Orange is in New m
rersey. the other side of the North M
Etiver." f J
A sigh of relief escaped me when 1^^
leard these words. To know that I 1
t??e Ort nnor tn niv Hpflr PrinstflnCP WAS
is one faint streak of light in a dark ^
iky. I lit the cigar which I had been
lervously twirling between my fingers
luring the progress of this conversa* j
iou, and took a seat by the open winlow.
Uncle Sam. too, became some- J
vhat calmer and seated himself oppoite
to me. A long pause ensuetl which ']
vas at last broken by uncle Sam sud- j
lenly breaking out into a loud laugh^fl
luite in his old style. I looked up
lim in surprise.
To be continued.
Peanut Vender?"Say, pard, l/.e&ri W
good joke a few minutes ago.'' Blind 1
erry?"Well, don't tell me about it 1
couldn't see the point until after J
iusine8s hours."?Chicago News. JB