Greenfield Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 30 January 1891 — Page 6

Bj Robert Bucbauu

CHAPTER XV—CONTINUED. •Trelawney, one momeut,w ho said, I paused. '•Yes, 6ir." •'Miss Graham wishes to go down the mine. I tell her it Is impossible, What do you say? Is it fit for a lady?"

I was about to reply, when Madeline interposed. •'Dou't worry about it, George I've abandoned the idea." she said. Then, stepping up to me, she held forth her little gloved hand. I bowed over it, but did not take it, giving a9 an excuse that I was not fit to approach her. •'I dare say you were in quite as forlorn a condition the other morning when you snatched me from the wreck," she said "yet you did not hesitate then, when your own life was in peril. Mr. Trelawney, take my hand.

I did as she requested. I clasped the little hand in both of mine and raised it respectfully to my lips, In doing so I caught a glimpse of George Cedrutli's face it was black as the pit's mouth. ".Now, my dear Madeline, shall we go back?" he said impatiently.

But Madeline was not ready, or perhaps 6he was too imperious to be so ordered by her cousin. She had abandoned all intention of descending the mine but she was. nevertheless, anxious to inspect the outside of it. ''But you can go Mr. Trelawney Will escort me," she said. "Nonsense!" returned her cousin, •'Trelawney has got his work to attend to, I will stay."

And he did stay, for fully two hours at the end of which time she allowed him to take her away.

Three other days passed vuthout a sign from her then I encountered her again. It was in the evening:, and I was walking home. This time she was alone, except for the servant, who was following her at a respectful distance. She came up to me unreservedly, and again held forth her hand* Having shaken hands with her I paused, not very well knowing what to do, when she helped me. ••I came to walk back with you," she said "doyon mind?" ••I mind?" I repeated in amazement, "You forget, Miss Graham, it is an honor forme to walk beside you."

She gave a little impatient toss of her head, and we walked on together. For some time not a word was spoken, but I felt that she was watching me keenly. Presently abe said: ••Do you know what I have been doing. Mr. Trelawney. ••No." "I have been trying to find in you one trace of the boy I knew years ago at Munster's—and I have failed." •'I don't understand." "No? Well, I will explain. The boy I knew was kind to me frank, open-hearted, generous. -j

Her

You

spfte"(vbat unfriendly reserved, harsh, and. if I may bay so, churlish. Why are you so changed?" "I am not changed, Miss Graham or. if I am. it is but with the tide of fortune, which has ebbed and not flowed with me since we met before. When we were at Munster's I believed we were equals but now—" "Yes now—" "You are Miss Madeline Graham I am the overseer of your cousin's mine." 'Then you wish us to remain strangers?" ••I. think it would be better." ••Ah! you are crueller than I thought if you will not accept my friendship for the sake of the old days when we were boy and girl together, you will, at least, have some pity upon me. I am lonely and among strangers here. You seem like an old friend. If you will suffer me to talk to you sometimes it will make my stay more pleasant."

pleading won the day, and we

became friends. I never went to Redri.th

House, and she never came to the cot tage. 1 never sought her, but quite innocently and frankly she sought me. We often went on the moo£ when,after my long day's work, was: making ray way horr:e, and I could not regard the-e meetings as purely accidental on her part. She was always accompanied by the black girl, until one evening when she appeared alone. "You are looking for Anita!" said Madeline, noting my glance. "She has gone to London with my aunt's maid, and will not return till close on midnight. My cousin counselled my staying at home to-night, or allowing him to aocompany me. I knew I should toot lack for company, so refused to submit. I may not enjoy these walks much longer." ••Whatl are you going away?" I asked, in some alarm.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps. I don't know certainly I shall have to go sooner or later, but I trust it may not be sooner. When I was shipwrecked here I was on my way to London to take up my abode with some other relations. They are troubling me with questions, so I have sent up Anita to satisfy them as to my safe

as far removed from me as the moon was removed from the sea? and yet 1 felt that moment that to love her so, be it only for one hour, was worth whole centuries of pain.

She walked with me as far as the cottage, and pausing at the little wicket gate, gave me her hand. ••Good-night. Mr. Irelawney," she said softly "it is not good-by yet."

Again I raised her bald, and pressed it to" my lips then I dimly remembered entering thej cottage but all seemed unreal—save the one overmastering fact that, fool that I was, I was the slave of Madeline Graham.

CHAPTER XVI. BY THE SEA.

The next day was Sunday. I rose early and put ou my idling clothes, a dark suit of tweed. That I took more than usual pains with myself may be assumed from the fact that my aunt,as I strolled in to breakfast, started, and looked at me from head to foot in no little surprise. Then she sighed deeply, and glanced at my uncle, who, also dressed for the day,in a suit of solemn black, was sitting moodily by the fire.

For many days passed there had been noticeable a curious change in m£ uncle's manner. I carcely observed it at the time, for my heart was too full of other pleasanter impressions, but afterwards, when I came to think it over, I remembered vividly what had previously passed without remark. To begin with he looked at least ten years older. His old chery laugh had gone and his eyes bad a hard, far-away look, very different to iheir former happy brightness. Sometimes, as we sat together, he would rise abruptly and pass out of the house, leaving the meal on tho table untouched. My aunt seemed to forget her own trouble in watching his and nothing could surpass tho silent tenderness with which she waited upon hin, never breathing a word of her solicitude, but showing in a hundred gentle ways her wifely sympathy and devotion.

On the present occasion we breakfasted very late: and as we sat, there came to us, faintly wafted over tho distant moorland. the sounp of the chuvoh be Is. My undo started, listened, and drew back his chair. Then, before we could say a word, he seized his hat. and left the house. "Gaw after him, Hugh!" cried my aunt—adding quickly, ••Na.stay! Maybe 'tis better to let 'un be. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, he's never been the same man since our Annie went fra haruel"

And the tears streamed down her worn cheeks as she spoke, ank her voice was broken. "Don't fret aunt," I said gently. "I'm sure Annie is all right—indeed, you know from her own letter that no harm has come to her." "I'm not for Annie, it's for father!" was the roply. "I dawn't knaw what there be upon his mind, but he's tarrible changed and what be warst, he won't speak o'tevento me but keeps it like a cankerwarm, a-gnawing and

a^iyeatiug

out his life. I were watching

him just naw. and I knaw'd well what what was passing through un's mind.'1 "What?" "First he saw thee dressed and smart, and he thought haw his Annie, too, would be sitting ready forchurah o' Sundays and the bells sounded, and the happy time came baok upon pcoi' father's heart. Oh, Hugh? if you and Annie had been different to one another, father would ha' been happy still but 1 dawn't blame 'ee, lad—it were no fault o' yourn!'

But though she acquitted me in words, there was in a manner a certain affectiouate reproach. •Aunt,' I said. would cut off my hand to put things right But Annie never cared for me, and I

I paused awkardly, knowing well that I had nover loved my cousin. •The Lawd will punish her!' cried my aunt bitterly 'I'll ne'er forgie her! If she had stayed at hame like a decent lass, it would all ha1 come right i' the end. But she went wi* scarce a ward, and wherever she be, the Lawd will punish her!' 'Nay. nay/ I said, rising and putting my hand on my aunt's shoulder, 'don't be hard on poor Annie! She'll soon come back, and then all will be explained.'

My aunt's manner changed again, and the tears streamed from her eyes anew. •Oh, Hugh, my lad, think you our lassie will ever come back?' •'Of course. 'Twas but a lass's whim for change she'll sooa tire and return. I'm sure no harm has happened to her, and she was always kind and loving." "Saw she were, Hugh, saw she were! Hugh, will 'ee speak to father and try to cheer'un?"

I nodded, then stopping, I kissed my aunt on the cheek. The Sabbath bells still rang from the distance clearly and sweetly. The sun looked in through the window, and a sunbeam trembled on the paven floor. "Shall you gaw to church, lad?" asked my aunt as 1 moved to the door. •'Not tosday," I replied. -Tm going for a walk on the moor."

She looked at me keenly, and I saw that she guessed my secret for the

ty. Yet 1 suppose I shall some day truth was. 1 was hoping and praying have to go." to meet with Made'dne. With a heavy She tried to speak carelessly, yet I! sigh she turned away and began refancied I detected a ring of regret in 1 moving the breakfast things. her voice, and I quailed before the Once outside I breathed again. It feeling of desolation which her words was a calm, beautiful, sunny day, with brought to my heart. I jUS(,

In that one sentence she had unwit- ling air. Far away the sea shone like tingly shown to me myself—revealed silver. to roe the terrible secret which I had I hesitated a moment, then walked been vainly trying to crush from my down the road towards the lodge gate heart. Even as she had influenced my —towards the very spot where, years boyhood. so she influenced my mani before I had first met George Redhood. ruth. No one was about a Sabbath

I loved her with the same unthink- stillness lay everywhere and the faint log love whicbTiad tilled my soul as a souud of the far-olf bells only render* boy—loved her even while feeling that edit deeper. such a love might be the means of I paused at the gate, and looked up avenue. There was no sign of

might be the

blighting my We. I knew that no the good oould oome el it, for was she not Janyone. I longed to walk right ap to

the great house and inquire fop her I sought, but I lacked the covraged. What was I, a common overseer of the mine, to go following the footsteps of a proud lady? If I could meet her by accident, good and well but I did not wish even her to suspect that I was so anxious for the meeting.

Perhaps she had gone on to church. If so, doubtless George Redruth was in her company. I fretted at the thought and turned away. At last, very weary with waiting, I determined to seek forgetfulness in along walk across the moor, such as I had told my aunt I had intended to taKe.

Quitting the road, I followed a path whioh led right over the open moor" land in the direction of the sea. The air was full of lightness and sweetness but my spirits by this time had sunk to freezing point. As to forgetting the one object of my thought, that was simply impossible. My soul was full of one image, which went with me at every step I took.

I had wandered about a mile when I perceived, by the side of a lonely moorland tarn—one of those dark, turf ^stained pools which cast back the light like polished ebony, and are often mysteriously deep—the figure of a man. He was sitting on a fragment of rock and looking: at the water.

Coming up quickly, I recognized my uncle. Our eyes met, but he did not speak. Turning his head away, he looked down at the tarn. "Why, uncle," I cried, "I thought you were at church?" "Naw, lad," he answered, still with his head averted: "naw, lad, I were in no mood for to kneel and pray. I came out yar on the waste land, and I sat down yar a-thinking."

I put my hand upon bis shoulder. ••Uncle, you're not angry? With me, I mean?"

Naw, lad," he replied, in the same low, listless tones. 'I ha' no call to be angry, least of all wi' thee. Don't 'ee mind me—gang your gait, and lea' me here alaw'n."

But I remembered my promise to my aunt, and was determined not to leave him so. So I sat down by his side, saying: "You've no reason to take it so much to heart: it's making trouble, I think, before it come3. I know well why you're fretting yourself so much. It's about Annie but, take my word for it, Annie's all right, and will soon come back home."

He turned his face towards mine, How strangely wild and weary it seemed, set in its iron-grey hair. ''Sometimes I think, lad, as she'll

I used to knaw? But it's nawt that, my lad, it's nawt that as is on my mind."

Then what is it? Annie, I am sure, is well and happy: so what can it be?"

He looked at me long and steadfastly before he replied. -If my lass went away, it mun ha' been because o' trouble and if 'twere

lain had broken: and what 1 think,

lad. other folk think, too—I ha' seen them whispering it to one anawther, and looking at me."

their stations, she said to herself, ••I will go away for a time till I am cured, or till he has left the place."

My uncle frowned thoughtfully and shook his head. ••Naw, Hugh—there in't than that but it be, I'm sure master had no hand in it. never liked un, Hugh, Jarge has a kind heart never do a dirty deed.

any

touch of frost in tho cJear spark-

young

keep him from the reach o' my hands!** As I looked into his face I could not help echoing the prayer. I felt certain, at the same time, that his fears and suspicions had shot greatly in ex-» cess of the truth. I knew that scandal was busy with poor Annie's name, and that much of tho scandal must have reached his ears but couid not yet bring myself to believe that Annie's flight betokened anything seriously wrong. Of one thing' I felt, nevertheless, certain—that if any wrong had been done her George Redruth was in some way responsible.

I stood and watched my uncle as he wandered away in the direction of the cottage then I turned my face again toward the sea and wandered on. As I went the moor grew opener and wilder, strewn with great stones and boulders like fragments of the wreck of some past world eorna huge as menhirs translated thither is some prehistoric period of wondrous floods— when the arid waste on which I trod was the oozy bottom of a troubled sea.

Here and there fed wild cattle, blame and horned, like those that haunted the woods of ancient Britain. In solU tary places the buzzard hovered, and by the brink of lonely tarns the heron waded, rising up as I approached, with sleepy waft of wing.

At last, after a ramble of several miles, I approached the sea margin. My path was now on the stony edge of low-lying cliffs, at the bise of which the waters thundered for ever. Here there was a lonely promontory of black granite, stretching out into the sea, and whitened at its limits by the chalky droppings of innumerable seabirds On a rocky island a few yards from the extreme point of the promon* tory sat a tlook of cormorants as I approached they turned their snake-like necks, but did not rise.

The sun was \*arm and bright, the sea calm and shimmering like steel. I threw myself down on the rocks, and with face upturned to the clear skies, closed my eyes. A large black winged gull wheeled screaming over me, and then sailed slowly away. All heard was the low murmur of the billows breaking sadly on the rocks beneath me—that sound which 'deepens silence,' and has such solemn meanings for the troubled human soul.

Suddenly another sound broko upon my ear. 1 started, and listened. The sound seemed 1.0 come from the sea itself. and was like a mermaid singing. I rose quickly, and, crossing the rocks, walked in the direction from which tho voice came.

Approaching the edge of the crags, I looked down, and saw beneath me.

never coom back and if she do, will in the very shadow of the promontory, she e'er again be the same little Annie

lu.iet creek*

trouble, 'twere a kind that she were haunted still, and by one far sweeter ...2

feared to tell even to her awn father. That letter my Annie writ came from a sore heart—maybe a heart some vil-»

Of course I understood him well hor face looking seaward, enough for the same thought had ^ne Graham. often enough been in my own mind. "Whatever has happened," I said, "be sure of one thing: Annie is not to blame. Uncle, do you know what I have often suspected? My cousin left us only for a little while, because she wished to be out of George Redruth's way." "What d'ye mean?" he cried, start-

rhe rocks lel1 !isilndet"

leaving a space of sandy beach some twenty yards broad, and closed by the still waters of the sea, which broke in a thin fringe of white foam on a sunny slope of white pebble and golden sand.

It was a nook just such as the fabled merwomen or serens might have chos» en when the world was haunted, and such fair creations brightened the sunshine. But what am I saying? It was

and more winsome than creation of a poet's fancy! Lying like a basking seal on

loose

the Church of God, in this city. The

haps. Then, distrusting him, and excitement has reached fever heat, knowing the great distance between Some alleged miraculous cures are said'

to have been effected under her ministrations. One of ttie most remarkable cures is that of Mollio Bowers, who lives ner Alexandria.

Twelve years ago, whon quite young she was attacked with measles, and the

whate'er disease left her blind in one eye and the young the sight of tho other much impaired. I know you She has been treated by various eye but Master specialists, but without success. Yes, and would terday she and her father, a farmer.

Why, I ha' drove to Anderson to attend the meet-

knawed him an' 6arved him ever since ing. Miss Bowers went to the altar, he were a boy, and I'd trust un wi' my and, telling Mrs. Woodworth of her own life." ailment, implored her to join with her

In pity for his trouble I forebore to in prayer to have her eyesight retell him all I knew. Even had I done stored. so I believe his simple faith in the Apathetic scene ensued. The young: master would have remained firm. "It's of summat else I'm thinkin', lad," he said, after a pause "summat that were tawld me t'other day by

lady clinging upon the rostrum,pleaded that her evesight be restored. Mrs. Woodworih laid her hands across the young lady's eyes, quoting a passa

John Rudd. Three or four days arte* of Scripture, and commanded her to Annie went away John Rudd saw her rise. She did so and saw. For a few in Falmouth, along with that Yankee1 moments she stood bewildered, and finchap, Johnson, the overseer."

He noticed my start of surprise, and continued: ••They were standing talking together on the quay, and Annie were crying. Maybe there's summat in it, and maybe nawt but since the night she went the overseer chap has been away—folk

ally, realizing that her eyesight had been fully restored, she turned to her father and fell upon his neck, sobbing bitterly. Then she began to shout and praise God for the wonderful cure He had made.

Several tests were made to see whether the cure was complete, such

-ay in London. Putting this and that as distinguishing colors, reading fine tagither, Hugh, my lad, what do it all! print, and so on. all of wfcich were sucmean?" cessful and showed conclusively that

I was as" puzzled as himself, but I the cure was real. hastened to assure him of one thing— Two reputable citizens declare that the utter impossibility "f

there

mind be fixed that summat's wracg, and 1 shan't sleep till I knaw the truth. I ha' been praying and praying that things be knawt as I hav feared, for if

wl»

being Mrs. Woodwo

intimate relationship bebweed my chronic deafness. William Span of cousin and the pseudo-American. He Fortville was made to walk to-night, looked somewhat incredulous, for in something he has not done for years, his simple eyes Johnson was a stylish by reason of a leg crushed in an aeeiand highly important person, very dent several years ago. likely to lind favor in the eyes of a'

woman. Away From the Bargain Counter. "Leave me to think it out, lad. My

Detroit Free Press.

4hm

on i* maita

any mere

the

shingle just under the rocks, and looking up at me with sparkling eyes, was the colored girl from Demerara and standing on the water's edge, with was Made-

(To be continued.)

MIBACLG9 IN INDIANA.

B'.fiul See and the Halt Walk—Mia "Woodworth Makes a Sensation.

Anderson, lnd., Spccfal.

ing, and trembling violently. The meetings of Mrs. Woodworth, '•There was something between the trance evangelist,, still continue at them. He had won her heart,

pers

decietjanV

has curodthem of

••You say you truly love me," began the young girl, ''how much, sir?" But Alfred

Ca*lmeer was too happy for

rational conversation. "Dollar eighty-

any living man has played the villain [four, pleaae. Shalt I wrap it up?" h*

my Annie, Lawd help himl Laird wumured meobaaieally.:

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