Greenfield Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 21 January 1892 — Page 3

V' fwith

'0 •qjm

By Robert Buchanan.

If CHAPTER XIV—Continued. »pew folk have business with John Mossknow. His work in this world ^.§*4, is nearly done. Did you see him." "Yes," replied the young man,

n. nnrl "And his adonted

And his adopted the amiable young is waiting to wear

with a nod. daughter, and tleman who ... —, shoes." "Dawm him for an interloper!" exlclaimed the Prophet, adding, with unconscious comicality, "Lord, forgive me for swearing!" "Damn him with pleasure, said the young man, pulling a wooden pipe out of his pocKet, and lighting it coolly. ''But why?" "Mind your own affairs," cried

^4 IS": hi a

Willie, sharply. '"I see you are one of the new generation, in which the monkey predominates o'er the human." Lord Monboddo, a learned idiot, traced such limmers up to the ourang-outang." "Come, come, that isn't polite!" "It's no' polite to disturb a gentleman at his devotions, and smoke tobacco at his front door! I have clouted better folk o'er the lug-* for less, young man."

The other laughed again, quite merrilv. "For so thorough a hermit your sentiments area little unchristian." "I'm in a bad temper," returned Willie, dryly. "So I perceive. Why?" "Why, ye limmer? Because, as I sat there reading, my thoughts wandered away from the book, and I was thinking—thinking!" "What were your thoughts about?" "I was thinking this world is just a heap of dirt. I was thinking of the awl'ul responsibility of Him that made it. I was thinking that, if I were God, I would put it out like a rushlight, and gang to bed for ever in the dark! Hoomph!"

With a snort indicative of mingled contempt for the world and for his listener. Willie came out, shut the door, and turned the key in the old padlock which fastened it. Then he glanced again at the stranger, who had turned his back upon him, and was gazing quietly up through the trees. "Come ye from England, young man?" he inquired. "Your tongue hasna the English ring."

The young man turned quietly. I coine from across the sea. From tfae land of the setting sun." "On an errand to John Mossknow." "On an errand to the laird of Linne." "Who sent ye?" cried Willie, quickly. "It is your turn now to be inquisitive," said the other, laughing. "What's your name?" i. VI«have none, my friend.1

L-1

have

come to look for one." v&mSo saying, he walked' from the wood, and stood in the open road.

Far away before him stretched the great sea across which he had sailed. Willie fallowed, muttering to himself, and stood by his side. "You favor one I keoned long years syne,"' said the hermit, thoughtfully. "Man or woman?" asked the stranger. "Neither one nor other. A bairn, a bit laddie. You have the same bold blue een, the same fair golden hair. His name was Robin Campbell. I loved him like my own." "I knew one Robert Campbell out in Canada. Perhaps it is the same."

Willie ihook his head sadly. "No. no the laddie I speak o' is long dead—drown'd—lying at the bottom of the sea. far, far awa' from the shining o' the sun."

The young man looked upward, asd taking off his hat, stood bareheaded, with the sunbeams pouring upon his fair brow and golden ringlets. Then, with a strange smile, while Willie started in wonder, he uttered the following words: "Yon's no' the sun, Willie Macgillvray! Yon's-God!"

The vvord.3, the tone startled the old man as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet. He uttered a wild cry, and gazed awestruck on the voung man's face.

CHAPTER XV.

THE SHADOW FALLS.

While Willie, the hermit, was being interviewed by the stranger from Canada at the entrance to his cave, the gloom and sorrow were deepening over Linne Castle for the laird was rapidly nearing his end.

For some time after the stranger had left the sick room the old man fay motionless, with his dim eyes fixed in a death-like stare. Marjorie v- cn her knees beside the bed, pressed thin, cold hands and sobbed piteous-

'J ly, naming his name, but he neither moved nor spoke while on the other side of the bed stood Edward Linne, watching with a curious expression the heavy, stertorous breathing of tihe dvinjr man.

Presently attracted by the piteous sobbing of the girl, he went to her, and lifted her from the ground. "Come away, my girl," he said, tenderly. r"This i3 no place for you."

But Marjorie resisted. •'Don't take me away away from bim!" sho cried, hysterically. "Indeed, indeed, I must stay!" "Then you must cease fretting," foe whispered. "Come, bo brave. You have been expecting this for veeks. It Ls better for him that it Has come."

He placed her in an armchair which stood near .the bedside then

he went to the bed, placed his fingers on the old man's pulse, and again looked with cold curiosity at the face. The eyes were now looking straight at him, and were full of recognition. "He has recovered consciousness" hs said nervously shrinking back.

In a moment Marjorie was by the bedside. She clasped the thin hand in both of hers, and gazed tenderly down upon the old man. As she did so, the light in his eyes grew softer, and his lips moved. "He is speaking!—he wishes to say something!"

Cried Marjorie, bending low, that she might catch the words of the dying man. But she heard nothing. "What is it, sir?" she asked, softly, you wish to speak? have you something to say to me?"

The head moved slightly, as if in assent. "What is it?" she asked again, as she placed her ear closer to the old man's lips.

The heavy breathing continued, but she could not hear a word. "Oh, it is terrible!" she cried, while the laird, still making violent efforts to speak, turned his eyes in piteous entreaty from one face to another. "What shall I do?" •'You can do nothing," said Linne, "but leave him to die in peace." "But he wishes to say something, and cannot." "No." said Linne "I don't think he will speak again." For the eyes were already becoming dim, and were fixed again into that vacant stare. "Come, Marjorie, he continued, again placing the girl in the armchair, "this is not the sort of scene for you but if you will stay, you must be reasonable. If you cry so much you will make yourself ill.

He placed himself between the armchair and the bed. so as to hide the girls view of the dying man but it was unnecessary, for Marjorie's face was buried in her handkerchief. For some time no one spoke Linne was soon lost in his own thoughts, and Marjorie lay exhausted in the chair.

Suddenly both started. There was a hurried footstep on the stairs, and the next moment the figure of Willie Maegillvray stood in the doorway.

With a cry of joy Marjorie sprang to meet him, but the old man, whose manner was full of strange excitement, quickly put her aside, and approached the bed. 'Are ye living, John Mossknow?" he said. "Tell me, are ye living, and dove ken what it is I say?"

The eyes, still fixed and vacaDt, gave no sign of recognition. "He lives, but hedoesna hear me," said Willie, sorrowfully. "Tell me, Marjorie. my doo, has he been long like this?" "Yes," answered the girl. "A while ago he recovered consciousness and tried to speak to me, but only his lips moved, for I could not hear a sound. Oh, Mr. Maegillvray, will he never speak again?" "The Lord knows," answered the old man, reverently. "And now leave the room, both of vou, for I want to be with him alonel"

Marjorie looked at Linne, who replied, "I refuse to leave the room, and should like to know by what right you order me to do so?'

Willie looked up at him with a curious expression, full of contempt and dislike. "You craw o'er soon, and you're no'the master vet, young man," he said. "But gang your ways or if ye will not gang then stay and welcome." "Shall I go, Willie?" asked the girl. "No, Marjorie," he answered: "but keep away from me, lassie, for I have something to say to the laird."

Then, bending over the old man, he said— •'If ye ken who is by ye and who speaks till ye, make a sign."

He watched earnestly, but no sign came except for the regular breathing the man showed no indication of

He bent low and whispered in the old man's car. Then he looked into

the filmy eyes again. "He kens what it is I'm saying," cried Willie. "Thank the Lord, he kens!"

But even as he spoke, the laird uttered a deep sigh, and his jaw fell. "Marjorie, my bairn," said Willie, as he reverently bowed his head, "say a prayer, if you can the laird is deadl"

It was indeed true. As Linne stepped hastily forward and laid his lingers upon the pulse, it ceased to beat. "Yes, he Is dead," he repeated with a sigh of relief. Then he turned nervously away, as if to shut out the ghastly sight before him.

So tho shadow that passes from dwelling to dwelling fell upon Linne Castle.

Persuaded by Willie, Marjorie was induced to retire to her room, where, thoroughly exhausted with the fatigue of the night, she at last sobbed herself to sleep while throughout the4iouse, despite the moving hither and thither of the servants who were in attendance upon the body of the laird, there was that hushed silence which ever accompanies death. Yet it was simply the old story over again—"Le Roiest mort Vive le Roil" for while in the room above the

.n-r-

life. Willie thereupon moved from the bedside, and walked excitedly up penance is done, I can put off sackand down the room, muttering to cloth and ashes and be myself again." himself. Now and again he paused, He made a hasty toilette, desoendand gave a curious look at the young I ed to tho dining-room, where he man who stood so calmly watching found his dinner waiting. After he tho death throes of his kinsman. had finished his meal, he took his hat Presently Willie approached the bed and left the house unseen by anyone. again this time he uttered an exclamation of delight. Once more the eyes were full of recognition. "Keep back, both of you!" he said "keep back! I have something to pay to the laird."

body of the old laird was receiving the "ghastly honors of the dead, in the dining-room below stood the young laird, his heart expanding with joy at the position he believed he had attained. "I'm glad it's over—very glad it's over," he said to himself "for at times I began to be afraid the old man might recover, and so disappoint me after all. And now the question is, what am I to do? Sell up and be off, or linger here a bit and live like a country squire? And Marjorie—what is to become of Marjorie? I know what I should like to do with her, but unfortunately I'm bound hand and foot. And that reminds me! Mary is to meet

D(r me again to-night and I must keep

the tryst, too, or heaven knows what the little babbling fool may be induced to do if she hears of the old man's death. Well, I've time to have something to eat, and then I'll slip off no one will see me. And suppose they do? who has a right to question my movements now? No one. I am master of the situation— absolute master only, to avoid a scandal, I must keep the girl away,

He rang the bell, and assuming a tone of command which made the old servant start and stare at him in wonder, ordered a repast to be prepared for him at once. "Stay," he said, as the old man was retiring, "How is Miss Marjorie?" "She's lockit up in her ain room, Mr. Edward." "Well, tell your wife io remain in attendance upon her. It's my wish that she should be treated in every way as she was before the laird died." "I'll do as you bid me, Mr. Edward/' said the old man, groaning as he left |he room. •'And now," said Linne to himself, when the door had closed and the old man was out of hearing, "I suppose I shall be expected to pay another visit upstairs. Well, it isn't a pleasant performance but it won't have to be often repeated, and I may as well make the best of iV"

Assuming a becoming air of sadness, he opened the door, and passed quietly up the stairs to the room where his uncle was lying.

How every thing was changed! The room was now in perfect order while the old man, his grey hair smoothed from his brow, his hands crossed upon his breast, lay like a a statue upon the bed.

But beside the bed stood Willie Maegillvray, soliloquizinsr aloud— "It's all" over now, John Mossknow," he said. "We have long expected the end, and yet 'tis come just a day too soon. Well, the Lord have mercy on ye, if your sins in the past bring more misery on them that survive you! 'As ye sow so shall you reap,' saith the Lord and you have died a miserable, friendless death, just as you lived a miserable, friendless life. Ay! ay! ay! There's only one human being in the world to mourn you."

He looked up, and saw Edward Linne standing in the doorway, coldly regarded him. The two men looked at each other with no very amiable eyes. "I take off my hat with all humility to the new laird," said Willie, with mock politeness.

Taking no notice whatever of the speech or the speaker, Linne, came forward, and standing on the other side of the bed, gazed for a few minutes at the corpse. "If he led a strange life, he contracted questionable friendships," he muttered at last. "Well, his friends must be free of the Castle while he is here, I suppose, but after that they shall trouble it no more.

Turning on his heel, he left the room, and went straight to his own bedroom. "Heavens! what a ghost I am!" he said, surveying himself in the glass. "One would think to look at me that the old fellow's death lay at my door. Well, I confess it has been a fatiguing job waiting for it but now my

Being somewhat late, he walked quickly. When he reached the place of meeting on the seashore, Mary was already there.

She was seated on the on the rocks looking out upon the sea. The moment his eye fell upon her all his illhumour returned, so that, when, with face aglow, she sprang up to meet him, he put her aside in anger. "Don't play the fool!" he said "I didn't come here for that." "Edward, what is wrong?" she asked, amazed. "What is wrong?"he answered, irritably. "Nothing is wrong—that is, nothing more than usual. But that is the way you women always go on if a man isn't eternally making a fool of himself. You begin to cry and ask if anything is the matter. Well, now, the question is, what am I to do about you?"

The girl did not answer. She could not sobs choked her throat, and her eyes were full of tears. "I wish to heaven you had remained where you were!" he continued, "and found me out at a more convenient time. But here you are, and something must be done. One thing is certain you can't hang about the neighborhood, and we cant continue to meet, or people will begin to talk. They always do talk in these confounded places." "Maybe we'll no ha'e to wait laug," said the girl. "They say the laird is sair spent." "The laird? he i$ dead." "Dead!"

'.til,, /V.'ra'7r

"Yes: he died a few hours ago." "Then you—you are the laird's heir?" "I don't know. Yes, I suppose so," answered Linue, with a scow "But you ken weel it's true, Edward. You—you are his only kith and kin all the world kens that." "And what everybody knows must be true, I suppose. Well, yes, I dare say that I am the laird o' Linne. And what then?" "And what then?" answered the girl, eagerly. "That is a' you bid me wait for. Hae ye forgot your words yestreen? It's ill wark to rejoice o're the Jdeath o' the puir gentleman, but the Lord kens weel what I have suffered and if I seem a bit glad he will pardon me. Edward, dear, speak kindly to me, noo that my time o' happiness has come."

But he only scowled angrily. "Mary," he said, "I want to speak to you seriously. Will you listen to me?" "Ay, I'll listen," she said gently. "Well, then, I must tell you—I had better do it now I would rather not have faced it, but since you are here there is no help for it. Well, then, the laird's death will make no difference to you. I cannot acknowledge you as my wife."

She stared at him blankly for a few moments then she repeated his words. "You canna acknowledge me as your wife. "No it is impossible." "But why? Tell me why?" "For averj' simple reason: you are not my wife at all!"

The words were spoken slowly and deliberately, and while he spoke them he kept his eyes fixed upon the girl's face. The tender, tearful look passed away now, and the features hardened. "You ken well you are lying to me, Edward Linne!" she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I assure you I speak the truth." "Then tell me," said the girl, "if I am no' your wife, hoo comes it that 1 hae my marriage lines?" "It was a false marriage," returned Linne. "Your marriage lines are waste paper!" He continued: "I should not have promised to marry you at all. only you were a little fool, and forced me to do it. Then I made you promise to keep it secret, because I dreaded the truth becoming known. Well, I went away. Do you think, if you had been rnv wife, I should have left you year after year without a sign? No, I was too great a coward to tell you the truth but I thought the truth would dawn upon you, and that I should be spared the pain of this confession." "You're no' in earnest, Edward," persisted the girl. "Think of your words last night." "I do think of them but what of that? I was a fool last night, aud kept up the old farce because I hadn't the courage to tell you the truth. But I have thought it over since 1 knew that the farce could not be prolonged, and that since you had found me, 1 must face the facts and tell you how matters stood. But don't mistake me. Mary! I don't want to be unkind to you. Since your father is dead, you are not bound to Scotland I will give you money to take you to America, and you can begin anew life."

She laughed aloud. [to be oontintkd.]

What a Boy Did in an Hour. Dallas News. Uncle Will, the good-natured bachelor of the family, was left in charge of the baby one day while every one else was out. and out of curiosity he made out a list) of what the baby did in one hour. Here it is: 1. Yelled fifteen minutes without taking breath. (Uncle Will declares solemnly that this is a true statement.) 2. Pulled out enough hair from his uncle's head and whiskers to stuff a sofa pillow. 3. Cracked the wall paper as high as he could reach with a poker. 4. Broke a stereoscope by sitting down on it. 5. Swallowed six buttons and a good part of a spool of thread. 6. Emptied the contents of his mother's work-basket down the furnace register. 7. Tried to squeeze the head of the cat into a tin cup, and was badly scratched in the attempt. 8. Knocked the head off a tine wax doll belonging to his oldest sister by trying to drive a tack into a toy wagon with it. 9. Fell off the edge of a whatnot cnl brought down with him two costly vases which were ruined. 10. Broke two panes of window glass with a cane uncle let him have. 11. Fell into the coal hod and spoiled his new white dress. 12. Set fire to the carpet while his uncle was out of the room hunting up something to amuse him. 13. Crawled under the bed and refused to come out unless uncle would give him the molasses jug. 14. Got twisted into the rungs of a chair, which had to bo broken to get him out. 15. Poured a pitcher of water into his mother's best shoes. 16. Finally, when he saw his mother Goming, he ran out to the porch and tumbled off the steps, making his nose bleed and tearing a hole a foot square in his dress.

And yet Uncle Will thinks that the boy will make something yet.

In the lumber season just closed at Minnesota the "cut" for the year was 447,713,552 feet, 207,221,000 shingles and 99,697,600 lath. This beats the record of last year by 103, 138,390 feet of lumber. 45,003,500 shingles and 17,400,250 lath.-—Albany Press.

The Etiquette of Cards.

In cards themselves custom allows comparatively little latitude the slight changes in size shape and thickness being too insignificant to need frequent consideration. A lady's card should be of moderate dimensions, about three and three-quarters by two and a half inches. Large or Very small sizes are not in good taste. The paste-board should be of good quality and only moderate thickness and of a pure white or delicate cream tint no color is admissible, and a silt edge is the height of vulgarity. The most elegant carH Is, of course, engraved written ones come next, while those which are printed must be classed with the gilt edge. Even where the question of expense is to be considered, an engraved plate is better than printing, for allowing the greater original cost, the cards will always be uniform in quality and the plate will last as long as needed. Of late years these plates are to lv had at a very small priee and tho striking off of the cards costs but little. If a written card be used, and our own handwriting is not equal to the requirements, have them done in a bold but a natural style, eschewing tlie work of the imitator of copper plate, as well as the flourishes of the writing-master.

Circumstances alter the arrangement of the name. A married lady whose husband is living should make use of his, as "Mrs. James Richmond." If, on the contrary, she is a widow her card may read. "Mrs. Mar\* Richmond,'' though many widows object to this last method and keep to the lirst form. If the lady is the only person in the society of a small place, who bears her name," or if she is the acknowledged head of her family, she may use "Mrs. Richmond" alone. The oldest daughter of the house will have simply "Miss Richmond" upon her card, thus signifying that she is the oldest, while her Bisters will have "Miss Alice Richmond." and "Miss Laura Richmond" instead. Some young girls affect an ultra simplicity and use the name without "Miss this is never elegant, and its simplicity lacks dignity, as much as would the mother's card if the prefix "Mrs." were omitted. In cities the street and number should, for the sake of convenience, be engraved in one eorner, while the day of reception may occupy the other.

Cards have become very useful as the means of conveying somewhat informal invitations. For dinners, balls, and other very ceremonious occasions they are inadequate, but for dances, lunches, "at homes" and teas they are in good taste. The words "at home" aro written upon the card by the hostess berself," also the hour and often the nature of the entertainment, as "Danofng," "Progressive Euchre." The envelope should exactly lit the eard. and while it is not out of place to send by mail, it is in better taste that they should be delivered by a servant.

The convenient card is also used iu replying to invitations. This is frequently correct, but not unless tne invitation itself was in,that form. Where ono more formal was engraved, oir written in the third person a note, also in the third person, is necessary. In nsing the card the phrases. "Accepts with pleasure," or, "Regrets to decline/' are proper, but it is not allowable to merely write "Accepts" or "Declines," as this is too curt a form to be seally sourteous.—Good Housekeeping.

A IiC*reiil.

There lift? oome to my mind a leg-end, a thing 1 had liiilf forgot. And whether I read it or dreamed It, ah well, 11 matters not. It is said thiit in lToaven, at twilight, tt jrreal bell softly swings And mini may listen and hearken to the wonderl ill music that rings. If he put from his heart's inner chamber ah the passion, pain, imd Mrile, Heartaehe and weary lougiiig tii.it throb in the pulses of lift If he thrust, from his soul all hatred, all thoughts of wieked things. He can hear in the holy twilight how tho brli of the angels rings. And I think there lies in this legend,if we opet. our eyes to see, Somewhat of an inner meaning, my friend, to you and to me. Let us look in our hearts and question, can pure thoughts enter In To a soul if it be already the dwelling

thoughts of sin?

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"Westward.

,11 I

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Trains loave Cambridge Cltv at. f7 00 a. m.

andf3 36i.

m. for ltushvllle, Mhelhy ville, Co-

lumbus and Intermedin to artattonH. Arrlvo Cambridge City tl .45 and 16.50 i«. m. JOSEPH WOOD, E. A. FORD,

GeiMral Manager, General PasKngor Agaat,

1W5-3L-K PiTTi'TiuitGH, PKNN'A. For time cards, rates of f.ire, throiiRh tickets, foagsarco ohef.Hs, and further information regardlng the running of trains, apply to any Agent of the Pennsylvania Lin«*t