People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 August 1894 — Page 7

the unattainable. There is a land where golden citrons grow, Where white magnolias blossom all the year; Those dwelling there pine tor the Arctic snow. The frozen pines, and whitened landscapes drear There is a land where nightingale and thrush Make day melodious, and the moonlit .night; Those dwelling there long for the chilly hush. The leafless boughs and lonely raven’s flight. There is a land where winnowed northern snows And winter’s cold awake the sleigh bell chimes; Those dwelling there desire the damask rose And the sweet drowsiness of southern climes. With gaze fixed on some unattainable star. The soul still yearns to reach a vague to be; Fond dreamer! while we dream, neglect doth mar The harvests of a rich reality. Oh, heart of mine! that doth forever pine For that which lies beyond its full desire, Cease for awhile! To-day alone is thine; To-morrow Death may light thy funeral pyre. —Rudolph Steinhagen, in N. Y. Sun.

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY

By Arthur W. Marchmont, B. A.

Author of “Miser Hoadley’s Secret,” “Madeline Power,” “By Whose Hand,” “ Isa,” Ac , Ac. (Copyright, 1892. by the Author.] CHAPTER XVl— Continued. “I saw Gorringe, and he told me the charges last night, saying all the papers had been sent to Mr. Coode. !• went to Mr. Coode’s place and then found he had come here. I came back to Walkden Bridge, and saw the two together at the mill. They laid the papers before me —my receipts for the money, and the accounts I had .given of the money. They were short; while some of the entries I made are for payments which the people swear they’ve never received. It’s all so plain that if I didn’t know I’m innocent I should believe the papers against myself. Old Coode said he hadn’t the slightest wish to believe me anything but Innocent, but what could he think in the face of the proofs? Then he urged me to go away quietly. But I wouldn’t agree. I was violent. I was mad. I could have smashed everything in the place in my rage. I told him I wouldn’t go; and that if he liked to lock me up for what I’d never done, ’he might. But he urged me. He was as kind as a man could be to one whom he thought a thief. ‘What could 1 do in Walkden Bridge when 1 wasn’t allowed in the mill?’ he asked. ‘Better go and try to make a new life of it somewhere else; forget this, and try to live down the memory of it.’ But I won’t go while the running away means a confession of an act that I haven’t done. Come what may, I’ll hold my ground.” “Whose work is this, do you think, Tom?” asked Mary. “Some of the strike hands’. That’s about the size of it, I expect. But I can’t get at the secret. They’ve laid the plant with such devilish cunning that they’ve taken in Coode and Gorringe, and would take in the very devil himself. But I won’t run away;” and this he repeated several times, until it seemed almost as if he wished to strengthen the resolve by many protestations of it. “Why not see Mr. Coode alone? He is a just man, or said to be so, and if you were to talk over the whole of the matter quietly with him you might be able to persuade him what the truth is.” - “But I can’t talk quietly about it. Besides, he wouldn’t see me alone, 1 expect.” “Oh yes, he would; if for nothing else than for your father’s sake. Go to the mill and ask him. He’s sure to be at the mill this evening, if he doesn’t go back home to Grange.” He agreed at length to do as the girl wished, and a little later she went home, Tom promising to come to her as soon as he had seen Mr. Coode. He seemed much calmer than when she left him. She was glad, very glad, that he had resolved not to run away from the trouble; and her faith in Tom gave her a quiet undercurrent assurance that all would be well. And down in a corner of her woman’s heart she Nas glad to think that at any rate she would have an opportunity of proving to him how true was her love. After she had had some tea, Mary took a book and went up to her bedroom, the window of which overlooked the road, and she sat there to wait and watch for Tom’s coming. When dusk grew into darkness and the air began to grow chilly Mary closed the window and went downstairs, thinking it could not be much longer before Tom’s arrival. Then it struck her that it might cheer him to have a bit of warm supper. Moreover, the preparation of it would occupy her while she waited, she thought, and help to make the time pass. But when the meal was ready, and the clock pointed to ten o’clock, there were still no signs of Tom. Eleven o’clock struck, and the sharp, quick strokes of the little drum clock, as she counted them, made her begin to feel anxious. Where could Tom be? She looked regretfully at the meal she had made ready for him in vain; and she sighed. She went outside again; but this time it was as much to cool her hot brow as to look for Tom’s coming. At midnight she was more anxious than before. Tom could not possibly be with Mr. Coode until such an hour as this. But if not, where was he? Could they have locked him up? The thought harassed her so much that at last she felt she must find out i for herself whether there was any ; ground for it. She resolved to go i down to Tom’s cottage and ascertain whether any tidings of hiifi were to be obtained there. The village was very still and dark as she hurried through it. As she passed the cottage where Savannah Morbyn lodged she saw a light in it and a sudden impulse prompted her to go and ask for Savannah and find out whether she had seen Tom. She knocked lightly at the door. A woman came to the door holding a

lighted candle above her head and, peering out, ashed who it was. “It’s me, Mary Ashworth, Mrs. O’Brien,” said Mary. “Is Savannah in?” “ ’Deed and she’s not.” answered the woman. “ She’s away, and she’U not be cornin’ back till after Whitsuntide.” “Thank you. I happened to be passing, and, seeing a light, I thought I would ask her question. That’s aH. Good night.” The news was a little relief to Mary. Wherever Tom might be.it was certain he was not—but she chided herself for even harboring such a thought, and left it unexpressed. She hurried on to Tom's cottage; and found it all in darkness. At first she did not like to knock, but her anxiety overcame all her other feelings and she went up to the door. It was unlocked, however, and pushing it open she entered. The old man, hearing a noise, called out: “Is that you, Tom? Are you come back?” “No, Mr. Roylance, it’s me,” said Mary, going into the inner room where he lay, “where is Tom?” “That’s just what I don’t know, my lass. I don’t know whatever’s come to the !ad. He went out somewhere about eight or nine, I should think it was, and came rushing in half an hour ago all in a hurry-scurry. Stopped about five or six minutes, and then came to me and said he was going off. “ ‘Where arc you going, lad?’ I asked. “ ‘Don’t know, father, I’ll let you know in a day or so. lam going away for the holidays.’ But he didn’t look like holidaying, not to my eyes. He was all excited and trembling and shaking and pale, and 1 don’t know what. “ ‘ What's the matter, Tom?’ I asked him. But he just said naught; and he shook my hand and stooped and kissed me on the forehead —a thing he ain’t done for years. “ ‘What I’m doin’, I’m doin’ for the best,’ he said. ‘Don’t think too hard on me!’ Bless the lad, what could I think hard on him for? But before I could tell him that, he was gone.” What she heard multiplied Mary’s uneasiness many times. She said quietly and soothingly: “Lie down, father, and try to get some sleep. I’ll stop and see if Tom comes in.” She smoothed his pillows, made the bed more comfortable, shaded the lamp from his face and then sat down by the head of the bed to watch and wait. She sat as still as sleep itself, thinking over what had been told her and wondering what it could mean. Had he determined to take Mr. Coode’s offer and leave the town, after his many assertions that he would do nothing of the kind? If so, was Savannah in any way connected with his going away? That thought was like a dagger thrust. She could not sleep. Her brain was too restless, too busy, too all-inquiring. She watqhed the darkness outside lift and lighten gradually; and when the faint gray light came stealing in through the white blind, throwing up in dim outline the figure and then the features of the old man who lay sleeping on the bed, Mary rose and put out the lamp, and then watched the light as it broadened and brightened, and listened to the sounds of the dawn as they came in faintly from without. The light was full and strong enough to show Mary the time by the small clock on the mantel board—six o’clock—when her ear caught the sound of the footsteps of those who were intending to begin their holiday early in the day. Suddenly a knock sounded on the door of the cottage, making the girl start. Then a hand tried the door and, finding it open, some one came with a heavy step along the passage. “What is it?” asked Mary, going to meet the incomer, and speaking in a low voice so as not to wake the old old man. “I’ve come to tell Tom the news, lass,” said the man, a neighbor, who was dressed in his best and going for his holiday. “The news?” said Mary. “A strange time for telling news, Mr. Bridge,” she said, cheerfully. “Aye, and it’s strange news to tell, lass, too. Some one got into the mill last night and killed old Mr. Coode. He was found dead this morning when Jake Earn worth went in.” “Dead! Killed!” cried Mary, in a hushed, horror-laden voice. “Aye, killed, sure enough, with his face all battered and beaten out of shape and knowledge. It’s naught but murder, that job.” CHAPTER XVII HOW THE WEAPON WAS POUND. The news of the murder spread through the mill village and filled all classes of the people with consternation. Mr. Coode had not, for some years, taken a very active part in the conduct of the mill; but in former times he had been a well-known figure in Walkden Bridge—known to every one as a fair and just dealing if somewhat hard master. He had not been very popular, it is true; but certainly no one in the place could have been supposed to harbor anything like sufficient hostility to wish for his death. There was no doubt, however, that the cause of death was murder. The dead man’s face had been battered out of all knowledge, while a terrible blow from behind had crushed in the skull with force enough to have killed an ox—so said the doctor. At about six o’clock an engineer had gone to the mill to make some repairs, taking advantage of the engine being stopped for the holidays; and as he had to pass the office, he chanced to see through the open door the signs of some confusion. He looked in and found that evidently something was amiss, as the chairs and office stools were overturned, a lamp that stood on the desk had been thrown down and broken, papers and books were scattered in all directions, and everything looked, as he said, “as if there had been a regular free fight”

Then, lying on one side of the office table that stood in the middle of the room, he had found the body of Mr. Coode. He had rushed out at once and given the alarm, sending the first person he met for the police while he ran for the doctor. Doctor and police arrived about the same time, and both had agreed as to the cause of death. Nobody could look at the room without seeing that a struggle must have taken place, and no one could see the barbarous disfigurement of head and face without at the same time understanding the cause of death. Reuben Gorringe was very soon on the scene, and immediately began to question all concerned in a searching, vigorous manner. He made the engineer, Jake Farnsworth, who had discovered the body, tell the whole of his story over again carefully, and he wrote it down from his dictation. .“You say you found the office door open?” he asked. “Yes; enough to let me see a chair lying on the ground and a paper or two near it. I could see as things weren’t all right, and that made me push the door open wider,” said the man. “Show me exactly how far it was open,” said Gorringe, as if he thought much of the point. The man went out and pulled the door within about six or nine inches of being completely shut. “That's about it, sir, as near as I can judge,” said the man from without. “And I pushed it like this,” and he showed the others what he had done. “That’sstrange,” said Gorringe, looking very thoughtful. “Why strange?” said the doctor. “Why strange?” he echoed, turning and looking hard at the doctor. “Why, because I thought that door would shut of itself. That’s all.” “Don’t see that it matters very much, Mr. Gorringe,” said the police inspector, looking very profound. “Don’t you? Well, perhaps it doesn’t. But you see it may all depend on the position of that door to show whether the villain who did this did it deliberately and calmly, or whether he was flurried and nervous and so hurried the matter.” All through the impromptu investigation which Gorringe carried through, the rest were much impressed by the direct character of his questions and the clear method in which he elicited the facts. When he came to deal with the dootor, he was searching in his questions. “Of course,” said the doctor, with professional caution, “I cannot pledge myself until I have made an autopsy; but there can be no reasonable doubt as to the cause of death. This fracture in the base of the skull,” pointing to it, “would have killed the strongest man in the world; it has crashed right into the brain. Either of these wounds in the face would also probably have been enough to cause death.” “Virtually, of course, there can be no doubt that the blows either on the face or at the back of the head caused death?” asked Gorringe. “Virtually, no doubt at all,” said the doctor. “Not the slightest,” agreed the police inspector. “That’s clear as day.” “Well, inspector, do you want to take charge of the place here, or of the body? I should like it removed as soon as possible. If the doctor here makes the post mortem this morning and we get the inquest held for this afternoon, the jury can view the body and the room as it is and we can have my poor old friend buried at once.” The other man agreed to this as an excellent arrangement, and with that they all went out of the office, Gorringe closing and locking the door after them. Before he locked it, however, he tried it once or twice to see whether, when it was shut, it would come open easily and without being touched by anyone. It would not, and this fact seemed to afford him matter for thought. “By the way,” said the police inspector, “there’s one thing I’ve very foolishly forgotten. What about the weapon with which this was done? I didn’t see anything in the room.” “Nor I; there was nothing. But you can see to that when you go back to get the body away for the post-mor-tem,” answered Gorringe. “Whatever the weapon was, if it was left behind it’ll be there. What should you think it was, doctor?” “Well, I can scarcely say without a closer examination of the wounds; but I should think it was some bluntish instrument, with perhaps a knob or lump at the end, with a jagged edge. It looks like that.” “Ah, well, I dare say it’ll turn up; good morning,” and Gorringe walked away homewards to breakfast. About ten o’clock, while Mary was sitting with old Mr. Roylance, she was surprised by Reuben Gorringe, who walked in and started to find her there. “You here, Mary?” he said. “Where’s Tom?” Mary looked at him quietly and earnestly, yet with fear in her eyes, and with very pale cheeks. “He is not at home,” she answered. “Not at home! Why, where is he then?” “How can I tell?” answered the girl, with assumed indifference; and motioning toward the old man to prevent anything being said before him. “This is a sad business, Mr. Roylance,” said Gorringe. “I came in to see Tom, as I thought I might want him at the mill. Never mind if he’s out. I must see you at once,” be added to Mary in an undertone. “Come into the other room.” Reuben Gorringe went into the next room, and she followed as soon as possible. Gorringe was looking at a book of Tom’s which he put down as she entered. “Where is Tom?” he asked again. “Why has he run away?” . “What do you mean?” she answered, indignantly. “How dare you to say he has run away—you,of all men?” “Why I. of all men?” he answered, looking at her keenly. “Because you yourself as good as > told him to go away on pain of being prosecuted. I heard Mr. Coode when

he said it yesterday. It he has gone in consequence of this, how can you oome and ask where he is? Are you still so eager to prosecute?” “Mary, don’t speak so harshly, i came this morning to see Tom and tell him that now this thing has happened he need have no further fear; and this is my reception.” He said this in an aggrieved tone. “Well, I do not know where he is; but I suppose he has gone away because you and Mr. Coode told him he'd be prosecuted. That seems the likeliest ; reason,” answered Mary. hen did he go?” asked Gorringe. “Somewhere about eight o'clock last evening, I fancy,” answered Mary, as unconcernedly as possible. “I did not see him after six or seven.” “Must have been later than that, I fancy. He was in the village after that. Some one met him near the Two Stones bridge after ten o’clock.” This was a spot within fifty yards of the mill. “Well, I don't know. I don’t think he can have been there, for I was on 1 the lookout to see him.” “You were on the lookout!” said Gorringe, sharply, looking quickly and search ingly at her. “Yes; and I think I should have seen him.” “Well, he’d better come back, wherever he is, and whenever he went,” said Gorringe, significantly. “I’m sorry he’s gone away; I wanted him to have come up to the mill to run through the papers with me. I must go; this terrible business has upset everything. Good-by.” He put his hat on and turned hurriedly away—so hurriedly that he knocked down the book at which he had been glancing. With a muttered exclamation at his carelessness he picked it up, and, instead of putting it back on the table, gave it into the girl’s hands. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling. “I meant to put it down on the table; but I am absent-minded this morning.” “Never mind,” answered Mary; “I’ll put it in its proper place on that shelf there. ” “I found it on the table,” he said, as if excusing himself for having had it in his hand at all. “No matter,” she answered. She was sorry she had spoken sharply to him, for it was good of him to come to tell Tom that now there was nothing more to fear in the matter of the lost money. What a pity Tom had not stayed to face it out. It looked now so much like guilt on his part to have left the place. [TO BE CONTINUED.]

SIOUX FAMILIES.

The Good Nature Which Exists In the Domestic Relations. A writer in Outing gives an amusing account of “Sketching Among the Sioux.” He says thatthc kindness and patience of these people in their domestic relations are very noticeable. The women have certain duties to perform, as among other races; but th® men do not disdain to help them on occasion any more than does a white man of good disposition. We never saw, during our whole residence in the Sioux villages, a single family quarrel, and the children were if ever punished. One example to illustrate this characteristic pleased and amused us not a little One day Flying-by’s wife came to our tent, and asked us to lend her a small hand-mirror which we possessed. We gave it to her, and then watched her to see what she would do with it. About a mile and a-half or two miles away a horse-race was in progress, watched by three or four hundred •mounted Indians. The squaw took the mirror and stood in front of the tent, and reflected.» beam of sunlight from the glass along the ground in line with the group of Indians. It was only two or three minutes before a solitary horseman left the band and came tearing over the prairie toward us. It was Flying-by, who sprang off his horse at our door and looked inquiringly around. His wife had gone back to her cooking, and was apparently quite heedless of his coming. To his question whether some one had not sent for him, we could only reply that we had seen his wife playing beliostat with our mirror, whereupon he went over and spoke to her. In a moment he returned and, with a grin, told us that, knowing he had money, his wife had called him home for fear he might be tempted to gamble it away. He chuckled over her prudence, and told us that he might have made a lot of money if he had stayed; and not a cross word was spoken.

Damaged Bric-a-Brac.

A canny person, who has a liking for artistic odds and ends and bric-a-brac, can get a good deal of it for a littl® money if he will bide his time and b« watchful. Every dealer in porcelains, bronzes, rugs, prints and the like has a certain number of mishaps every year, and when an article of merchandise is a little bit damaged it suffers a sweeping loss in value. The canny one gets his bric-a-brac a little damaged and mends it. A chipped edge on a Venetian glass, an obstinate rust spot on an old helmet, a tear in a print, a smear of wine or ink on a Persian rug, a scratch on a Chinese jar, a break in an ivory carving, enable him to get these treasures for half price, and a little skill and a few cents of expenditure will put them in good order.

Conundrums Already Answered.

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