Richmond Palladium (Daily), Volume 31, Number 348, 22 January 1907 — Page 7

The Richmond Palladium, Tuesday, January 22, 1907.

Page Seven.

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The Mystery, of -Agatha Webb

? 7 CIIAPTER XXIIL A CHAIfGELIXQ. Meanwhile Sweetwater had been witness to a series of pantomime actions that Interested him more than Ama bel's conduct under this final examina Frederick, who had evidently tion. some request to make or direction to . Rf?, had sent e. written line to the j coroner, who, on reading it, had passed : It over to Knapp, who a few minutes later was to be seen in conference with Agnes Halliday. -As a result the latter rone and left the room, followed by the detective. She was gone a half hour. Then, simultaneously with her reap- j pearance, Sweetwater saw Knapp hand j a bundle of letters to the coroner, who, ? upon opening them, chose out several which he proceeded to read to the jury, t They were the letters referred to by j Frederick as having been given to him j by his mother. The first was dated ! V.- WUB1 n,w1 I ,:. v V . T uauuwnuug ui ui-rst'ii. 11 was directed to James Zabel and was read amid a profound bush: Deab James-t-I know I have a temper, a wicked temper, and now you know it too. When it is aroused, I forget love, gratitude and everything else that should restrain me and utter words I am astonished at myself. But I do not get aroused often, and when all is over I am not averse to apologizing or even to begging forgiveness. My father says my temper will undo me, but I. am much more afraid of my heart than I am of my temper. For Instance, here I am writing to you again. Just because I raised my riding whip and said but you know what I said, and I am not fond of recalling that moment, for I cannot do so without seeing your look of surprise and contrasting it with that of Philemon's. Tours had Judgment in it, while Philemon's held only Indulgence, yet I liked yours best or should have liked It best If it were not for the insufferable pride which Is a part of my being. Temper such as mine ought to surprise .you. Yet would I be Agatha Gilchrist without It? I very much fear not. and, not being Agatha-Gilchrist, should I have your love? Again I. fear not. James, forgive me! When I am happier, when I know my own heart, I will have less provocation. Then If that heart turns your way you will find a great and bountiful serenity where now there are lowering skies and thunderous tempests. Philemon said last night that he would be content to have my fierce word o' mornings if only I would give him one drop out of the honey of my better nature when the sun went down and twilight " brought reflection " and love. But I did not like him any the better for saying this. You would not halve the day so. The cup must hold no bitter that would give you true refreshment. Will It not, then, have to be proffered by other hands than those of Agatha? Mr. Philemon Webb: Respected Sir You are' persistent. I am willing to tell you, though I shall never confide so much In another, that It will take a stronger nature than yours and one that loves me less to hold me faithfully and make me the happy, devoted wife which I must be If I would not be a demon. I cannot. I dare not. marry where I am not held in a passionate, self forgetful subjection. I am too proud, I am too sensitive to wrong, I am too little mistress of myself when angry or aroused. If. like some strong women, I loved what was weaker than myself and could be controlled by goodness and unlimited kindness, Imlght venture to risk living at the aide of the most Indulgent and upright man that I know, but I am not of that kind. Strength only can command my admiration or subdue my pride. I must fear where I love and own him for husband who has first shown himself my master. So do not fret any more for me, for you, least of all the men 1 know, will never claim my obedience or command my love. Not that I will not yield my heart to you, but that I cannot, and. knowing that I cannot. feel It honest to say so before any more of your fine manhood is wasted.) o your way, men. t nnemon, ana icavo me to the rougher paths my feet were made to tread. I like you now and feel something like a tender regard for your goodness, but if you persist In a courtship which only my father is in-, , . ,, ... dined to smile upon you will call up an upon you win call up antagonism that can lead to nothing but evil, for the serpent that lies coiled In my breast has deadly fangs, and it Is to be feared, as you should know, who have more than once seen me angry. Do not blame John nor James Zabel nor Frederick Snow nor even Samuel Barton for this. . It would be the same if none of these men existed. I was not made to triumph, over a kindly nature, but to subdue the haughtiest heart in all this country to the gentle but firm hand of ray heart's" master. Do you want to know who that master is? I cannot tell you. for I have not yet named him to myself. Dear James I am going away. I am going to leave Porchester for several months. I am going to see the world. 1 did not tell you this last night for fear of weakening under your entreaties or should I say commands? Lately I have felt myself weakening more than once, and I want to know what It means. Absence will teach roe. nbsence and the sight of new faces. Do you quarrel with this necessity? Do you think 1 should know my mind without any such test? Alas. James, it U not a simple mind, and It baffles me at times. Let us then give It a chance. If the glow and glamour of elegant city life can make roe forget certain snatches of talk at our old gate or that night when yoo drew my hand through yonr arm and softly kissed my finger tips, then I nm no mate for you. whose lore, however critical, has never wavered from the first, but has made Itself felt even in rebuke, as the strongest, sweeten thing that has entered my turbulent Bcana-1 .-anlil.

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By Anna Katharine Green. Author of Tit Leavenworth Cue," "Lost Man's Lane," "Hand

Copyrigbt, 1900, by Anna Katharine Green. A. AA M -.- : snomu toa separation which will either be a permanent one or the last that will ever take place between you and me. John will not bear this as well as you. yet he does not lore me ss well, possibly because to him I am sim- ! PU a superior being while to yon I am wishes to do right, but can only do so under the highest guidance. Dear John I feel that I owe you a letter because you have been so patient. You may show it to James if you like, but I mean it for you as an old and dear friend who will one day dance at my wedding. I am living in a whirl of enjoyment. I am seeing and tasting of pleasures I have only dreamed about till now. From a farmhouse kitchen to Mrs. Andrews' drawing room is a lively change for a girl who loves dress and show i VUV ' "1UU "'" .a.av..V. ! famous men and brilliant women. But "Dear John," she wrote. I am bearing it nobly and have developed tastes I did not know I possessed. And no one seems to think I am out of place, nor do I feel so, only do not tell James there are movements in my heart at times which make me shut my eyes when the lights are brightest and dream, if but for an instant, of home and the tumble down gateway where I have so often leaned when some one you know who It Is now. John, and I shall not hurt you too deeply by mentioning him was saying good night and calling down the blessings of heaven upon a head not worthy to receive them. Does this argue my speedy return? Terbaps, yet I do not know. There are fond hearts here also, and a life In this country's center would be a great life for me if only I could forget the touch of a certain restraining hand which has great power over me even as a memory. For the sake of that touch shall I give up the grandeur and charm of this broad life? Answer. John. You know him and me well enough now to say. Dear James Why must I write? Why am 1 not content with the memory of last night? Is it because that i when the cup is quite full, a cup that i has been so long in filling, some few drops must escape Just to show that a great Joy like mine is not satisfied to be simply quiescent? I have suffered so long from uncertainty,' have tried you and tried myself with so tedious an indecision, that now that I know no other man can ever mOYe my heart ag you have done the ecstasy of it makes me overdemonstrative. I want to tell you that I love you; that I do not simply accept your love, but give you back in fullest measure all the devotion you have heaped upon me in spite of my many faults and failings. You took, me to your heart last night and seemed satisfied, but it does not satisfy me that I Just let you do it without telling you that I am proud and happy to be the chosen one of your heart and that as I saw your smile aud the proud passion which lit up your face I felt how much sweeter was the dear, domestic bliss you promised me than the more brilliant but colder life of a statesman.s wife ln WashInffton Dear James I do not, I cannot, believe it. Though you said to me in going out, "Your father wiM explain it Ii;, ' .7 " T " explanation and never will believe ... fJ " "ai suiu ui jou eicepi you confirm It by your own act. Oh. James, were we not happy? I believed in you and felt that you believed In me! When we stood heart to heart under the elm tree (was It only last night?) and you swore that If it lay in the power of earthly man to make me happy I should taste every sweet that a woman's heart naturally craved. I thought my heaven had already come and that now it only remained for me to create yours. Yet I trust In you yet, James, and if you bid me to con-J tinue that trust I will do so with all my heart and never ask you to solve this or any later mysteries for me. I do not confide with a half heart. I give you all or I give you nothing, a fact which will either insure my happiness or my ruin. I do not know which. I am as I am. Do you think my father's words would satisfy me or that I would or could believe them when they accused you of a base and dishonest act? James, you should have waited and not left me to the misery of hearing such an accusation, an accusation of theft, and theft of money, from one I could not contradict that Is, if you knew what he was going to say. But perhaps yon did not. Much as I have always revered and loved my father, I find myself hoping that he has said other words to me than those you expected him to. That In his wish to see me Philemon's wife he has resorted to an unworthy subterfuge to separate us and that there is no truth In the story he told me last night or at least not the truth he would impress upon me. If his account of the interview between you Is a correct one, and you have nathlng to. tdd to it Jn wt of

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and Eix," Etc, XTtt. t!:-- the return of this letter will be token enough that my father' has been Just In his accusations and that the bond between ns must be bro-i ken. But if. oh. .lames, if you are the true man I consider you and ail that I'. have heard is a fabrication or mistake., then come to me at once. Do not de-i lay. but come at once, and the sight of ' your face at the gate will be enough to establish your innocence in my eyes if not In those of less intuition than-j cur Agatha. The letter that followed this was very short: Dear James The package of letters has been received. God help me to bear this shock to all my hopes and the death of all my girlish beliefs. I am not angry. Only those who have something left to hold to In life can be angry. My father tells me he has received a packet too. It contained $5,000 In ten 5500 notes. James. James, was not my love enough that you should want my father's money too? I have begged my father, and he has promised me to keep the cause of this rupture secret. No one shall know from either of us that James Zabel has any flaw In his nature. The next letter was dated some months later. It was to Philemon: Dear Philemox The gloves are too small; besides. I never wear gloves. I hate their restraint and do not . feel there is any good reason for hiding my hands in this little country town, where everybody knows me. Why not give them to Ilattie Weller? She likes such things, while I have had my fill of finery. A girl whose one duty is to care j for a dying father has not room left for vanities. Dear Philemon You will have my hand, though I have told you that my heart does not go with it. It is hard to understand such persistence, but If you are satisfied to take a woman of my strength against her will then God have mercy upon you, for I will be your wife. But do not ask me to go to Sutberlandtowu. I shall live here. And do not expect to keep up your intimacy with the Zabels. There is no tie of affection remaining between James and myself, but if I am to shed that half light over your home, which is all I can promise and all that you can hope to receive, then keep me from all Influence but your own. That this' in time may grow sweet and dear to me is my earnest prayer today, for you are worthy of a true wife. Agatha. Dear Johx I am going to be married. My father exacts it, and there is ho good reason why I shall not give him this final satisfaction. At least I do not think there Is. but if you or yourJ brother differs from me Say goodby to James from me. I pray that his life may be peaceful. I know that it will be honest. AGATIIA. Dear Vmt.r.v.oy My father Is worse, lie fears that if we Avait till Tpesday he will not be able to see us married. Decide, then, what our duty is. I am ready to abide by your pleasure. Agatha. The following is from John Zabel to 1 his brother James, and is dated one day after the above: Dear James When you read this, I will be far away,-never to look io your face again unless you bid me. Brother, brother, I meant it for the best, but God was not with me. and I have made four hearts miserable without giving help to any one. When I read Agatha's letter the last, for more reasons than one, that I shall ever receive from her I seemed to feel as never before what I had done to blast your two lives. For the first tinie I realized to the full that but for me she might have been happy and you the respected husband of the one grand woman to be found in Porchester. That I had loved her so fiercely myself came back to me In reproach, and thelthought that she perhaps, suspected that the blame had fallen where it was not deserved aroused me to such a pitch that I took the sud den and desperate resolution of telling her the truth before she gave her hand to Philemon, and never paused till I reached Mr. Gilchrist's house and was ushered into his presence. He was lying on the sitting room lounge, looking very weak and exhausted, while on one side of him stood Agatha and on the other Fbilemon. both contemplating him with 111 concealed anxiety. I had not expected to find Philemon there, and for a moment I suffered the extreme agony of a man who has not measured the depth of the plunge he Is about to take, but the sight of Agatha trembling under the He wets tying on the sitting room lounge, looking very treak and exhaustaL shock of my unexpected presence restored me to myself and gave me firmness to proceed. Advancing with a bow, I spoke quickly the one word I had come there to say. "Agatha. I have done you a great wrong, and 1 am here to undo it For months I have felt driven to confession, but not till today have 'I possessed the necessary courage, Now nothing shall hinder Be." I aaid thia berama I aa-ar In bathj.

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air. uiienrist and Philemon a disposition to stop me where I was. Indeed Mr. Gilchrist had risen on his elbow, and Philemon was makiug that, pleading gesture of his which we know so well. Agatha alone looked eager. "What is It?" she cried. "I have a right to know." I went to the door, 'hl!uZ't and sTood witL'fny bac"a gainst It. a figure of shame and despair. Suddenly the confession burst from me. "Agatha," said I, "why did you break with my brother James? Because you thought him guilty of theft J because

you believed he took the $5,000 out of the sum intrusted to him by Mr. On for your father? Agatha, it was not James who did this; it was I, and James knew It and bore of my misdoings the blame because he was always a loyal soul and took account of my weakness and knew alas, too wellthat open shame would kill me." It was a weak plea and merited no reply, but the silence was so dreadful and lasted so long that I felt first crushed and then terrified. Raising , rny head, for I had not dared to look any of them in the face, I cast one glance at the group before me and dropped ray head again, startled. Only one of the three was looking at me, and that was Agatha. The. others liad their heads turned aside, and I thought, or. I rather, the passing fancy took me, that they shrank from meeting her gaze 1 wish something of the same shame! and dread I was myself suffering from.! But she! Can I ever hope to make you realize her look or comprehend the paug of utter self abasement with which I succumbed before it! It was so terrible that I seemed to hear her Utter words, though I am sure she did not speak, and, with some mild idea of stemming the torrent of her reproaches, I made an effort at explana-j tion and Impetuously cried: "It was not for my own good, Agatha, not alto-! gether for self. I did this. I loved you too madly, uepainngiy, ana. good brother as I seemed. I was Jealous of James and hoped to take his place in your regard if I could show a greater yi uiffi iij iiuu gel lur juu iuwe iuiugs j his limited prospects denied him. You enjoy money, beauty, ease; I could see that by your letters, and If James could not give them to you and I could Oh. do not look at me like that! I see now that millions could not have; bought you." i "Despicable!" was all that came frotn ) her lips, at which I shuddered and groped about for the handle - of the door. But she would not let me go. Subduing with grand self restraint the emotions which had hitherto swelled too high in her breast for either speech or action, she thrust out one arm to 6tay me and said in short, commanding tones: "How was this thing doue? You say you took the money, yet it was James who was sent to collect it. or so my father says." Here she tore her looks from me and cast one glance at her father. What she saw I cannot say, but her manner changed, and henceforth she glanced bis way as much as mine and with nearly as much emotion. "I am waiting to hear what you have to say," she exclaimed, lay ing her hand on the door, so as to leave me no opportunity for escape. I bowed and attempted an explanation. "Agatha," said I. "the commission was given to James, and be rode to Sutherlandtown to perform it. but it was on the day when be was accustomed to write to you, and he was not easy In his mind, for he feared he would miss sending you his usual letter." And then I told the story you know so well how I took the money and how, after Mr. Gilchrist had accused you of the theft, you found out my guilty secret and told me that you had taken my crime on yourself and how afterward my virtue was not equal to assuming the responsibility for my crime. "John," she said she was under violent restraint "why do you come now?" 1 cast my eyes at Philemon. He was standing Just as before, with his eyes turned away. There was discouragement in his attitude, mingled with a certain grand patience. Seeing that be was better able to bear her loss than either James or myself, I said to her very low: "I thought you ought to ' know the truth before you gave your final word. I am late, but I would have been too late a week from now." Her hand fell from the door, but her eyes remained fixed on my face. "It Is too late now," she murmured. "The clergyman has Just gone who united me to Philemon." The next minute she had faced her father and her new made husband. "Father, you knew this thing!" Keen, sharp, incisive, the words rang out. "You, tooT' the shrieked. "And I hare i just sworn to lore, honor and obey you!" -I saw It In your face when be began ! to speak." Mr. Gilchrist drooped slightly; he j was a very sick man. and the scene ! had been a trying one. j "If I did." was his low response, "it j was but lately. You were engaged then to Philemon. Why break up this second match?" She eyed him as if she found It difficult to credit her ears. Such indifference to the claims of innocence was incredible to her. I saw her grand profile quiver, then the slow ebbing from her cheek of every drop of blood indignation had summoned there. "And you. Philemon." she suggested, with a somewhat softened aspect "you committed this wrong ignorantly, never having: heard of this crime. Yon could not know on what fal.se grounds I had been separated from James." I had atajtM t escape, but stopped just beyond the threshold of the door as she uttered these words. Philemon was not as ignorant as she supposed. This was evident from his attitude and expression. '

word, and before he could clasp the hands held helplessly out before her, she gave a great cry, and, staggering back, eyed both her father and himsell in a frenzy of indignation that was at the more uncontrollable from the superhuman effort which she hithertc made to suppress it. "You, tool" eh shrieked. "You, too, and 1 have Just sworn to love, honor and obey you. Love you! Honor you, the unconscionable wretch who" But here Mr. Gilchrist rose, weak, tottering, quivering with something

I more than anger. He approached hi I daughter and laid his finger on ber lips.' "Be quiet!" he said. "Philemon Hi not to blame. A month ago he came tc see me and prayed that, as a relief tc his mind, I would tell him why you had separated yourself from James. He had always thought the match, bad fallen through on account of some foolish quarrel or incompatibility, buflately he had feared there was something more than he suspected in this break, something that he should know. So I told him why you had dismissed James, and. whether he knew James bettet than we did or whether he had seen; something in his long acquaintance with these brothers which Influenced his Judgment, he said at once: "This cannot be true of James. It is not in his nature to defraud any man. but John I might believe it of John. Isn't there some complication here?' I had never thought of John and did not see how John could be mixed up with an affair I Lad supposed to be a secret be-

tween James and myself, but whcn nas IeuuutHI rae- . ' ' Philemon laid the matter before James I rnltenion thinks only of me. We unhe did not deny that John was guilty, I derstand each other perfectly, now but asked that you be not told before that our greatest suffering comes In your marriage. He knew that you! pach other's pain. My load I can bear, were engaged to a good man. a mau ! but this Come and see me. John, and that your father approved, a man that! tel1 Barnes our house Is open to him. could and would make you happy. He v,e have a11 done '"mg. and are did not want to be the means of a sec-! caught In one web of misfortune. Let

! OIU break, and besides-and this. 1, think wn t th l.nttrmi f tiio Kt-nt he took, for James Zabel was always' the proudest man I ever knew he uev-j er could Lear, he said, to give to ore! like Agatha a uame which he knew! and she knew was not entirely free from reproach. It would stand In the way of his hanniness and ultimately of hers. His brother's dishonor was his. So. while he loved you still, his only Piayer was that after you were safely married aud Philemon was sure of your ffffeetion he should tell you that the man you once regarded so favorably was not unworthy of that regard. To obey him Philemon has kept silent, while I Agatha, what are you doingl Are you mad, my child?" She looked so for the moment. Tearing off the ring she had worn but an hour, she flung it on the floor. Then she threw her arms high up over her head and burst out in an awful voice: "Curses on the father! " Curses on the husband who have combined to make me rue the day I was born! The father I cannot disown, but the busband" "Hush!" It was Mr. Gilchrist who dared her fiery anger. Philemon said nothing. "Hush! He may be the father of your children. Don't curse" . But she only towered the higher, and her beauty from being simply majestic became appalling. "Children!" she cried. "If ever I bear children to this man, may the blight of heaven strike them as it has struck . me this day. May they, die as my hopes have died, or, if they live, may they bruise his heart as. mine is bruised and curse their father as" Here I fled the house. I was shaking as if this awful denunciation bad fallen on my own head. But before the door closed behind me a different cry called me back. Mr. Gilchrist was lying lifeless on the floor, and Philemon, the patient, tender Philemon, had taken Agatha to his breast and was soothing her there as if the words she had showered upon him had been bjesslngs instead or the most rearrul curses which had ever left the lips of mortal ! I woman. The next letter was In Agatha's

handwriting. It was dated some guardianship can we Intrust it? Do months later and was stained and you know a man good enough or a wocrumpled more than any others in the man sufficiently tender? I do not, but

wnoIe packet. Could Philemon once have told why? Were these blotted

lines the result of his tears falling fa.t by the pang pf possible separation alupou them, tears of 40 years ago. when ready tearing my heart. I believe that he and she were young aud love hadj he will raise up some one. been doubtful? Was the sheet so yel-j Meanwhile I did not dare to kiss the lowed and so seamed because it had 1 child lest 1 should blight it He Is so been worn on his breast and folded and sturdy, Philemon, so different from all unfolded so often? Philemon, thou art the other five. in thy grave, sleeping sweetly at last ! I open this to add that Mrs. Sutherby the side of her thou so idolized, but land has Just been In with her 5 weeks these .' 4 !;s of feeling still remain in- old infant. His father is away, too, dlssolu... connected with the word:) and has not yet seen bis boy, and this that gave them birth. j is their first after ten years of marj riage. Oh. ttiat I had such confidence Dear Philemox You are gone for a as she In a future of endless delight In

day. and a night only, but It seems a lengthened absence to me, meriting a little letter. ; You have been so good to me, Philemon, ever since that dreadful hour following our marriage I feel that i i . , , . .! j. am uegiiiuing io love you auu xnai God did not deal with me so harshly when he cast me into your arras. Yesterday I tried to tell you this when you almost kissed me at parting, but 1 was j tality and so kept still. But today such j a warm wellspring of joy rises In my j heart when 1 think that tomorrow thej house will be bright again and that In ) place of the empty wall opposite me at' table I shall see your kindly and forbearing face! I know that the heart I j T ,Kof . Jeld and that daily gentleness and a bo0188 consideration from one who a(i excuse for bitter thoughts and recrimination is doing what all of us thought Impossible a few short months gn I am so happy, Philemon, so bapVJ to IOTe where it is now my duty to love, and if it were not for that dreadful memory of a father dying with harsh words in his ears and the knowledge that you, my husband, yet not my husband, are bearing ever about with you echoes of words that in another nature would have turned tenderness Into gall I could be merry also and ting as I go about the house, making it pleasant and comfortable against your speedy return. As It is, I can but lay my hand softly on my heart as its beatings grow too Impetuous and say: "God bless my absent Philemon and help him to forgive me! I forgive him and lore him as X never thought I could." That you may see that these are not the weak outpourings of a lonely woman, I will here write that I heard today that John and James Zabel have gone into partnership in the shipbuilding business John's nnclehaving.left him

a legacy of several thousand dollars. I hope they will do well. James, they say. Is to all appearance perfectly cheerful, is full of business and this relieves me from too much worry In

his regard. God certainly knew what kind of a husband I needed. May you find yourself equally blessed in your wife. Another letter to Philemon a year later: DuarPhilemox Hasten home, Phile mon; I do not like these absences. 1 am Just now too weak and fearful, '7 "c u us 1 have looked often in your face ti- I - m l. t A 1 jou remrmixmi l" uu lsuwl uul ai Juddering memory. Philemon, Fhilenion, was I mad? When I think what I said in ray rage and then feel the lit tie life stirring about my heart. I won der that ,od did not strike me dead rather than bestow upon me the great est blessing that can come to woman. Philemon. Philemon, if anything should happen the child! I think of it by day. I think of it by night. I know you think of it, too. though you show me such a cheerful countenance and make such great plans for the future. Will God remember my words or will he forget? It seems as If my reason bung upon this question. A note this time in answer to one from John Zabel: Dear John Thank you for words which could have come from nobody else. My child Is dead. Could I extct anything different? If I did. God it make us friends again. eiow tnis in I'unemon s nana: M? w,fe ,R superstitious. Strong and capabh? as she is. she has felt that this sudden taking off of our firstborn as a sISQ that certain words uttered by her oa her marriage day, unhappily known to 3ou and as 1 take to Jnies also. I "ave Dwu rememnerea Dy we ngnieous God above us. This Is a weakness which I cannot combat. Can you, who alone of all the world beside know both it and its cause, help me by a renewed friendship, whose cheerful and natural character may gradually make her forget? If so, come like old neighbors and dine with us on our wedding day. If God sees that we have burled the past and are ready to forgive each other the faults of our youth, perhaps He will further spare this good woman. I think she will be able to bear it. She has great strength except where a little child Is concerned- That alone can henceforth stir the deepest recesses of her heart. After this a gap of years. One, two, three, four, five children were laid away to rest in Porchester churchyard, then Philemoa and she came to Sutherlandtown. but not till after the certain event had occurred, best made known by this last letter to Philemon: Dearest Husband Our babe Is born, our sixth and our dearest, and the re proach of its first look bad to be met by me alone. Oh. why did I leave you and come to this great Boston, where I have no friends but Mrs. Sutherland? Did I think I could break the spell of fate or Providence by giving birth to my last darling among strangers? I shall have to do something more than that if I would save this child to our old age. It Is borne In upon me like fate that never will a child prosper of my breast or survive the clasp of my arms. If it Is to live. It must be reared by others. Some woman who has not brought down the curse of heaven upon her by her own blasphemies must nourish the tender frame and receive the blessing of Its growing love. Neither 1 nor you can hope to see -recognition In our babe's eye. Before it can turn upon us with love it . . A. - I tit will close In Its last sleep, and we will be left desolate. What shall we do. then, with this little son? To whose If God wills that our little Frederick rhould live he will raise up some one this babe! The next letter opens with a cry: Philemoo! Come to me. Philemon! I have d'jme what I threatened. I have made the sacrifice. Our child is no longer ours, and now perhaps he may live. But oh, my breaking heart, my empty home! Help me to bear my des olation, for it is for life. We will nev er have another child. And where is it? Ah, that Is the wonder of it! Near you. Philemon, yet not too near. Mrs. Sutherland has it and you may have seen its little face through the car win dow if you were in the station' last night when the express passed through to Sutherlandtown. Ah, but she has her burden to bear, too an awful secret burden, like my own, only she will have the child, for, Philemon, 6he has taken it in lieu of her own, which died last night In my sight And Mr. Suth erland does not know what she has done and never will If you keep the se cret as I shall for the sake of the life the little Innocent has thus won. What do I mean and how was it all? Philemon, It was God's work, all but the deception, and that Is for the good of all and to save four broken hearts, listen, xesieraay, omy yesteraay 'it seems a month ago Mrs. Sutherland came again to see me with her baby in her arms. . The baby was looking well, and she was the happiest of women, for the one wish of his heart and hers had been fulfilled, and she was soon going to have the bliss of showing the child to his father. My own babe was on the bed asleep, and I. who am feeling wonderfully strong, was sitting up in a little chair as far away from him as possible, not ont of hatred or Indifference, oh, no, but because he seemed to rest better when left entirely by himself and not under the hungry look of my eyes. Mrs. Sutherland went over to look at him. "Oh, be is fajr. like my baby.7 i

as sturay. tnougn mine is a tnontn older. And she stooped down and klaaed him. Phlleinon, he smiled for her. though be never had for me. I saw it with a greedy longing that almost made me cry out Then I turned to her. and we talked. Of what? I cannot remember now. At home we had never been intimate friends. She is from Sutherlandtown. and I am from Porchester. and the distance of nine miles is enough to estrange people. But here, each with her husbaud absent and a darling Infant sleeping under her eyes. Interests we have never thought identical drew us to each other, and we chatted with ever Increasing pleasure. Suddenly Mrs. Sutherland Jumped up In terrible fright The Infant she had been rocking on her breast waa blue; the next minute it shuddered; the next it lay in her arms dead. I hear the shriek yet with which she fell with it in her arms to the floor. Fortunately no other ears were open to her cry. 1 alone saw her misery. I alone beard her tale. The child had 1 been poisoned, Fhllemon, poisoned by her. She had mistaken a cup of medicine for a cup of water and had given the child a few drops in a spoon just before setting out from her hotel. She had not known at the time what she had done, but now she remembered that the fatal cup was just like the other and that the two stood very near together. Oh. her innocent child, and on, her husband! It seemed as If the latter thought would drive ber wild, "lie has so wished for a child. she moaned. "We have been married ten years and this baby seemed to have been sent from heaven. He will corse me; he will hate me; he will never b able after this to bear me In his sight" This was not true of Mr. Sutherland, but It was useless to argue with hex. Instead ef attempting It I took another way to stop her raving. Lifting the child out of her hands, X first listened at its heart and then finding It was really dead I have seen too many lifeless children not to know I bear&n slowly to undress ft "What are you doing r she cried. "Mrs. Webb, Mrs. Webb! What are yen doing T For reply I pointed to the bed where two little arms could be seen feebly fluttering. "You shall have my child, I whispered. "I have carried too many babies) to the tomb to dare risk bringing up another." And catching her poor wandering spirit with my eye, I held her while I told her my story. Philemon. I saved that woman. Before I had finished speaking I saw the reason return to her eye and the dawning of a pitiful hope In her passion drawn face. She looked at the child ln my anna, and then she looked at- the one In the bed,, and the long drawn sigh with which she finally bent down and wept

over our darling told me that my cause won. The rest was easy. When the clothes of the two children had been exchanged, she took our baby In her arms and prepared to leave. Then, I stopped her. "Swear, I cried, holding ber by the arm and lifting my other hand to heaven, "swear you will be a mother to this child! Swear you will love It as your own and rear it in the path of truth and righteous ness r The conrblslTe clasp "wltET ivWch be drew the baby to ber breast told me plainer than her shuddering "I swear! - that ber heart had already opened to it I dropped ber arm and covered my face with my hands. I could not aee my darling go. It waa worse than death. "Oh, God, save him!" I groaned. "God make him aa honor" But here she caught me by the arm. Her clutch was f rensled. and her teeth were chattering. "Swear In your turn." she gasped; "swear that if I do a mo there duty by this boy you will keep my. secret and never, never reveal to my husband, to the boy or to the world that you have any claims npon him. It was like tearing the heart from my breast with my own hand, but X swore. Philemon, and she la ber turn stood back. But suddenly she faced me again, terror and doubt ln all ber looks, "Your husband!" she-whispered. "Can you keep such a secret from him? You will breathe It ln your dreams. "I shall teU him." I answered. "Tell Mm!" The hair seemed te rise on her head, and she shook so that I feared she would drop the babe. "Be careful! I cried. "See, you frighten the babe. My husband has but one heart with me. What I do he will subscribe to. Do not fear Philemon." So I promised ln your name. Gradually ahe grew calmer. When X saw she was steady again, I motioned her to go. Even my more than mortal strength was falling, and the baby Philemon, X bare nerer kissed it and I did not kiss It then. I heard ber feet draw slowly toward the door. I heard her hand fall on the knob, heard It turn, uttered one cry and then They found me an hour after lying along the door clasping the dead, infant In my arms. I waa in a swoon, and they all think I fell with the child, as perhaps X did, and that Its little life went out during my Insensibility. Of its little features, like and yet unlike our boy's, no one aeema to take heed. The nurse who cared for it is gone, and who else would know that little face but me? They are -very good to me and are full of self re proaches for leaving me so long in my part of the building alone. But, though they watch me now, I have contrived to write this letter, which you will get with the one telling of the baby's death and my own dangerous condition. Under it these words: "Though bidden to destroy this, I hare never dared to do so. Some day It may be of Inestimable value to us or our boy. ,. , PnuLZKorr Webb. This was the last letter found In the packet As--it -was laid down sobs were beard all over the room, and Frederick. 'who "for some time now ha been sitting with his head in his band s . ventured to look ud and sav: (To Be Contuwieo.) If you nave good "opportun ity eyesight" you will find some things in the want ads today which most oeople wili overlook. Before you throw The Palladium aside. look ovtr the classified advertisements. Use artificial gas tor light and heat