Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 5, Number 29, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 16 January 1875 — Page 2

THE MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

MONEYLESS MAN.

BY HENRY STANTON.

Ir there no place on the face of the earth Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has Where bosoms in kindness anil mercy will Anu^e poor and the wretched shall ask Is there"no'pia®® on earth where a knock WilVbrVng a Icltul angel to open the door? Ahl warchtho wide world wherever you There" is no open door for the moneyless man. Go look in the hall where the chandelier Drivesotrwlth its splendor the darkness of Wh°re the rich hanging velvet, in shadowy fold, Sweeps gracefully down, with its trimming

And

mirrors of silver take up anil renew In

long

Go down "he lpngalsle-sectlie rieh and the In A™ pomP and the pride of their worldly

Walk'down in your patches,and Ilnd if ou

W hogpens the pew for a moneyless man.

Go look to your judges, In dark flowing

WitffTh'e scales wherein law welgheth

When^he frowns' on the weak and smiles

Andpunishes right while hejustifles wrong. Where Jurors their lips on the IJiblehave

To render a verdict they've alreAdy made Go there in the court-room, and tlnd if you

Anytaw for the case of a moneyless man.

Go look in the banks, where Mammon has

His^hu'ndre^s and thousands of silver and

Where, safe from the hands of the star\ ing

Ues pll^upon pile of the glittering ore, Walk up to the counter—ah, there you may

Til/your limbs have grown old and your

And you'Vl find "at the bank not one of the

With^noney to lend to a moneyless man.

Then go to your hovel—no raven has fed, The wife who has suffered so long for liei

Knee) down by her pallet and kiss the

FromM-he lips of the angei your poverty

Then turn in your agony Hpwnrd to Ood, Ami blfss while it smitosou, the chasten

AndDyou'li And at the end of your life's

ThcVe's a welcome above for the monej less man.

Where it Ended.

A straight street, no pavement a narrow sidewalk, grass growing on it nouscs of no

particular architecture,

lighted vistas the 'wllderlng yltw

In long iiisiiivu i»in» *»^-v. ...» Uo there in your patches, and tlnd ii

A welcoming smile for the moneyless man.

Go look in your church of the cloud-reaeh-

Whlcfl gives' back to the suu his same look

Whereat he arches and columns are gorgeous

AnTthe walls seem as pure as a soul with-

fences

whitewash, fenccs

wave

441don't

not enough

rough

and bare then

a little church, then a little rectory a treo in the foreground, a lull in the distance—that wsi-s Walson.

In the rectory was one cozy room, I lie furnituro was very plain, but books lined tho walls and sunshino streamed in tho windows.

a desk sat iv voung

man of about twenty-eight. Ilo hacl a largo forehead, dreamy gray eves, cloarcut features, and black hair, that foil in one soft

to his coat collar. Oppo

site him bv tho window sat a lady oi about thirtv. Iler features were his— with this ililTorcnee, that in the Jllan they woro handsome, in the woman tlioy wero not. Her eyes did not dream her lips closed very firmly her glossy black hair was drawn smoothly into a simple knot at the back of her head. Beside hor was a largo mending basket in her hand a gray stocking, ^cs, this louiantie young *pilstor

wnre

stockings—and

not that alone, he wore holes in them— and sadly off lie would have been if this quiet, busy, patient woman had not been there to nietid them.

Luke," she said, at bust, is Adam Clark a very funnv commentator?" lie looked up from the large volume before him with a glance of blank won-

d°"bh,

1 thought lie must be," she added

do tin rely "you have been smiling so ever since you sat down."

I am not reading Adam (.'lark, he iXid, and tlushed slightly.

Perhaps thero is a pink note between you and it."

Exactly."

The old ono, or anew one

Anew one—it came to-day."

And Luke, where do you expect this to end?" _. ..

expect anything. I hope it

never will end. I don't sec why it should —I like it as it is." "44 But these things always do end somewhere."

Not always."

,44As

you like it.' But what is she

making vou smile about?"

Oh, it Is tho way she romances. Just

k^How* inexpressibly delightful it must be to live in tho country, awnv from the wearisome straight streets and stone houses, away from the cold meaningless etiquette, the follies and shams of iAshionaule life. I think I soo yonr little rectory neatling down among the great elms the vine-covered j®rch, where n»es bloom in June, and where tho queen of flowers, tho morning-glory, lingers, when autumn is in the air, and all the pride of mmer fiuled. I see your broad hall—not sueJi as we have in the city I—tho door standing wide open all day long, inviting every summer breew\ and in tho coldest winter never closed against the poor and needy and the sorrowful stranger. 1 see your library, too—quiet and peaceful, green blinds, white matting, the furniture covered with delicately colored chintz^ all cupids and flowers your books all in oraerly rows on thelrshelres you, in a huge, lasv, arm-chair, a volume in your band perfect coolness under tho hottest Julv

sun—-and

Luke, that girl is in love with vou!' No, sho isn't. Mv unsophisticated sister, this is simplv being refined

apd Intellectual in young lady fashion."

She could never have written that if she didn't feel it."

If she folt anything about it, she would never have written it at all. it is just a pretty pioture, full of good suggestions, and 1 thank her lor "-though it is a sarcasm 1" he added with a half bitter laugh, looking around tho

r°"How

ln^And

re»u it i-wiw to stop, clear her and it out of my h""", and go down and see Mrs. Kieketts. Poor soul, she is not for this world much longer. And what to do with that baby of hers afterward is something of aques-

tKlio cot up hero, folded tho little pink note, and

put

Clara looked hurt. "Luke, I don think I should over be hard on any woman you loved, or who loved you.

Do be quiet about love! I tell you it is purely Platonic. Sis,

II.

Lace curtains, sky blue lambrequins laeo quilt, sky blue lining white carpet, covered with flowers sky blue lounge, covered with cupids draped mantel, covered with jimcracks great big mirrors wee little writing desk—that was somebody's bed room, on top of Murray hill.

braids,

pale face,

thoughtful

blue

A-very

Enter a silver waiter with one oard on it Edith looks at the card and says: Say that I will bo down in one moment."

Thou she throws. her novel on the lounge, jumps up, and goes to the great big mirror. She docs not prink—everything is perfection. Sho simply stands three seconds and looks at tho picture before her, and then with a self-satis-ticd smile, glides from the apartment.

A frescoed coiling and a frescoed tarpot wa'ls covered with pictures satin upholstery, inlaid tables, a grand piano, bronzes and marble, great gilt-edged volumes, a few natural flowers—that was tho parlor.

Bv tho window stood a young man. To look at tho cut of his coat, and the si vie of tho upholstery, ho was not in his sphere. To look at his fine head, and the ltosa Bonhenr opposite him. and the beatiful book open in his hand, he was Justin his element.

Thero was a rustle of silks on the stairs. He laid down tho volume. The door opened noiselessly. A little sylph stood before him. Two tiny, soft, white bands, glittering with diamonds and amethysts were stretched out to greet him.

Oh, I am so glad you havo come I What a delightful surpriso 1" burst from her lips ecstatically. Then she sank back on the sofa, and, patting its cushions with her Blonder little fingers, said

Come, sit down hero beside me. and let us have a good old-fashioned talk. I havo not seen a rational being to speak to sinco vou went away—two whole years ago—justthink of itl I don't know what I should have done without your letters."

Luko sat down silently. Tho warmth ot tho weloomo thrilled him with a

forced back the tear he felt rising to his oyes. But tho blue eyes before hiin were happy and bright, a smile parted tho coral lips, and all that was needed to perfect the oeatity of the face—two roses —roses glowed on her cheeks.

And your letters" he said softly.

How can I tell you what they havo been to me? every line, every word so dear,

at the first touch of

aatamn all is transformed, the sunshine streaming in tho bay windows, across tiers of plants on graoeftil stands, crimson carpet, rich, dark furniture, ft great wood tiro blazing on the hearth, which, as the sun recedes and the evening lowers, lights tho whole room in its genial glow, while you, at tho window, saze alternately at it and tho distant bill, behind which the sun setting, and think of—of what?"'

441

little you men know the hearts

of women!" Clara ejaculated.

How little you women

you

with

this

think we do." jg|

know

each

other's hearts J" Luke replied. "She is only amusing herself."

Amusing herself! If it 'wore that, Luke, you would not allow her to. I think when you chose your work in a place like this, you should have considered a little her character and her lik-

what have her likings to do

Oh!"

it into its envel

ope. Clura held out her hand ontreat-

m,^No,"ho

said, with a laugh, "I don't

trust you," and thrust it into his pocket.

You women are so hard on each other— I believe you would throw it into the kitchen tire."

ought

to learn Greek, and be more mtellectual!" .,

Learn Greek, and learn to call things bv their wrong names! But I never thought you would be the man to trifle

dull dreary,

I think n«t—but if it is, only to me. I should trust that little woman to take care of herself under any circumstances!"

She must bo a queer specimen," said Clara, dryly. She is that's why I admire her." and then lie went out.

Three hours later—in the garden.

Clara what on earth are you doing?"

Cannot you guess?"

No—not easily."

441

am taking a suggestion from the pink letter. You cannot have everything lovely on earth, but you are going to have the vines on your porch."

bun-

dred fiftv, twontv foot apart, then close together, then scattering again green abutters, white paint not enough paint, •whitewash on tho

Oh, what a good sister you are Let me help."

Well, then, get on the step ladder and fasten these wires. You are to have the fairy queen of flowers on this side but I am afraid the other queen is too expensive, unless I can get shoots from some of the neighbor."

a woman's feelings. I think

your profession, if nothing else, should hold you to a higher standard of conduct!"

Oh, Clara," ho exclaimed, in a pained tone, "how can you talk so! Don't you know vour own brother yet? Don you know Ihat I am a reverend spoony lunv,

and

if there is anything emotion

al. soft, idiotic to be done, I am the very one to doit? But I know positively that I cannot marry any one at present, so I never think of it. I kilow, too, just as certainly, that this little girl knows it, and is not dreaming of marrying me. The only question is, if I shall or shall not, in

441would

p,&

pulls, all on top of her head

almost

Grecian features, large,

eyes little hands, clasp

ed on a George Sand novel—that was Edith. Then a knock at the door.

languid

"Come."

I 7'. -,ST-f S .* *4' V* JF1 •»f

Really Oh, what different lives we lead!" 4

That is, externally internally we have perfect sympathy."

But which is tho real life?"

Both are. But I don't see how your aunt's dying should have brought you to New York."

No, it took me to Boston. I am only here ou my way back."

Just for fUn?"

No, not just for fun. I had a purpose incoming here—not to bo sentimental: I came on business." V' "T."*

An unpleasant business, too, perhaps. But I don't think I'll tell you about it," lie added gloomily. "I think it would bore you."

Bore me! Doesn't everything that concerns you interest me Maybe I or papa—could help you. Tell me about it." And her blue eyes glowed with oarnest, innocent sympathy.

Luke shook his head.

Nonsense! I will know it. 1 ell me —you must!" and almost, or perhaps quite unconsciously, her little white hand rested for a moment on his shoul-

The touch was magical. It thrilled through his wholo frame. The dark look disappeared in an instant. A beautiful lustre shone in his fine dark eyes, and lit up the whole of that noble countenance. He spoke in the gentlest tone.

441

will tell you. You have received many letters from Walton: you know what the place is. Nature did not go into one of her extacies on that spot neither has man dono much for it. Yot there is my work. I have chosen it, for better or for worse. I cannot leave it."

But you do not wish to leave it

No, I do not—and I will not. I wish you to understand that that much is fixed. But if I were to think of Walton being always to me just what it is now —no more—that would be misery

She looked at him questioningly. He continued, almost inaudibly: "There is a great void in my life. Nothing fills it. My work does not, my books do not. It was bitter, turning my back on the refinement, culture, civilization, of the nineteenth century and going to a wilderness but I feel now that not even these can fill the void. I suffer from it in their midst. I am over-

Eoweredheart—the

stupid

place,

have the pleasure of her fanciful little letters." But it is a dangerous practice."

TERRE TT A TTTE SATURDAY EVENING- MAIL.

by the groat necessity of the

uman necessity of—do you know what I mean

Loving, I suppose," sho answered softly.

Yes, loving. And I ask myself over and over again, Is or is it not selfish Can I ask any one to leave a home of comfort and luxury to share minis, so poor and simple? And yet when I think that the love of one being could make all tho ills of my lot as nothing to me, could not my love possibly make half those ills tolerable to another?"

It might." "Might! It ought to any one who knows what my love is—the thousand thoughts, acts, words, looks of tenderness which rise up within me and die for lack of theit object."

You have a sister?" «Yes—the best of sisters. And you havo a brother—does he fulfill to you all life's needs

There was a dead silence. Then in a tone strange to her, and which he himself scarce recognized for his own, he whispered:

Little Edith, what would you say if I had come here but for one purpose—to take you away with me

not go," was the startled re-

^le drew back. She remained fixed, like ono frozen in her corner of the sofa, her blue eyes wide open, gazing at him steadily. Oh. how cold—how cold blue eyes are! Why will dark-eyed people never recognize it? They worahip in them the purity of angels forgetting that angels are so pure because they are so passionless.

Not go?" ho gasped.

On the lounge a little woman, in the softest of gray silks, fluted ruffles, skyblue cravat, ponderous locket golden curls,

No," was the icy firm reply. He turned his head to liido his emotion. Ho sprang up, walked hastily across the room twice, then flung himself into an arm chair and shaded his eves with his hand. "Edith watched him earnestly till all the rigidity had left her frame and face, and tho great teardrops brimmed over from her eyes. Sho dashed them away hastily. She arose and glided noiselessly to his side. She sat on the arm of his chair. Her soft little fingers even smoothed back the lock of dark hair on his forehead, but he did not move oMook at her. Scarcely above her breath she be-

^"My dear, dear friend, what would you do with mo? Have you ever thought of that? It is your ideal, not me. that vou love. You would soon find out that I am not your ideal— nd then Her hands fell among the folds of her silk dress she crumpled it between her fingers as she spoke. "This silk, these laces, jewels, the grand piano, the pictures, books, the furniture, the soft carpet under my feet, are not—are not objects of my love or ambition, but simple necessities of my daily life. Without them I would not be what Iain —without them I would not be what you admire. Think of me at Walton in an old calico dress, my hair snarled up in a net, blundering at my work—an abject idiot! Your sister, in ber natural homespun simplicity, a very queen beside me!"

441—I

a 1

know I never could stand that!" and a cloud darkened Edith's brow. Luke laughed.

44What!

Talking to you." "Don't ue stupid. I mean, what brought yon to Now York

A purely mercenary emnu. A»y great aunt ficd a few months ago, and Ten, me the vast fortune of $1,500, and I have appeared to claim it."

What a va*t fortune 1 Why, It would not be enough to buy the rings on this one finger."

Ana vet it is nearly four years salary touie,"

die for you burst from his lip. "And my sister—you do her injustice! She would never let a household care come near you." "Then I should be the one idle woman in Walton, and despised accordinglv."

Who would despise you ..

Your humble neighbors, your gentle sister—you would despise me—and I should learn to despise myself." "Oh,Edith, Edith!" hoexclaimed.taking both her hands in his, a ray of light shining into his heart and out of his eyes "don't inveut objections. My own darIJII or

Don't! Hush! Let go of my hands! I tell vou I am firm," sho said, standing erect before him.

441see

and tho ray of light feded. "Yes, firm, hand, cold as a stoue. And withal poetic and philosophic! Ha! ha! ha! A little feminine American Goethe, who thinks the world was made up for her culture— her friends so many plaster casts for ber to study human nature from—her 'progress' like that of the niauy-slded genius,

4marked

HfWHL1

as tyrannical

•s evtfr Of course I am—and a deal more so, too. But what are you doing here

Unjust, unjust, unjust Luke! I never deceived yon. You know It. You have deceived yourself. It is all your own work. Or," she added, in a changed tone, "perhaps it is not—some ono has helped you—some one who does not com prebend friendship. I have been too ---—1-J olnk notes and ... -uture," she said will write a modest little hand, like a man, and use brown envelopes."

In future," replied Luke dryly, "you will not need many for me." *4 What! you cannot forgive?'

Our friendship ends hero." "Never, never, never! Say that you forgive me."

You ask it rather soon. Good-by." "Luke He was gone. She rushed to the window and watched his retreating figure then up to her room. Sho stood in the middle of the floor, silent, motionless as a statue. Her reverie ended with one bitter exclamation:

Is thero no such thing as friendship?"

Then she covered her face with her hands, and flung herself on the lounge, while lier little frame shook with SODS, and great tears, brighter than diamonds, trickled between her fingers and glittered on her little white hands.

That night she went to a ball more brilliant and more beautiful than over. That night he jogged along wearily, mile after mile, in the cars, fighting his battle with faith—fighting his battle with self.

Ob, I am so glad you have come," was his welcome home, and two hands —not so soft, and white, and tiny as Edith's—were stretched out to greet him. "But Luke

Don't speak of it Clara, dear. I'vo come homo to work."

III.

It was the balmiest of May afternoons. The winter outline of the trees had lost itself in the new foliage the sky was a delicate blue, with a violet haze toward tho horizon bright flowers were bloomalong the roadside, and the grass in tho meadows was a soft, lustrous green. Even Walton could not escape the airper\ading beauty of the season.

Luke sat at his desk in the library window, a finished sermon before him. His eyes were bent on the dim outline of tho distant hills ho was thinking—of what?

Mr. Luke, a lady is askin' for you."

Well, Martha, show the lady in at once." The door

was

gand

love was placed confidingly in his for one moment. Then sho pushed alight chair close to his desk and sat down. He resumed his seat, and they looked at each other in silence.

Well," he said, at last, "this is an unexpected pleasure Miss Edith."

I'm not Miss any more," was the brusque reply.

What—Mrs. lie asked with a laugh. She nodded. "I am on my wedding tour. When I get home I am going to Europe. I just stopped to see you en passant."-

En passant! I should like to know on what tourist's route Walton lies?" On mine—on Mr. Graves', A woman would not be a woman if she could not get what she wanted by calling it by another name. I am not here to see you—don't flatter yourself to that extent —Mr. Graves—at my brother's sugges tion, not mine—is visiting these very interesting mills down the road. I am bored at the thought of a mill, and certain that I will ruin my new dress—suddenly recollect that the place is called

4Walton

with the minister's family—good simple country folk—would like to see them again—will just stop at the rectory and rest a little. Mr. Graves is a gallant man, won't keep me waiting a moment longer than necessary. There!" She got up and was standing behind Luke's chair. "Do you see that individual with gray hair and a gold-headed cane coming up the road

Is that Mr. Graves?"

Yes. How does he do—foi- a walking stick

A walking stick! Oh, Edith, I hoped when you married you would have a husband."

Thank you, the one you selected for me was not to my taste.' She answered with a toss of tho head.

she

How good in you to come so soon she exclaimed in an undertone. "I hope vou .did not hurry on my account.*' ,.

No, dear. Confound it! I don see

why your

make you work I, who would

It's too bad—he must have been misinformed. But don't let us think about it any more. I am ready to go, only I want you to come in ana say a word or two to these people before we start."

She walked into the library, leaning on Mr. Graves' arm, her face lit with the aride of a princess with ber prince. She •ntroduced him

first

Will you write to me from Kurope?" he murmured.

you are," he muttered bitterly,

No." She glanced over her shoulder. She drew the little hand away from Luke, and dried tho tears. Then she gave him the little hand again for one second. Along sigh—then a short, hard laugh. She turned around, draw, ingon her glove, saying half animatedly, half languidly:

by so many sucked or-

WelT, my dear, must we not be going?" Then a few cheerful commonplaces with Clara, a formal hand-shaking all around, a pleasant, polite, "I am gad to have seen you all again. Good afternoon!" and little Mrs. Graves gathered up her silk flounces and sailed down the garden walk. .,

The carriage that brought ber was waiting at the gate. Luke helped her in. There was one more convulsive pressure of the hand, but the eyes did not meet. Mr. Graves gave directions to the driver and got in. There was another suave *'Good-alternosn," and the carriage rolled away.' Luke gazed after it till it was lost to view. Then he turned toward the house, but paused at the porcl-, stopping to see if the moraingglorv seeds were coming up, and murmuring to himself:

~^r a I li

Poor little tiling! Poor little thing!"

IV/

Another picture: A dark, gray November sky the vines on the rectory porch dead and covered with snow. The ground white, the fences white, and the little flakes floating in the air, whirling up, down and around in the storm, then falling silently, silently, while the wind moans and whistles through the leafless trees and sighs about the eaves of the houses.

A little ragged boy with a pale face and haggard eyes, is hanging about the rectory gate. Two women are on the porch. Tho door is open a few inches and Martha is talking to them. The door closes. They come down the path, picking their way through the deep snow.

Ah! it is just what mighj. have been expected—it's all up now." And I knew it! I've seen it comin' this twelvemonth. It's iust worked himself to death he has. What did he want of that other church? As if the Walton parish alone wasn't enough to turn any one man's hair gray!"

And what'll we ever do without him? It'll not be easy to get another like liim."

Ah! that's so—that's so. The way he visited around among the poor and the sick! a kind word for everybody, young or old. I say. Johnuy Kieketts what are you doin' here? Go along home."

Did you ask—can I see him

44Hush!

hush! Don't make such a

fuss at the gate here. Come on with you!"

441

thrown wide open there

was a rustle of silk Luke felt a sudden thrill an apparition of olden timessilk, lace, curls, jewels, with the addilion of a bonnet with French flowers, whieh almost shamed nature with their delicate fragrance and beauty, a coralhandled parasol, and above all, the same slightly pale appealing face, the same sweet, thoughtful blue eyes, were all before him. Tho room seemed illuminated. Luke stood up, but stood motionless. The little creature glided toward him. A tiny, pearl colored kid

won't—let go of me!" and ho jerked himself away from the woman. "Oh, I don't care for anything now!" and he flung himself down in the deep snow and rolled about as if in pain.

Jane, what made you tell him so rough like?"

Ah, Nancy, and how could I tell that a child—and it a boy, too—would take onso?"

Thero now, Johnny, don't—don t.

What is the matter with this child asked a very gentle but firm voice.

Why, Miss, our minister is ill and he's dying, and Johnny wants to see him—he was a very good friend to Johnny, ho was—and of course ho can't see liim, and that is what is the matter."

44Poor

that I was once acquainted

child!" and the stranger, a

slight woman in black, knelt down on the snow beside him.

44Was

he a very

kind friend to you, Johnny?"

He's the only friend I ever had in the world—he is the only one who ever believed anything good of me—the only one who ever helped me to do anything good."

She picked up his hat, shook the snowoff it and put it on his head. She drew his coat closer around him and fastened it. She took off a little black scarf she wore and tied it around his throat. He he had got up and was standing before her perfectly passive. He looked earnestly into her sad blue eyes, and then, laying his hand confidingly on her shoulder, whispered:

Oh, if I cwuld only see him again! "Ah, Johnny, that is what a great many will wish when ho is gone," she said, taking his rough little hand in hers. He stood up. Then she stooped and kissed him, saying gently "Go home, little bo, say the prayers he taught you remember all he said, and doit. will see him again—in Heaven. And you," turning to the women, "be kind to this child. Respect his feelings."

The woman answering to the name of Nancy took him by the hand and the three went off.

I'd lik^to know," said the other,

who that woman is. I never laid eves on her in these parts before." Nor I."

And yet she talked up superior like, as if she was a grand lady—and hor clothes as plain as a pike-staff! See there! She's going into the rectory —Martha opening the door wide to her."

You need not

call mo Edith, however. Is that your sister in the hall Tell her to come in, I want to to be introduced."

Clara entered. The introduction was scarcely necessary. One glanco at Luke told her that Mrs. Graves was Edith. Could she forgive her? Hardly. Yet was dazzled. She could hardly take her eyes off her. But what did the creature mean by coming here unasked, and sitting so close to tho man she had rejected? Somehow

Maybe she's a relative.

Sure enough." ti

Martha, how could you let anyone in? You know I cannot leave Luke for one socond."

called to mind one

ofthose shivering little Italian greyhounds which will nestle close to anyone for the sake of the warmth, but never respond to any caress with a glance of intelligence or gratitude.'

Thero was the sound of a mans step on the porch. Edith sprang up from her seat and met Mr. Graves in tho hall.

brother sent me thereat all.

Foo I couldn't make a sixpence out of such an investment."

But she would come in, ma am.

Did you tell her that he is dying?

Yes, ma'ifm, and she said it was the more reason why sho must see you right off—and then she walked into the library."

What can sho wknt?"

Do you wish to see me?" asked tho latter almost sharply.

No—your brother."

to Luke, and then

to Clara, with whom he fell into conversation. She gavo Luke one glance and went toward the window. lie followed her. She stood with her back toward her husband. Her glove was off. She put her little hands, sparkling all over with gems, as ot old, into Luke's. A look of unmeasured sadness filled her eyes. She uttered, in a sorrowful whisper the word: gr "Good-by!" 1

He is dying."

That is why I came. Can 1 see him?"

See! Suppose you wont up—and saw him die?"

Then I should be with him to the last."

You! Who are you

Don't you know "What! It is pot gMsible!—inot Edith?"

Yes, Edith." There was a dead pause. Clara looked at the poor, subdued little creature before her—recalled the brilliant apparition that a few years before bad dazzled her In that same apartment. Was it possi-

Where is your husband?" broke almost unconsciously from her Hp®«

Gone to the devil, 1 suppose 1 I can't imagine him anywhere ©lne 11 and a wild, vindictive glare, strange in blue eyes, shone in hers, while ner white

....... your brother. be know that he is dying?"

Yes."

And is happy?" "No—resigned. He regrets to leave his work."

Regrets to leave his work! Ana I— I have nad my fever—no work—no joy— nothing to regret—and I a«n here ana have to live! Work, work, work, so that is the thing whicb attache men to life. Not love, or joy. or wealth, or culture, but work—simply work.

Clara led the way up stairs. Edith followed. Both were silent. "Martha, you may go, now?

The

little black

figure

her

little

.1 A

them, now—clasped the one thin hand near heron the.quilt. Tho invalid opened his eyes. A faint smile crossea his face.

Luke, do you know mo

Of course I do," ho murmured— "though God knows you are changed!"

Have you forgiven me?"

Long ago. Have you forgiven yourself?"

Never!"

Then do now, for my sake." She covered the thin hand in liors with kisses.,

My poor little girl, how you have suffered! Surely my love could have shielded you in part from that. And perhaps yourlove could have saved me from this.'*

Oh, Luke don't add to my agony!'' she gasped starting back.

4laadtoit?

You see him You'll never see him again, child—he is dying!" Dying? Will I never see him again? Oli! oh! oh!" And the poor boy sobbed aloud.

No, dear child, my last

wish is to comfort-you.

But there is iio'comfort."Jf'

Yes! Where I found it—in work— and in this. Keep it!" Her hands clasped tho book he moved toward her her head sank upon it— there were loud sobs in the room.

Clara came to the other side of the bed. Luke drew down ber face and kissed her. Sat beside him. Ho closed his eyes. There was a long, sad silence. 'I hen ho started—he stretched out his hand till it touched the bowed head near him.

God bless vou, Edith Darling, goodby!" These were his last words. Tho sobs rew louder. Then they died away.

Jut tlio little black figure remained kneeling at the bedside long into tho the small hours of tho night—and tho thin hand rested on the soft golden curls till death chilled the benediction.

And thero it ended. Poor Edith! Poor Luke! PARIS FASHIONS.

Lucy Hooper, writing from Paris to the Philadelphia Press, says: "Tho aim off dress now is to show off the figure as much as possible. Tho close-fitting cuirass corsago ana apron tunie havo been supplemented by the cuirass and tunw in one, a sort of sleeveless polonaise composed of steel or jet beads, faced up the back and fitting close and smooth to the wearer's figure.- A woman with a beautiful figure, attired in those later styles, is delightful to look upon—style and grace ana fine proportions being set off td the very best advantage. The apron front terminated by a large bow at the back is still worn but the latest fashion is is that of two ceintures crossing in a bow in front and fastened in a bow very low behind. Evening dresses are worn with corsages cut extremely long in front and excessively low. Bonnets are growing larger ana larger, and aro trimmed with ostrich feather trimming, or else with two ostrich feathers crossed over each, a silk scarf around the crown, and behind a large bow falling on the catogan braid. Wide strings to tie under the chin. Here is a description of a recent ball-dress: It is composed of the new faille of the new flesh tint, called cuisse do nympho emue (those who choose may translate the name—I wont.) It is trimmed with plaitings of crepe lisse. Second skirt of fiiille, slightly open in front and strewn with shaded velvet ivy leaves. In front coquilles of crepe lisse, in the midst of which runs a garland of ivy leaves, of dark green ancf dark purple tints, The cuirass corsago of laille, with velvet leaves, is cut very low, and has no other trimming than a slight plaiting of crepe lisje around the shoulders."

"Cherry Time"

Tho Lord onlu knows.|ina'am."

441

never heard of such thing. It is cruel—outrageous! It won't—and yet I suppose I must." Clara gave a troubled glance back into tho sick room.

44Here,

Martha, sit down in this cha»",

and don't move till I return. If he stirs or makes a noise, call me. I wont stay a moment," and sho hurried down

In tho library sat a thin, pale little woman—or was it a child—in the deepest mourning. Her light

hair,

a boy's, curled in soft rings about her head. Her bonnet, with a long crape veil, was thrown aside carelessly on a chair. She was in Luke's seat, in front of his desk, beside the window. His last sermon, still unfinished, was in her hands when Clara entered. ....

glided past her

into the sick room. Edith threw herself on

knew beside

th©

hands—there

bed. Her

were no jewels on

"Lily of the Field."

We are now glvlHg to every 82.00 yearly subscriber a choice of the above Chromos. They are catalogued and sold In the arl stores at J4.00 per copy but will be given to all persons who send us their names as subscribers enclosing $2.00 the price of tho paper for one year. These pictures are perfect copies In every'delicate tint and color ol magnificent paintings costing hundreds ot dollars. All who havo any Idea of or love of art fall In love with them at first sight.

Workers Wanted!

To introduce The Saturday Evening Mail printed at Terro Haute, Ind., into every household. Its low price (82.00 a year) and the elegance of Its Piosentaiion Chromos, "Cherry Time" and 4LlIy of the Field," makes it perfectly lrreslstablel Tho commission given agents is liberal, and offers lucrative and agreeable busincs to those willing to give It proper attention.

O YOU WANT.

3 fA -TO-

Make Money?

1 M**

short as

f-1

Send Two Dollars for Cliromos and outfit to canvas for subscribers to THK SATURDAY EVENING MAILJ^

The Two Dollars will bo

refunded

Te-

turn of Chroraos at close of canvas, or agent, can keep them, as they are more than worth the money.

fell 4:iJp J?'

it tef,

PR1VEI2.COAYEAR,

Chroino "Cherry Time"

WO*TII«M.OO,

Both for j£2.00*

The worn of canvassing for The Mail, th.best Family Paper In the West, especially adapted to 1ADIE*, V, who can make, on the liberal commissions

Iven, from *10 to 5*0 ft ij?oek. Address P. 8. WESTI'ALL, publisher Saturday Evening Mail,

TERRE HAUTE, IN U.

Agents wanted at every town, Postofllc and neighborhood. *s.

St. Clair House,

Corner Second and Main Sts., TERBE HAI'TE, WD.

The undersigned proposes to keep it sp^uHaving fiad manynyears«^rtenc. he feels that he "knows how tolteepnoiei. Boarders by the Week or Month Will find this house all that they can desire

JOHN MATLOCH.