Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 18, Number 10, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 27 August 1887 — Page 7

.THE^IL.

A PAPER *OR THE (PEOPLE.

LABOR.

One lesson, nature, let m* learn of tfeee, One lesson, that ev«y*inl is blgwn T& OLC lesson of two duties aerv'd la eno. Though the loud world prpelaitfc tSetr eamltjr-r Of toll mw®*«sr'd from tranquillity, -Of labor that in still advance outgrow# Far noisier acb«nu*, ot-coiaplUh din repose, Too great for haste, too hl*h for rivalry, Ye*, while on earth a thousand discords ring Man's senseless uproar miijslfnit with hi* toll. Still do thy sleepless uiinlxtori more on, 'Their glorious tarin to silence perfecting /still working, blartiinsr still our vain turmoil Laborers that shall not fail when man is gone. —Matthew Arnold.

Thomas.

[From Blackwood's Magazine,] /The most romarkablo thing about this Jfttle hlHtory Is that it is quite true. If I 4!ncw how, I would make It into a real [tory golngbn'from mouth to mouth in magazine. But I could never Invent he love-making, End without/lor® story Is nothing, "I should n^vftr know 'fror instance, what to make May and the loctor aay to each other. So I bad bother put down Thomas' story just as it all happened, and leave fiction to cleverer foi k.

Home vears ago, twenty or more, after ny husband died, I lived In wbatwas .hen a new streot near WeStbourlie TerrSiife. It consisted of two rows of '«)iiho«—very ugly houses outside, hough inside tbey wore comfortable itiough. I had three little girls the oldest, May, was Just live, a pretty little hing with golden hair and blue eyes. I ,fton wish I had ijer portrait painted. The others were quite tiny—four, and wo and a half. The last was born a week beforo the jiews come Jrom India hat her father had died of sutoseroko.

Opposite to us there was a house to Ufe lot. For along time it was quite empty, bill in the window, dirt on the windows,

UHton tho steps, dreary and deaerted. niddenlv one morning, though tho bill vhh nottakon down, the windows wore lcanod, tho stops swept, and a small :art load of furnituro carried In. Evidently a carotakcr had been put in i:harge, and I was glad of it, for it Is nover very safe to leave a house abso-

Tl/Luosft' by tho window a good doal mid knit. I had so murh to think alout hat

1

could

not

.aretaker

settle to anything else,

(looks wero nover much in my way, and ih for going out I nover cared for it nuch, ovon as a girl. So I used to sit and knit, seeing through tho thick screen »f plants on the window sill all that went in the- street. .Sometimes I saw the

opposite going in and out, he

anil his wife and their two littlechildron. H» lookod verv rospoctablo, but broken (own and terribly thin he was evidont.y far gono In consumption. The woman •coined worried and anxious, as well she might, poor soul: and in her arms there ,va« alwavs a shinny little baby, hor bird child, and very poor, of course, or they would not have been taking care of empty houso. I used to wonder If .ov Imd enough to eat, for they looked hlto and thin and half-starved.

The next time 1 went to tho landlords otllce I asked about them and was told that they wero roHjjectable Cornish people, but" Cornwall was starvation now, «iul there was nothing for any ono to do. They had come to London a few years before, and tho man, who was a meiliHiiio, had kopt his family well till he rok( down In health. He could do lotiilng now, was an outdoor patient at .trompton hospital, and had only tho allowance from his club, and the few shillings his wife sometimes oarnod by olng out to work. /There was a large leg of mutton for the, •lii Id row's dinner tho next day# 1 cut )tr hald-adozen good slices, put them ictwoon two hot dishos with some vegetable, and sent thorn to tho Cornish folk.

They were very grateful, tho servant aid, when sho returned, and tho dishes were brought back by the little boy, with 'Father's much obliged, and it did him world of good." One day a box of lowers came from the country, so I Made up a nosegay and sent It across to *ie poor wasted-looklug caretaker. This -ought the woman, with toars In her cm, to thank me. •My husband, ho do liko to smell a ower, ma'am," she said. "It's many a |v now since ho has soon thorn growing i"the ground." Then I asked her If I

Ight go and see her sometimes, or perip* he. would like a paper and some tivVf now and then? The woman's face tlulmwied. "He would bo pleased, Wain,Nudeed," sho aald. "It's long -Ince anv went to talk to him, and often think It's dull for him I doubt tt have him much longer," she added. Imply "and It's likely you can feel for e, uia'ain."

So I w«nt over to 800 Mr. LobO. He ias sitting by the tire, warming his f»ng, thin hands. "I am glad to see you, ma'am," he

Id, with the almost perfect manner one unetlmes rinds among working people ho had not lived much In towns. "I ould have come over to thank you for ur kindness, but feared you might .ink It a liberty. 1 spend most of my me trying to keep warm by a bit of ro«M

He was verv simple and kindly. He \«nv that he was going to die, and faced like a man. He spoke of it without or affectation. "It worries me to hlnk of the wife and children," he said. A man should not marry as I did with nothing put bv. I subscribed to a club, course, and*it*» kept us from starving, ui it'll burv me, but that's all. IoOKht have saved before I married, and so ight everv man. One I* si ways so sure is going to live when on© feels strong, ell. God is good, and He'll lake care of oeui," he added with a sigh, and a tonth later in that simple faith he died.

Then it Iwcame a question of what was be done with the widow and children, 'he woman waa delicate there was the *t»nnv babv, a lUUe girl of six called ra.-ic, nnd'Thoiuas—thev always called litn by his full old-fashioned name— rhu w-ks ten, or barely ten. "I would Uke to stay In London iioni'* more g"ing on, and I'd be wow Lkeiv to get something,*" the poor vvomit said, when proposal was mad« to ond her back to hor native plac*. "They very ptnr in Cornwall, where I col no rom it would i»e no g*sod going bark* ather and mother are dead, and there as only one other of us, my brother oe, and'he went off to Mel bourn® long jfil," "i"VuldnH you send to him?" asked he Blight do womething for you." "I have went, ma am, ahe answered: •hot I don't know if he got the letter. Ve never kept much eonnt of his adre«», for he never bad the same one rng tacetlier. 1 don*t expect he'd be ble to do much: he waa never much of hand at helping hiroaelf, kit atoee ,* hem."

So we got together a little money and R»ught her a mangle. She went to Hvo two rooms clo«e by, and jost kept wul

and body together for herself and children by mangling and occasionally going out to w#rk.

Suddenly one day my housemaid went off without a moment's aotfce, to her mother, who waAlll^and poorMrs. lxbb was unable to come and help as on account of her babv. "I can't bear to refuse," the poor thing said, "but the little baby Is that bad with bronchitis, I doubt if I keep it through the winter."

Then it was that Thomas first came into our lives. I had hardly noticed him before, except as a little j»rk-baired boy too small for his age. The morning after Jane went I was told he wanted to see me. I remember the interview as well as if it were yesterday. I Was in the dining roopi when he knocked. "Come in,"

rUUIU wuy« WO nuwauu.

1

•ru.

said 1, and in came Theinas.

^e stepped just inside and palled his front hair. Evidently he had been instructed that that was the correct way of making a bow.. "Please mum," he said,shyly, "mother says as how ydu have no housemaid, so I came to ask if you .woald like^mo to helps bit."

"You, Thomas!" "Please, mum, I does for mother, sweeps and scrubs and dusts and washes up the things. Mother said I was to tell you I could clean knives and boots beautiful." He looked down as be said the last words, a» though he fett ashamed at poising himself, and nothing bat necessity would bave driv'en him.to do it. -**YVhy,

you

"have quite a list of accom­

plishments, Thomas," I answered and laughed, but he was evidently very anxious. "Or, I could take care of the children —th© young ladi©®* I mesuM-r-he said, correcting himself ''then perhaps nurse eould help." He was quite a manager, and had evidently thought out how matters could be arranged so as to make the best of things. "I am used to children. I have always taken care of ours,' he added, gravely, and the "ours" showed that he did not put himself on a level with his sister "and I have pushed a preambulator often for Mrs. Hick's, the grocer's wife, since her husband has been laid up, and her in the shop." I thought how funny he would look pushing mv two babies along with one hand, and with the ptber,holdinglittleMiy, as she toddled beside him, and wondered what my most kind but proper mother-in-law would say if she met him. My mother-in-law always kept me well in hand, and does still, though I am getting to be an old woman. There is one thing I simply dread her tindingout—but that will appear by and by. "Well, no, Thomas, I don't think we can make you head nurse," I said, "but you can come in the mornlug and clean the knives and boots. You are quite mure 'you can do them beautiful. "Yes, quite sure, mum1" he answered, looking up with his great eyes.

So Thomas came every day, and was tho comfort of my life. He was very qulot and attentive. When he carried In tho coals he always looked round to see if there were letters to post or anything he could do bo always saw when my plants wanted watering or the leaves wanted washing. Evon cook, who was dllllcult to please, said he "was a downright blessing." The only vexing thing was that, whenever he had a chance, he would creop up to the nursery and play with tho children. He adored May, and used to carry her upstairs when she came in from hor walk. She was delighted to let him do it, putting her arms around his nock, and looking up at lilni with her clear blue eyes. He was so careful with the ohlldren that in tho afternoon nurse sometimes left him on guard while she was dowustalrs. "Thomas,' I said one day, "what is that sticking out of your pocket.' He turned very rod and pulled his hair, si "Please, mum, it's a pipe." •»A pipe I Wtiere did you get lt-T "Hought it, mum." "Hut you are not going to smoke, hopo?" Ho tried hard not to laugh, but the Idea of smoking was too much for him. "Please, mum, 1 bought it to teach Miss May how to blow bubbles," he said, with as grand an air as if he had bought it to teach hor Arabic.

Another week, Jano rotumed. Thomas got a place at a papor shop and carried out papers every morning but on Saturday afternoons he generally paid cook a visit and went up to see the children. One dav I discovered that ho had a voice. Going 'p*81 tho nursery door, I heard May say "'Yos, dosing it again, please, Thomas," and then a weok little voice began: "A little seed Is In the ground,

A tiny little *ml When It grows up what will it be, A flower or a weed?" I oponed the door. "Why, Thomas," I said, "I didn know you could sing." "Please mum, mother taught me," he said "sho slugs beautiful, and so do little Urielo." Then that time came In which May fell ill. There was hardly a hopo for her recovery. And through all those sad days none grieved more than Thomas. Every morning, as soon as cook came down, sho heard a tap at the kitchen window, and there stood Thomas at tho bottom of the area steps, pale and anxious. Sho used to open tho window and before she could speak the eager voice would sav "How Is MIssMav?—is she any worse? —has she slept? And on that terrible night when we thought she was dying, Thomas sat at the end of the kitchen by the side table white and silent, waiting with burning eves and a breathless misery that seemed almost to suffocate him. Late that night Jane went down and re-

Ktter."

rted: "The doctor says she Is a little Thomas sprang to his feet for one moment, then sat down again, and resting his face on his arm on the table sobbed bitterly at last.

When May was better Thomas was taken up to see her. He stopped for a moment outside her door as If to gathor strength, and felt his side pocket anxiouslv: there was something there that bulged, but I pretended not to see it. He drew along breath as he entered the room. "Are you better, Mlsa May?" he asked. "Yes, thank you, Thomas, dear," she •aid. 'You've been very bad,"and he shook his head mournfully. "Poor Thomas!" she sighed, just as if she knew all that he had suffered. •I don't know what we should have done if you hadn't got better, Miss May." ••Do von know snv more songs,"she asked. He shook his head be had no heart for songs. "I kept vour garden in order," be said, "the primroses are coming up, and there's three snowdrops oat, "I aw so glad. What's that in your pocket, sticking out?1 "It"* the mice," he answered, smiling tor the first time. "I've had 'em this fortnight ready against yon was better, Mt«a May," and then with a sign of satisfaction he brought them ouu A little later in the spring

tr-

ught r.- -he last of

Thomas. May was, welL Th- gardener had just been to see us «Nuu doing up the gar I was sitting in the garden mak»~s «P n? ***ks with the weekly expni-iss, wonder.og how It was that log extra always swelled them. I waa a knock at the door. "Gtt&e in." I «KI in MM Thomas of course. "Please, mom, I*m come to say good-

bye," he said* palling

4

icrt

usual. "Good-bye 1 where are yo.u going?" "Going to Australia, mum/

I was quite astonished. "Has your uncle sent for you?" "No, mam bat there's a gettjtteman whos been coming on and oflWIft'OUr shop a deal, and he's captain of a TOt. I always wanted to go about a blt,vsna he offered to take me free for my wot*, and bring roe back or drop me ttt bourne, which I like. I think good thing, mum,'' he added, in h»j fashioned way. "I den't see that come to much good at a paper shop. "No, Thomas, perhaps not." J** "And I wants to get oil and new .mfother," he said,, lifting his face, and "looking at me proudly. "Perhaps I might come across uncle out at Melbourne and anyhow, TH know more, and have seen more, when I have been there and back, than I do now. The gentleman that's taking me, too, •ays the sea will make me strong and set me

Off growing. I shan't be any good if Tm not strong." "'.i'."Perhaps you are right." 7 "It's hard work leaving mother," he said with a little gasp. "But she's keen on my going, because she thinks I might meet uncle, but I don't like leftving of her, and I don't like leaving the two little 'una." The tears came into his clear eyes, but be straggled manfully to keep them back andTthen he added, "And I don't like leaving Miss May. I couldn't ha' gone if she hadn't been b$t-

"And when do you start?" "To-morrow, mum it's very suddeti like, bat they say chances always is. I come to say good-by. May I go up to see the young ladies?" I took him up to the nursery myself. He looked at the children with the face of ono'who had suddenly grown older and knew much, and was going to know more. He explained afi about hi* journey to them, and why he was going, jolt as, if thev had been old Inough to utjdarstand, and then he grav«jy and sorrowfully. Shook hands with fbAp all three and.' with nurse. "I don't wrant you to go," Miff said. "I want you to stay here." "When will you come back?" S "I don't know when, but I'll come back. Your garden is all in order," he added. "Maybe the gardener will look after it a bit now." They followed him, the three children and nurse, to the head of the stairs, and stood lookipg through and over the banisters. "Good-by, good-byT' called May and the others watching him descend. "Good-by!" he said. "Good-by 1" and suddenly May's little shoe, which was unbuttoned, fell though the railing on to the rail beneath, touching him as it fell. "It's good luck," nurse called out. "It's real good luck, Thomas: she dropped her shoe after you." He picked it up and looked at it, a little old Bhoe, with a hole nearly through at the toe. "Please, mum, may I keep it?" he asked, with a smile, and when I nodded he looked up at her with a satisfied face. "I'll take it. Miss May, I'm going to keep it. It'll go all the way with me in the ship. He stopped in the hall and turned round. "Please, mum," he said' and he pulled his hair once more, "I want to say thank you for all your kindness to us. You's allays been a good friends to us," he added approvingly. "And you have been a good boy, Thomas," I answered gratefully, "and I know that you'll be one still." "I'll try for mother's sake and yours, and Miss May's," he said, and strode sturdily toward the street door. "You must shake hands with me, too, Thomas," I said, and gave him a sovereign. He took the gold in silenoe, turning it over in surprise, as if to be sure that it was real. He looked such a baby while he did so that I wondered if the captain of the ship had taken a fancy to his pale face and sad eyes, or what hard work he thought those small hands could do. Poor little Thomas, going alone to the other side of the world, leaving all he cared for here, my heart wont out to him. Did not his mother bear him with the same pains that I had borne my children? Had she not once looked at him with the strange wonder that I had looked at my first little one? And how her heart would ache whenever a wind swept by, and she thought of tho little lad at sea, trying to get strong in order to take care of her by and by. I thought of how he had sat and sobbed tho night he heard that May was better, of how I had seen his father lying dead with the surprised smile on his face, as though he had seen the heavenly city— what would he say now, I wondered, if he could see his little son starting alone out into the world? "Good-bye, dear little lad," I said. "May you grow strong, and be a brave and good man," and I stooped and kissed hiin. Thomas said not a word but I knew that he was crying, as he strode toward tho door.

Mrs. Lobb got on pretty well after her boy went. But sorrow overtook her again—the poor, skinny little baby died. Life could never have been a Joy to it. Surely it was a blessing in disguise when death took it.

Eighteen years had gone by. The Lobbs bad passed altogether out of my life. Thomas had never come back. I heard that he bad found his uncle in Melbourne aud had gone with him to Grahams Town, South Africa. From there the uncle had sent for Mrs. Lobb and Grade, and that waa the last I knew of them, or ever expected to know.

I had given up the bouse in which we had lived so long in England, and settled at Lntrv, near Lausanne, where living and education were cheaper than in England. There the years slipped away peacefully enough till the girls werb grown up—till May was a woman of 28. She was a pretty girl, just as she bad been a prettv child, and at 23 looked 18 —a tall, slim girl, with golden hair and blue eves, and a merry happy laugh it did one good to hear. I used to wonder sometime if she would ever marry. But we did not know a soul in Lutry. and, indeed, from a marrying point of view, there was not a soul t- know. We were going back to England, now that even Nina, the youngest girl, was grown up, to settle down in a pretty house at Hampstead. There, I thought, the girls would see a little more of the world, and ihelr Uvea would shape themselves into the course they meant to ran.

Then my sister Elisabeth, who is unmarried, and alone and delicate, went to winter at Rome, and invited May to go with her. I could not refuse to let her go: but we felt parting, for we had never been separated. Stilt it could not helped. So May went off with her aunt, who came all the way to Lotry to fetch ber. and 1 with the two other girls returned to England.

We had plenty to do at Hampstead, getting the bouse in order and settling down and we spent a happy winter, even though Mav was not with us. We used to delight in her letters from Home, and long for the spring that would sec ber with us.

My aister was an excellent correspondent, and she used to write to me every week, telling me of all their gayedes and of the admiration May won—«ren of all her little flirtations. 1 think E3ixab«th was proud of her. Gradually into both their letters there crept frequent mention of a young English doctor, of whom

TERMS HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING ATIY

bb

front

h*Lr

to

He

they appeared to see a great deal. had been to tea, he had seen them home from a parry, he had got up a picnic, and soon. At last I began, mother like, to wonder if he was falling in love with May or she with him, to feel anxious as to what sort of a man he" was, and whether he waa capable of playing fast and loose with my child's innocentheart that bad never known a lover.

As time went on, May's letters contained more and more about him. "Dr. Millet: asked BO much about you, dear mother. I told him everything I could about yon. He said he felt as if he loved you." "Dr. Millet says he shall be in &iu land soon but we hope he won't go before we do, we should miss him so." And at last, in Elizabeth's letter, there was something definite. "I am certain Dr. Millet is in love with May, and I am almost certain the dear child nas lost her heart to him. It makes me very anxious you not being here. At the same time, I don't know why things should nqt be allowed to take their natural Course, for he is very charmiiig, and is getti'ngan excellent practice round bim." §0 I waited anxiously,, feeling that there was nothing to be done but to wait. The next letter worried me a little. "His manner is very distant," Elizabeth said, "In spite of his evident liking for her, he seems

ho trying to hold oil. Some­

times I can't make him out. Perhaps he does not want to marry, or thinks ne has BO chance." And after that came a climax—I think it was the very next letter. "DrJ Millit has put some one in chanre of his practice and has gone away. He aid not come to see us before he Went, and he~made no mention of going last time he was here. I do not know where he has gone, nor how long he will be aWav. Our dear May tries to look as if she (lid

not

care but I fear she is secret­

ly grieving.' The letter fell from my hands. It worrled'me terribly. To think of May loving a man who had perhaps deserted her—it was not to be borne. I knew what a sorrow' of that sort does to a young life—the desolation, nay, perhaps, the life-long misery it brings. And yet, if the man was a scoundrel! I could not believe that so pure a thing as May's love ooald cling to him.

The next morning brought a letter from May herself that showed only too plainly how things were. "Aunt Elisabeth is very, very kind to me," she said, "I would not leave her for the world, but I am so tired of Rome and of all the people in it.. 1 want to see you again, dear mother. I don't think 1 am very well, and I am not happy, darling. I long to go to you and feel your dear arms around me again."

Alice and Nina had gone into town early. I was alone with that poor little letter, feeling all the pain, all the sorrow that had suddenly come into my child's life—it needed no words to tell me. I sat stupifled, trying to decide what it would be best to do. Elizabeth was too delicate to come back to England before the March winds were over. Perhaps I could take one ot the other girls to her and bring May back. I felt as if she wanted her mother's heart to comfort her and give her strength.

I got up and put a log on the Are, for we nad not yet reconciled ourselves to the English fashion of burning coal, then walkea about the room, looking vacantly at the polished floor and all the pretty new things about the room. It was a lovoly morning the sun was shining down on the trim lawn and neat garden, the snow-drops were coming up in the corner bed. 1 thought of May, and of how pretty she would look in the summer time pottering about among the flowers, if she were only bright ana well. She had so often longed for an English garden. Then looking down the road, I noticed a, tall man a long way off. He was coming toward the house. As he came nearer I could see that he looked like a gentleman. He was tall and dark. He appeared to be about 30 years old, perhaps younger, and he was certainly handsome. He stopped before the gate, and for a moment nesitated, then he opened it and entered. I watched him coming al6ng the gravel walk by the lawn I saw him disappear under the porch and heard the bell ring. In some odd way he seemed to be familiar to me. The servant entered with a card. Before I took it I knew perfectly that was Dr. Millet's, and that a crisis was at hand—that in an hour's time May's future would be no mystery. The next moment he entered. I could not remember where I had seen him beforo, but he was not strange to me. He had a good face, clever and thoughtful he looked like a simple-hearted honest gentleman. There was something sad about the face, too, as if he had suffered much, or understood suffering. "Mrs. Standing?" and he came forward with a curiously eager smile, as if In some way he knew me. "Yes," I answered, looking at him again. Even his voice was half familiar, yet I could not remember frliere I had heard it before. "You do not know me," he went on. "I have Just arrived from Home. I know vour daughter and sister there, and I t&ought you would forgive me for coming—I conld not help It/' The last woi-ds were said to himself, and seemed to have escaped him. "I have heard of you," I said, Wont you sit down? I am glad to see you." For he stood looking at me in an ewer way, which I accounted for easily, but still It embarrassed me. "Did they ask you, or was it yoar own kindness that prompted you to come and tell me about them?" I asked, trying to put them at ease, for now that I nad seen him I was satisfied. Something in the tone of his voice, in the expression of his face, told me that he was not the man to win a girl's heart and throw it away and there was about him that which made me feel that the woman he loved would have little cau»e to fear anything that waa in him. A great deal to find out, perhaps, all in a few moments, and from looking at a man's face but there are some people whom just to sse is enough, and about whom your instincts are unfailing' "They did not ask me to come," he answered, in a low voice. "They did not even know that I was coming, though it was for this interview that I left Rome and hurried to England. I came trusting to your kindness to make my visit less difficult than it might me. He seemed overtaken by a great awkwardness, but I did not know what to say, and was silent. He went on suddenly, as if with a gasp: "1 wanted to see you very much, I have so ranch to say, though I am a stranger, or yon think me one and—and am afraid to begin. Your answer means so much to me. Then he loved the child! But there was something behind his words-eome obstacle, I was certain of that, some past to confess, something that made him doubtful of the fntnre. "Why are yon afraid?' I asked bnt for a moment or two he made no answer. I waited, looking at bim, wondering wain where before I had looked Into those grave, almost ssd eyes. "Do yon remember Thorns* he «ked alMmptly—"Thomas l»bh?"

I nearly jumped off my chair. Bat no. it coald oat be. Yes—but—" «I am Thomas," be said simply. nrod to dean vour knives and boots, and yon bought my mother a mangle. I never forgot your klndnewu I have

often luiifc.e.1 to thank you.' "Hut where have you been all these years?" I asked, still gasping with astonishment. "To many places.

jruui auuivoo* «w»ax*v»»j

Eave

art of the faclnatlon of his face. "I not spent any of it yet. My practice has been sufficient. I kept it in case—" He stopped, but still I went on looking at him as though I had been fascinated, thinking of the day when he had carried up the ooals and taught May to blow bubbles. I oould not help It, it was snobby of me if you like, but in my heart there was some pride. I know that he had come to ask me if he might try to win May for his wife. May, my pretty one, my queen, whom I would have thought too good for a king—he the boy who had blackened our shoes, whose mother had kept a mangle! He seemed to read mv thoughts like a letter. "Yes," 'he said, "I am tho boy who used to clean the knives and boots, and afterwards carried out newspapers every morning." "It doesn't matter In these days what aoy one has been," I said hesitatingly, ashamed that he should have divined my thoughts so well. "If she ever cares for me—It is too much to think of. too great a happiness —but if she does," he went on in a low

A VU oa o* *r thinking of the little face of long ago, and forgetting the man before me. "I am glad of that," be answered. "Do you remember my poor mother?" he went on, seeming as if he were determined I should realize all the past. "She kept a mangle and went out charing. She does not like me to remember it now, and Grade quarrels with me If I mention it." And he laughed the short, quick laugh of a man who has a sense of humor, but does not always betray it.

afraid. I had better say it at ofice,' ue omy obeause 11 was iua.v, wuom uuuuiu went on desperately: "but I did not have thought too good for the king of all want to see your daughter again. I have the earth. ..... been in love with her all my life. She Then I looked at the shoe that was still was a goddess to me—a queen. I never in Yiis hand, and thought how she had even areamed of hoping. met her clang to the banisters calling out goodagain all in a moment one night at Rome, by, of his upturned face—the little anxI was thinking of her and looked up, ious face—and the little grave voice, and she was tfiere. She did not know saying "I'll come back, ^fiss May.*me, she does not now but I knew her— Now he had oome. He was sitting there-I-did directly—though she was only five- opposite to me, asking me to give him when I saw her last?' leave to ask her to be his wife.

He hurried over the words quickly, as "Is it all right?" he asked, in a voice if he wished mo to know the gist of what that showed he could not bear my silence he had come to say as qtiickly as possi- any longer. "If you say no, I will go ble. awav, and never see her again, I could "Where is your mother?" I asked, not "bear to win her without your conthinking of the poor soul with tho Oorn-» sent—only speak. You are not hesitaish accent, carrying the skinny little ting because we were so poor, because baby in her arms, and of his father, as I there was a time when we wero starving, saw him first, a dyifig man, warming because his long tiny h&ads by-the fire in the -«No, no!" I interrupted, hating myempty house. self, and feeling my heart go out to him. "My mother does not keep a mangle 1 oould not say more—there was somenow," he said, with a short laugh. I thing choking*mo. The tears were comthink I would h^ve known him better if .ing-into my eyos. he had laughed. "She is rich, and lives "Then speak just one word. It is all near my sister, Who Is married to'a dia- right." I gave a little nod, for words mpnd merchant! in South Africa.. It had failed me. He got up and walked sounds terribly prosperous, does it not?" about the room, a groat Joy written on "But tell ine about yourself," I said, his face, and flashing from his eyes. "How is it that you went away Thomas "You trust me, you will really trust Lobb and came back Dr. Millet of Rome? It is too puzzling altogether." "I fdund my rioh uncle," he answered. "I remember tellingyou that my mother thought I might, and I did. One always finds a rich uncle In a story but I found mine in Melborne. He had married and lost both wife and child, and was j.ust going off to the diamond fields in South Africa. He took me in hand first, and was very good to me in his rough way. His ambition was to make me a gentleman but that was nature's business, perhaps. She has failed," he said, with a smile. "However, he put ine to school while he went off to the diamond fields, and in a few years came back with his fortune to fetch me. He was one of those men who are bound to make fortunes and to lose them from sheer carelessness, though he died too soon to lose his last one. He brought me to England and looked after me while I was at the hospital." "But how did you get to Rome?" I asked, for he had stopped as if ho could not go on without encouragement. "He took me there, or perhaps I took him, for we went together, partially because he said he wanted to see if I could really talk any language but my own after all the schooling for which he paid. At Rome there was a chance for another doctor, and there ultimately I settled down. Uncle Joe went back to Graham 1\wn and died." He stopped for a moment. "I wish I had been with him," he said in a low voice "but I was not." "Was ho good to your mother?" "He was good to every one in a rough way, sometimes that one reproached one's self later on for not bettor understanding. He was very good to my mother and to Grace, whom he also had educated. He became very great on education in his latter years, and used to say that money was thrown away on you unless you knew how to spend it." "How did you come to be called Millet?" I asked, putting off as long as possible the great business of his coming. I was so staggered, so taken aback at his proving to be Thomas. Moreover, there was only ono thing for me to do, and not forever be ashamed of myself, and I knew it. Yet I could not bring myself to do it heartily. "He left me some money, and wished me to take his name, which was very like the rich uncle in the story," he answered, with the fleeting smile that was

Do you remember the day I wished you

"iro yuu reuietuirci »«««-. myself without help. Now I am free from ait avwu)hvf hnw when 1 vm soil)ir off all pain nod wr*?new, and am iw« to dlo ail litth* hov without aoetinv

You were always good." "Was ir* be exclaimed. "I don't think so—but I will be. If she will only have me, If you and she will only put up with me. 1 love ber with all my heart. See what I have In my pocket. I brought it to show you." He pulled ont a little shoe with a note In the toe. "Do you remember how she dropped It on my bead?" he asked. I nodded, bnt could not "peak, for I was killing the lest little silly bit of pride left in my heart. The roan before me waa a gentleman, ten times more truly one than manv horn to be rich and Mile. How eould I be so foolish as to hesitate to give

my child to a good and honorable man ,*4, whom I knew she loved? 1^ have also hated myselM"or-my conduct' that ^ay. |§g I think perhaps if it had been any other y'

I was in England person's shoes he had blackened, I should

ine?" he said, stopping before me. "Yes, dear," I answered, "I will trust you." It seemed as if he could not hear the words calmly. He strode across the room, then came back and stood before me again. "I shall never be good enough for her —nover," he said, with a joyous laugh, "never at my best and perhaps she wont look at me. I am terribly afraid of that. Do yon think there is any chance for me?" "I don't know," I answered, for I wan not going to betray my child's secret. "Something deep down in my heart tells me that there is," he said, simply. "Try to frighten myself as I will, I feel that she is the meaning of life to me. Let me go!' ho exclaimed suddenly. "I want to be alone and walk the streets until the train starts. I cannot stay in a room any longer. I shall be in Rome the day after to-morrow, and will telegraph."*' He took my hands in both his, and looked at me tenderly. "I remember the day you came to see us first," he said "my father was sitting over the fire and how glad we used to be when the roast mutton came. You always sent enough for us all," ho laughed. "God bless you, dear mother!" he added and lifting my hands, kissed them both. "Wish me good luck, when I ask my darling if she loves me." "I do—I will, with all my heart!" I answered.

The telegram came two days later: "From your son Thomas and yonr daughter May—our best lovo to all. We aro very happy."

And they are very happy still, and will be all their lives. Ho llvos in England now, and his name is well known. May and I aro very proud of him. The other girls are both married, too. One married tho son ot a bishop but I fear it is not a very happy marriage. Nina, the youngest, is a soldiers wife, as I was, and quakes whenever France is arrogant, or Germany buys anew gun, and thinks there will be war to-morrow morning. He is a good fellow, but he is not like Thomas. My mother-in-law is still alive and she is the only person in the family who does not know our romanoe. She is a stern old lady, proud of hor descent from the Crauford-Greys, and she keeps me in order still, though I have married daughters of ray own. The amusing part of it Is that she is very proud of Thomas and says it is odd that tho oolonies should have produced so perfect a gentleman. It was only the other day that she sent him most of her late husband's books for, she said, he was the only man in the family who would really appreciate them.

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voice, "perhaps sho will be proud of It, as I am. It was honest work," he said in a stubborn voice, "and pleasant, too,' he added gaily. "If I had made my own position, 1 should be a proud man, for, being a doctor is, of course, a better thing than carrying out papers but, as Coleman,schr. Weymoth, plying it is, all the credit goes to the rich ancle, Atlantic City and N. Y., had and is none of mine." I was silent, try- been troubled with a couch so that he ing to remember who the well-known

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to sea. a poor little boy witnout ajwuny, Bitter* for having renewed my vouth save the present you had given me, yon an1 amoved completely all disease and pain. kissed me just as if I bad been yoar own Try a bottle, only cents, at Cook, Belie and eon? It has been my wild dream that Loury's Droit store. some day I should be really yoar son— .nn tot St Mm* tftis?" hs Baked won't you let it oome true? r' be asked eagerly, and leaning forward be tried to to see my face better, But I oould not wring an answer from myself. "Does site know?" I asked. "Does «be know anything about this? —that I am Thomas? No, nothing. That I Jove her? I think yes. I would not speak to ber until I had seen you, and told you, and perhaps—" "That was like you. Thomas," I said. The old name came naturally to my lips.

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