Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 18, Number 18, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 22 October 1887 — Page 2

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-,•«* $

THEJMAILj

A PAPKU

FOR THE

PEOPLE,

fCOI'YIJlUHTBD.}

I must RO home first." "1 v. iJl £o with you and wo can talk cn the way, and I can tell you all Hint has happened •and till that we hoi* ." "ls'o, Guanine, I shall bo with my mother all day, and at ni^ht 1 must go bar!: to Tar is.

Bcliovo mo, my dear Suzanne, dourer than life, that 1 am not deceiving you." "Toll mo tho truth and 1 will, ovon if it tosti my lifo." "r uiaiuie, I pray you do not question me. I can only Hay our happiness Is destroyed. Our nuirrlngG ertn never tako placo. It would IKJ tho greatest misery that ever fell upon two p-oplo." "A great misery! It is but a little while that you pretended to think it a great happiness. I bavo U-en told tbat men ai-e Hckle. I Jknow it now." "Hut oh! I)cst l»oloved of women, I am not •changed. I shall never change, but a new sorrow has overshadowed us, and it is one which can never lift, I pray you do not ask mo to say more my heart is broken." "I believe you. So, then, it is a secret between us which you will not tell me, or cannot

He lowered his bead. '•And this* secrot," she continued, "is not yours, as initio was not mine. Thero must be, turn, something of that sort that forces you to keep up before ine a like silence, and tbr.t •stains the honor of some one of your fomi'y.

I see you cannot answer, and that from palo you now blush red. Ilavo I divined?" He joined his bands in agony and held them out to her in muto supplication. "Very well, Raymond. Now it is my time to say, whatever the shame, whatever tho dishonor, I lovo you, and shall still bo proud to hear your name. You did not cast me off when you learned the full measure of my woes. Tell me, then, Raymond, tell mo your secret. You are too noble and loo proud, so that this dishonor cannot be your own, but 1 must bear, Raymond, just as you heard me, so that I may consent or refuse. Do YOU tlunk I would refuse?" "i\ not ask. Do not wish to know, and if you diil I should to the most unhappy of jncn. It is?, nlas! useless." "Raymond, are you tired of me, and is this subtorfugof Please say so, if it ia, though I am willing, God knows, to suffer anything for vou ami with you. I do not wish you to feci that I am of the kind that urges their love upon another." "This is more than cruel! My life, my lovo and my soul's idolatry nro given to you, and you only do I or shall I over love." "Then since you lovo mo, do not plunge my whole lifo in one perpetual mourning. Leave me a little hopo if you do not wish wo to die/' "Adieu, Susanne, my precious loveP ^Raymond, pray you reconsidcr. Keep your secret looked ia your heart I will never ask it., never, I swear. I will never think of it. Our happiness will le possible again. Ob, Raymond, do not rofu«\ If you knew liow ma-ay tears I have wept in my lonely lifo since my childhood, and how much I want to know what peace ami happiness arc."

Tho poor child had Raymond's hand and she lifted it to her lips and kissed tho fingers on® by one. Her sweet word* came to bis crts* liko distant music, and his whole being thrilled at that tender caress but the sweeter it wna tho more was it his duty to leave her ami fly. Aud his happiness and hers could be secured so very easHv. Ho had but to kwp $ awful secret and open his arms to bevoma the husband of the woman lie loved, lie had bat to say on* word, r.nd be made no sound or gesture, for at moment he scented to see to one flaab of light that wbob terrible drama. And his soul revolted at Ura thought of his wife, it he con•Mtifcd, b~ing the daughter of bis mother's victim. Ho questioned Ida ca. no more, for bo koew bo could not jxiurl such aa abomin ^ui.

Raymon d)** back and with a *.:—«»? a go of 1 started and ran away from bw and t»-u on a a poor girl, ht. out bar ka-.uk hi. i-«-treatmg figure, but h« wm A wben »t»e could are hu. uomorc atw feli stvoo un^ upon the &o«i .i if he had taken br 1 with lum. Sbo iiy thus life* for an hour, ami vtbm she htr •efwe Cttqpl ..f to 1 *^1, wherv u...:«lluat forntdkv,' i.ek a::J ftilVir. \Yhen laroqtM retnnwd al ^sht he fr ..rd it I fever. Tba |faysidau orthtvJ. and ±uA that h«fearedshoIhuI *u(lercd -.n meatnl shock.

Thaf in h«r deSMam th* fatter b«nl .in disjcriiitHi e.- oosh to inform him that Rayiaand ,. abandoned |Kr) ud be detarmioed hav« an cspbu-

'A

,4 S3

I

Roger Laroque.

Adnptc' and Tranutated from the French of Jnlea Mary-

lit ouvi- IIAUPI:R.

byun in The Mail Aug. 27.]

cnAicrr. ::VII.

Suzanuo sprer.- fcr.rjrrd, her ebeelza In a glow, her eyes and her Ixr-uty to dazzling Uiat the porr voun^ man stood as if rooted to tho spot, incapable of rpeech or movement "I SVC y« u! yc:i cannot hldo from npf'

An then suddenly, from nr:r." i:a!c3nable presea'.hacilt of trouble, l:or chccks grew pale, h-r sndlo faded rml her lovely violet ores fiul-'cncil. He hnl to &bow himself, to l.-y in b« remained carious. "ILayi IOTKV' said sue, "someth.'us. lias happened. V.'h:.t Is itf' '•I ar- ycu, you r.:x ra!s:n!.cn.:' said ho, ta!:ia~ hor band* mul p"es*in them to lite lips. "Raymond." she ccr'.Inucd gravely, "I liavo Fcmcthing to lei you, which will, I liopo. 1 lie is:e *.:s of coijsolklatiiift orr hnp.1'-

Tt». i.* happiness! Raymond sighed. "Yna ace," fhe continued, "my father has -also !)"c:i searching ft:* t's? real criminal, nnl bo thi-,i:.B, with iaui reason, tbat fat ha. di&covers I lii'j wretch. if that proves true, wo are live to avow our h-vc.

Come with mo to KG father tcforo yr:i £o homo. II® will lie BO glud to rce you. Come, let. hurry. Then afterward we will ,o :av.l toil tin rp-xl now3to your mother, who will Ikj s,o happy, too, Raymond—your mother, whom I !(,»•«• so well already."

Hi* mother! Ho withdrew his orm from t.ho light constraint of ber hand, and then Rnzrm: saw what she had not noticed before, that bo was deathly pale and won, and that be could not look her ia tlio eyes. "In heaven's namo what has happened to render you li!:e this?" said she, breathless with fear. -"Notijin '." ""Ilivih, not say tbat. It is not true. I -am afraid some now misery awaits U3. I pray you toil mo." "I cannot £o to your houso now, Suzanne.

tion with him, and to that end drove over to Meridou farm, and asked to Bee Raymond alone. "You wish to speak to me, sir?" said Raymond. "Yes, M. Do SToirviDei My daughter is dangerously ill, and in her delirium she let escapo her cuougii to convince me that though thought your marriage would soon take placo, you suddenly withdraw your promise. Was that done on account of my having been adjudged ,T«iilty of murder?" "No, aud I know that in spite of that yon Trero the most honest and loyal man in the world, c:id I know tbat you havo been very unhappy." "My daughter loves yon and will die if you desert he.*. In rcmombrance of the friendship xrlnch united your father and me, will you tell me why you do this! Why your sadden change?" "Alas! r.ir, when I asked for the honor of her ar hand I did not kuow—that— that" "I was an escaped convict?" "A convict! That, sir, did yon honor mder tbo circumstances." "Tbeu what do you mean?" "Tliat—that you had been my mother's lover."

Roger closed his eyes and shuddered, and bowed his bead in shame. "You invoko the friendship which existed between r.y futherand you. That friendship was th« death of my father. Can you deny it?" 7 "I cannot we were boili culpable once, but J, ut lca3t. have been atrociously punished. Ono word from your mother would have saved me, but she would list say it, and I could uot. I havo paid, God knor/s, in tears .".ad groans for my wrong. But all that i3 part und gone. Tho thing to consider now is the happiness of my child, and yours, if you lovo hor, ns I have been led to suppose. Let your union repair tho past." "No," said Raymond. "It is impossible." "Yen do not lovo her then 7" "God only knows how well I do." "Thcro must bo. then, another i-cason besides the yon have cited. It is tbat which governs your conduct. Will you tell mcf "Never! !.I Laroque, you see how I sufferSparo me, pity me!" "Pityf I lavo you or yours bad tiny for me? Think of that poor, innocent child who will die. Who of us three is to be the most pitied?"

Raymond gave a tearless sob.

4

*1

"It is to kill her as surely as if you struck ber with a knife. You shall be tho first to hear of ber death!" and with theso woi-ds the unhappy man left the room. In tho garden ho met Julia, and in taking leave of her he •aid: "Madame, Raymond ar.d Suzanne love each other. Your son has given her up without explanation, and my daughter is dying. Save her. madume."

And without further words he drove hurriedly away, leaving Julia a prey to perplexity aud fear. Why had Raymond voluntarily renounced his happiness? What had happened? She resolved to question him as to this new phase of affairs, and she went to him as ho sat with his head bowed upon his arms by a table. As he heard her, ho rose and, taking a book, wen* and sat down by the open window, and he silently uerved himself for the grave explanation that soon must take place between them, and he was afraid. He had borne tho reproachos of Laroque. the grief of Suzanne, nnd now it was his mother's turn. He was to hear her questions and answer them. Ho was to witness her flushes of Bliame, ber tears. His motherl And this was to como to her through him, her best loved son, who had thus to becomo her judge, it was afternoon and already the shadows weiu lengthening, and Raymond felt glad that darkness would soon fall upon them and so ina! his task a little easier. He maintained Ptleuce until he felt her soft hand fall upon bis shoulder. "You are sad and preoccupied, my son. Whut troubles you?" "Nothing," said ho hoarsely, feeling him:srlf, after all. incapable of bringing about what ho knew must take place.

She sighed as she said: "My poor boy, it is not easy for you to tell a lie. Do uot try it with me. M. Forney told me j'ou refused tho hand of Suzanne. You do not answer. It is truo then?"

He bowed his head. "AVhy this strango and suddeu chauge? I have right to know. Your duty is to tell •tne." "I shall not answer." "What reproach can you bring against that pure nnd noble girl?" "Nothing, nothing!" "Her lather then?" "Nor him, either, poor unhappy man!" "Then I eannot understand you at all. Why this mystery! Speak. I command you. Have you any reproach to make against me, your mother, who has loved you sol"

She had said this lost, obeying some occult power, and when she had uttered the words she Ftood breathless waiting his answer. What if her past was known! Why had she said that? "You wish to know all, motherf "I do, for I know there niust be some supreme reason for this inexplicable conduct on our part."

He gathered his remaining strength, and then said slowly: "There i3 a grave secret in M. Forney's life. His name i* not Forney, but it hides another which is known to you, and which was dishonored."

Vil

"Dishonored, you say I" -CSpsffS "Yes, by an infamous condemnation. Forhi an escaped convict, condemned for v- assinatioa to hard labor for life in New Caledonia, from whence he cscaped to' An. "ca."

Sl.e had been standing, but now fell into a chair, almost fainting. "His name, his re*l namefsho cried in a statnfrling voice.

4

"U ^tduroqne, my father* friend I" She had kuevYu what he was going to say before b* rron^uaoed Ura words. But a wild hope n.ii!r ask. Perhaps he dkl not know all, but when lira beard those words, uttered with hardness, she felt that nothing wa h: from hereon. Slw wa? so white that one would have said she bad a secret -rrr.r.l from which every drop of her life itv i\ flowed. Her sou dared not look at 1 ber, SUU she did uot faint, hot tried to overher itation, aud lie for his sake, for :=•.» cuuhl ii-1 bear to let bim behave aU bo knrtW. "W1" ye*, 1 belktve I do remember the fact. Roger Lnn the wixstch, lis fciilc:! aiaoa rob huu,a m—axtd the—the ^r u(^BkT r.'r wattoo much for! tur iathor. v.: wtm hi vmp feeds' iienlth. Rati ru ha tbat thb Eager -i siw-* h" ouce, aud to his honor! lim t. ..a'-i-nid the case. Boi for that «9aliV®today.1*

It .yr- id »ed aad said doidf, tawi^isr fuii «n the«yes, "Too see .-v niiv thisuMOTi*£«caiUiOttahe Iiac*." I

u\t%

jm\ I sea A coavictVi dauglrier.

Oi wins* you ccuid noi

1M expected to think

of it now.*1 'Of ccann not,'" answered h» ht a nn«g«i.r17.W. ji-4. He knevr.DoUiiag then bat hv. "alio gbdthat sho forgottobe ':!-WB «t tbo fact tbat this »xai she had not Imown It She feit

tranquilized and relieved, and gave a long sigh. She bad come so near the catastrophe. "My poor boyF said sfea. "My dearest sonP

But Raymond continued: "Roger Laroque was condemned, but do you believe he was guilty F* "Certainly. Your father tried in vain to save bim, aud besides be avowed his crime, which perhaps you do not know." "I repeat my question: Do you believe him guilty "You ask a strango question. I have already answei-cd." "Very well I tell you bo is innocent." "How do you know? All convicted criminals say they are iunocent. Everybody knows that."

He rose brusquely and walked back aotf forth two or throe times, and. then said bitterly, looking at her with a hard and penet: ating glance: "Ah, mother, mother, tako earel Do not perjure yourself." "My poor sou, you must suffer greatly to. speak so cruelly to me.". "I neither want nor need your pity.* "Raymond, I pardon you." ~"Nor do I want your pardon."" "Great-God!' \*J., "Rogui- Larocpjo is mnocenfcj and it is tiwC that ignomiuy which forbids me to-wed bit* daughter." "How can you certify to his innocence!" "A woman played a part in this frightful drama. Do you hear, mother—a woiuauf'

Tho guilty mother began again to' tremble' violently. She stammered: _v "I bear, my sou." "A woman whom Laroque would not """*1 though in namiug her he might have saved himself." "Romance." "Truth! This woman had borrowed.money from him and bad been his—mistress and to condemn him, to be revenged, she gave him this money. Of courso she could uot have done this alone, and she had an accomplice a tool, named Mathias Zuber,, otherwise known as Luversan." "How was this discovered asked £.ker in the same strange voice, which seemed to her not to be her own, but some mechanical contrivance that fpoko for her. "By Laroque, after all these years.* "And ho has brought them to justice, tbdse two guilty ones?" "Not yet, but he will in a few days." "This—this woman does fce think lier

rT"""

does not know how far. Ho knows

that she gavo him tho money. He knows nothing of her relations with Luverpin nor the vengeance, which I do. Tho letter which I found in my father's pocket was proof. "The letter?" "Yes, the anonymous letter, which revealed"—— ,•

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EV^HSTING MAIL.

1

"What? what!" "Oh, a mere nothing. It only said that the woman who gave Laroque the mone}*, who had been a faithless wife, an unworthy mother, was—was— Oh, I cannot say it!" "Who, who, Raymondt You see I cannot understand. My poor head is so confused. Did I know her! Was she a friend of ours, of Lueien'sf" "Tbo woman »&s you, Julia De Noirville, my mother. You!" "Ihenryou. But what a singular history! What a romance. Yes, a romance. If it were not so terrible, I could laugh. I do laugh, ha! ha! You hear me laugh, Raymond." "So you deny it!" "Why not, since it is not true! This is a calumnV, Raymond, an infamous calmnuy and you believe it, against your mother. You come here aud make a scene instead of coming to show mo this ridiculous kffair that. wt might both laugh over it Do you know I am almost vexed wiih you, you naughty boy?"

Raymond was so ashamed for her that he hid his face. "Aud you say nothing, instead of asking my pardon. You area wicked aud ungrateful son, for you havo nothing to reproach me with. 1 have been tender aud good to you and have always loved you with four fold uifection, even so much that I scarcely hud any left for your brother." "So you still dony!" "Unhappy child! Why should I deny such an atrocious accusation? I even ought not listen to you, but I cannot let you believe so Itorrible a thing."

Raymond took the accusing letter from his pocket and gave it to her. She tried to read it. Then he said coldly: "Have you read it?" "Oh, my poor boy, I, your mother!" Then she continued wildly: "I must tell you. There is no word of that true. It was a man's vengeance, not a woman's. That man tried to make me love him" "Who? Laroque?"' "No, the other, Luversan." "You just pretended not to know him?" "I lied, I did know him; he avowed his love; he was violent, brutal, capable of anything, and I was afraid of him, but I repulsed him and he kept his word and revenged himself, as you can see, since your father died believing me guilty." "Falsehoods! Falsehoods! Do you think my father would have believed so base an accusation, an anonymous one, too, had he not had other reasons? No, he remembered, and he was convinced and died without having been able to curse you." "Raymond! what wild imagination has token possession of you! Return to your mother! You arc frightful, with your horrid stories." "Mother, father had written things which [s]how me that he had suspected." "It is false! I tell you, false! How you slander in accusing your mother. Do you think of that, Raymond?" "And that is not all, mother. Do you remember the day I showed you a photograph, on the back of which were the dates of Roger Laroque's arrest and condemnation, and also the day of Larouette's murder and the hour? You told me then a story which might have accounted for all that, but that I discovered beyond a doubt that that was Roger Laroque's photograph. Oh, you were well revenged. You pierced the photograph even as you pierced the original's heart."

She knew now she was lost.. She had even no strength left to frame new lies, and she abandoned herself and threw herself upon the fioor, where she writhed is sobs and gasping groans, bat uo tears came to relieve ber. She crawled to his knees, and gasped: "My son, my son, do not cone me. Pardon me. You are on the threshold of lifo and know nothing of its passions. I avow you were not deceived. You know the truth, hat oh! do not otm mo for it It would be borribfo from you, whom I have so loved. Oh, Raymond, my son, mm how I supplicate you. I have repented so bitterly. Jf I ccold have undone the past bat I am only woman, and 1 could not deliver myself up to Justice, on account of my children. One must not demand of mothers more than they can da As soon as the crime was done I would wttlingly have died, bat I loved ycu so wdH that I hushed my caascicnce sod hoped that bj an ansiere and devoted mother* life I might buy my pardon. But chastisement has overtaken me, and alas, by the band of my dearest ch&L "What wou2»l you have tne dor she continued. "Raymond, soon—vwryeuan—I shall be no longer with yoa, for I fieri my death epi'^ »»sliin

"And 1 only wish to die,7. old Raymond. "Aiid your i: a:\ iage

uHow

can you speak of it now? How can

the daughter of Roger the Shameful mate with the son of her who condemned him to that unmerited shameF "Another victim another one's lifo upon asy conscience. Oh, Godr how many! Larouette, Ilejuietto, Lucien. Suzanne Roger, too, for ho will die of grief for his child 1" cried she, wringing ber bauds

44Add

my name, too, mother,, fior without

her I havo no life." "Oh, Raymond,, kill moi: Ciush- me like venenious reptile. Kill me, kill uieP

SgSsasassn *•. fcfl

"Oh, Raymondi, kill me." ®msh mr And with, theso last words Shelby prono opon tho floor as if dead.. Raymond placed ber in a chair and sprinkled water in hcr fnce, and then when she-began to roviive ho rushed to the woods to wrest lo with his misery alone. All this whilo tbat lie was with Bis mother, and going through this psfnfulscanev there had been an'unseen auditor, who heard every woi-d, and that wqs Pieirevwhocroucltod dazed and stricken bahind tho portiere. Without wishing to he had surprised these- terrible secrets, and hero too, tor tho first time, ho beard of Raymond's love for Suzanne. He rose feebly and erapt to. his own room, and throw himself oa the eoa^b with a groan, and tried to range iji his mind the things be hud beard.' But.all was a confuscd mass of sound and sense: Alter awhile his mother caino to his room...'She had never dono so before. Was it thai, her woman's heart cried out for some one to love her, to- believe in her? "My sora* I have come to say good night. I hope, Pierre, that I have always been a good mother to yoa."' "Yon have always been kind and indulgent and full eif affection." "Youi area good son, Pierre but I feel tonight as if I had not loved you as tenderly as you have always deserved. And if 1 havo ever made you feel tbat I bave loved your brother better than you, I pray you pardon me for it, above all, to-night." "\Aiul why to-night more than any other time!" "Because I feel very tired and very ill, ar.d I feel that I have not long to live, and I do not wish, after I am gone, that you think I did not lovo you." "If you are not well, mother, we will go away soinewhwe. A change perhaps would do you good. I will see the doctor to-mor row." "No, dear, I do not wish to leave here. Now I shall go to bed but, Pierre, before I go I want to hear you say, 'I pardon you.'" "I havo nothing to pardon." 'jjfcw the words, my son say them." ''Bit, mother" "Ah, you refuse you are jealous still of the affection I havo for Raymond. Oh, my son, I feel to-night that you are even dearer to me than he, und it is for that that 1 beg your pardon."

But Pierre had lowered his eyes and stood cold and rigid, making no sign, and sho left him, scarcely uble to drag herself along, and his heart melted at the sight of her feebleness and ho went and hustained her to her room. When they were there she said, again trying so hard to smile: "oo, then, my son will not pardon his mother!" "I cannot I" cried ho "I cannot. I heard all. I kuow all." "Ah!" said she, simply then she burst into a laugh so harsh and st: ango that he started and cried: -k "Mother! Motherl" "Mother, mother oh, yes, mother^' said she, shaking her head, but still laughing with that awful strident sound. Suddenly she stopped, and her head fell forward and ber nrnvs hung limply down each side tho chair. "Great Gotll"

Even to his inexperienced eyes this was death, and he rang and iu haste sent for Raymond and a doctor, and thsn returned and with the aid of the servants got her into bed, where she lay dying. When Raymond heard 3be gun shots he kuew at onco it was a note of alarm, ns that was their method of communication .when either wgtShe forest and was wanted at home. Ho&Wilicd there, and fouud his mother aftpi^)itly ad, though she revived and said feebly "Raymond, Raymond, my best loved son, will you do me one last favor! Go to Roger and tell him I am dying, and briug him here. I cannot face God without his pardon. Bring him, oh, Raymond, and Pierre will stay with me. Dear, noble Pierre, whom I never half appreciated. Go, my son, iu Coil's name."

Raymond rode as for life to tin White House and told Roger, who looked at him coolly and said: "And Suzanne! Am I to leave this innocent child to die aiooe while I go to the bedside of that guilty woman!" "Let me watch beside her. My mother must not die without your pardon she has mine, GoJ know?. Go to her end let me watch by this dear one whose life is so precious to us all."

Roger clnnped his hand warmly, and without another word led him to Suzanne's bedside, saying to the nurse: "This is ber promised husband. I, ber father, authorize bim to stay here until my return.r And be rare away like the wind, leaving Raymond on bis knees by Suzanne, holding ber burning bands in one of his, whiles with the other he softly rubbed her forehead, which felt like fire under bis touch. She grew calmer and qnkber, and after a while the restless toeangs ceased and she fell into a gentle slumber, and the tense, dra look about her brow and month relaxed. He did not move or scsareely breathe as be knelt there, his whole soul melting into the love and sorrow lie felt for ber blighted youth. And whether he infused something at his own young life and strength into ber or absorbed by force of will or that occult science which we call magnetism, tbe fever which bad so sapped ber youth and strength, we know not, bet as the hours went by she grew easier and belter, and when morning came at last she opened ber eyes in reason again.

In the meantime Roger rode toward the dying woman as fast as bis bone coold go. Julia listened, listened, hot no sound of bones' feet broke tbe stiOnesB of the night, aal sbe writhed ia bar agony as "he cried: "fit will not come. He will not pardon me. Pierre, I pray yoa, go to the window. Do yon hear them? Go down inthecoort yard and see if ther ars coming Quick,

Pierre! I cannot see.. They will, bo too late. Oh, why do they not come, and Raymond! He did uot stay for that one little weped that might havo soothed my dying bed.. Ho did not pardon his unhappy mother."

Pierre went and looked. He looked several times, but they did not come. "He will not come!" cried Julia in agony, and already her features took on that awful pallor of tho dsad, when a horse's hoofs were beard. "One, only one," she whispered. "He will not forgive. Oh,. Pierre, Raymond!"

Steps canto rapidlynp the stairs, but just as the door opened and Roger Laroque stepped in, Julia drew her last breath, and it was before her inanimate corpse th^t he knelt, and tbeu, when they told bim sho was doad, he bent over that marble forehead and kissed it with lips almost as white, saying: "God forgive mo as 1 do you, Julia!"

[TO BX COSTmiiED.1 BRILLIANTS.

To each his sufferings all ore-men Condemned alike to groan The tender for another'a-pain, The unfeeling forhis own. —Gray. The settled mind is freo from fortune's power. They need not fear who look uot up aloft But they that cliiubo are earefuil every hower, For, when they fali, they light not very soft. —Thomas Churchyard.

He who has a thousand friends lias aot a friend tc spare. And he who has one enemy, shall meet him every* wliere. AlbBea Abu Taleb.

The foolish, ugly, doll, impertinent, Are with their persons and their parts content. Nor is that all .so odd .a ti:in£.ls.uian, lie most would ItawhatJeasbhe should or can. —Ow^reve.

The Mortgage on j3fy

[Octave Thnnet in Scribner's Magazine.! There are few mora beautiful sights than an Arkansas forest in late February I mean a forest iu the river bottoms,, where every hollow is a cypress-brake. Prickly points of bamboo-brier make a. kind of green hatching, like shadows in. an etching, for a little space above the wet ground, between the great trees. Utterly bare one- the tree-branches, save a few misty shiceds clinging to the cypres8 tops,.a few bunches of mistletoeoil the-sycamores* or a gleam of liollyleaves in Uie thieket but scarlet berriQU. flicker tm purpl© liutbs. the cane grow.» a fresher gree*s and, in February,.ned shoots will be decking the maple-twjgs,. there- wttili be- ribbons of weeds which glitter liJe jewels, floating unden- the pools-ofi water and ferns waving abowe, while the taoss paints the silvery baark of sycainMNreA, white oaks, and gum. teees on the- north side as high as the orantrisee, and higher, with an uncomparabljp soft and vivid green. The white tuisnks show tbe brighter for their gray tops, and for that background everywhere of innumerable shades of gray andl purple shell-red which the blurred lines of twigs and branches made against the hortaton. Such a forest is iu my mind now. What an effect cf fantastic and daiuty magnificence the moss and the water and the shining trees produce! The dead trunks are dazzling white, the others have the lustrous has» of silver it is not a real forest, it is a picture In an old mi88al illustrated in silverand green. Yet beautiful as it is, there i« something weird and dreary in its bea*ty—in those shadowy pools of water masked by the tangle of brier and cane in those tall trees that grow so thickly, and grow, I know, Just as thickly lor uncounted miles 'fii the shadows awl mists wbioh aro instead of foliage in the red streaks on tbe blunt edges of tbe cypress roots and the stains on the girdlea gum trees as if every blow of the axe had drawn blood—there is a touoh of the sinister, even, and it would not be hard to .:onjure up a tnediajval devil or two behind such monstrous growths as those cypress "knees."

Through this forest winds a rude road, winding because of the river, for tbtwe red smears lo tho right are willow branches which mark the course of the Black liver. On the February day that I recall, one-armed man was driving a pair of stout horses to an open spring wagon, the kind of wagon called, in Ar kansas, "a hack." The wagon was new and the harness had none of tho ropes, odd chains, or old straps apt to garnish harness on a plantation. The driver, also, though wearing nothing better than faded gray flannel shirt, jean overalls, aud rubber boots, was clean and even tidy iu his appearance. Ilis broa^ shoulders and long back promised a framo oj unusual height, should he straighten himself up, instead of slouching forward uutil his uat rim and its fringe of black curls made a semicircle between his shoulders. Tho reins wero about his neck, and ho guided his horses with his one hand. For all his empty sleeve, Jefl Griffln was the best driver "in the bottom." At tae same time, hia elbow steadied the object on his knees. This was carefully wrapped iu a piece of that bagging which is used for cotton bales. Presently he checked his horses, to very gently remove the wrappings, bending over them a plain, kind, tear-st*ined face. He was looking at a little coilln. It was simply made, yet in a workmanlike fashion, too, and was painted'white, with silver nails and handles. "Ain tit beancherfull" be murmured: "it mougbt rouse *er!" "Howdy, Mist' Griffln," called a voice from the road side, with those mellow Intonations which aro as much the property of a black throat as the color of its skin. "Kin ye gimme lift fur'# de twurn?"

Griffin perceived that he was abreast of an old negro, on foot, carrying a bag of meal on his shoulder. He knew him Uncle Nate, who worked on the Widow Brand's farm. It was inevitable, according to the customs of the country, thet Jetf should lot the o$d man climb into tbe wagon. "Ben downier de Bend," said he, settling himself comfortably on the back seat "my ole woman ben rorin' an' chargin' fur mo' Meal. Cadn't cotcb dat fool mewl hed tn gether de bag on my wether* an* walk. Whut ye got dar, Mist Griffln? Looks like—Jo' de Lawd. hit's a coffin!" "Hit's far—fnr little Bulab," said Griffin, choking. "Not Cap Bulah's baby! My Lawd, ain'tdat too bad? W y, I seen de"Ei!er" a-layin at de landin' dis ev'nin' w'en I come bv. An* Oap*n Bnlah, don* she be taklti' on turrible?" "She kep' walkin' the floor with it ftll la»' night, long'# It lived. Never made a lisp er complaint. Done anything th doctor commanded, an* all her word waa, 'Doctor, don* let 'er stiller!' but w'en she «een doctor war doln' hi* bestmost, she never said nary nuther word. Looked like she wudnt binder im a-frettin'. She are mighty fair-minded, Cap'n Bulab, Nate." "Is so," agreed Nate, sympathetically, "but what a sight er turbbel she done bah fust de cap'n, an' now de onlies* chile she got dyin' of. Wan hit sick long, sah?" "On'y two days. *T hed erowp." "Dey all en stoppin' ter yo' house •ence de boat tied up fur ter bab de b'iler

-flk» ir'

"Yes. Tho baby b'en sorter weaklylike all winter, Bulah, she war iniohty timid.of her—but didn't do no good. "Looks like," said Uncle Nate ."sut'nly de ways er. de Lawd is dark, an' wouns cay n't git round 'em, nohow.. Now,, dor's dat ar baby de mudder leff ter de stoJ las' Thewsday, ye lieered on't?" Griffln shook-his head. "By gum,, ain't datcuee! W'y, twar dat ar Headlighte's* dey calls 'er, kase of dein big /eery eyes' er hern. Tall woman he knowed er,, picked cotton fur dey all at de Bend. Feared ter set a heap er store by de little: trick,* too but she taken up with a» mover, an! he p'intedly swore dat w'en,' he got married ho didn't warn no boot. So Headlights she put de baby unner de counter an' lit out an' dey bofe dono gone. Mist' Frank, he clerks ter de sto'i now, an' he fotched debaby home tor hi*. maw fur.ter keep twel somebudv'd.want. hit. An' dar dat baby is, eatin' hearty, dat his own mudder don' keer to keep an' darVCap'n Bulah a-mournin' an' refusing ter. be comfurted, like dat woman in de Soriptor—I disrembers her name. Dat's what tries de fait', mo' ye studies on hit*, mo' ye tries, JDarfur, Luwd„ 'lighten.we all's understanding furwe's. up peart like de grass, an' en de mawnin' we's p'intedly cut down." Here the

strmm, of Uncle Nate'a oonsolations, meandered into the safe channel of bis

prayers- (Uncle Nate had a gift} andl flowed, placidly on for awhile, Griffin,not.hearing a word.

The latter's thoughts, took thein own/ dreary way, in vagrant,, unuttered* sen*. tences:. "She's rockin' in.the little-redK rocker, sides the bed. She done hilt Bulah en. her arms ever sence she dress- ,. ed hen- Sho are a-holdin! 'ar now. Shei ainlt, cried, nur wept, nur spoke, jes'^ sets-thac a-rockln' her. baby an' looking .. at.its-face. Oh, Bulah, won'ye let.no-. budy holp yo? Hit's pore little bans' a-thangin' down—my Lord, how colo 'tis! Qh,.pore little Bulah, pore little Bulah 1 won.' ye lemuiecyar the baby a spell?" —hi» thoughts had gone back to tho horrible night just past he was pleading. -with-the poor mother, again—Ye'll shoro .drop. ye cayn't keep up that-away! 'Letuiiae take 'or 1 kin make out Mth one laran. I done cvared. 'eraheap. 'Tain't •no gpod talkin'—she don'yere me. Ob, Bulah, she don' have-no more pain the Load taken'er outen.iit now. LetS'leeny take 'er you lay drnvn. Don! ory so, S'leeny, mebbe it frets er to hour.-us .we kii» cry out doors

Now it was tho- doctor's voiae spoak:itHg: "You must rouse hersomoliow .she 11 die orgo craey if you don t," "Rouse her? Ltwrd God! how kin I, -, we'n I cayn't make her hear me? I vvisht it be'n me-siiddier the baby, Bulah I b'en prayln' all night ter, tho Lord, ter take me sttddier her. Won'ye jes' liftyo' head, Bulah, an'try ter. listiii? It's Seff talkin/ ter ye! Ye know how Jeff alius thought a heap er yo—naw, naw, ye neveu kin know what I thought er ye! Never ye mill' what I say,.honey

I cayu't b'ar ter see yo settin.' Uiat away,. an'I say quar things. Do, ye hear moBulah? Ohi, Lord God!" He remembered so vividly just how useless his. efforts were- that he groaned aloud.

Uncle Nate stopped shorts "I WUB, rgittiu' everythin' but my trubbel, Nate," said Gr.idRu "wiw y© sayin' suithiu'?" ••1 wuz. jes' speakin' 'bout dat ar babyj, sab savin' 'twar a year'u hart' ole, jesW' "Yes the baby —jes' seventeen months," said Griffln,, in a dazed way then, with quite a new expression^, ho turned his head on the. black man. "Ye mean Headlight's babnr whut like i»hJ.t? Is it swretty?" "I* ter dat,'' said Uncle Nate, ,j|Udicially. "I ajn't no ledge. Looks right ptnay an' ga nted* but I lav it git over dat ut we uns'. Y«ah de twurifc, Mist' Guiilln! 1 Avhisht ye well, salt!'

The "turw n" tneans the fork of the ,. t*ul. One of the bifurcations goea ou dee[»or into the swamp, the other deflects toward a clearing wherein, hack of cot-ton-Holds and garden, stands comfortable battened house, the widow Brand house. A certain trig look about laud always kept well lo fore—that tho widow came from Geoorgia. Jell' could see her tail figure on the porch, now she wan caressing a baby. His heart gave a kind of leap in his breast, and he turned white and grabbed Nato bag. "Nat*," said he, almost in a whisper, "I wanter see that ar chile! 1st alioy uragyurl?" "loar 'tis," replied Nate: "ll'le boy. Won ye come by, sah?"

The widow came out to meet them, the baby in her arms. She alwuys wore her hair looped amoothly over her earn and fastened behind with a "tuckin' comb. It was black hair, having a shino to it like her oyes. Spare and tanned a* her features were, they were not unoomely and their expression of shrewd alertness softened wonderfully when she recognized her visitors. Tho boy was certainly thin—pale, tto—still a pretty, bright little fellow who milled the widow's sleek hair and slapped her cheeks in the gayest humor. Griffln could not understand vfrhy he felt a curious pang of relief, seeing how unlike the little castaway was to the dead child. He saluted tho widow. "Oh, we're all stlrrln'," she replied. "Aunt l-anny b'en over'n tole me 'beout you all 'fliction. ioey jes' puttin' the gearB on the mewls." "Won' ye coine longer mo, Mis' Brand no?" interrupted Jeff, "an' cayn't ad 'I

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fotch'long the baby? Bulah? I'm turribleskeered up 'beout 'er an'I sorter lowed iriabbo the little trick mought rouse 'er— bein' leff so lonoHorne like: ye know Bubih powerful good-heartea." "Wo kin try," said the widow, musingly "yo got good sense fur a man person, Jell.

She was very soon in tbe wagon, on the seat behind Griffin, watching htm as they drove silently through tho swamp. She thongbt that his had been a lonesome kina of life. Jeff Griffln had come gg, back from the wars with an arm less, to support bis bedridden mother, his widowed sister and her family, and a forlorn little cousin with no nearer than they—Bulah Norman. "Old Man Griffin," and tbe "big toys" had been killed long before. Jeff himself was seventeen, but he had been a soldier for two yearn.r The Griffins originally came from Ten-//'!*, nedsee. They bought a little farm on the outskirts of a large plantation on the Black River. They were all of them 1 honest, bard-working people had a nat- *V |k ural turn for business, though he could not write his name. Those days thete was money in cotton, thrse halcyon days when we burned oar cotton-seed for" fuel, yet we can get more for the cotton jfc, alone than we can get for them both now Jefl tolled early and late. As the widow from Georgia told her son Frank (agood "$ fellow, clever, too, but a bit touched by the climate), Jeff Grilfln's one arm did .f4 more than any other man's two. prospered, he bought more land, ho^ built a house for bis mother—junt the year befor she died, poor soul—and generous'y started hi* neices, and nephews^ in life- One by one they drifted out into the world until only their mother^ 4 and Bulah Norman, now grown in to quite a pretty lam of eighteen, remained in the house with Jeff. Bulab wa* eleven yean younger than Jeff. He bad al-. ways been devoted to her. When shelly was a child be never tired of her prattle, he gave her a calf, a eolt, a saddle, a ridingwbip, while every other girl in the

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