Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 2 September 1886 — Page 12

9

IN ACTOE'S ST0E1

Belated by JOHN COLEMAN. I CHAPTER xvn.

FACE TO FACE.

Jamieson's engagement in Glasgow extended, on and off, for some years, during which his modest incomf was mortgaged for law expenses, so that ha was able to save little or nothing. Curly's acting days were over, but he wrote a beautiful hand, and employed himself in copying parts, MSS., eta, for the theatre. Of course he didn'tmake much by this but he contributed some small portion toward the household expenses, always hoarding up a little treasure for especial purpose. Year after year, as regularly as the 12th of May approached, he disappeared. Generally he returned about a month afterwards, and resumed his place without a word. Willie guess ad pretty well where he had been but they quite understood each other, and no word ever passed between them on the subject.

They grew older, and the world grew grayer and gloomier for both, and the case of "Jamieson and Miller vs. MacAllister and others" continued to impoverish the poor player.

Mr. MacCrawley Gittens, having exhausted every artifice that pettifogging and chicanery could suggest, was at length brought to bay, and the final bearing came on, which resulted in a verdict for fchedefendanfc

The very next day Jamieson gave notice of appeal. Then commenced affidavits, interlocutor! es, ana I aonc know what all. Anyhow the whole thing had to begin anew. Of course, the lawyers, as usual, took their time over it. But there is one comfort, you can have a good deal of law for a little money in Scotland—L e., compared with the cost of the article in England.

While this precious lawsuit dragged its slow length along, Jamieson was acting in Manchester, Liverpool, Birmingham, Sheffield, the York circuit, etc. Wherever he trent Curly accompanied him. At last engagements were difficult to obtain in England, so the friends returned to the Land o' Ca.as. But, alasl "a new generation had arisen, which knew not Willie." Younger men had stepped into his shoes, and poor Jamieson had to retire and' take a back seat, until he sank to be, as we had seen him the night before, leading man .at the Theatre Royal, Paisley.

And now comes the remarkable coincidence to which I have before referred. As Pike got to this portion of his narrative we reach the summit of a hill, at the bottom of which, some two miles off, lay Stuart town, through which we had to pass during almost the last stage of our journey.. As we paused to contemplate the prospect, and indeed to take breath, for we were both a little blown, our attention was attracted to a solitary foot pas3egger, about three or four hundred yards in front, who came walking along briskly toward us. Despita his shabby clothes, he had the air and manner of a gentleman. His figure seemed wiry and elastic his hair fell about his neck in a profusion of snow-white silky curls the collar of his shirt was turned down over a frayed black silk handkerchief, revealing a singularly beautiful neck he carried hi* head erect his eyes seemed fixed on vacanoy, and his whole manner was so engrossed and preoccupied that he scarcely observed us until within a stone's throw, when, to my astonishment, Pike gave a long, low whistle, as he exclaimed: "Well, 1 never I Who'd have thought-it? Talk o' the dtfill An' how's aw* wf ye, Curly!"

Mr. Campbell—for it was he—drew himself up for a moment, coldly then, recovering himself, replied, with a pleasant smile: "What, Pike! Still on the road, old man! Don't you bagin to feel tired of it, And wish it were all over? Sometimes I'm of Antony's mood. After Actinm, and feel disposed to cryUnarm, Eros, the long day's task is done. But no, no. I suppose I've not oouragd enough to take off my own armor. And, after all, we've only got to wait a little longer for the good time coifting* at tha end af the journey and then, you know as Cato puts it 'My bane and antidote are both before ms,' But 'what a rogue and peasant •lave am I to gd wool-gathering thus! Who's the boy?"

Pike introduced me to Mr. Campbell as "the juvenile hero of the company, the coming man, the future Romeo," etc.

The old gentleman said, with a sweet smile: "Excuse me, sir, old men will still be talking it's the privilege of age. You are young and sanguine. Ah I I was young and •anguine once myself. I hope you will have better fortune than befel me. You have an open brow and a frank eye. You can look a man in the face I'm sure you're not afraid. It's a bad thing to be afraid. One moment of fear blighted the life of a man I know as well as I know myself. Cleanliness, they say, is next to godliness, but manliness is above everything. If a man insults you, if he is as big as Goliath, don't wait to talk, hit him first hit him if your heart is quaking, if your nerves are shaking hit him if he kills you after! A brave man can only die but once but the coward! Ah! God help the poor miserable coward, for he dies every day, every hour he lives!" He paused, and looked strangely round as he took off his hat, passed his hand through his I beautiful hair then he stopped, took up a handful of snow and rubbed it on his brow, mopped it dry, and said with a low desponding moan: "Oh, God I I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have had bad dreams." Then he continuod: "I fear you will think me rather eccentric, and so I am but I was not always thus, was I, Pike? I was—what was I? I'm sure I forget. Well, and how is Madame la Pike, and the young fishes? And the stock debt? And do wo •till delight the lieges with Sir Edward Mortimer, and Pizarro, and the Baillie, and Caleb Balderston? And get glorious as of

Jivat!"

rore on the mountain dew, fresh from GlenThen, in an altered tone, and with a touch of sadness in his voice, "Of all things else, avoid that, young gentleman. Remember, There's dsatn in the pot' Only begin with that, and 'Facili3 descensus Averni.' All the rest is easy slap, bang, down you go through the primrose path tiil you set to the abyss at the bottom."

At this moment Pike cut in with: "We saw Lang Willie last night at Paisley." "Didyou?" responded the other "ihen you saw ona for whom Nature might stand up And say to all the world—Thi3 was a man!'"

After a moment's pause he began to hum Annie Laurie" half aloud and half to him-

a+ iA.1

TI

cfcanrad

whl

^Yo^I^

hlm»

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Lfperjrf

ot. jana or aonesc rogue,' bwas to mouev I 'Bleep your trash, Baillie keep your trash.' See, although we have got to our last

Roberto, yet,"—and he sent a bright new shilling spinning in the ai.* and caught it deftly—"what is it Cleopatra's mailed Bacchus says? 'Yet have W3 a brain that nourishes our nerves,' not, by the by, that he could have had much brains to spare when he made such on ass of himself for the sake of that promiscuously amorous and decidedly dissolute old gipsy. Good bye, good bye good luck to you at Kilmarnock. May your shadow never grow less may your stock debt never increase may you never share less than half a crown a night, and candles t« boot. Ta, ta. 'We pray heaven to have you in its holy keeping!'" And so, throwing his head aloft, walked rapidly down the hill, singing as he passed out of sight the song of Autolycus

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent ibe stile a— A merry heart goes all the way Your sad tires in a mile a. JThat was how I made Curly's acquaintance and, indeed, that was the first and last and only time I ever saw ,, Donald Campbell until—but I must not anticipate.

With Inference to the remainder of oar journey As in a theatre, the eyes of men,

After a well-graced actor leaves the stage, Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious Even so would the reader regard our adventures at Kilmarnock as tedious and irrelevant, so I pass them by, and leave the record for another time and place.

In the next chapter I will take up the thread of Curly's and Willie's story as it came almost under my own personal cognizance, many a long day after poor old Pike and I had parted company forever.

CHAPTER XVIH. END OF THE JOURNEY.

Nearly five, years had elapsed since the day Curly and I met and parted on the Queen's highway.

I had emerged from the "crowd," and was "starring" at the Theatre Royal, Glasgow, from whence I had to go to Aberdeen for six nights. I closed in Glasgow on Saturday, and had to open in Aberdeen on Monday. Railways were now, more or less, all over Scotland, but through some prejudice, derived from the Dark

Age3,

there

was still no communication between Glasgow and Edinburgh on Sunday. Sorely exercised in my mind as to how I was to get tbrough in time to open at Aberdeen, I strolled down Argyle street on Sunday morning toward the railway station, when I perceived in the crowd in the opposite direction, and o'er topping every one around, a stately, white-bearded man, with the head "and front of Jove himself."

Although 1 had never seen him since the night we met in Paisley I could not be mistaken—it was "Lang Willie."

For years I had pondered on the nobility, the beauty, the self-sacrifice of that manly nature—the misfortunes of his unhappy friend. I knew the prolonged struggles they had encountered with poverty, and I was really delighted at the thought that the prosperity of the poor lad whom fas had helped in adversity might enable me now, perhaps, to befriend him, so I ma/iia my way towards Mr. Jamieson and, sans ceremonie, reminded him of the circumstances of our slight acquaintance five years back. "Good heavens," he said, "you don't mean to say you are that slip of a lad who was with old Pike Paisley five years ago? Well, I should never have thought it." Then he told me he had been to the theatre, had seen my Hamlet, and he said civil things about it.

It was getting nigh dinner time, and I ^persuaded him to come to the hotel and Hiwa with me. After dinner the conversation .turned on my journey to Aberdeen, and the difficulty I anticipated in getting through to Edinburgh. To my astonishment and delight, he said: "Well, this meeting is as fortunate as it is pleasant. Not an hour before I met you I received the welcome news that the final decision in the case of Jamieson and Mill** vs. MacAllister and others had been given in our favor. I am only awaiting a telegram to enable me to start for Aberdeen, and tulr^ possession of the estate at once. Pll tell you what Til do. Pll call for you here at 12 o'clock to-night with a coach and pair, and we'll drive to Edinburgh together, and catch the express for Aberdeen in the morning."

At 12o'clock he came according to promise. We caught the mail at Edinburgh and arrived at Aberdeen at about 12 on Sunday night. Although we were fatigued, the journey had been a pleasant one for me.'

Before we parted for the night Mr. Jamieson said: lOt course you know .my poor friend's sad story. To-morrow is the anniversary of the great misfortune of his life. Every year he regularly disappears at this time for a month or more, and as year succeeds year he seems more and more broken down, and I'm getting very anxious about him. For two years I have been oat of an engagement, and we have had very hard times, and now that brighter days are in store, poor fellow, it would be hard if he oou,ld not share this good fortune, and I hope I am not selfish when I say it would be hard for me, too, to be left alone in my old age without a friend."

I was up early, having a 10 o'clock rehearsal As I had only my scenes to run through in "The Lady of Lyons," and as both Pauline and the widow had played their parts with me before, I had finished by 12 o'clock, when Jamieson called for me to accompany him to the house of his coexecutor, Dr. Miller.

The two old friends met with effusive congratulations as to the final result of the protracted law suit. It was quite touching to see the tearful delight of Jeannie MacPherson at the sight of Willie, but more touching still it was to see the welcome accorded him by the doctor's only daughter, a lovely, fairhaired girl of 18. I thought then, and I think still, that Maggie Miller is altogether the most charming, guileless and beautiful creature I had ever seen in my life. Accident—sheer accident—had led me to my fate. If I hadn't gone to Paisley with Pike I shouldn't have known Willie Jamieson— perhaps I should have known nothing about Curly, most certainly I should never have known Maggie Miller. Ah, my darling! I loved you from that moment, and— But I am becoming personal, and the interest of this story centers in its unfortunate hero, not upon a mere fly on the wheel.

Presently Willie inquired of the doctor if he had seen Curly, for he wa3 due that very day. For yea she had never failed to present himself at Breadalbane terrace by noon on this sad anniversary. We waited until about 2 o'clock, then everybody got anxious. Although it was in the "merrie month of May"—by ose of those strange freaks of the 'clerk of tb^. weather," by no means unusual

r~ in Scotland—snow had fallen heavily over-

night Jamieson feared that his poor friend

l^iehtharB been overtaken by the snow-

the Baiiiio ,JL R^h .v storm. At last he eould endure the wspense the^ilUs says to Rob Roy I a sort

no loagrer

to co out

ir they coma obtain any news. The doctor told Maggie to slip on hqp hat and cloak and accompany us. As we were leaving the house, Jeannie came into the hall, equipped for walking, and said: "Doctor, let me gang, too, and show you the way. I ken where to find the puir lad lie. I ken weel eneuch—I saw him thrio yestyeen." "Saw whom?" said the doctor "why did ye not tell us than, ye daft old gowk?" "Because I hoped my dream would na hold, but it'll be ower true, I'm gey sure butr—there—step out, and sea for yoursels." So saying, she stepped rapidly before us. The doctor and Willie walked side by side, talking to each other in anxious undertones and my—I mean Miss Miller and I brought up the rear.

It was a lovely day the sun fehone brightly, melting the snow on the tree tops which stood forth green and bright, the glowing beauties of the chestnut blossoms contracting vividly with the green leaves and the sparkling white of the crisply-frozen snow which lay upon the ground, and which as yet defied the sua. The birds were ringing a hare and half a dozen rabbits crossed the road before us, and, turning round, confronted us fearlessly. A squirrel gamboled about in a tree over our heads then we heard a squeaking noise, and the coneys scurried away, just in time to escape a hideous beast of a weasel, which slid across the road and rapidly wriggled through the covert in full pursuit.

At length we had reached a little mountain chapel on the hillside. Jeannie led the way through the gate we followed her rapidly.

As we turned the corner to the left a man lay at full length amid the snow upon the grave where Flora MacAllister lay sleeping.

He was sleeping, too. His right arm was twined round the slender cross at the head of the grave, his hands were clasped together, and his head lay in profile resting on his shoulder. His face was fair and beautiful as i& his youth his silver curls glittered in the sunshine, and formed an argentine glory round bis white brow his eyes were closed a smile was on his lips.

I have just finished reading this story to a small family circle, consisting of «wo venerable gentlemen and two women, one of them young and fair, the other grown old in loving, faithful servitude.

For a little while we are silent. I think we are all looking at the pictures —I'm sure I am. Is it a phantasy, or am I dreaming by daylight? The eyes have moved. Instead of looking as uuuai »t each other, they are both looking straight at me' Yes, I could swear itl I——

Hark! Isn't^that ajoeal of childish joyota laughter? Yes, and seel Two youngsters with fair faces, bright eyes, sunny hair and sturdy legs (inherited from their father) fill the air with life and motion as they come bounding into th9 room from the lawn. No two children of my acquaintance are so spoiled and petted as this young lady and gentleman. Their present appearance is most inopportune, hence mamma induces them for a moment to confine their attentions to a dish of fresh strawberries smothered in cream. But the spell is broken—the bairns have brought us back to earth.

Then one dear old man wakes up and says: "The story is o'er trui, Jack, but you have made one of the charactars too like King Arthur, and you've not done justice to the others."

Little pitchers have long ears, and our little listeners, having polished off their strawberries, cream and all, demand to know: "Who is King Arthur?"

The other old gentleman replies: "Oh, he's the King of Kingdom Come." The youngsters return to the charge with: "Oh, that'll no do, grandpa. Kingdom Come is In the clouds." "Just so, my boniue bairns," replies the doctor, "and Arthur is the great King of Cloudland, but he's coming back to alrth to make the dark licht and the wrang richt some day."

Although this answer poses the children, it doesn't seem to satisfy them, and they clamor to know: ,~ "Who are the others?"

Mamma replies tothe girl in har soft sweet voice, "Oh, one was a beautiful lady, whom you are called after, Flora."

Then Grandpa Willie, patting the boy's golden curls, says tenderly and gravely: "And the other, my mannio, the other was a friend, a very near and dear friend of mine, and axamesake of yout's, my little Curly."

THE END.

THE TERRE HAUTE WEEKLY GAZETTE:

He had reached the end of the journey,

The end of the journey.

where she was waiting for him. So,' best. For him no more trouble now—no more weariness—no more lamentations—only rest!

L'ENVOL

I

THE TWO PICTURES.

Six years and more have passed. We Lave moved from Aberdeen to the neighborhood of Richmond.

It is a cool summer evening. We are in a large drawing-room with French windows opening on a lawn, which slopes down to the river. The room is furnished and adorned with all that taste can suggest and moderate wealth can supply.

Our pictures are much admired, but it is needless to make an inventory of them I only desire to call attention to two which stand out from the rest. They are companion portraits. The one is a handsome, fair-haired young man in a cornet's uniform, the other is a beautiful dark-haired girl i& white. They are placed exactly opposite each other. Now I have noticed that, as a rule, portraits painted by men of genius, from Holbein to Millais downward (and the young lady is one of Millais' best), have a peculiarity—the eyes have the power to follow you all over the room wherever you go. These pictures of ours have a yet more remarkable peculiarity—their eyes are fixed only on each other, with a tenderness so touching, so expressive and so infinite that at night, wheu the household is at rest, and when (for 1 nm always a late bird) I have been sittiug reading my book, or studying my last new part, 1 have often sat and watched and wondered, and have almost expected to bear them speak to each other. This fancy ljas perhaps scarcely ever affected me so strongly as at this very moment.

v'"

"What do you do with yourself Sunday?" asked Bjones of the cousin from Chicago who is visiting at his house. "Sunday?" repeated the Chicago man wonderuurlv. *whatfs) thatt"—Cambridge Chronicle.

LIFE OR DEATH.

MX THE LATE HUOHCQNWAY,

Author of "Called Back," Dark Days,'* "A Family Affair," Etc.

CHAPTER

After you pass the "Blue Anchor," the sign of which swings from the branch of an elm tree older even than the house itself, a few 8tops along the road bring you in sight of the pinnacled, square tower of CoombeActon church. You cannot see the chui*ch its3lf, as, with schools and rectory close by it, it lie9 at the back of the village, about two hundred yards up a lane. Like the village to whosa spiritual needs it ministers, the church, to an ordinary observer, is nothing out of the common, although certain small peculiarities of architecture, not noticed by an uncultured eye, make it an object of some interest to archeologists. Visit it or not, according to your inclination, but afterwards keep straight on through the long, straggling village, until the housos be-, gin to grow even more straggling, the gardens larger and less carol for as ornaments, displaying more cabbages and scarbt runners than roses—keep on until the bouses oease altogether, and hawthorn hedges take the place of palings and crumbling walls, and at last you will come to Watercress Farm, a Ion?, low, white hbuse, one side of which abuts on the highway, while the I other looks over the three hundred acres of land attached to it. I Not a very large acreage, it is true, but then it is all good land, for the most part such as auctioneers describe as rich, warm, deep, old pasture land such land that, at the time this tale opens, any farmer, by thrift, knowledge of his business and hard work, could make even more than bare living out of, and could meet his landlord on rent day with a cheerful face, knowing that after rent and other outgoings were provided for something would yet be left for himself.

Who occupies Watercress Farm now, and whether in these days of depression his rent is readily forthcoming or not matters little. At the time I write of it was rented by Farmer Lei h, even as bis forefathers, according to village tradition, had rented it for some two hundred years. In quiet, conservative placss like Coombe-Acton, a farm of this kind often goes from father to son with more regularity than an entailed estate, landlord and tenant well knowing that their interests are identical.

FARMER LEIQH.

It was a fine afternoon toward the end of June. ^Abraham Leigh was standing by the gate of the field known as the home meadow, looking at the long ripe grass rippling as the summer breeze swept across it. He was a thoroughly-good specimen of a Somersetshire farmer. A big, sturdy man, whose movements were slow and deliberate. His face, if heavy and stolid, not by any means the face of a fooL No doubt a man of circumscribed views—the world, for him, extending eastward to the Bristol channel Nevertheless, respected in his little world as a wonderful judge of a beast, a great authority on tillages, and, above all, a man who always had a balance in his favor at the Somersetshire bank a type of that extinct race, the prosperous farmer, who looked on all townsmen with contempt, thinking, as all farmers should think, that the owners of broad acre3, and those engaged in agriculture, were alone Worthy of respect.

Yet, to-day, in spite of his advantages and acquirements, Farmer Leigh looked on the fifteen-acre meadow with a puzzled and discontented expression on his honest face and, moreover, murmurs of dissatisfaction were proceeding from his lips. Farmers— Somersetshire farmers especially—are proverbial grumblerd, but it is seldom they grumble without an audience. It is outsiders who get the benefit of their complaints. Besides, one would think that the tenant of Watercress Farm had little, at present, to complain of. The drop of rain so badly wanted had been long in coming, but it had coma just in the nick of time to save the grass, and if the crop, outwardly, looked a little thin, Mr. Leigh's experienced eye told him that the undergrowth was thick and that the quality of th3 hay would be first-class. Moreover, what corn and roots he had looked promising, so ic seems strange that the farmer should be grumbling when he had no one to listen to him, and should lean so disconsolately upon the gate of the field when no one observed him. "I can't make him ou%" he said. "Good boy he be, too—yet instead o' helping me with the laud, always going about dreaming or mwa'ig with mud. Can't think where he got his notions from. Suppose it must 'a been from the mother, poor thing I Always fond o' gimcracks and such like, she were. Gave the lad such an outlandish name I'm ashamed to hear it. Father's and grandfather's name ought to be good enough for a Leigh—good boy, though, he be, too!"

A soft look settled on Abraham Leigh's face as he repeated the last words thon he went deeper into his dough of despond, where, no doubt, he battled as manfully as a Christian, until he reached the other hore, and fancied he had found the solution of his difficulties.

His face brightened. "Tell 'ea what," he said, addressing the waving grass in front of him, "I'll ask Mr. Herbert. Squire's a renn who have seen the world, take his advice about the boy. Seems hard like on me, too. Ne'er a Leigh till this one but what were a farmer to th3 backbone!

His mind made up*, the farmer strode off to make arrangements with mowers. Had he been troubled with twenty unnatural and incompetent sons, the hay must be made while the sun shines.

Although he had settled what to do, it was some time before the weighty resolve was carried into execution. Folks about Coombe-Acton do not move with the celerity of cotton brokers or other men of business. Sure they are, but slow. So it was not until the September rent day that farmer consulted ftp .landlord about his

domesuc difficulty—the possession of a son, an only child, of about 15, who instead of making himself useful on the land, did little else save wander about in a dreamy way, looking at all objedts in nature, animate or inanimate, or employed himself in the mysterious pursuit which bis father described as •^oBBsing with mud." Such conduct was a departure from the respectable bucolic traditions of the Leigh family so great that at times the father thought it an infliction laid upon him for some cause or other by an inscrutable Providenca.

There are certain Spanish nobleman who, on account of the antiquity of their families kud servioea rendered, are permitted to ratter the royal presence, with covered heads, jit was, perhaps, for somewhat similar reasons, a custom handed down from father to 'son and established by time, that the tenant of Watercress Farm paid his rent tothe landlord in person, not through the medium of an agent. Mr. Herbert being an important man in the west country, the Leigh family valued this privilege as highly as ever Hidalgo valued the one above mentioned. Mr. Herbert, a refined, intellectual looking man of about 50, received the farmer kindly, and, after the rent, without a word as to abatement or reduction, had been paid in notes of the county bank— dark and greasy, but valued in this particular district far abova Bank of England promises—landlord and tenant settle 1 down to a few minutes' conversation on crops and kindred subjects. Then the farmer unburdened his mind. 'Tve come to ask the tato9 of

your

aavto^,

rir, about my boy, Jerry. "Yes," said Mr. Herbert, "I know him, a alee, good-looking boy. I nee him at church with you and about your place when I pass. What of him?" "Well, you see, zur," said the farmer, speaking with more Somerset dialect than usual, "he've a been at Bristol grammar school till just now. Masters all sends good accounts of him. I don't hold wi' too much learning, so thought 'twer time he oome home and helped me like. But not a bit o' good he be on the varm nob a bit, zur! Spends near all his time messing about wi' dirt" "Doing what?' asked Mr. Herbert, astonished. "A-muddling and a-messing with bits o* clay. Making little figgers like, and tries to bake 'em in the oven." "Oh, I sea what you mean. What sort of figures?" "All sorts, sir. Little clay figgers of horses, dogs, pigs—why, you'd scarce believe it, sir—last week I found him making the figger of a naked 'oomanl A naked '00man

I Why, the lad could never'a' seen

such a thing." Abraham Leigh waited with open eye3 to hear Mr. Herbert's opinion of such an extraordinary, if not positively unusual proceeding.

Mr. Herbert smiled.: "Perhaps your son is a youthful genins." "Genius or not, I want to know, sir, what to do wi'him. How's the boy to make a living? A farmer he'll never be." "You follow me and I will show you something,"

Mr. Herbert led his guest to his drawingroom—a room furnished with the taste of a traveled man. As ths farmer gap*d at its splendor he directed his attention to the four beautiful statue3 standing in the corners of the room. "I gave the man who made those £700 fcr them, and could sell them to-morrow for £1,000 if I choose. That's almo3t as good as farming, isn't itf

His tenant's eyes were wide with amazement. "A thousand pounds, sir 1" be gasped. "Why, you might have bought that fourteen acre field with that." "These give me more pleasure than land," replied Mr. Herbert. "But about your boy—when ain,riding by I will look in and see What he can do then give you my advice."

a

&

The farmer thanked him a3)d returned home. As he jdgged along the road to Watercress Farm he muttered at intervals: "Well, well, I never didp*

Mr. Herbert was a "inn who kept a promise, whether made to high or low. Five days after his interview with Abraham Leigh he rode up to the door of the farm. He was not alone. By his side rode a gay, laughing, l|ght-haired child of 13, who ruled an indulgent father with a rod of iron. Mr. Herbert had been a widower for some years the girl and a boy who was just leaving Harrow for the university being his only surviving children. The boy was perhaps all that Mr. Herbert might have wished, but he could see no fault in the precocious, imperious, spoiled little maid, who was the sunshine of his life.

She tripped lightly after her father into the farmhouse, laughing at the way in which he was obliged to bend his head to avoid' damages from the low doorway she seated herself with becoming dignity on the chair which the widowed sister who kept house for Abraham Lsigh tendered her with many courtesies. A pretty child, indeed, and one who gave rare promise of growing into a lovely woman.

The farmer was away somewhere on the farm, but could be fetched in a minute if Mr. Herbert would wait. Mr. Herbert waited, and .very soon his tenant made his appearance and thanked his visitor for the trouble he was taking on his behalf. "Now let me see the boy," said Mr. Herbert, after disclaiming all sense of trouble.

Leigh went to the door of the room and shouted out, "Jerry, Jerry, come down. You're wanted, my man."

In a moment the door opened, and the cause of Mr. Leigh's discontent came upon the scene in the form of a dark-eyed, darkhaired, pale-faced boy, tall but slightly built, not, so far as physique went, much credit to the country side yet in some respects a striking looking, if not a handsome lad. The dark, eloquent eyes and strongly marked brow would arrest attention but the face was too tbin, to3 thoughtful for the age, and could scarcely be associated with what commonly constitutes a good-looking lad. Yet, regularity of feature was there, and no one would dare to be sure that beauty would not come with manhood.

He was not seen at that moment under advantageous circumstances. Knowing nothing about the distinguished visitors, he had obeyed his father's summons in hot haste, consequently he entered the room in his shirtslsevos, which were cwtainly not very clean, and with hand3 covered with red clay. Mr. Herbert looked amused, while the littte princ93S turned up her nos* in great disdain.

Poor Abraham Leigh was much mystified at the unpresentable state in which hi3 son showed himself. To make matters worse, the boy was not soiled by honest, legitimate toil. "Tut! tut!" he said, crossly. "All of a muck as usual."

The boy, who felt that his father had a right to complain, hung his head and showed

sign3

of retreating. Mr. Herbert

came to the rescue. "Never mind," be said, patting young Leigh on the shoulder, "he has been working in his own fashion. I have come

00

purpose to see tbose modelings of yours, my

4

wy.** The boy started as one surprised. His cheek flushed and he looked at the spea&er with incredulity yet hope in his eyes. "Yes,", said the father sharply. "Go and1 put your hands unddr tho pump, Jerry, then bring some of 'em down. Mabbe, any way, they'll amuse the littla lady." "No, no," said Mr. Herbert 'Til come with you and sea them for myself.' Lead the way."

Young Leigh did not speak, but his eyes thanked Mr. Herbert. That gentleman followed him from tho room, leaving the farmer to amuse the little maid. He did this so far as he was able by producing a will-* humbed copy of the "Pilgrim's Ptfog1 ess," the leaves of which Miss Herbert condescended to turn daintily over until shewas quite terrified by the picture of the combat wil Apolyon.

Meanwhile, "Jerry," with a beating heart, led Mr. Herbert up stairs to a roomdestitute of furniture, save an old table and chair. A bucket half full of common red day stood in one corner, and on the table were several of the little clay figures which, had excited the farmer's ire and consternation.

Crude, defective, full of faults as they were, there was enough power in them to make Mr. Herbert look at the lad in wonderment, almost envy. He was a man whoworshipped art who had dabbled as an amateur in painting and sculpturing for years who considered a gifted artist the most fortunate of mankind So the word envy is not ill chosen. What he would have given half his wealth to possess came to this boy unsought for—to the son of a clod of a farmer the precious gift was vouchsafed!

As he would have expected, the most ambitious efforts were the worst—the "naked 'ooman" was particularly atrocious—but, still wet, and not ruined by an abortive attempt at taking, was a group modeled from life, a vulgar subject, representing, as it did, Abraham Leigh's prize sow, surrounded by her ten greedy offspring. There was such a power and talent in this production tfaatu had he seen nothing elsa, Mr. Herbert would have been certain that the lad as a modeler and copyist must take the first rank. If, in addition to his manual dexterity, be had poetry, feeling and imagination, it might well be that one of the greatest sculptors of the nineteenth century stool in embryo before him.

As Mr. Herbert glanced from the rough clay sketches to the pale boy who stood breathless, as one expecting a verdict of life or death, he wondered what could havo been the cause of such a divergence from the traits habitual to the Leighs. Then he remembered that some twenty years ago Abraham Leigh had choeen for a wife not one of his own kind, but a dweller in citie» —a governess, who exchanged, no doult, a life of penury and servitude for the rough but comfortable home the Somersetshire farmer was willing to give her. Mr. Herbert remembered her, remembered how utterly out of place the delicate, refined woman seemed to be as Leigh's wife remembered how, a few years after the birth of the boy, she sickened and died. It was from the mother's side the artistic taste came.

Mr. Herbert, although a kind man, was cau'dou3. He had no intention of raising hopes which might be futile. Yet he felt a word of encouragement was due to the lad. "Some of these figures show decided talent," he said. "After seeing them, I need scarcely ask you if you wish to be a sculptor?"

Yi ung Leigh clasped his hands together. "Oh, sirP' he gasped. "If it could only be!" "You do not care to be a farmer, like your father?" "I could never be a farmer, sir. I am not fit for it" "Yet, if you follow in your father's track, you will lead a comfortable, useful life. If you follow art you may go through years of poverty and suffering before success is attained."

The boy raised his head and looked full at the speaker—there was almost passionate entreaty in his eyes. "Ob, sir," he said, "if you would only persuade my father to let me try—even for a few years. If I did not sudceed I would come back to him and work as a laborer for the rest of'my life without a murmur."

Mr. Herbert was impressed by the boy's earnestness. "I will speak to your father," he said. Then the two went back to the sitting-room, where they found Abraham Leigh much exercised by some difficult questions propounded by Miss Herbert respecting the nature of Apolyon. '"Take my littla girl- for a walk round the garden," said Mr. Herbert to young Leigh. "I want to sneak to vour father." [Tf b» Continued.)

Senator Jones and the Burglars. Senator John P. Jones, of Nevada, says: "Whenever I get into contact with burglars or highwaymen, and this has happened more than once to'me, I always surrender and tell them that I am a radical and believe in everybody carrying on his natural vocation without any opposition. I further explain to them that, being a society man, my attention is absorbed only by social events, and I pay no attention to individual struggles for life."

He added, however, subsequently, that as he never wore jewelry or a watch, and as he has seldom more than a couple of silver dollars in his pocket, he usually comes out of such encounters first best.—Chicago InterOcean.

Jottings from L,lfe.

"There was quite a coincidence at my house last night" "Indeed. What was it?" "Twins."

THE ONE THING.

"If it 'wasn't fer one thing, boys," said an old farmer, as he got down from his wagon, "Pd bet enny amount o' monoy on thet bay colt o' mine trottin' a mile in 2 16X* I'd bet a million dollars ef I had it"

The crowd laughed derisively. "What is the one thing?" asked oue of the crowd. "The distance is too fur fer the time." —Life.

His Side of the Story.

"What was that great racket I heard in your woodshed after you got home from fishing last night?" asked one Estelline small boy of another. "It was me swingin' the buggy whip for fun," the other replied. "But I heard somebody jumpin' around, too?" "Oh. that was pa seeing if he could jump over the wash boiler and two tubs." "But who was it yelled so like thunder?" "Why, every time he mtde an extra high jump he would holler kinder in fun, you know."—Estelline (D. T.) BelL

A Hint as Big as a Barn Door. Editor—Miss Devereaux is quite musical? Host—Yes, very much so. Visitor—Does she sing in English? Host—She does, and I'm sorry ate doesn't sing in Kalamazoo or some other tar* away place. —American Musician.