Lexington wheatfield., June 27, 1907, Image 6

$fTHE GIRL WITHES
By D. C. Murray
CIIAPTER I.
A little dell in the heart of a wood was
deliriously dappled with leafy shadows.
A loosely clnd man, bearded and specta
cled, and a little on the right side of
forty, sat on a camp stool before a small
field easel, and libeled the landscape at
his ease, pausing at his work now and
then an drawing back his head to survey
it with an air of charmed appreciation.
Near him, on the gnarled trunk of a tree
and in the shadow of a moss-grown rock,
sat a lady some ten or a dozen years
younger, leisurely, torturing thread Into
lace with a hooked needle.
A little way down the doll a boy was
clambering among the rocks, shrieking
every now and then with ecstatic news of
a beetle or a butterfly. He was a sturdy,
fclue-eved, golden-haired little fellow of
five, the picture of health, and he was
risking his limbs and chattering to all ani
mate and inanimate nature a delightful
bov, and all alive from his golden head
to his restless feet and tips of his brown
little fingers. The mother snatched him
to her arms and covered him with kisses,
titddenly she looked up, flushed, half pite
ous, with a flash of tears in her eyes.
"Austin, I feel afraid. Have I a right
to be so happy? Has any one a right to
be so happy? Will it last?"
"Who knows?" he answered. "Human
affairs run in averages, but then the av
erages are not individual. We have had
almost trouble enough in our time to have
paid for a little joy. Let us take it grate
fully." "Sometimes," she said, "a shadow seems
to fall upon it all the shadow of a fear."
"The shadow of the past experience.
The burned child dreads the Are. We are
burned children, both of us. Five years'
illness and poverty out of seven years of
married life is a large allowance. And,
after all, our present happiness isn't phe
nomenal, my dear, though It looics so. e
have health, and we value it because we
have each missed It in turn. We have a
little money, and we think it a great deal
because we have been so deadly poor.
And then," he laughed and half blushed,
"we have a little fame, and that is all
the pleasanter because we were so long
neglected. Sweet is pleasure after pain."
"1 am dangerously happy," she answer
ed. "Come, let us unpack the luncheon bas
ket. Cold chicken. Salad. Bread.
Cheese. Milk. There we are. Fall to.
Sit down by your mother, Cupid. Take
a pull at the milk, old man, and then
you'll have an appetite. What a sudden
shadow !" '
A cloud had floated between themselves
and the sun, and a strange quiet had fall
en with the shadow on the woods.
"Austin," the wife whispered, "there is
that dreadful man again. It seems as if
he had brought the darkness with him."
A brown sloping path, covered still
with the fir needles shed in the foregoing
autumn, broke the wall of green which
bounded the dell, and down this footway,
between the silver steps of the birches and
the reddish stems of the firs, walked a
gray-bearded man, with .his head drooped
forward and his hands clasped behind him.
He looked neither to left nor right, but
went by as if unconscious of their pres
ence, and in a little while was lost be
hind the thicker growth of trees. As he
went out of sight the sun broke through
the cloud, the leafage was inundated with
life again and the birds renewed their
song.
"Look," she whispered;' "the shadow
follows him."
"What an odd mood this is to-day!"
paid her husband, smiling at her. "And
why is the poor old gentleman so dread
ful?"
"But, Austin, dp you know? Yod can't
have heard. Jle is known to have hatch'
ed plots against the Czar."
"Well, yes. It is known also that he
has been wifeless and childless this twen
ty years. His wife and his two sons
died in Siberia. They went there without
trial, and people who know him say that
the loss of them in that horrible way
turned his brain. Suppose anybody stole
you and little Austin? Suppose he drove
you on foot through hundreds of miles of
ice and snow? , Suppose that he made you
, herd with the human off-scourings of the
world, and that you died after three or
four long-drawn, hideous years? It might
be wicked, but surely it would not be
quite without provocation if I blew that
man sky-high. I don't say that regicide
is a thing to be commended. I don't de
fend the poor old gentleman's political
opinions. - But I do say that human na
ture Is human nature." ,
Luncheon over, he returned to his
painting, ' to find the lights all changed.
He worked away, however, with great
contentment for an hour or two, while the
wife and the boy wandered beyond the
, limits of the dell. When they came back
they found that he had packed up his
traps and was lying at length on the
moss, with his face turned to the sky.
"I do this better than I paint," be said,
cocking an idle eye at his wife from be
neath the soft white felt which rested on
bis nose. "Shall we get back now?" .
- "I want to carry something, papa,"
sJld the boy, possessing himself of the
camp stool. They sauntered on together
tranquilly through ' the twinkling light
which dazzled from between the leaves,
and their steps were noiseless on the
dense carpet of fir needles. The boy laid
down hie burden to chase a sulphur-col-
' ored butterfly. They had gone a hundred
vtrdi before they missed him, and when
the turned to look for blia be was aeen
at the far end of a wooded vista, seated
on the camp stool. ,
"Look at the little figure, Lucy," said
the father. "Isn't there something lonely
and almost pathetic in it? lie looks as
if he were waiting for somebody who
would never come a figure of deserted
childish patience." He hailed the child
and turned away again. "lie knows the
road?" he asked. "There is no danger of
his losing himself?"
"He knows the way," she answered.
"We have been here twice a day for a
month past."
So they marched on, well pleased, talk
ing of indifferent matters, and the little
fellow sat on the camp stool behind them
and held animated talk with Nature.
The gray-bearded man wandered
through the wood with his chin sunk upon
his breast and his eyes fixed upon the
ground. He was tall and gaunt and swar
thy, and looked as if he had a considera
ble strain of the Jew in him. His nose
was like an eagle's beak and ascetically
fine. His temples were hollowed like
those of a death's-head, and his eyes,
which were large and brown and mourn
ful to the verge of pathos, were the eyes
of a born dreamer and a fanatic by na
ture. It was already dusk when the old Ni
hilist turned his footsteps into the wood,
and having just remembered that he had
not broken his fast for seven or eight
hours, he had somewhat quickened his
usual thoughtful pace, when the sound
of a sob reached his ear and he stopped
suddenly to look about him. Within a
yard or two sat the lost' child on the
camp stool, with his back against a broad
tree trunk. The old man knelt on the
grass and looked at the sleeping boy. His
straw hat had fallen off and lay beside
him, his golden hair was tumbled and
disordered, his long dark lashes were still
wet, and his rosy cheeks were blurred and
soiled with the traces of his tears.
Eh! La, la, la?" said the old fellow,
in a pitying accent. "Lost! Did we
sleep in despair, dear little heart? in
tears? in terror? And God sendetn a
hand, ere yet it is night time. To the
child, rescue, and to the old man teach
ing."
Then he took the child softly in his
arms, and gathering up the hat and the
camp stool, entered the wood. A be did
so, a faint and distant cry reached his
ears, and he stopped to listen. It was re
peated once or' twice, faintly and more
faintly, and then died away. sHe started
anew almost at a run, but he was pld,
and the lad was unusually solid and well
grown for his years, so that the burden
soon told on him, and brought him to a
walk again. It was a full mile, from the
spot to which the child had wandered to
the Cheval Blanc, and when the little
hostel was reached the bearer's back and
arms were aching rarely. The landlady
met him In the passage with a cry. ;
"Oh, the little 'Anglais I You have
found him, monsieur? Jeanne, run to the
woods and tqll them that the child is
found."
"You know him?" asked Dobroskl
"Who is he? Where does he live?"
; "He is the child of the English at
the hotel des Postes," answered the wom
an, standing on tiptoe to kiss the boy,
"He has been lost this five hours." Do
broski turned into the street, and the
woman followed him talking all the way.
"He is the only child, of his parents, and
their cherished. Imagine, then, the de
spair of the mother, the inquetude of his
father ! Tbcy are rich. See how the child
is dressed. There is nothing you might
not ask for."
The old man smiled at this, but said
nothing. ' He surrendered bis charge at
the hotel, where the boy was received
with such noisy demonstrations of) pleas'
ure that he awoke. Being awake, and
recognizing his surroundings, , he adapted
himself to them with an immediate phil
osophy, nnd demanded something to eat.
A second messenger was dispatched to
the wood to bring back the party who had
gone in search of him.
His mother kissed him frantically and
cried over him, but his father set out
for the Cheval Blanc to thank his res
cuer. He found Dobroskl seated in a lit
tle room with a sanded floor, and began
to stammer his gratitude in broken and
mutilated French. '
"It was a piece of good fortune to find
him," said Dobroskl, speaking English,
to the other's great relief. "I am de
lighted that the pleasure was mine."
"I don't know how to thank you,"
said the Englishman, a little awkward
ly, lugging a purse from his trousers
pocket. For a moment Dobroskl fancied
the stranger meant to offer hlra money,
but he merely produced a card, "That's
my name," said the Englishman, blun
deringly. "Austin Farley. Upon my
word, I really don't know how to thank
you."
"My good, good sir," returned Dobro
skl, "what would you have had? What
was I to do? He was sure to be round,
and it was my good fortune to have found
him."
"You must ;let his mother come and
thank you, sir," said the, Englishman.
"Udou my word I really don't know what
to say to tell you how grateful and oblig
ed I am. His mother has been in the
greatest anxiety. You must let her come
and thank you."
"Well, well, Mr. Farley," the elder man
answered, himself a little ihy at the oth
er'a concealed emotion. "If you will think
so mere an accident worth thanks to any-
1 1 11.. t Ma mmm V.A imam"
CHAPTER II.
There was a grent crowd of people at
the railway station at Namur, and the
Luxembourg train had no sooner steamed
Into the station than it was besieged by
the mob, and all the carriages were taken
by storm. One tourist, who had furnish
ed himself with a first class ticket, and
had shouldered himself through tho crowd
to the buffet, was exceedingly ' wroth on
his return to find that the carrlnge he
had occupied was filled by third-class
excursionists. Ho spoke French with a
fluency, and an inaccuracy in combination
witn it, which fairly took oft his mental
feet the official to whom ho appealed, and
In a very passion and torrent of his ora
tory rippled audibly the accent of Dub
lin. He talked all over, arms and hands,
finger tips, head, shoulders, and body. He
talked with all his features and with all
his muscles and with all his might, and at
last the official seized his meaning, and
proceeded with inexorable politeness to
turn out all the third-class passengers.
The triumphant tourist stood by, sudden
ly smiling and unruffled. He had a
round, smooth face, with a touch of apple
color on his cheeks, a nose Inclining some
what upward, and an expression of self-
satisfaction so complete that it aroused
the irony of one of the ejected.
He is well introduced to himself, that
fellow," said he, but the tourist did not
hear, or did not care if he heard. He
stood tranquilly by, holding the handle of
the door, until the carriage was cleared,
and was just about to ascend when a
slow, quiet voice spoke behind.
Cot that through, old man, eh?"
The tourist turned suddenly, and
stretched out a hand to the speaker.
hat? Maskelyne, me boy. Deloyt-
ed. Where are you going?"
"I am going to Janenne by rail," said
the other, accepting the proffered hand
with a hearty shake, once up and once
down. "From there I go on to a little
place called Houfoy, to see some old
friends of mine."
"I'm going to Janenne meself," said
the Irishman. "Can't we ride together?"
"I suppose we can," returned his
friend. "Baggage is registered." He
was just as calm as. the Celt had a min
ute or two before been eager, and his
voice was distinctly American. He was
very precisely and neatly attired, his
figure was tall and elegant ; his face was
handsome but melancholy, and curiously
pale. The eyes were the best feature
black, soft and lustrous, but they looked
as if he had never smiled in bis life. "I
say, Fraser," he said, in bis slow, mild
voice, when they were both seated, "where
did you pick up your French?. I never
heard anything like It."
I've knocked about Paris a good deal,"
said Fraser.' "I speak Jorrman with the
same facility, though it's probably me
Scotch extraction that gives me that."
Midwa ybetween Namur and Luxem
bourg the two travelers changed trains
for Janenne.1 The engine steamed lazily
through a most lovely country, and the
young American, looking continually out
of window, seemed absorbed in contem
plation of the landscape. But it could
scarcely have been the landscape which
half a dozen times called a dreamy smile
to his soft eyes, and once a blush to the
sallow pallor of his cheek. When the
train drew up in front of the little red
brick station, a building' planned like a
child's toy house' and not much bigger,
the blush came to bis cheek again, and
his hand trembled slightly as it caressed
his black mustache. ,
Well, it's good-by for a time, old fel
low," he said, shaking hands with Fra
ser. "But I will see you again to-morrow
or next day, most likely, if you can
find time to turn from affairs of state.
"Are those your friends?" asked Fraser,
looking through the window as the train
crawled slowly along the platform. "An
uncommonly pretty gyurl : The ould boy
looks like an army man. He's waving
his hand at ye."
"Yes," said Maskelyne, with his soft
drawl a little exaggerated. "That is my
man. Good-day, Fraser. Tell O'Rourke
I'm down here and that I'll run over and
have a look at him."
A minute later he was shaking hands
with the young lady who had excited Mr,
Fraser's admiration.
"Welcome to the Ardennes, Mr. Maske
lyne," said Angela, with frank good ha
mor. "How are all our friends in New
York?"
"Thank you, Misfs Butler," be answre-
ed, looking into her gray eyes with
smile which was all the brighter and the
sweeter because of the usual melancholy
of his countenance; "I cannot undertake
to tell you how all your friends in New
York may be, but the few scores of whom
I have heard In one way or another since
I came to Europe are very well Indeed
Major Butler, I am charmed to see you
looking so robust. I had not hoped to see
you looking so well."
"Dyspepsia," said the major. "When
I wrote you I was really ill. I, am all
right now. But I've been a good deal
worried, and when I'm worried I get
dyspepsia, and dyspepsia means despair,
That your baggage? Got the ticket for
it?"
At this point Fraser came up with
perfect sang frold, raised his hat to the
girl and accosted Maskelyne.
"I say, ould man, .tell me what s the
best place to put up at here? 1
"Hotel des Postes," said the major,
Mr. Fraser raised his hat to the major,
"Let me Introduce you," said Maske
lyne. "Major Butler, this Is Mr. Fraser,
a member of your British House of. U)m
mons."
"Delighted to meet you !" said the ma
jor, but he did not look as if this state
ment could be accepted. ,
(To be continued.)
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Where the Patch Belong-.
A New Englander recently had occa
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After very little hesitation, the man
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Mother (returning suddenly) -Gra
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Tommy Please, mamma, we have
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Historical Fragment.
James Monroe was putting the finish
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the same."
Remembering, however, that the Big
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wrinkle Into the semblance of a smile.
thing I'm makin' any money on now is
my hens, and I feed mighty near halt of
'em to the preachels."
Cobalt, Ct.
There's a flag station In Connecticut,
that n. g, a called Cobalt The Pilgrim
fathers or their near relatives mined
the mineral not wisely nor too well.
The mine is still there, but no one
but nine out of ten men In New York
city and In every United States town
boasting of a live newspaper, knows
Cobalt, Ontario, Canada, as well as be
knows Butte, Mont Toronto World.
Joining Her. ,
Mr. A. Going downtown to select
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Mrs. A. (in surprise) Night, George?
Why?
Mr. A. Didn't yon say It waa going
to be a dream?
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