The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1867-06-27

Don't ye talk SO. How could
get on without We, my lass?" he began.
in hideous tone OF caressing. Who's
got as handsome a gall as mine !?
There amt the like O. her"
Father, hush she cried a
She shrank back from him. A mo-
ment or two after, looking at him with
another of those deep chances that
pierced through the falseness of his
| face. she asked him slowly 81 al
What do you want? You want
something from me, and you had bet
ed. sharply, for she had paused and be
had not answered her, [ say-what
do you wart?"
Il ,!st want you to ha' patience" he
answered, doggedly, at LAST What
harm does Dan 'Skeeton do t. We?
/ Can't ye let him be here a day or two
and hold yer tongue, We stormin
witch?' az ar
| Will he 60 away after day or
two? she retorted, quickly. He has
no money, and you keep him-do you
suppose he'll go. away? Father" she
cried, after a moment, passionately,
IF you can speak the truth, speak it
for once; tell me why this man comes
here. He has some hold upon you
what is it2 Ifitis slight hold, break
it-never mind at what cost--break
lit; If 1t is a firm hold, give up every.
thing you have, but break it still.
She stopped and stood looking at him,
and then, before he made any answer.
! one. touch of tenderness broke from
| her. Father. [ have so little in
the world to cling to, she said, that
| cling even to you. Don't force.me
to go; | will bear anything but the
presence of that man. We are bad
nough now: but if he comes amongst
us-God help usr' she said, in low
voice of horror, for we shall be incar-
nate fiends"
What's the use O saying send him
away'g' the old man broke out, in
t to IT 1 6saHel4g o sons But sepe n%
Pris-I can't, Pris," he cried, in
misera BILE whine; "Plis, he's got grip
O. me-" And from the seat where he
sat covering, he lifted up look of
abject terror into her face.
She looked at him, and said, slow
ly-
What could he do to your
And the next moment she had read
it in his face; there was no need of the
miserable pantomine which he
presently showed her of his fingers sat
about his throat.
He had confessed his secret; but,
once told, it seemed as if sank back
again into the grave out Of which it
had come. Days passed after this,
and no whisper of it was hreathed
again. Only for half each day Daniel
Skeeton hung about the house.
A look of restless uneasiness, too,
deepening sometimes into helpless
terror, came to Gregory's face. He
rarely left the house. He would sit
for hours, though it was Summer,
crouched by the kitchen freside,
watching the man who held his fate in
his hand, with stealthy fascinated
stare. The two men still talked at times
familiarity together. and joined in
bursts of boisterous laughter over the
stories that they told; but by degrees
Skeeton assumed the manners of a
master in the place He came and
went as he pleased, ordering meals dit
such hours as suited him; when he
wanted money Gregory gave it to him.
his wardrobe. He led an idle enough |
life. Out of the house he had, as far
as was apparent, no occupation what
ever; within it, however, he car
ried on oae pursuit, as became ev-
ident enough before the termina-
ton of many days Wherever she |
went about the house, he followed |
Priscilla. No matter that she evinced |
hot Of HI = l.,
forgetting prudence in her horror of |
him, she openly showed her contempt |
and disgust, he spent hours day after
day in DIGGING her steps. following
her with his greedy eyes, watching |
her with hideous leer of admiration,
which, when she saw it, used to make /
her proud soul sick with al intensity
of loathiRg that no words could utter
From day to day this went on. She
had said that she would go away, if it
were to beg upon the streets, rather
than endure his presence; but she had
not gone. The secret that her father
had told her was like chain about |
her feet, binding her where she was;
since she had known it she had not
dared to go-she must stay and help
the old man. Help him, yet with
what kind of help she did not know;
one sort of aid that she could give
him was daily with slow horror be-
coming clear to her sick heart. that
one and no other; yet, with the dim
but ineradicable hope of strong ma
ture, she stayed. Surely when the
time came there would be something
that she should have the power to do.
Days went on; fortnight had pass
ed since Skeeton had first come. He