The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1869-11-27
The Broken Home.
"TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION"

In San Francisco, on the north side of
Folsom street, overlooking Mission Bay,
stands palatial residence.
The interior of this house is even more
ment being in its way a gem of magniti-
cence and refinement.
The library especially realizes the most
perfect ideal of an elegant and cultured
home.
And yet, at the moment we look upon
him-one August afternoon, as he occupied
his library-the proprietor of all this wealth
appeared of all men the most miserable.
He was Mr.. Morton Preble, for many
years leading banker of San Francisco.
1t was in vain that the broad baywindow
at the south end of the room had been
opened, giving ingress to the sunshine and
the fragrance of rare tlowers-in vain that
the walls were lined with richly carved
bookcases and paintings-in vain that soft
couches and luxurious chairs had been
gathered around him.
tie was WTetcneQ.
He lay ON sofa, in the depths of the
great bay-window, the wreck of a once
powerful man. His figure was thin and
gaunt; his face white as marble; his eyes
having an expression of woful apprehen-
sion, of narrowing anxiety, of dreadful ex-
pectancy.
1t was evident at a glance that no merely
physical ailment had made him what he
was.
By what whitening secret, by what dcs-
troying atfliction, had he been thus agon-
lied ? thus haunted? thus hunted? he so
noble and so good! he SO wealthy and dis
tinguished!
AS lie moved restlessly upon his luxuri-
GUS cushions the pretty clock on the man
tle-piece struck five, every stroke seeming
to fall like a hammer upon the heart of the
nervous invalid. He aroused himself,
struggling feebly to sitting posture.
''Oh, will this fatal day never, never
pass?' he murmured; "nor bring us re-
lief?''
Noticing with a nervous start that he
was alone, he touched bell upon y table
before him, and called:
"Helen, Helen! where are you?'
Before the echoes of his voice had died
out a step was heard, and his wife entered
his presence.
81 left you only for moment, Morton, -
CT, oil n1, 70 Io l,n
g You were doing, I think. 1 wished to
send for the doctorr'
She was beautiful woman, of some six
and thirty years, graceful, with broad
white brows, and loving eyes, in which the
brightness and sweetness of sunshiny
nature were still perceptible, under a grief
and anxiety no less poignant than that
evinced by her husband.
''The doctorr he echoed, half reproach-
fully.
Yes, dear" she said, in calm and
cheerful voice, as she drew a chair to the
side of the sofa, and sat down, stroking the
corrugated forehead of the invalid with a
magnetic touch. "He will be here immed-
lately. Your last nervous crisis alarmed
me. You may become seriously ill"'
Mr.. Preble bestowed an affectionntc
look upon his wife, but said despondently:
"The doctor! He cannot minister to a
mind diseased" Oh, if these long hours
would only pass! If I only knew what the
day has yet in store for us;''
"Look up, Mortonn' enjoined Mrs.
Preble, with reverently trustful glance
upward through the open window at the
blue sky, and as if looking beyond the
azure clouds therein. ''Let us appeal from
the injustice and wickedness of earth to
the goodness and mercy of Heaven"'