Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1873-03-08
Gales and Sketehes.
THE HEART OF ROBERT HAMMOND.
CONCLUDED FROM YESTERDAY. I

1t was about twelve years after Robert
hammond and his wife had turned their
backs on New York, they were sitting to-
Gether one evening in that quiet hour
which supplements the noisy one given to
children and precedes those given to rest.
The tire burned brightly, and the lamps
from under rose colored shades threw soft,
warm tints ON all the beauty and comforts
OF thoroughly handsome ROOM Sitting
in her low chair with closed eyes and idle
hands folded over the dropped sewing.
Mrs. hammond was holding pleasant
communion with her own thoughts. The
face had yet the tender look left on it by
the children's kisses, and though her lips
moved not, | am sure any one would have
said she was praying. Perhaps she was.
God knows that if any human souls ought
to pray, it is those who share with the an
gels the charge of immortal souls.
just far enough away to make Il low,
musical murmur, the children were saving
their prayers, and outside the luxurious
home the snow fell silently and the dim
shrubs shivered against the window panes.
1t was near Christmas, too, and Christ
mas influences We're in the air and in the
heart. A sudden and great tenderness
fell on Robert Hammond as he listened to
his children's voices and looked around
his happy home and in the face of his
good, true wife.
And he remembered his faults that
night.
Where were Lucy and his father? For
nearly three years he had heard nothing
certain. and the last wandering and un-
certain intelligence had been Of q very
q III and i,n,,iaa Il =
easily enough all the dark, hard points in
his fathers character, bat that gave him
no satisfaction. Somehow he was sensi-
BILE tonight that he had not been faultless.
And Lucy? In all the years they had
lived together he could no. remember q
single wrong that gentle soul had done
him.
And now perhaps both were suffering
the pangs of poverty while he had enough
and to spare. The thought had crossed
his mind before, and very often of late,
in his counting house. in his lumber ward,
among his children. But never had it af-
fected him as now. 1t was as if some
mighty hand had shaken him out OF
lethargv and in tones of yearning and re-
proach called to him, Robert Hammond,
where is thy father and thy sister ?' He
might have answered, | am not their
keeper" but he never thought of such an
excuse.
Mary" he said to his wife, in tones so
solemn and earnest that she opened her
eyes with start. MARY. where do YOU
think father and Lucy are ?"
God knows, Robert-and that is one
| was Just thinking about
them.
"Were you9 that is strange"
Then, after a few minutes intense
thought he got up and walked up and
down the room, pushing in his preoccu-
patton chairs and ottomans out of his way
Mrs. Hammond waited quietly, taking
stitch after stitch, and glancing occasion
ally into the troubled face OF her husband.
Presently, he stopped before her and
said:
"Alary, the river is dead-locked with
ice. | can leave my business now better
than could ever have done the last ten
years. If start at once, | can be in New
York by Christmas. What do you say ~
God go with you, Robert dear think
you are right
So the next morning Robert Hammond
set his face Eastward, and ia due time
tried the familiar walks of New York city
But he found his fathers office in strange
name, and his memory had passed from
The constantly changing financial world.
The Old home was empty. and falling into
that look Of decayed gentility which is so
much worse than honest poverty.
Then he suddenly remembered a little
farm not far from Patterson which had
been part of his mothers fortune; and
hiring horse and buggy, he tried to find
it. 1t was only low, stone cottage, sur
rounded by cherry trees that were old
now and bare. The fields around were
white and still, the little stream bound in
icy tettcrs, the cattle staring piteously on
the barren earth, and dumb in their cold
hunger and comiouless life.
A rude, unpainted fence divided Il small
garden and yard from the general waste
OF dcsolation; and, walking slowly across
the yard, was figure which, in spite of
shabby clothes and ageing years, Robert
easily recognized as his father.
The old man saw the approachinebu
gy, and going 10 the gate, called out in
querulous tones:
You need not alight. sir. we have no
room to entertain strangers. We never
do sir. No, indeed"
A'N w W. iAto lllt more
iervently as he saw the stranger did not
pay any attention to them, meanwhile
standing inhospitably at the closed gate.
Robert saw pale, weary-ooking wo-
man come for n moment to the door, and
then after a vacant stare close it again.
1t was all very discouraging. but he ncy-
cr tor one moment hesitated in his inten-
tions. Leaving the horse tied to the fence
he walked up to the closed gate, and
stretching his hand across it said.
Father.
The old mans face grew suddenly gray,
and the lines about the mouth deepencd
involuntariy; he dropped his eyes, but
raised them quickly to say;
II am poor man now, Robert, there |
is nothing to be got by seeking me out. "
II want nothing, father, but your for
eiveness and love. | am rich man now,
unless you shut your door against me. In
that easel shall feel poor enough"
Come in, them
The tone was not gracious one, but |
Robert knew what it had cost the old man
to humble himself so far, and he accepted
the invitation with
"Thank you, sir"
Earnestly as thew walked nm the little