The Louisiana cotton-boll. [volume] (Vermilionville [i.e. Lafayette], Attakapas, La.) 1872-1883, 1873-12-31

Her maid tapped at an inner door t
ask if Mrs. Burnham wanted her now
"Go to my dressing-room," reptile
Isabel, towering between the damsel'
eyes and that loeomotiye-laboring-up
steep grade upon the sofa. 'Wait 70
me there"
She closed the door and went back
Not being addicted to harangues ane
handkerchiefs, she merely clasped he
hands and looked at him, thinking,
suppose, that no woe like hers had eve
come upon the world since the deluge
Yet Mrs Smith, down by the wharves
conld have shown her deeper depths
and thousands of wretches within few
square miles, might have smiled at he1
butterfly misery. Yet, after all, every
one suffers according to his capacity
rather than according to his stroke. Is
abel considered wine as belonging tc
gentle breeding. That Mrs. Smiths
"man" should come to the gutter
through rum, was thing to be cx-
pected: " that sort Of people you know,
etc." but that Mrs. Burnham's lord
could be touched with the same infrm-
ity, was a revelation of human nature
for VIII ;ch she was not prepared. Like
all natures of her cast, she stood in
fercest judgment over what she loved
best.
Burnham slept till late sun thrust
bright daggers through his hair, and
heated his eyelids.
Dissipation treated him kindly. He
came down to luncheon after bath and
toilet and little philosophy, as fresh
and suave as your father confessor.
Isabel did not trouble him for the time
She had taken her maid and gone out,
he supposed, and he was glad Of having
more time to recover himself before he
attempted to pass muster under those
black eyes again. He came home to
dinner invigorated by business, with
his winning, repentant guise on his sarm,
ready for use, as you may say. But
Isabel had not yet returned. No one
had seen her that day.
He rushed to her room and plowed
among her belongings. She had taken
little and that little had evidently been
packed hastily.
Pinned to a frame containing his por-
trait, Burnham found her last testa-
ment he opened it with q face like
the dead. She said to him:
"Do not search for me. We can ney-
er be anything to each other again. You
have killed me; you taught mo to lean
on and adore the best of men and then
you unmasked and showed me what you
were. The world is black; I have no
faith in anything"
Mr.. Burnham, in reading this scrap,
forgot the repose of good breeding.
He fell upon his knees as if Hercules
had planted blow between his eyes !;
he rung for the police, and whirled up
the great hotel like madman. But
those much buttoned gentlemen, with
clubs and ornamented caps, have q
soothing effect on the most narrowed
mind. Bnrnham dropped down in his
parlor, with his head between his hands,
anb explained himself, in fragments, to
one of them, who stood reading him
like book.
"Did she have money!" asked the
immovable.
"She has large bank account, her
own property, which I never touch.
Perhaps she has cashed that"
On investigation it was found that
she had.
"And with eighteen hours start, "
pursued the immovable, "Bhe1I be we'll
away from the city by this time. De-
scription of lady, and lady's woman,
sir o.
So they took notes, examined, put
their hand to the wires, and few about
surely and silently, while Burnham
measured his rooms or the streets, or
set iii police stations, looking like an
old man.
Once, when a juvenile, [ seized a
stone, with an impulse of disgust, and
hit rat which crept from under the
barn. It screamed and tottered, lifting
suffering eyes. The poor thing had
been poisoned great ulcers were on
its back; it was crawling from death,
and I hurt it sat down on the grass,
crying and wringing my hands, the YER
lest wretch alive: I had struck a suffer-
ing, defenseless creature If I could
only have gathered the rat on my lap
and soothed its dying moments But
he dragged out of sight and left me ev-
erlasting remorse. Since cruelty is a
two-edged sword that falls back painful
ly if you use it even against vermin,
how it must cut if we have lifted it
against our best beloved
The rhyme of Burnham, his wander
ings, his remorse, his sack-eloth and
HASTINGS, are they not written in the
book of his experience?
His police force traced Isabel ont of
the city, but they were long discover
ing her. They sent him continued mes
sages of their progress; he left his
affairs to follow every clue. And
dismal hours he spent in her dressing
room poring over glove or ribbon,
enjoying the sweetness of freedom and
widowhood. The "Pickwick Club"
was no stay to his care. He hated the
sight of their Baechanalian faces.
1t seemed that years instead of
months had passed, when the chief man
of buttons and clubs waited on him one
day, with the joyful assurance that in a
cnrtain northern village. in a certain