The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1875-09-01

scamperings across the meadows and
through the early autumn woods, in
happy girlish glee. They disclosed
the perfect unconscious happiness of
a bright, joyous nature, amid the
bright and joyous in natr-e. lux
hugs there were, too, of her wifely
for their home, and these
iightened his tolls and strengthened
him as naught else would have done.
"But he remained, the sane poor
fool at last. Not that be doubted for
her or feared for himself. But, fool
that be was, he did not know that
love, all purifying, had efaced it. He
her stain, and he trem-
bled for her. Could she ever put
away from herself the horrid phan-
tom of her former self, or would that
be the specter of their future, to curse
them both? And IN all his plans for
them, the fool planned this skeleton
in.the-clOset, and how double-locked
and barred and nailed down and
pllstered over the closet should be,
that should be set in the very heart
of their home. And he resolved that
it should be his life-work to keep the
closet double-locked and barred, and
nailed down and plastered over, that
she might not cover before that ter
rible specter of her past. He revolv-
ed it till it burned into his very soul.
None Of this he wrote her, but un-
consciously il must have been reflect
ed in his letters. 1t came upon her
like blighting frost upon tenderest
bud-thc thought of this nameless
horror that must cling to her always,
before which be must shrink from
her with unutterable loathing, the
more terrible when it should be fas-
tened to him for Life. 1t filed her
with deathly despair She ceased
writing. When he came she was
gone. She had fed like a striken fawn
a-quiver with pain.
Thorne paused abruptly, and turn
ed again to an unfinished manuscript
And the fnale?" l queried =
What became of her? Did She;
What becomes of them all-are
they not all lost" he said in quick,
harsh voice. "The end-you have
just reported what may have been
the end of such life" aud be took
up his hat and went down stairs has
tily.
| got down to the office late the
next afternoon to find the city editor
in stew. Not reporter about, and
Thorne had come in an hour before
with not a line of report of the -
street tragedy which be had been
sent to make, and helplessly drunk.
| was ordered to hurry out there; the
Times would be a half day behind
on it then, and to make the most OF
it in what time was left. The first
man who came in would be sent to
help me, and needn't mind the night
work; somebody else would be put
ON that. The - street affair was
the sensation for the next days issue
and my instructions were to work il
up Cor all that could be made out oi
it."
| started at once for - street
wondering as | went what was the
matter with ThOrne, who was a tee.
totaler, and had never before been
known to miss news he was sent af.
ser, that be should come back in Ii.
quOr and miss the sensation. Oh
course it would cost him his place
our city editor was one of those who
had a pose for news, and gave nc
man an opportunity to miss a second
time. But | had little time to think
of it then.
| Arrived at - street, L found
there was very little mystery about
the last nights murder. The woman
had been stabbed by her lover, L,
who in those days was keeper of the
notorious gambling hell in place
No. 70, where the affair happened,
was a neat cottage, of plain exterior
| elbowed my way through the throng
of bareheaded women, street gamins,
corner loafers, and curious passers-
by who had gathered about the
"scene of the tragedy" and was en-
deavoring to satisfy the policeman
stationed at the door that | wasn't a
bogus reporter, when Hicks, the de-
tective came out, with
"Hello! Come to take Tborne's
place? What's come over him? New
er saw him so before; but l suppose
he'll be all right in the morning.
Come in."
Without stopping to reply, | enter
ed Within the house was elegant
ly fitted up. Everywhere were evi-
dences of the most exquisite taste
q womau's, it was to be seen at a
glance. The stabbing had happened
in chamber off the parlors-what
the upholstery reporters would style
boudoir. Here upon the floor, near
a window opening into conserva-
tory, as she had fallen in her death
agony, lay the inahimate form of the
murdered woman. The blood that
had spouted from the wound in her
breast hung in clotted splotcbes from
the rich damask curtain and trailed
over the carpet and spotted an over
turned bronze jardinier, and where
it trickled down her side had formed
a sickaning pool The coroner had
been delayed by an inquest in anoth-
er quarter of the city, and everything
had been kept as found by the police
on their arrival
a beery looking patrolman squirt
ed tobacco spit into Sevres vase of
rare pattern, staring stolidly the
while at a fine copy of the Sistine
Madonna, that from the wall looked
down on the stark form there. The
surgeons assistant, q lank young
man with green spectacles, lolled
back in a plush covered easy chair,
with his boots on the rosewood bed
stead, and read the morning Times
The surgeon himself, who was there
to make the post mortem, stood at