The Portland daily press., 1875-06-09

folds the will; but am an old man, and can
not see things clearly as l used to do. A lit
tie time has aged me sadly. II will do it
after have seen Victor. OF course will
see Victor first. 1t will do me good to see
him. These days alone here have been long
and heavy for me. The rooms get larger and
emptier and more silent every day-and l
get older"
CHAPTER vi.
Sir Victor leans forward eagerly as the car
rage rolls up the park to Chine Abbey. His
eyes are wistful as girls when they wander
over the sunny landscape, and wait for the
first glimpse of his home of long ago; and
when the old abbey comes suddenly in sight,
his breath quickens, his heart futters, and
the fingers of his right hand close upon the
carriage door with spasm of pain.
This is the home which he loves better
than any spot on earth; and this is the home
that might have been Ciare's. Here he had
hoped to die with his grandchildren about
him, and his child's hand in his. Tears are
but rare visiants to such eyes as his, but
they stand thick upon his dropping lids when
he enters this old home.
He stands at one of the windows, in the
April sunshine, waiting for Victor. lie
looks out yearningly; seeing and thinking
nothing of the beautiful, pleasant homeli-
ness Of the room itself, because he can see
the river on which he and Victors father
used to row as boys. He can see the oak under
which Clare's mother sat on that morning
when she promised to be his wife. lie can
see the boat in which he took his baby Clare
for her first row. He can see-nothing
more; for the tears blind him now and his
white head Is bent to hide them.
'sFatherV
The old forms have been SO lfe-like to him,
there on the old spot, that he can fancy it Is
really his little daughters own voice whisper
ing the word.
sFather-dearest."
All, kind heaven! 1t is Clare's own voice.
It is Glare herself who comes toward him,
in her own radiant beauty, and In the beauty
if the sunshine which has always belonged to
her. Her lips are raised to his; her eyes are
beautiful exceedingly, in their glat and
steadfast love.
"Father, speak to me! Oh, my dear,
soeak to me, There is no oath to keep you
silent, for did not marry Allan Foster
"ClareI Clare! What is it? Tell me
what you mean. am old and cannot bear
another separation"
"Never, father, never. No other separa-
ton can ever come. We are together again
for aI,uags. Father,"-her arms are locked
about his neck, and, between the whispered
words, she presses her laughing, happy lips
to his. sFather-I-married-
The simple meaning of the few words has
not reached him, when Clare's husband
stands before him-a gallant, handsome
Englshman, with happy laughter in his
eyes.
"Foster! Why are you here2 Clare, what
does it mean? Tell me how it is, Foster. l
am dull and bewildered; nothing is clear, ex-
cept-"
Except, papa" Clare softly laughs, as
she nestle still closer in his arms, "that we
are all together again, you-andil-and Vic
| tori
''But Foster" .t.
s'Don't call me Foster any more, please,
uncle, 1.-THE young imam puts in, pleasantly,
"unless you feel you can forgive me more cas-
| lily by that name. Can you ever do sop
One close. quick grasp the Baronet gives
the outstretched hand, but no words yet will
pass his shaking lips. :,
81 don't know what to do, uncle, really
| Victor adds, laying one hand tenderly upon
| Clare's head. II cannot thank you for Civ
ing me my wife, because you declined to dc
| it; vet ought to thank you, because you
wished to do it, and had promised"
"But Why" falters Sir Victor at last
"why did you never tell meW
sAh, that would have undone it all, though
| I know can never have sufficient excuse fol
causing you any pain and loneliness. we
can only try to make up for it, and tempt yot
to forget it. After all, uncle, it was almost
a natural wish of mine, wasn't it? to try to
win my own wife as other men do, and moi
expect her to come passively to me without
her own wishes being consulted. l felt thai
she would come in obedience to you, and
| wanted loue to bring her-love that should
| prove even stronger than obedience; love
| that should brave everything 1t was very
hard to continue in the deceit, uncle Victor
but without it, should never have known
| the intense happiness which is mine now
| You will forgive me? 1t seemed so hard nc,
to have to take my chance like other men
that II was happy to take even Tess
| chance than most other men,"
81 might have guessed it," says Sir Victor
his ewes full indeed as he looks from his
daughter to her husband, "knowing youl
nature, Victor"
"And my right to indulge my hobbies while
I was free-as you told poor Foster on the
night Glare came home.'
HDon,t remind me of it-quite yet. Glare
did you know who Allen Foster wasp
seNever,'' she answers, suddenly grave and
earnest, "never until we were in church to
| gether-on my birthday morning. Why
father, I could not have Kept the secret from
you-not one hour. Victor knew that"
"My child, how can believe it all, and
that 1 am really here in the old home? Vic
tor, dear fellow, can yea forgive meP ano
| you"
.sFinish the manuscript Uncle Victor
that is now my only ungratified ambition. Tt
finish it-as 1 said in my letter-in my own
house, but under your supervision, and ex-
actly as used to do"
II did not mean that" the baronet says
| laugh in his own eyes now, though hi:
voice falters still in its excessive gladness; 81
was thinking of something else."
But he does not explain what. for he re-
members that they neither of them know
anything about his intention of altering hi:
will and leaving his wealth to Clares husband
instead of to Victor Observation-Disclosures
| Number Of London SOcietu,