Richland beacon. [volume] (Rayville, La.) 1869-1890, 1877-08-11

would sit for hours together on a bal
cony, his face turned eastward, with 8
look of woe.
He, listened to the doctors plan Of
moving him to the coast, and believed
life might be prolonged in the warm air
] of the lowlands. But the lower country
was swarming with guerrillas 20 time
! wore on, Mckay remaining in the Span
ish-Mexican city OF Cordova, surely and
swiftly drifting toward dissolution.
And when spring rains had ceased in
the valley. and coifee-trees had grown
red with ripening fruit, the host grew
uneasy about his rich guests poverty
and probable disease. Mckay would ac
cept charity from no one. He was proud
as a large landed baron. He owed no
man. Even losses at faro were liquidated
to last farthing. He looked upon the
advances of his friends as so many loans,
to be Cancelled upon an arrival of a re-
mittance from Boston. He was grow
ing restless about the delay. Each mail
was a fresh hope, and at the same
time bitter disappointment. But hope
died at last, and from that day on
no smile ever stole into the face of the
engineer. A little girl, beautiful as a
lily, would occasionally present him
with wild flower, and in thanking
the girl in his courteous way his
eyes travelled out towsrd the east.
and when the little one ques.
toned, he answered not word.
One day he heard the landlord com.
plain of delinquent guests. He knew he
was meant, and he was. 1t was cruel
al.usiOn. 1t struck home. \ face hith-
erto pale, underwent a change-it grew
older in an hour. Not friend with
means was left him.
Despair was clear cut in that suffering
face.
Sometime before the doctor had in.
vited him TO Potrero, a sugar plantation
on road to Vera Cruz. One evening
passed out upon the front balcony, and
Mckay was there.
He began to speak in voice that |
quivered with emotion: Il 90 to Potre-
70 tomorrow. l shall never see Cordova |
again. Three years ago left home, and |
then promised myself that nothing
could ever induce me to return. The
past is bitter memory: but let that go.
Yesterday l still expected to return to
Boston, if for nothing else, to die at
home. The uream even has passed for
ever. And s., whenever it is all over,
let me be laid in some quiet place, and
when those in Boston hear of my death
let the cause be consumption" 4 fit of
prevented further words, and |
Jaw him no more.
The next morning he left Co.dova.
tie slept at the plantation. But he
walked no more. A little phial of poison
OSSiuC lie WIS ueIu.
There was ring on his finger, ant, in
'ide were the words, " from Mary to
John."
lie was buried on the banks of the Rio
Seco, under the shade of the broad.leafed
Two-thirds ofthe guests of the econ
ederado" quit the house that day, and
he concern went to pieces month after.
Some time after the clouds had begun
langing about the hills and the air had
Ooled from the raids of the Northers
rom the coast, diligence from the rail- {
ray terminus brought a well -dressed
ady to the quaint old city. She was an :
american, and, ordering a room at the
Diligencia," asked if any of her coun. t
rymen resided in this city.
An uncouth specimen was pointed out, q
nd she forthwith piled him with cues. q
ions, while he answered with candor and I
luntness. q
" Do you know" she began, "a gentle a
ian named McKay-a civil engineerw d
"Yes, mann, 1 did know him."
Eagerly she followed, "And where is
E noww
He took poison and is dead; he's "
aried on the Rio Seco." f
Before his answer was fairly out the is
dy fell upon the floor in swoon. t!
Plying strangers lifted her up and laid I
sr upon a couch. Some time elapsed CT
fore she returned to consciousness, and fr
hen she opened her eyes she was a Il
Ianged woman. She was beautiful, IL