Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1879-05-04
the treasure in the foundling hospital.
But one seldom takes good advice, and


But one seldom takes good advice, and
didn't.
To tell the truth, I grew So attached
to the child that should even have been |
wicked enough, fear, to regret any ones
turning up to claim it. But that's not
at all likely; no more likely now, after SO
many years--no, not at all likely; no
more likely than that Richard and
should ever meet again in this world.
And that-that is among the things that
can never happen.
1t was on this wise our parting:
Richards mother was cid and feeble
and miserely. She'd spent good deal
of money on him-sent him to college,
and expected, folks said, to "make some
thing of him." She always expected to
get her moneys worth out of her tran
sactions. Richard held her in a sort of |
awe somehow, though she was little
wizened old woman that he could have |
lifted with his left hand. But I liked
him for respecting his mother.
One day we two were sitting at tWi-
light talking of the future dreamily, as
was our wont.
"My little ore" said Richard. putting
his arms about me; lit half seemed too
bright to ever be-"
ever bel" I echoed. ooh, Richard,
if you talk that way it will never be-"
Richard smiled, but his face grew over
cast. felt that a storm was coming.
"Well?"I queried, seeing that he sat
brooding and silent.
Darling" he said, soothingly, II knew
it would come hardly to you; but how can
I go against my mother? Her poor old
heart is bound up in me, Jeanette, and
she will never hear TOTO anything
that
THAT seems to lower you," I added,
IN steely voice that seemed to cut its
way out Of my heart like a keen, cold
knife.
80, am coward-a poltroon!'; cried
Richard, wringing his hands. 81 was
born to bring trouble on those l love-
Who, who shall leave to suffer for me
now, Jeannette?"
"The one who will say least about it,"
I answer ed, hardly. My heart was throb-
bling heavily, like the clock that ticks the
hour of execution; but I made no outcry,
and we parted IL that final parting ST.
lently. And have lived silently ever
since.
One year after that heard that Rich
ards mother was dead, and then that he
had married: who, I knew not-who, I
cared not. He had married another
woman while my last words we're yet
ringing in his ears-right there, before
the face of the living heaven, married
another woman, and swore to love and
cherish her, as he had often vowed to love
and cherish me!
But did not seem to feel this blow as
I had felt our parting. just flung him
out of my heart there and then, and my
love and my silence vanished. I locked
into the face of my misery with smile,
and took this little shop in the village,
and worked early and late, and made it
thrive. Then, two years later, came my
little Toddles to me, sitting like lily
on my doorstep, as if some angel of
peace had dropped her there. l have
named her Theresa, but Toddles has
always been her own pet name for her
self, ana I like it because it is hers.
The child has brought me peace. And
feel 10 vengeance against any one now
Nor do rejoice that Richards wife is
said to have turned out ill, and spent the
wealth she brought him.
But I had forgotten the shop in all
, this reverie and Renaissance.
There was sharp twang of the little
bell, and heard heavy step in the
doorway. I set down my coffee-cus
| hastily, and hurried in to confront 8
! great muscular fellow with a big beard
4 and a slouched hat. whose presence
+ Fo1r111 m ,l1
7 This was rather different type from
. my usual customers, and l was little
shy of him. He hesitated, and seemed
t bewildered when I spoke to him-mer
. never do get used to shopping i
q was some time before quite made GU
v what he wanted. It was some sort O
y wooden goods-a scarf or kerchief,
o think. These we're not very salable stool
just now, and had put the box contain
It ing them out of sight somewhere Will,
y I rummaged about, the stranger stood II
If the doorway, watching me in way
o did not like; perhaps he wanted to stea
y something. He looked needy enough
% and SHABBY enough.
1T "Oh, here they are at last" said
t. eagerly, handing down the package fror
a high and dusty shelf.
[ The man did not seem to hear me. II
to was looking at Toddles, darting abor
If like butterfly outside.
le "Whose child is that?" said he, al
to ruptly.
p It was an impudent question, and
" felt my blood flush up holly for MI
ment. But I reflected that this ma
r looked wayworn and weary; perhaps /
es had come long journey, and left d lit
I'd child like this at home.
I'd ''It is nv child" said pleasantly.
en- yours" he repeated.
lie "Or at least" said I, eff not mine,
was left with me to be cared for"
~ "Lett with You," echoed the strange
| "Aye, so have heard, Left with X
I'd by the wretched man, the outcast, Il
ng degraded, who knew none else on who
*. to thrust his burden when his tinsel,
he wife fell from the tight-rope, and di,
ny there, groveling in the sawdust- kne
IN, none other of whom to seek the CHAIR
to than the woman who had loved him.
m listened as one stupefed with opiu1
wn What did this man know Or guess Gu
re. corning me and mine2 What object b
I'd he in view in lingering about the sho
cd But said coolly, "That is story tt
needs to be proved"
Up. The stranger stopped and looked kee
ng ly at me. "Verily," said he, with 10
ow sardonic laugh, she has reaped his
ny ward, it seems: he IS both dead and #
ar COTTON"
: began to feel afraid OF this man, W
or. seemed bent upon insulting or alarmi
in me.
r