The New Bloomfield, Pa. times. (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1877-188?, 1879-02-18

up your courage, dear, and trust in God
and in me. will never rest till have
you out in the sunshine again."
He begged her to write, but never
come to see him. He could not bear
that, he said. TO see her in such
place would do him more harm than
good.
1t is useless to describe the grinding
of those first days, or the sickness of
hope deferred during that first year.
Lutte sent him letters full of love, but
there was little encouragement in them,
though she tried to speak hopefully. His
grandfather was his enemy, and would
never consent to his pardon but on one
condition, = that he would immedia-
tely leave the country and never re-
turn.
This proposal Max rejected with in
dignation. He would never accept a
pardon for a crime which he had never
committed, he said; and he was as good
a citizen as his grandfather, and would
remain in his own country, thank you.
So another year and another passed
by. Lute's letters kept him alive, and,
Notwithstanding an attempt to escape,
and the severity with which life-sen-
tence men were necessarily treated, he
received many favors. People had be-
gun to think he hadn't meant to hurt
the old man, and everybody knew that
Mr.. Hunt was miser. Besides, every
officer at the prison knew of those
tender letters that came every week, and
had seen the pictures of herself which
Lutte had had taken and sent twice
every year, I" so that he might see her
grow old" she wrote, "and be able to
recognize her when she came out"
They marked how the face changed. The
first was rosy and dimpled, with curls
hanging in rich luxuriance about it,
sweet, happy face, with promise of
strength under its sweetness. The next
was thinner, with sholler dimples, and
shadows about the eyes. Each one was
sadder than the last, and one could see
that the girl grew in the shadow of her
| lovers fate. 1t was evident that this
|
she hoped or not.
Old Mr.. Hunt sat in his study one
morning, leaning out of his arm chair
toward the fire, although it was mid
June. Andrew Clark sat at desk near
by, sorting papers, his thin, yellow face
bent over them, his keen, quick eyes
running up columns of figures, glancing
| here and there. He was going TO an
adjoining town to transact some bust
ness for his patron and had been taking
his directions.
Its three years to-day, Clark" said
the old man, after a silence.
Clark started and looked up. "Sir?"
" Just three years since they took him
to prison." he went on. "I've been
thinking, Clark, that j wasn't quite
right about him. / was young once
myself, and L ought to have given him
more"
6 1t is a sad case, sir" sighed Clark,
finding that he was expected to say
something. You had narrow es-
cape"
But L struck first said the other
eagerly. He only defended himself,
and tried to get away. Besides, Clavk,
L didn't see his face, and who knows
what all those proofs are worth Some
body might have wanted to lay it on
him."
"Why, Mr.. Hunt" exclaimed his
| companion, astounded.
'FI haven't said anything" he went
on, g but lately I've had queer thoughts,
believe I'll ask the governor to pardon
him, and take him home again. Pm q
lonely old man, and he's all that is left
of my flesh and blood"
Every well, sir" said Clark firmly.
Z" I am willing to leave. You know L
wanted to three years ago. You can do
es you please. L hope you won't re-
pent.n
=" But can't spare you"' cried his
master.
" You can't imagine that will stay
in the house with him, at the risk of my
life 1t is out of the question. 1 think
you ought not to risk yourself, SIR"
''Oh, tut Pm not afraid of the boys
hurting anybody. Why, he was as
tender-hearted as baby, always. He
wouldn't have been so hard on me then,
but, you see, was too bad about Lutte
Ringgold. She's good girl, Clark,
| and she couldn't helm IL IL her father