The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1880-03-25

in the south pasture. Jamie come up
to me in the moonlight, AM leaned
| against the fence"
Jack says he, are you going to
California with the boys?'
(" Two or three fellows had been at me
to go across the plains with 'em, but
didn't like to leave the lad, and" he
stopped with quick, nervous tremor OF
his heavy unshaven chin.
"There's things man don't mention,
even after thirty years, amt there,
little; for knew he'd understand. /
can do without gold better'n can some
other things
"He waited bit till I'd put up the
top bar. an then he turned k nd of
away, and looked out across the pasture.
I've been over to Squire -, jack
to know it first and so does Mary
took hold O. the fence, and held
on minute an shut my eyes. The
ground slipped from under my feet. 1
don't know whether the boy knew what
it meant that he'd said to me or not.
1 hope to God he didn't. l came away
that night An you think you know
Jamie, Judge? Well, now, who'd
thought it? This is startlin' world,
isn't itp
eyes, know your brother WELL" 1
said. l shouldn't have been here, if 1
hadn't known him; but he isn't living,
Uncle Jack. He has been dead almost q
year."
| was watching his face anxiously for
| tho lonty Nf fpka
and gone since his brothers mare was
mentioned. He fixed his eyes on me
with a queer puzzled expression, as if
fighting his way from a long stretch of
forgetfulness into the present.
"Dead?' he said, e" Jamie dead-my
little brother? 1 guess there's some mis-
take, Judge. The lad was always we'll
enough. Dead3'' he repeated after a
pause; 1 wish you'd 20 over it all
again, Judge; go over it slow. 1 don't
seem to have grip on things, some
how" t
I went over it all as he said, slowly
and carefully. His brothers past life
Eso far as 1 knew it, his death and his
will. The latter was short and easily
stated. Everything was left to his only
brother, John Bunyan Cavendish, if
living; in the event of his death to be
divided, share and share alike, among
the children of the late Mary Ormsby,
of Perth. My companion listened with
silence that sometimes feared was
stdpor. When I had finished, 1 drew
from my pocket the letter, grown sud-
denly SC sacred, and laid it on the table
before him. He raised his eyes and
glanced from it to me.
Judge" he said, quietly, az don't
want to read that letter here. / don't
like the looks O. things. Iwant to go to
some place where things is growin' an
there's fresh countryfied smell. You
understand, an want you to go along"
would willingly have left him alone
with his deed, but did not dare to, even
then. So we walked silently through
the narrow, crowded streets to one of
those quaint hillsides Overlooking the
calm verdure of the valley and the
wintry SHOWS of San Antonio. Ny COM
panion sat down, and motioned me to a
seat beside him.
"Now, Judge" he said, hoarsly, "I
want you to read that letter to me
you've stood by me this far, and l think
you'll see me through"
/ read the letter. 1t comes back to
me distinctly even now. The scent oil
the orange blossoms below US, the atti
tude of the man beside me, the strange
sound of my own voice, even the words
that I said:
DEAR JAcK-When you read this shall be
dead. All these years I have been afraid Il
look you in the face. You know now how ]
wronged you and Mary; she knew it before
she died. I don't ask you to forgive me.
didn't ask her to. only ask you not to hat,
my memory. I thought could make her Low,
me, but she never did. She never loved tn,
man she married she never loved any one bu
you, Jack, and knew it. I would have lait
i down my life years ago to right the wrong
did, but it was too late. I ruined your life anG
hers, and yet loved you both, and love yol
. still.
My listener did not move or raise hi,
eyes. How long we sat there l do no
know, but our shadows heightened OF
the hillside, and the air grew chill
! Wha5 the old man was thinking, Coz
only knows. When he spoke his voic
T startled me.
l "Pve got a good deal of business OF
t hand, Judge, an if it's all the same t
J, you, we'll go down town. I've beel
t thinkin' about the children. Do yo1
: know anything about 'em, Judge?-
Mary's children, you know:"
II "Not much. They are orphans, an
very poor; the Oldest is girl, and work
: at some trade. They are not together
n think"
"Jamie's little pile goes to them whe
1 Pm gone"
n Eyes"
r He made no further inquiry, and "
e walked on in silence. parted from hi
that night with vague uneasiness.
/. was Christmas eve, and everythi ng W.
!. ablaze with light. walked up an
rs down among the hurrying throng in Il
hope of seeing his face, grown familis
already; but it was not there.
!. Very early in the morning went
his rude lodgings, and knocked gent
le at the door. There was no answer, an,
es pushing it softly on its hinges, wei
,e in. Uncle Jack was sleeping quiet
u on low bed in the corner. There W
IN a bundle lying on the floor. and besi,
4; it a roll of blankets and an oak,
1t. staff. On the table spent candle W
of faring in its socket, and beside it /.
i'd an unfinished letter, inscribed to me
ne large unsteady hand.
al am going across the mountains
" look after the mine. Take the mon,
ls back to the children, and tell them i
M Christmas gift from Uncle Jack. II
I them to stick together whatever happel
rs, If l stood by Jamie"
n That was all. The window was ope
id and soft flush was stealing over t
an gray dawn. In the east lay San A
,e- tonic like great uncut amethyst.
ir. went to the bedside and touched t
rs sleeper's forehead. 1t was icy cold.
in laid my hand on his breast. The DO,
es, loyal broken heart was still. UNI
IN Jack was keeping his Christmas acrt
W the mountains.
'ly -