St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1881-02-04

point to a chair, and to inquire, in q
voice hoaIse and tTemulous with emo
ton, what further business he could
want with him.
''You will pardon my intrusion" =" said
the other, in a calm and almost sympa-
thetic tone, land / trnst respect the
motive which has brought me hither. l
was a witness of your agitation and
distress just now, and attributed it to
the loss which, | regret to think, you
have sustained through me. l followed
you upstairs, andn-the speaker was
embarrassed for a mOment-"and was
induced from what | heard to follow
you inside. | acted with a soldiers
impulse, which pray you to forgive
and | claim from you a soldiers frank
ness in return"
He paused a moment, and then pur-
sued:
"Tell me why this loss has caused
you such distressP 1t cannot be for the
mere money; your look and attitude
disclaim it. There is some deeper mo
tive in your heart, and it is that which
| entreat you to disclose"
The young man was sitting with his
face buried in his hands, apparently un-
conscious of what the speaker said.
But he started up at the concluding
sentence, and regarding him with fixed
attention, said: "You wish to know
the cause of my distress? 1t is, upon
your word, pure and friendly motive
which induces you to ask 7"
"It is, indeed" he answered, earnest
ly. "Have faith ia my sincerity and
tell me all"
"Well, then 1 will. That money!
and the tears glistened in the speakers
eyes-'was what | had been saving for
my wife. 1t was her sole resource in
all the world-and | was to have sent it
to her to-day"
"Your wife ?" exclaimed the other in
surprise.
''Yes, my wife. And this cruel loss
this rash and selfish act of mine-ex-
poses her to what l dare not think
without a groan. She is alone and
friendless, and II, her husband, who
would give my life for ber-unable to
avert her beggary."
II am truly serry," said the other !;
''truly, deeply sorry. too have wife,
and God knows how | should suffer if
through me-"
He was silent for a few moments, and
then said, Frightening as bespoke:
"Will yOu promise me on your word
az soldier, to abstain from all gam
bling for the future ?-never, so long as
you live to play for gain if l return your
money VIII you promise me this 2"
Il will, most sOlemnly," the young
man answered. And he clasped his
hands in token of the vow.
"Then | will buy your promise" said
the other. "Here, take this money; it
is yours ~ And as he spoke he banded
him the sum which he had lately won
below.
The young man sprang forward, and,
stretching out his hands, received the
sum with trembling joy.
"Mine p he exclaimed. "YOu return
me the money you have wOn-which
you have fairly and honestly won I?
Impossible !"
"Mv friend" returned the other, Sc
rious.y, Il give it to you in exchange
for your promise. Remember that IN
exchange for your promise. Take this
sheet of paper and sign your name be-
low
He sat down and wrote as follows:
For the sum of two thousand dollars,
value received, | pledge my word of
honor as n gentleman, us a soldier and
a man, never to play any game of
chance for money. SO help me God.
He handed the sheet to the young
man, who signed it, and returned it to
the writer.
1t bore the name of Lewis Fairbor-
ough, and the date-3lst December,
1862.
'.And now be continued, rising as
he spoke, ''let us shake hands, and wish
each other a happy-it is strange ex-
preston to use in these excited, trOu-
bled times, but | will use it neverthe-
less-a happy farewell; and my best
and truest wishes for the new year"
The young man grasped the hand ex-
tended to him, aud said in reply-his
voice constrained and faltering with
emotion
81 shall never forget my promise, nor
the debt of gratitude | owe you. And
if the time should ever come when you
might wish to claim corresponding
act fIOm me-and | could almost wish
that it might cOme-cOmmand me, and
| will obey"
The other smiled; and once more
shaking hands with him, withdrew.
Before retiring the young officer wrote
a long and loving letter to his wife ac-
Quainting her with all the details of the
evening, of his rash and cruel folly, hi:
after sorrow and remorse, his subse-
quent deliverance through the noble
ness and generosity of his GOnquerer
and of the solemn pledge which he had
given, never as long as he lived to play
again for gain.
After that he slept, and awOke re-
| freshed and morally regenerated, as if &
load-a heavy load-had been remov,
ed, and his conscience cleared of every
strain. And so he left, with no ugly
shadows of the past to darken and tor.
ment him, but with a brighter inward
viSage, aud a heart more pure. Above
all, with the New Years hopes anC
| blessings.
1t is sixteen years after the event
recorded in the previous chapteT-six
teen eventful years, which have brough
with them the usual changes that ar
born of Time.
John Landor, merchant, of Pear
street. New York, was between fort,
and forty-fve years old; with darI
hair and eyes-the former turning fas
to gray-and a distressed expression o
countenance which reflected menta
care and trouble. 1t was five o'clOcl
in the evening; and although the offic
had been closed two hours, and he ba,
no particular business to attend to, b