The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1881-02-05

was finished, and the author laid down
his pen with an undefnable sigh-and a
rather bitter smile-of relief; for il had
been growing plain to him for some
time past that if disgrace were in store
for him he should not live long to feel
it. His end was approaching. He knew
from the palpitations of his heart, pro-
duced by over-wrought nervous activity,
that the handspring of his Organism
had been tempered with past mending.
and that the first emotion of any violent
kind would kill him. His great conso-
lation now was that at all events his
wife and child were provided for; and
as to his fame, why, if that were assailed
when he was gone, his wife would not
be among those who spoke against him.
In her eyes he would always remain
what he was then; and truly that was
about all he cared for now.
y
The money had been paid; theproofs
of the book had been corrected: the
great work, advertised in every newspa-
per of the world, was about to come
out. The day arrived when it did come
outgoing forth from the press in
thousands upon thousands of copies to
the hands of innumerable impatient
readers. Then Max Reineke was like
the prisoner who stands at the bar and
awaits the verdict of jury-awaits it
with head bowed, too; for at the hands
of public opinion the guilt-stricken man
expected no favorable Judgment.
He had been ailing for some Hs OF
past; and one evening he was whess.ed
out into the garden in chair, where he
sat propped by pillows. 1t was at the
hour when the postman brought the
morning papers from the big city which
Max had abandoned when heretired to
write his book; and both he and his
wife were aware that the first reviews
of the book would probably be in the
papers which they were thm awaiting.
Max had been almost speeches. for
half an hour, Dorothea being seated at
his feet, with the child on Ter lap.
Suddenly the postmsn appeared.
The poor woman rose and rushed to
the gate, to be the first bearer of the
good tidings which she fondly hoped
would bring back to her husband his
life and health and gladlooks. She al
most snatched the papes from the post
mans hands, and in second she had
torn the bands off. Max watched her
from afar, motionless, with death mount
ing slowly to his ey@-like a tide at
sunset. Then he heard an exulting cry
ring through the air, and Dorothea
came hurrying back.
"Max, dear Maxi" size exclaimed, as
she fourished the pape'; "look! read
what they say-they declare it's a great
er book than the first! See, see! they
all say it,"
Max looked and read. He had
strength enough to do that, for his forces
returned to him for smoment in one
final flow before the everlasting ebb set
in. The evening shadows were gather
ing fast. Max took up one paper after
another, glanced at them, and then sank
back, while tears gushed from his eyes,
trucking fast. One more eff
fort he made, and clasped his wife s
hand, looking from her to the child she
held.
Dorothea, dear - I've = not = not
been happy of late," he murmured.
"Teach the child to be truthful and
honest-there's no peace otherwise.
And now l must thank God! A great
book they said it was, ehP Well, tfen,
l can meet that Other One without so
much shame"
To this day poor Dorothea does not
know whom her great departed husband
meant by that Other One to whom he
alluded in his last breath.-Belgravia