The Russellville Democrat., 1881-05-12

sympathy for those whe lose money. They are generally careless, stupid people, not fit to be trusted; although l remember of having heard of a young man who lost pocket-book containing SEQ 900, and declare when l read his piteous appeals, which were in all the papers, my heart fairly ached for him. But, he continued, addressing my flther-in.law. who had become very pale "you ought to remember the cir cumstances, for it occurred just at the time of the great failure in Philadelphia, by which you were so heavy loser."
 "Yes, l recollect the affair."" replied Mir. Thorne, who seemed to be suffering.
 "I never heard" continued the doctor, "what became of the poor devil, and yet I should like to know"
 Should you?'' said l, laughing; "then let me gTatify your curiosity. "l, Arthur Wallace, am the poor devil, doctor; saved from ruin and despair by my bene- factor, here."
 And then, l related all the events of the last fifteen years.
 The doctor sprang to his feet and grasped his old friends hand.
 swell and generously done~ said he; but Mir. Tlorne interrupted him.
 Il am not we'll" said be, faintly. "I suffer greatly; let me go to my ioon."
 The next day, he sent for me to come to his private office. found him look ing pale and haggard.
 "Sit down, my dear Arthur" said he, h tow voice, and listen to me. For long time, I have had confession to make to you one that weighs on me so heavily that I must ease my conscience of it's load. I can better bear to do so, now 1 have made some amends for the trouble l once caused you"
 "The trouble you caused mep cried l, "You have been the most generous of men to me. It is through your kindness I occupy my present position; It is to you owe my happiness, and, more than all, my honor.
 Mr. Thorne opened his desk and took from it pocket book.
 Do you remember this?" said he, as he placed it in my hand.
 "Yes," replied, ''It is the one I lost; but how"
 I could not finish my question. The truth stared me in the face. l sprang to my feet in dismay.
 Great heavensw l cried; you found the moneyP
 Aye, and kept it," he groaned, with anguish in his voice, But, oh! do not condemn without hearing me. Yester- day you heard Dr. Ponard allude to the great losses 1 had sustained by failures in Philadelphia. I did not dare to make my embarrassment known, as that would have hastened my ruin-my ruinl God knows that it was not for myself that I cared. but for Alice, my darling child. It was on the 18th of December that you lost the money. Oh, shallnever forget that date. It was on that date that 1 contemplated suicide. l was short S20,C00 to meet my liabilities, maturing on the 18th. I was overwhelmed with despair; the air of the office stifled me, aud 1 rushed into the street. l had hardly gone ten yards when my foot struck something. It was your pocket book I opened it, and the sight turned me giddy nd faint. Then commenced within my breast one of those moral struggles which, even to the conqueror, is fearful but in which slas l was miser- ably Yanquished. The next day 1 satis- fled all claims upon me. To the world, I was George Thorne, an honest, upright man; to myself, 1 was nothing better than malefactor. You know the rest. Through my guilt you passed two weeks of indescribable anguish. I have since endeavored to make reparation for the misery caused; but also suffered. Moral atonements are the most cruel because they are eternal. l have known and yet feel that bitterness of explition. Say, my son, can you forgive my crime?'
 Could forgive? looked at the pallid face and anguished eyes. What were my sufferings of those two terrible weeks, compared to the secret pain and shame this man had borne for years? this man; the victim of one solitary deviation from recttude, so upright In all else, and whose life since had been one long atonement. I grasped his hand, tears filled my eyes.
 "Father,'' l cried, "Alice's father and mine all is forgiven, forgotten. Do not owe all the happiness of my lite to that same lost pocket-book"