The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1881-02-19

dank weeds and brushwood hid the
form nearly up to the waist, but, as the
herbage was, down by the roots, some
what thinner, /, with a tremor running
through my whole body, dragged this
little aside with my stick, which struck
on a substance that resounded like
metal. @ I'D
81 know not with what object, it was
not curiosity, certainly not cupidity, bat
knelt down, and, thrusting my arm
elbow-deep into the wet and messy
grass, followed the sticks point with my
hands, and, after little cropping, got
hold of watch and chain-hardly rec
ognlzable as such, truly, but still obvi-
ously nothing else.
"Then | pursued my search still
further, for foresaw that it now might
lead to the identification of this unhappy
human being who had been buried alive,
heaven knows how long ago! by fate
which myself had only an hour before
SO narrowly escaped. Thenceforth, al
though my feelings were greatly per-
turbed, and host of emotions surged
through my breast, my wits quickened;
these were stern facts that l was deal
ing with, and | acted accordingly. The
second time thrust my arm in among
the heritage just beneath the skeleton,
which was reverently careful not to
disturb, l drew forth one or two more
hard and, at first, less distinguishable
articles than the watch-less distinguish
able because twilight had set in, and,
added to the density of the wood, rem
dered it impossible for me to see any
thing very plainly. felt that l must
instantly hasten back to the inn and give
information of my discovery
g In the obscurity of the fast-fading
light, the weird gloom of the wood was
greatly increased. A large owl sudden
ly Mapped away from near Dough with
doleful boot, while the wind, growing
stronger every minute, turned what had
formerly sounded like means and signs
into shrieks and groans. dare not,
however, give way to any more fanciful
imaginings, beset me as they might.
and as they were even already doing. |
wanted all my senses to get c ear OF this
charnel-house of place. Yet, having
done so, and come back again on the
road to the inn, which / knew, these
same imaginings, these indefnable SEN
sations which had overridden my COM
mon sense during the whole afternoon,
returned, and, will you believe it?' ran
on this letter of Ronald's to his mother,
which he wrote the next morning, $50
persistently have they stayed by me that
| have not yet had the courage to exam
inc closely the articles / found No!
! fh0I1nh bo, - l,
passed since then, somehow | can not
touch them. They seem as if they might
influence my whole future, might change
the very current of my life; it is ridicu-
lous, but inexplicable. !"
Was it inexplicable to Sophy Morris ?
Hardly, for did not her mind instantly
fly back over those twenty years to that
ever-memorable time, and could she
not see in those indefnable imaginings
in her sons mind possible solution of
the mystery surrounding her husband S
fateP Might it not be that the marvel
Gus and unseen working of human
destiny had guided the son at last to the
fathers unknown graveP that the
strange sensations, the awe, the gladness,
the irresistible automatic impulse to
linger in the wood, which he described
the readiness with which he interpreted
the wailing of the wind into direct,
articulate and whispered appeal 'sto
wait"-to wait till the discovery was
made-were traceable to the link exist
ing between that vigorous young life
and those moldering remains, and with
out which, when they, too, were en-
dowed with life and vigor, her young
Ronald would never have had his being!
Her hope was strong that all
this might prove so, and it was
realized. In the end no doubt remained
for among the relics her boy had recov-
cred was the small, flat metal tabacco.
box containing the will of Matthew
Morris, soiled, sodden, besmirched in
places, well-nigh illegible, yet still pre-.
served intact, and susceptible of being
sworn to as the genuine document by
the lawyer and his clerk, who signed it,
and who yet lived to see right and
| justice done. ns'rW fG@ e.11
1t waste Wistman's wood, then, that
fate had directed the sons steps, and,
as he thought, by the merest accident
to Wistman's wood, that uncanny,
"whist old place. the "wonder of the
wonders of the Dartmoor wilds," and
whittier the father had gone across the
moor, never to return, on that fatal day
twenty years before.-All The Yea'
! ROn3lH