Weekly Chillicothe crisis. (Chillicothe, Livingston Co., Mo.) 1878-19??, 1881-07-28

had become pale, "you ought to remem-
Der the circumstance for it occurred
just at the time of the great failure in
Philadelphia, by which you were so
heavy loser"
"Yes, recollect the affair."" replied
Mr.. Thorne who appeared to be suffer-
ing.
81 never heard" continued the doc
tor, "what became of that poor devil;
and yet should like to know"
"Should you?" said |, laughing, "then
let me satisfy your curiosity. l, Ar
thur Wallace, am that poor devil, doc
tor, saved from ruin and despair by my
benefactor here" And then | related
all the events of the last fifteen years.
The doctor sprang to his feet and
grasped his old friends hand.
"Well and generously done" said he;
but Mr.. Thorne interrupted him. 81
am not we'll" he said family. 81 suf.
fer greatly-let me 60 to my room."
The next day he sent for me to come
w Hlo plNdlc OlllCc' lOUliu mn lOuh-
ing pale and haggard.
"Sit down, my dear Arthur" said he,
in low voice, "and listen TO me. For
long time have had Il confession to
make to you, one that weighs on me so
heavily that must ease my conscience
of its load. | can better bear to do 50
now, that have in a measure made
some amends for the trouble | once
caused you"
"Thc trOubleyou caused me-" cried /.
"YOu have been the most generous of
men to me. 1t is through your kind
ness | 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.
ado you remember this?" said he,
as he placed it in my hand.
"Yes," replied |, 'it is the one lost;
but how"
could not finish my question. The
truth stared me in the face. sprang
to my feet in dismay.
"Great heavens" | cried; "you found
the money"
"Aye, and kept it," he groancl, with
anguish in his voice. "But oh! do not
condemn without hearing me. Ycstcr-
day you heard DR.. Ponard allude to
the great losses had sustained ly the
failure in Philadelphia. L did not
dare to make my embarrassment
known, as that would have hastened
my ruin-my ruin. God knows
it was not for myself that |
cared, but for Alice, my darling child.
1t was OH the 14th of December that
you lost the money. Oh, | shall never
forget the date. 1t was on that day
that | meditated suicide, Twas short
$4,000 to meet my liabilities, maturing
on the 18th. was overwhelmed with
despair; the air of the Office seemed to
stiIlc me, and | rushed into the street.
| had hardly gone ten yards when my
foot struck something. 1t was your
pocket book. opened ii and the sight
turned me giddy and faint. Then com.
menced within my breast one of those
moral struggles which, even to the
conqueror, is fearful but in which,
alas l was miserably vanquished. The
next day | satisfied all claims against
me. TO the world was George ThOrne,
an honest, upright man; to myself |
was nothing better than u malefactOr.
You know the rest. Through my guilt
you passed two weeks of indescribable
anguish. | have since cndeavOred to
make restitution for the misery | caused,
but | also suffered. Moral atonements
are the most cruel, because they are
eternal. have known and yet feel the
bitterness of eXpiation. Say, my son,
can you forgive my crime?'
Could | forgive? | looked at the
pallid face, anguished eyes. What
were my sufferings of those two terri
BILE weeks compared with the secret
pain and shame this man had borne for
years rs?-this man, the victim of one
solitary deviation from rectitudc, 50
upright in all else, and whose life since
had been one atonement. | grasped
his hand, tears filled my eyes.
"Father," | cried, "Alices fatherand
mine, all is forgiven, forgotten. Do |
not owe all the happiness of my life TO
that same lost pocket