Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1885-01-15
Onna, VINO rose TO greet me soOUlng.

prise and emotion would let me speak,
how is thisl We thought you were
dead.
Does Susie think sol'
"Yes. We all gave you up.
DO not undeceive her, Fred. | meant
TO come home to her rich, able TO crafty
every d.sire of her girlish heart. Do
not let her know that only blind, sick
wreck is left for her to call father Tell
me of her, Fred Is she welll Is she
happyl'
''she is both, John-a happy wife and
mother"
Married. Ny little Susier'
Married to Albert. my son, of whom
you may Judge When / tell YOU folks say
he is his father over again"
Il would ask no more for my child,
said John.
Then in answer to my anxious que5-
tons, he told me the story of the years
of silence. He was prepared to pay as
his promised visit when great file
broke out in San Francisco, that ruined
his employers for the time, and swept
away row of buildings uninsured, in
which John had invested all his savings.
Worst of all, in trying to save the books
OF the firm, John was injured on the
head by a falling beam and lay fol
months in hospital. When he 50 far
recovered to be discharged, his mind
was still impaired, and he could not
perform the duties of clerk or superin-
tendent while his health was too feeble
for manual labor.
Il struggled for daily bread alone,
Fred" he told me, land when | re-
ceived your loving letters, and Susie's,
would not write, hoping to send bet
ter tidings if waited turn of fortunes
wheel. Itnever came, Fred | left Cal
ifornia three years ago, and came here,
where l was promised the place of
foreman in great pork-packing house.
saved a little money and was hoping
for better times, when my health failed
again, and this time with it my eye
sight hoped against hope, spending
my savings to have the best advice, and
not until / was pronounced incurable
would | write to you. | want you to
take me to an asylum, Fred; and, as |
must be pauper patient, | must go to
my own town. You will take me
Fred?'
81 will take you to an asylum, john"
promised.
''And Susie? You will keep my secret.
You will not disturb Susie's happinessN
81 will not trouble Susie's happiness, "
l said.
Yet an hour later 1 was writing to
Susie, and delayed our departure from
Cincinnati till an answer came. 1t was
the answer expected from the tender,
loving heart, but I said nothing of it to
John.
Caring tenderly for his comfort, l took
him on his way homeward. 1t was
evening when We reached the railway
depot of our own town, and, as we had
been long cramped in the car-seats, l
proposed to walk home.
rs it not too far OFF, John asked. 81
thought the asylum Wa; long way from
here"
''Oh, the whole place is changed from
the little village you leftp' answered.
''We have a great town here now, and
your asylum is not very far from here.
He let me lead him then willingly
enough, and we were not long in reach
ing Susie's home. She was alone in the
> cheerful sitting room as we entered, but
obeyed my motion for silence as placed
John in great armchair, after remov-
ing his hat and coat Helooked wretch
edly old and worn, and his clothes were
shabby, yet SuSies soft eyes, misty with
tears, had only love in their expression
as she waited permission to speak.
John" I said to him, IF l had
found you in pleasant home, happy
and prosperous, and had known that
Susie was poor, sick and Blind, would it
have been kindly act for me to hide
her misfortune from you, and passing
by your home, to have placed her in the
care of charitable strangers"
Erred, you would never have done
that" he said, much agitated.
''NeverI' l answered. You are
right. But you, John, ask me to take
from Susie the happiness of knowing
fathers love, the sweet duty. of caring
for fathers affection.
''Na, no, Fred only ask you to put
no burden upon her young life, to throw
no cloud over her happiness. l am old
and feeble; shall trouble no one long"
''And when you die, you would de-
prive your only child of the satisfaction
of ministering to your wants-take
from her her fathers dying blessing"
He turned his sightless eyes toward
me, his whole face working convul-
sively.
Where is she, Fred2 You would not
talk so if you did not know my child
still loves her father.
Il am here, father2" Susie said, and
l stole softly away, as John clasped his
child in his arms. Albert was in the
dining-Foom with Johnnie, and | was
chatting still with him, when heard
John calling:
Fired! Fredr'
hurried to the room to find him
struggling to rise, Susie vainly trying to
calm him.
81 want my childp' he cried, delir-
iously; you promised me my child!'
l saw at glance that the agitation of
the evening had brought back the wall
dering mind of which he had told me.
Albert and relieved Susie, who left US
quickly.
Some finer instinct than we possessed
guided her, for she returned with
Johnnie, and whispered him to be very
good and kiss grandpa, she put him in
her fathers arms. In a second his ex-
citement was gone and he fondled the
curly head, while johnnie obediently
pressed his lips upon the withered
cheek. So in little time they fell
asleep, Johnnie nestled in the feeble
arms, and the withered face dropping
upon the golden curls. We watched
them silently, till we saw shadow pass
over Johns face, and change settle
there that comes but once in life.
Gently Albert lifted the sleeping child
and carried him to the nursery, where
Susie and l sat beside the arm-Glair.
uncle Fred, she whispered, ALBERT
will go for doctor But may wake
him. Let him speak to me once more"
Even as she spoke John opened his
eyes. All the wild look was gone from
them as he groped moment, till Susie
put her hand in his. Then heavenly
smile came upon the wasted lips, and he
said softly, tenderly:
Susie, my own little child, Susie"
And with the name on his lips, Johns
spirit went to seek an eternal asylum, in
Il, - l.