Western Kansas world. [volume] (WaKeeney, Kan.) 1885-current, 1885-12-05

Hugh Beverley never meant to marry
He had been of tina: way of thinking FOL
ten years or more now, and he was 81
present six and-thirty.
His sister, Mrs. Valentine, was there
fore quite safe in counting so confident
" upon his portion of the Beverley
property going to her two little boys, one
Of VIII Dm was his bachelor uncle's god
child and favorite.
Hugh B sverley had no earthly objec
ton to her. thus counting. Only hi
sometimes wished she would not make
her anticipations so visible. 1t would bs
in better taste to veil them more.
However, poor Clara had always beer
rather wor ,dly. And with this II fec
ton Beverley folded that lady's letter
scented and sealed with crest-anG
walked down the stairs of the little
Tyrolean inn, where he was temporarily
stopping in his wandering, and out upon
the covered balcony, which commanded
view of the quantity picturesque vii
lage street.
He had been sitting there with 9
meditative cigar some little time when
hurried footsteps reused him from hif
rev :rle, and he saw slender slip of a
girl very young, and looking very
heightened and white, hastily sccost the
landlord and speak to him.
The man gave some reply, and the
girl turned quickly, almost running up
the street. Mine host sauntered into
the house ard presently re-emerged.
"a bad business bad business
shaking his head. THAT lady is very
81"
"The mother of that young giEl?"
asked Beverley, put ing two and two
together
Eyes; they have been here some
weeks. The mothers been going
rapidly. Bad business-bad business,
The girl, poor thing! did not seem to
fear anything serious. Guess there isn't
much money either" concluded the man
evidently on his own interest intent.
"Who are they-Americans?" queried
Beverley.
Yes; they were countrywomen of his,
or rather, the young girl was, for in the
course of the night, the mother, whose
name was registered upon mine hosts
books, Mrs. Robert Ventnor, New
York, passed away, leaving her daugh-
Beverley did not learn of the death
until the next morning.
He was leaving his room, when in the
hall, he came upon the landlord and his
wife, talking in slightly lowered voices,
and.,wish expressive shrugs of the
shoulders.
A neighboring door stood open, and
stark form, covered with sheet, within,
told the tale. Near the bed sat the young
girl of yesterday-motionles with
clocnad honlp opd viuiI fono
There's no money to do anything
with" said the landlord, with another
shrug of the shoulders, to Beverley.
Good Heavensw the latter stood ap-
palled; don't let that stand in the way.
I'll do anything that is to be DONE"
The landlord made sign to the girl
inside the room, and before Beverley
could divine his purpose, she stood be-
fore them.
"This gentleman says he will pay
everything for you," announced the
man; "there's something left on the bill,
too" he added in lower tone.
He Was really no harder and 10 worse
than many of his fellow creatures; he
simply han the bump of acquisitiveness
very largely developed.
Beverley looked at the girl with q sud-
den deep pity. She stood tall and straight
in her shabby black dress.
= She glanced up at him with her large
mournfui ey es.
Thank you," she said. No muscle of
her face moved.
"Poor child! She is stunned" thought
Beverley. The pale girlish face pursued
him all that day.
On the next all that was morta! of
Mrs. Ventnor was laid to rest in the lit
tie graveyard, with its fantastic iron
crosses and grotesque beaded wreaths
hanging on the same, at the end of the
village street, thousands OF miles from
her native land. Perhaps it was a happy |
release. She had been a wanderer for |
years, going about from place to place in
search of nealth that would not come at |
the bidding; hope and courage. and
friends and means, growing less season
by season.
The slender girl, who now turned
away from the new-made mound, upon
which by Beverley's thoughtfulness, |
some fresh flowers had been laid, had
been familiar with the make-shifts of
genteel poverty ever sinceshe had grown |
from q joyless childhood into aimless
early womanhood.
Poor Lucille Ventnor! hers had not /
been . happy girlhood.
She had not spoken q word as she |
walked back to the house, aud Beverley,
who found himself, by the unexpected
developments of fate, in some measure
constituted this unknown girl cole pres
ent friend and guardian, knew not how
to breach the question of her plans and
movements for the future which had
now become imminent.
At length he spoke to the landlady:
"You must rouse her from her lethar.
gy. a young girl like that can't stay on
here alone in this strange inn. You
must ask her whether she has no friends
to whom she can write and whom she
can acquaint with her condition"
But when the girl was spoken to she
answered: "No, there is no one." After
pushing back the dark hair from her
face with rapid movement, she seemed
to be looking with large, frightened, hor-
eyes into the hard strange
world upon which she was thus sudden
ly thrust.
Beverley went out upon the balcony
and smoked another meditative cigar
and there, in sight of the blue Tyrolean
hills, came to decision. Clara Valen-
tine was living in Paris since her hus-
bands death, and che had the means to
give this girl home.
No sooner thought of than done. Be.
verely had himself announced to Miss
Ventnor, and in few kind words Of
fereS her his sisters protection.
81 am going to Paris myself to NOR
row. If you will be ready will take
you directly to my sisters home" |,
Fer moment the young girl stood
speechless. Then, raising her eyes to
the kind dark ones bent on her, the long ,
tension abruptly gave way, and she
burst into an uncomfortable hYsteriCal