The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1885-06-11

g~entleness had gained him the hearts of |
all his patients, and there was something
about him that seemed to impress one with |
the certainty Of his great sincerity and
trus5worthiness.
1t was May; Ernest and I were to be
married towards the end of June. I had
been receiving daily letters from him all
and l heard nothing. 1 was anxious, yet
would not allow myself to be SO; he was
specially busy hat was all; and there was
another delivery at eleven O'Clock. 1 sat
in the drawing-room, looking along the
road, till I saw the postman appear. He
was walking on the opposite side till he ap-
preached our house, when I saw him cross
inc make straight for our gate. His hand
was raised to open it, l was jumping up to
run to the door, when a man dashed along
the street and prevented him, a few words
were exchanged-and the postman passed
on. The man was DR.. Browne.
/ was petrified.
"Wretch, !" I muttered between my teeth,
of the false handw
I paced the room in a fever of indecis-
ion, then began to review the state of
things and decide upon a plan of action. A
maid disturbed me thus occupied; my
father had sent for me in his study. I went
down. He was walking about the room, an
unusual thing with him, and could see he
"Well, Trixy," he began, with an as
sumed smile, 81 have something to say to
seen Aunt Judith lately; I hea she is not
well; now what do you say to paying her
a visit of a week or two?"
"Papa,"I cried, "what do you mean? I
am SO busy preparing. You forget +" is to
He walked away towards the other side
of the room. "No, child, /" he continued,
with a forced laugh. "You can not mag
inc 1 have forgotten that; but you see, it is
just on that account that I want you to go;
married women are not free to go visiting.
Come, my dear, sewing will progress all
the better with good Aunt Judith to help.
Be prepared to start at three o'clock, and
will drive you to the junction. Don't
bother about the house; you'd better not
feebly added. "Now then, off with you'll"
He kissed me and I knew that there was
nothing left but to obey. 1 have very good
ears, and l am certain hat 1 heard my
father speaking to the servant as I went up
one till I was gone.
Aunt Judith was my mothers sister, and
lived in a bijou residence at Denmark Hill.
She always has been and still is my ideal
of an old lady. She received me warmly
and I thought almost unnecessarily kindly,
fussing about me a good deal and looking at
me most sadly. The evening was chilly;
we sat together in the pretty drawing
room with it's wealth of knick-knacks and
I felt as though 1 must do something to
occupy myself.
"Where is the paper,'' Aunt Judith? I
asked. "Ihaven't seen it to-day"
"Never mind the paper" said Aunt
Judith. looking anxious; sit is upstairs.
bourne"
"No, Aunt Judith" I exclaimed. "Why
am I not to see the paper, Inc why have I
been hustled off here in this u~nceremonious
manner? What does it all mean? There
is something that is being kept from me-"
For it suddenly flashed upon me that for
some reason or other the postman had not
been allowed to leave the paper as usual
by the eleven o'clock delivery.
Aun Judith came n put her arms
round me-.
"My DEAR" she whispered, 81 hoped to
wait till tomorrow. Your father sent you
here because he had no courage; it always
was Johns way" she added.
1 soon learnt all about it. Ernest had
disappeared and there were considerable
discrepancies discovered between the cash
in hand and the cash that should be- &C.
counted for. The books had been tempered
with to no small extent, and the fraud had
been going on for some time. Hints were
dropped about fast companions and too
much billiard playing.
Aunt Judith CLOSED over these crimes to
the best of her ability, still clinging to the
hope that there might be some mistake, and
1 stayed on an6 stayed on with her, going
about like n in a hopeless dream. I felt
thankful to my father for sending me
away; l could not have borne to have seen
the home faces around me in my sorrow.
The summer passed-a dreary summer to
me. Aunt Judith took me to Folkestone
for a month, and while we were there we
heard that Ernest was reported to have
| been seen in America. He had run away
and there wal no longer any hope of his
| righting himself in England.
In September l returned to ~Stokebourne.
My father met me at the station, and that
evening DIR. Browne came to see me. He
was very kind and gentle, and smiled when
1 thanked hin for having prevented my
first learning the bare facts from the news
P
Miss Fox, and SO many months ago as to
be almost forgotten"
"Not by me-" I replied.
We saw a good deal of him
that autumn and winter, and I heard
from Miss sedgewick wonderful &C;
Ernest, and if possible save him from
further disaster. 1t was comforting to
have him in the study in the evenings. 1
got into the way Of joining him and my
which was always enjoyable. I liked to
feel myself in the presence of such a strong,
noble nature.
He came one night and my father was
out. He entered the drawing-room where
I was seated.
"Do you know I have been in Stokebourne
| a YEAR," he asked.
"Yes,"I replied, 81 remember it very
WE'LL"
"You did not like me when I first came.'
81 did not know you; that was the
reason"
He lifted my hand. "May 1 explain
now? you know I could not that afternoon
in the garden"
Hooked up into his honest face, and he
smiled.
D. not despise me for my belief, but
these signs l have mover known to fail"
He turned my hand palm upwards, and
placed his w in the same position be-
side it.
Snow do you see anything exactly SINH.
lar?"
81 can not say 1 do" Ireplied, laughing
his strong hand appeared so different tc
my poor little weak one:
Nevertheless it is there" and he pointed
out two little lines, one on his hand and one
on mine, which were certainly identical.
But doesn't everybody have them?"
asked.
Certainly not. May I explain theil
s~ignificance?"
nodded.
"When these two lines so infinitely iden.
tical are found, one on the hand of a man
and the other on that of a woman, these
two hands will surely be joined and theil
owners be no more parted"
"But-but," I stammered, "the book said
nothing about that"
"No; it is an Egyptian superstition. ]
believe no other European knows of it, bu1
it rarely, if ever, d~eceives. Tell me now
Beatrice, that it shall not on this occasion.
let our hands remain always together"
He took my hand in his, and drew me
towards him; and 1 felt that it must be so;
that all my happiness depended on thu
fulfillment of that ancient superstition.
"My DEAR" he whispered, "you under
stand now why I SO dreaded your mar
riage with Mr.. Crofts, and why the dis
coyery Of what 1 lave shown you caused
me tsuch mingled hope and fear. Thos'
soft white hands of his they forced them
selves upon my attention from the first.
had never before met with so mean a typ
clothed in so fair an exterior. And he il