The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1885-01-15


blind. Susie had in truth become so
much one of our children that was as
much astonished as If Albert had fallen
in love with Joanna.
But / soon found, when Susie's blush
ing face was hidden upon my breast,
that she, too, had given away her heart,
and | was only too well pleased that
no stranger had won the precious gift
In September they were married, my
son and the child of our adoption. and
gave them a house next our own for
home, having old-fashioned ideas
about such matters, and believing il is
better for young married people to live
by themselves and assume housekeep-
ing cares.
The new home was gem OF ncatness
under Susie's dainty fingers. and the
spirit of perfect love kept it ever bright
Having been brother and sister for so
many years, Albert and Susie thor
oughly understood each other dispOsi-
tions, and have never known domes-
tic happiness more perfect than theirs
Susie's first child, named for her
father, John Harmon, was two Years
old, when one morning the mail
brought me a letter in an unknown
hand from Cincinnati. | opened it,
aud upon large sheet of paper found
written, in scrawiing hand, three
lines:
Dear Sir: VIII you come TO me at A N
street without citing Susie know.
John Harmon.
At first believed it a hoax. John
had written bold. clerk-like hand,
clear as print. This was a scrawl,
struggling all over the paper, uneven
as the first penmanship of little child.
But the more | ponderod over the
matter the more / was inclined to obey
The summons. So pleading business,
saying nothing q the letter to any one,
LETT by the night train for Cincinnati.
No. AZ M-- street found to bea
boarding house for the poorest classes,
and III shabby room, half furnished,
| found an aged, worn man, perfectly
bind. who rose to greet me, sObbing.
Erred, | knew You would come.
''Why, old friend" | said, when sur
prise and emotion would let me speak,
''how is this? We thought you were
dead.'
Does Susie think so?''
Yes. We all gave you up"
''Do not undeceive her, Fred. |
meant to come back to her rich, also to
crafty every desire 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 well? Is
she happy"
"She is both, John-a happy wife
and mother
Married? My little Susie?"
"a Ill.
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 ques-
tions he told me the story of the years
OF silence. He was prepared to pay US
his promised visit when a great fire
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 saw
ings. Worst of all, in trying to save
the books OF the firm John was injured
on the head by a falling beam and lay
for months in a hospital. When he so
far recovered as to be discharged his
mind was still impaired, and he could
not perform the duties of clerk or su-
perintendent, while his health was too
feeble for manual labor
Il struggled for daily bread alone,
Fred, ne told me; land when | re-
ceived your loving letters, and Susie's.
| would not write, hoping to send bet
ter tidings i'll waited a turn of fort
une's wheel 1t never came. Fred. [
left California three years ago and came
here, where was promised the place
OF foreman IN a great pork packing
house. ! saved little money and was
hoping for better times, when my health
failed again, and this time with it my
eye-sight. | hoped against hope spend
ing my savings to have the best advice,
and not until | was pronounced incura-
bic would | write to you. want You
to take me TO an asylum, Fred; and, as
| must be a pauper patient, | must 90
to my own town. You will take me,
Fred?''
Il will take you to an asylum, John"
promised
''And Susie? You will keep my Sc
eret. You will not disturb Susie's hap
piness?"
II viii not trouble Susie's happi-
ness, | said.
Yet an hour later | was writing to
Susie. and | delayed our departure
from Cincinnati until an answer came.
1t was the answer I. expected from the
tender, loving heart, but / said nothing
OF il 10 John.
Caring tenderly for his comfort, |
took him on his way homeward. 1t
WAS evening when we reached the rail
way depot OF our own town. and, as we
had been long cramped in the car seats,
proposed to walk home.
lis it not TOO far oif?'' John asked
Il thought the asylum was q long way
from here
''Oh, the whole place is changed
from the little village YOU left" | an
swered. 1--WE have q great town here
now, and your asylum is not very far
from here"
He let me lead him then willingly
enough, and we We're not longin reach
ing Susie home. She was alone in the
cheerful sitting-room as we entered, bat
oheyed my motion for silence as I
placed John in a great arm chair, after
removing his hat and coat He looked
wretchedly Old and worn, and his
clothes were shabby. yet Susie's soft
eyes, misty with tears, had only love in
their expression as she waited permis-
sion to speak.
John" | said to MIN. '.if | had
found you in n 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?"
Fred, you would never have done
thatG' he said, much agitated.
''Never!" 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 father affiiction.
NO no, Fred, | only ask you to put
no burden upon her young life, to throw
no cloud over her happiness. ] am
old and feeble; l shall trouble no one
long
"a Io