The Arkansaw traveler., 1885-09-05

Who is he7" said my father, as if in answer to her first query. "Why, my Id friend, Charlie Stanton. Best bat and best goal-keeper at Rugby, second wrangler at Cambridge, facile princeps in everything. But-bless me l-he must be my own age. An time slips by."
 My aunt had by this time gently taken possession of the letter, and with a sig ni6cant smile, to which my father re sponded in the affirmative, she proceeded to read 1t aloud. Its contents bear SO di- rectly on the events have to record that l make no apology for giving the text in full.
 l My DEAR CHARLTON: You will no doubt glance first at the signature of this letter to help your memory; but even then, fear you | will have to think more than once before you can recall your old school flag and fellow student, Charlie Stanton Thirty years have come and gone since we parted, and all we know of each others history during that pe- riod is what you or may have gleaned from the newspapers or the worlds gossip regard ing our several destiuies.
 have been placed on the shelf at my own request with the rankof colonel, and now mean to devote myself to the task of seeing my only child, Alice, settled in life. have bought small estate in Warwickshire, Elm drove Manor, so that you and will soon be near neighoors but meantime, as this is my daughters first season, 1 must retain my | London establishment a little longer. AL though can't come to you at present, there fore, you. my dear Charlton, may be able to look us up in London. confess am ex- tIemely anxious to see >ou, for the sake of our old friendship, as well as for other req sons which cannot very we'll make clear to you by letter. Your son. too, shares largely 1 Tn my interest, on account of the high terms in which hear him spoken of; and trust that ii your official duties prevent your visit ing us personally, you will at least make your boy your deputy at an early date.
 am unhappiy widower, as [ regret to learn you are also. My brother Sydney-you remember him, of course-died some tSo years ago, SO that have scarcely near rel ative living. There is, however, nephew of my late wife in whom take strong interest !; aclever, harebrained, goodhearted irreclaim- able scapegrace, fear. You, have doubt, would take kindly to him. for he is an artist ot considerable ability, and might. I am told, have great career, did but his industry kee D pace with his talent.
 In concluding, beg to remind you of my unalteraole determination to keep henceforth | in touch with you both by letter and in the nesh. Let me hear from you, therefore, my dear fellow, at once, and tell me on what date l may order rooms for you at Grosvenor Square, where you ndyour SOD shall have I | CHARLES STANTON
 The faces of my father and Aunt Mar jory, as the latter finished reading the colonel's letter, formed a study for the poet, if not the painter, so full were they. as their eyes met, of reciprocal graduation and sympathetic delight
 It is so like old Charlie to write so warmly" said my father. "Ah, how de. lightful it will be to talk over old times when he comes to Elmdrove. Strange that l should never have thought of him when heard that Colonel Stanton was to be our new neighbor"
 And then," said Aunt Mariory, think ing kindly of me, Git will be such a val uable introduction for John. Why, with Colonel Stanton's friendly recommenda- tion, he might soon have a large and fashionable practice"
 "Yes, to be sure," answered. my father in voice from dreamlar1.
 Is Colonel Stanton very rich man, Henryl" asked my aunt as she stopped to fondle Tom and Clip alternately.
 Rich o yes certainly. His was wealthy family, and, as Charles says Stanton primus died some years aeo-a banker and bachelor, have heard, and Charles was his heir"
 His daughter will be great heiress then," said his sister, looking at me suddenly with merry. meaning glance. l wonder what sort of a creature this nephew is ?" she added immediately, with something like sigh.
 Nephew O yes; the artist But that reminds me, Marjory, must go and finish that Madonna"
 My father stepped into the hall, took his Panama hat from its peg, and went out across the lawn with brisk step, humming cheerfully some long forgotten air. His studio, toward which he now bent his steps, was tiny palace of glass, standing under the southern garden wall, curtained within, ventilated by sliding panes. and warmed in winter by small American stove of graceful design. A stranger would have mistaken it, by its outer aspect, for conservatory or for a photographers den. It was, however. the home-within-home of its owner the spot in which beloved labor chased away care; 1t vas there he spent every hour not dedicated to his clerical duties, and in which he worked with a diligence prompted, alas by necessity as much as oy artistic zeal. Yes, it was there he worked out, patiently and unmurmurinp- ly, the penance of his infatuated friend. ship for one vino had long since :. gone before" He was heart and soul an ar tlst, but one only of that vast crowd SO designated whose powers of flight fall short of their heaven directed aspirations. He worked for the picture dealers.
 My Aunt Marjory now invited me to keep her company in one of her tavorite garden retreats, under magnificent red- lowered hawthorn, then in full blossom. There was a springiness in her step, gayety of expression about her move ments, and vivacity in the soft voice that told of the gladness which the matu- tinal ordeal of letter-reading had for once brought with it.
 "l consider it very opportune, John, very fortunate indeed, this letter from