Waterbury evening Democrat., 1888-02-20
CHAPTER xxxIv.


 The watchman at the mills was not little surprlsed, as he went his first round that night, to see mans figure leaning against a Piiiar Tn one of the weave rooms. The fellow olo not appear to mean any harm; he was not breaking anything or stealing any cloth, but how could he have found his way insidel The watchman felt 6 little uneasy in spite of himseH; It was such thing as had never happened before.
 ssHellol what business have you got thereT' But the interloper did not appear to hear him. How oddly he looked at the looms. as II they were living things that he loved. He had not spoken, and his hat shaded his eyes, but the expression of the attitude was so man could read the tender reniniscence in his heart. Perhaps the fellow might be crazy, but this was no place for him. Oh! didn't know you. Mir. Breton. It's nice
 But the mill owner did not even answer him, and moved away toward the window as if impa tient at being interrupted. The moon was full, and the sky was clear, only for a few silver edged clouds. One, he fancied a glided; could it go no faster9 An! suddenly it parted into bright fragments, and the wind scattered them pitilessly. He looked across at the other mills; the moonlight kissed their grim walls fondly, and sparkled in their windows like a hundred brilliant lamps. Why, here were his fire escapes, close to the window coping-his first business venture. Philip raised the window and stepped outside.
 It must be nearly time for Bertha to come with the carriage, as he had arranged, to avoid possible suspicion. Mo- there was half an hour yet. But Philip closed the window behind him and went down the silent stairs ', He went into his office. He would wait there for the carriage, it would not be very long, and then there was one last duty he must attend to before it canle He struck a match, and the gas shot up so brightly it dazzlci his eyes. He turned away for an in- stant.
 A massive form stood in the doorway Philip must have left the counting room un- locked when he had come in. Some one had followed him, apparently. But the young mill owner took only one step toward the in threshold, but man whose name was burned into his heart. It was the rightful husband of Philip Breton's wife-Curran. His hair had grown long and almost straight haggard, and the form that had been like a proud oak was bowed as if it had been weighed down by burden too heavy even for giant to bear. Philip stopped short and had supposed him hundreds of miles away. Could it be possible the outraged husband had never left the village since their last meeting9 Perhaps his flashing eyes had watched Philip wooing his wife a second time, and begrudged him his few cold kisses. Perhaps he had peered in through the win dows of Philips home; had he not a right to look at his wife, and followed them forth on every walk and drive, waiting to strike till the blow should fall most deadly. He had chosen his time we'll. Poor Bertha, with her dreams of Como and Chamouni. But what would he do? Leap upon his enemy and kill hima The man in the doorway looked too pale and ill for such violence; would he then heap curses upon him, the bitterest human lips ever uttered2 But Curran advanced into the room with outstretched hand.
 Don't you know me, then, friendp
 Philip hesitated again. There might be a grain of hope yet; he would surely never have. given the young man his hand if he had known-or called him friend
 ''Some one wrote me to come. don't know what he wanted" Curran explained wearily. ''They expect so much of a man; |; they would cruelty him."
 Philip was recovering his composure. At first he had felt wild impulse to confess everything to the wronged husband. He seemed so grand, so magnanimous; he would not be cruel. But then his reason came back to him. In such case as this there could be no amends. Innocectly, Bertha and Philip had done him a uer1 lpIe wrong-and them selves; forgiveness could not blot it out. God in his mercy might spare them the penalty of infamy; but the injured husband had no choice but vindicate his honor, when he came to know. ...s
 sYou look ill.," said Philip at last, drawing
 
 Bertha might come before her time and bre ak in upon them, the two men both of whom she had injured 50 terribly Oh! that must not happen. Was not that g step in the pas The first man he met would pour the story of his shame into his ears, and then the catas- , trophe. He must not go-but he must not stay. Philip looked out into the passage. No one was there. Curran had dropped into the chair Philip had offered him.
 ''Do look ill p he asked. pushing his long hair back from his forehead. "Did you ever love woman who hated you Did you ever want to pour out your life for her, and see that she despised yous You know whom mean. Why once fancied you and she were lovers, till she told me not. mean Bertha" He spoke the name so tenderly, a thrill of shame passed over Philip Bertha was this mans wife. Had he not a right then to speak her name tenderlys And so Curran had fancied Bertha and he were lovers till she told him not-ah, Bertha. .-.
 ''She has left me-" Curran went on in the | same soft, tender tone. ''I don't suppose it now, have such a strange feeling. that l 1 might win her back She made such a ten l der sweetheart" Then he lifted his eyes l more firmly to Philips face, set like a wall of rock. "Is there any trouble among your
 'fYes, they have flung all my offers in my teeth"
 Ut must have been that which made them send for me. had hoped, or feared, hardly | know which, it might be something of Der l tha. It is queer, isn't it, a woman like hel l should turn my head so completelya What l is there about her, did you ever think of 1t | Of course you haven't" Curran seemed tt l make an effort to dismiss all thoughts of hel that unnamed him. "You needn't be afraie of me; I thought you seemed little strange l when 1 came ill"
 l Philip started involuntarily, but Curral continued; II sha'n't encourage any strike
 4irst you God will bless your life fo1
 our work for the poor. If he hasn't yet, h. l jiI give you a happier love than he ha 1 'iv;n me.' Then he rose with new energy tt
 .is feet. II must go and stop the mischief | can tio more with your laborers for good o evil than any man in the world. suppos they may be in the hall to-night? l ''Yes." But Philip hurried up to him ant laid his hand on his arm. "But don't go, no yet' .l-
 q must Shall you be here longa We'll,
 will see you again tonight"
 ''God grant not" murmured Philip Breton as the door closed after him. Then PhiG] unlocked the great safe and swung back it green door of iron. He took out a packe and locked the safe again, and carried hi packet back to his office. He turned the ga still higher and held the packet in the fam till all that was left of it was little heap o charred paper on the floor-all that was lief l of Philip Breton's will. With that act II
 closed up, as he believed, all that part of hi life worthy to be remembered. He wa young and strong, but he had failed. Hence fortl, bo r,,,,et lcoly or 1uhilo othoro ,,J