Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1888-03-22
and requested him to tell her more about

tale OF lODgODIlnS ana giants. Wllch
made her cling to him with sudden
fright, whereupon he tenderly kissed all
traces of fear from her bonny face.
There was a church few PAGES down
the street, and now the bells began TO
ring for evening service.
Pretty bells!'' cried Fairy. Are they
fairy bells, Dick:''
NO, darling; they are church bells, "
he answered.
What do they ring for, Dick:''
ITO tell the people it is time to go to
church"
Can We 90, Dick-you and t. she
cried, with sudden delight at the pros
pect of something new.
And he, seeing how her heart was set
TupOn it, and being able TO refuse her
nothing. dressed her in her hat and Jacket
and for the first time for more than tif-
/ teen years he went into church again.
/ They sat in pew in side aisle, near
the door, and he listened in a dreamy
| fashion to the service, while Fairy gaZed
with large wondering eyes at the beau
/ tiful windows radiant with rays from
| the setting sun.
The sermon was short one and very
simple, based upon the story of prodi-
gal son. Dick did not listen very at
/ tentively, for his thoughts had wander
ed long way back into the paSt-back
| to the quaint church near his home. with
| its bare, whitewaShed walls and high
/ square pews. He could feel again the
curious icy GOODNESS that was so refresh
rng after the hot walk across the fields;
and through the open doors came soft
refreshing breeze and the Subdued muir
mur of ripping brook; and by his side
/ his cousin Dora.
| When the service was ended, and he
had taken Fairy home, she was too
| sleepy to ask for more tales, SO he left
and went out again for a walk
/ 1t was clear starlit night, Just suffi-
/ ciently cool TO make brisk walk enjoy
able, and soon Dick had left the lighted
streets behind him, and was striding
/ quickly down the deserted country road
/ outside the town.
| 1t was strange how all kinds of men,
Ories came back to him that night, not
of the incidents that made him still
blush with shame, but sweet, happy
memories of the dear old home and his
happy bOvhood. His thoughts went
back to the time when he was Young
and innocent-tO the old house he used
to be so proud of, with its picturesque
gables and diamond painted windows.
| He could see again. as if it were but
yesterday, the great door thrown wide
open, showing the brightly-lighted hall,
with its armOr and richly carved oak
and at the door, with out-stretched hands
of welcome, her fair hair decked with
/ bright Christmas berries, stood his cous-
in Dora, her sweet eyes full of shy, ten
der love, while in the background was
his father, saying, in his kind, jOvial
way: "Welenme home, my boyI'
! The remembrance of his father made
his heart beat heavily, and with an i'm
patient sigh he tried to Danish all mem
ory of the past. whether sweet or bitter.
| But again and again he found himself
picturing Dora'S sweet, girlish face, for
getting that fifteen years would have al
tered it, as time does alter faces
Il wonder if she is married now, and
happy, as she deserves to be? She will
have forgotten her scapegrace cousin
and his bOyish declarations long before
this; and vet have never cared for any
woman since, or said one word of love
to any one but you, sweet Dora. Were
you as hard upon me as the rest of the
world? 1 think not-nay, l feel sure
there was some pity in your heart for
your boy lover"
So his thoughts flowed on; and then
he began to picture his life as it might
have been, had he not by his sin cast all
good away. The old house he loved so
well would have been Dora's home now,
and perhaps it would have been echoing
with children's voices children and
hers; and here his dream ended. for it
was not easy to picture all the happiness
that he had lost.
When he returned to his lodgings, he
opened book and tried to read; but,
strangely enough, the words of the ser
mon, which had fallen upon his ear al
most without his noticing them. now
haunted him. He began to pace up
and down the small room, comparing
himself to the prodigal son, and censur-
ing himself. as he always did, unspar-
ingly. while offering no excuse of any
kind.
my father would be too proud to for
give me as the prOdigal was forgiven:
his last words were proof of that when
he prayed that he might never see my
face again, Poor old dad-it was a
cruel thing to bring disgrace and shame
upon your honorable name! viii YOU
ever know that | would give my life
willingly-oh, so willingly!-if / could
but wipe out the memory and the results
of my sin?''
His voice faltered, and he covered his
face with his shaking hand and sobbed
aloud, the burning tears forcing their
way between his fingers. Then there
came to him an intense longing and a
reSistless yearning to see his fathers
face again; and, after moments indie
ciSiOn, he sprang up, sudden look Of
determination in his blue eyes.
eyes, will go, just to have look at
the old place, and to see if he is altered
much. Poor old dad-it will do him no
harm, for | will not let any one discover
his gracelesS son."
In about a fortnight's time Dick man
aged to get few days holiday, and
then he determined to put his resolution
into force. He left Fairy in the charge
Of kind-hearted woman with whom
they had been lodging, and took the
train to London. then went down from
there by the express into Devonshire.
He slept at an inn few miles from
his old home, and the next morning he
walked across the moors he knew SO
well. He eOntrived to reach the pretty
village just as the shades of evening
were falling over it, for the days now
were getting short and cold, and already
lights were burning in many of the cot
tages, and even in the church. There
was no fear of his being recognized, for
the village street was deserted, and the
old inn, with its brightly painted sign,
had only few stray loafers standing
Op9r