The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-09-01

apprehensive that some calamity was about to fall upon him that MT. Heath felt on the present occasion sense ot fear which almost amounted to terror.
 "You have been prompt in respond ing to my telegram" said the lady in a loud, defiant voice. "My son, ss I told you, is dead. You have stripped him of his little property. He died a pauper. You make 10000 by his death. I have lately lost nearly all that was worth. I have spent pretty nearly all the rest in nursing him through his last illness. I want twenty pounds in ready money. to pay his funeral expenses. You are the proper person to give it to me. Do you refuse?"
 I dare say that Mir. Heath would gladly have paid twenty pounds, or more, for the relief he experienced when he heard this speech. So it was only begging appeal after all. "Thank heavens" 1" he muttered to himself, and for the first time since he heard of Robert Oswald's death he felt really easy in his mind.
 My good madam" he said, in his usual tone of gruff determination, "your son sought me voluntarily. He had ample value for what he sold me. have nothing more to say on the matter, and I must wish you good night"
 "But l have something more to say to you," said the lady, who rose from her chair at the same time that he did. "Had you given me the twenty pounds I would have been content to let you go in peace. As it is you must hear why you are the proper person to pay for the funeral of my son. Come here; have something to tell you which you will remember to the last day of your life. See -"
 She threw open the folding doors that separated the drawing room from bedroom which was brilliantly lighted with candles. On a bed lay the body of Robert Oswald. His mother went round and stood at the far side of the bed, facing Heath, who advanced little way into the inner room as if he were drawn by a spell.
 "Now, sir," she exclaimed, "do you recognize me?"
 "I can't say I do, madam" said Heath, whose eyes were fixed on the face of the corpse, and who hardly looked at her.
 "Twenty-two years makes differ ence, no dOubt," she said, as she re- moved scarf which was tied round her head and let her long auburn hair fall about her shoulders. "Now, Philip Arnott, look at me again and see if you recognize the face of the wife whom you forced to leave you. Look on that bed and see if you re- cognize your own features in the face of your dead son."
 "My son!" exclaimed Heath-or Arnott, as he really was.
 "Yes," said his wife, Git is not many days since, by an accident, I found out that you, whom knew to have ruined him and from whom I tried to save him, were also his father. When you forced me to fly from you, twenty-two years ago, I found a pro- tector for myself and child. We went to America, where we lived for years as man and wife. In an evil hour we came back to England. God or fate brought your son and you together the little darling child whom you used to nurse on your lap--the little child who used to pull your whiskers and throw his arms around your neck. You loved him, though you did not love me; but, oh, see-there is the result!"
 For @ moment Arnott, who was deadly pale, looked in her face, and uttered one word, "Alice." Then he looked at the corpse again, and said mechanically, as his eyes were riveted on it, "Bob."
 "Yes, Bob and Aice," cried his wife. "You recognize us now; but what is the matter -?"
 Philip Arnott was swaying from side to side. Suddenly he fell sense- less on the floor. It was many hours | before he showed any signs of return ing consciousness, but when he did SO | he was in a state of idiocy, in which | condition he remained until he died, about three months afterward. As he | had made no will his property was divided under the Statute of Distri- l I have only to add that | Allce Arnott succeeded, as his widow, to her share of the property, and re- turned to America shortly after his | death.-Belgravia.