The Springdale news., 1889-11-08

dcae; and, too 8 Pcrcival never cats hls words
 'Iwould have saved you, my child, could ha=e done 50; but tho fatality of the family has oFertalien you, and what could your poor, desolate father dol You have torsakcn for poyerty-stricien com panion, and nave gone with the choice of your heart, as did Allan here Alas Allan, that have now no brother! Alas Miriam, that l now have no child Ienceforth Eou are dead to me; good-bye-oye, worse, farewcll!'
 Having kissed tho portrait of the proud, wi!lfQl child he hung tup fer a momeutfor another vlew of the sweet face. Truly she was regal then" he said, with Q deep sigh Then he turned the face of his daughter to the wall with shiver, and sealed the doom Of his mother!ess child.
 After this he tottered upstairs to his apartments with much feebler step than he had ever known. Surely this was, by far, the greatest sorrow of his long, lovecss existence. All! yes, 1t was the hardest blow he had ever experienced.
 Bereaved of his beautiful wife, whom he loved teaderly, how crushed and sorrowful his days had been in the great, lonely Hall.
 But Ee knew where she was resting; this other bereavement, why, this was so differ ent, so different! Poor Mriam he knew nothing of her wandering away; perhaps might never know aaght of her more. The rest of them went that way-Allan did.
 The curse of temper and circumstance was worse than death. Yes, in comparison, death WAS kind!
 The threatening breach had now widened beyond repair between Sir Rupert and his child, and "too laten was written across the seal of her doom. He must bow also to the inevitable.
 And that day on which the master of Heatherleigh buried his daughter in his heart was but q precursor Of many dreary ones to follow. The same silent, erape- shaded routine, admitting of scarcely any varlation, went oil. 4 lonely breakfast in his own apartments; long, eompanionless walks about the grounds with his hands behind him and his eyes bent on the ground as if in deep study; the silent dinner hour next, and lastly, solitary evenings, on whose nouraful hours none were allowed to infringe by trying to be companionable
 About th.s time the servants began to show signs of a general revolt. Sometimes they declared that this prison-life would materially shorten their days.
 Ancil and Peggy reminded them that they would ba substantially rewarded some day likely if they would only continue to be faithful.
 But the r4atiny of the western wing of HeatherIeigA boiled and effervesced until, at the close of . very trying day when Sir Rupert had been unusually contrary with them, the gardener and cook said. medningly, that If the master was found dead in his bed in the morning, why, t was nobody's basiness-b but And they wagged their heads omiuously.
 CHAPTER NJ
 All day the storm had ragged and battered and shook the windows with angry hand, but now there had fallen a somewhat calm CT hour.
 From tko window of ! residence, beauti- ful country seat, near the shore, pale, sad face pcered out into the sullen eventide. The house and grounds gave evidence of taste and wealth, coupled with an inviting air of welcome hospitality, that seemed 2 very everest at tie close Of such al uncharitable day. Ihe sHn now lay low en tAe sea, and the breakers dashed high up against the rocky Wofl, falling back with thunder GUS moan, as if disappointed that in all these thousands of yeare they had not been able to scale The height and break over their irksome boundary. Heavy clouds bestrewed the horizon, and shut out the blue zenith as wi,l curtain of sorrow. Only in the west lay ] long, calm rift of sunset sky, through which shoue softly the sunlight, as if washed with tears.
 But the pale, sad-faced woman looking from the pane saw nothing of the evenings promise; sine only noted the darkened east and the dim sunights last smile playing htfully on the black sea-world beneath.
 bod A.,,, tod h, fountain had become dry, but the wild, hot eyes roved abroad over the cheerless land scape, or sea view rather, aimlessly, really taking note of nothing; while the weary brain almost reeled beneath the awful shock 1t must endure.
 In the next room man lay dying. The physician was bending over him with po- tion calculated to ease and soothc the last few moments of his patient, while the at tendauts stood yyistfully, silently by
 They had done all they could, all that human agency and affection could devise, but the fiat of death had gone forth and new, ill the prime of young manhood, Arthur Fairfax must die.
 He had lived to see his dream fulfilled, however. He had gained wealth and found his beautiful home by the sea that he had planned to have on his wedding day.
 Yes, il had all been realized, but what fearful price was asked. Overtaxed, his system gave out, and he was now ready, after months of decline, to leave it al.
 Months ago he felt q strange sense of ex- haustion stealing over him, but he thought il mere lassitude which by and by would wear off. So paving but little attention to natures warning he toiled on with almost superhuman effort to complete thls domes- tic paradise so dear to his heart. His plans were about completed, and Miriam should have her beautiful home as they both had planned. Miriam, who had given up every thing for hlm and his love and who had al- ways been the same sweet, unehangeable wife, should now be happy in her own ole- gant establishment,
 And their boy-the bright, wnsomc lit- tie son, inheriting his mothers dark eyes and the blonde curls of the Fairfax family should never know a want, never have q wish unsatisted, if money could fill the re- quirement He had wealth now. The world had gone well with him, turning steadily heath fortune's smile.
 This ho. had sand to himself on that last day up in the mines while closing out his sales and getting rid of shares in the stock
 He Vra. very fatipupl that day and mora