Audubon County Republican. [volume] (Audubon, Audubon Co., Iowa) 1885-1894, 1889-08-22

> ner which showed that his slumber haG
been light, you must know that
have not always been in the condition
of poverty in which you now see me.
l was once in excellent circumstances
and enjoyed high standing in So
ciety." ...
How did you become reduced?" ]
asked.
"By a series OF misfortunes, OF which
! need not to tell you. BY degrees /
lost. until became quite fortuneless-
quite friendless."
Us the girl who brought me here
your only childp" ! inquired.
'Ah! it is of that / would speak. :"
sighed the sick man. pressing my
hand. Il had another child-a son
-
"And he is dead?"
"No--but he is dead to me. lost
him through my pridc-my worse than
folly"
"Where is he now?"
"Alas! l know not"
He has deserted you?"
Mo- drove him from my door. 1t
was in my days of pride and influence
that l disowned him and cast him off
penniless."
The old man pressed his feeble hand
upon his brow, as if to still its throb-
bing, and closed his eyes with sup
pressed groan.
II loved my SON." no continued,
after pause-"I was proud of him,
too, but even he could not change the
firmness of my will. 1t is that which
has estranged us"
'In what manner?'
Can you not guess?' Had you
known William, you would have dis
covered before this. His generous
soul, so unlike my own, was totally
free from family pride and prejudice
to which l owe my ruin. He had no
idea of the aristocracy OF wealth. and
when he found among the laboring
classes a maiden whom he thought
might make him happy, he cared not
for her humble condition, but resolved
to win her he rt and hand"
And you opposed him?'
'Firmly-b terly-blindly opposed
him." exclaimed the old man. He
was major and | could not enforce
my commands but | threatened, little
thinking my threats were vain. | told
him in moment OF calmness that the
hour which saw him united to the poor
girl he was wooing, saw him no longer
my son. Bnt his soul like mine, was
above compulson; and unlike mine, it
scorned the allurements of wealth. He
believed that toll and poverty were
honorable, and that worth was oftener
found with them than with luxury ana
riches He trusted that he had found
a priceless jewel in the person OF the
humble girl he loved, and he boldly
and unhesitatingly offered her his
heart and hand, although he knew
would disinherit him.
And he married herr"
Yes; and from that time I have
never seen him! He provided Il home
for himself and wife in Boston, and
wrote me letter. In that he begged
me to eXcusc-he did not say forgive
his acting against my wishes, but said
not word-not a syllable about being
received once moro as my son and
heir. He ended by inviting me to visit
him in his new but humble home. ard
expressed desire that we might live
on friendly terms. ! was too proud TO
visit him, and he never saw fit to cross
my threshold again
And he continued to reside in Bos-
ton-in the same city with you, his
father?n
Yes, for time; but he was poor,
and could not bear, | presume, the |
sight of those Of his Old associates who |
ceased to know him when he was no |
longer able to live in style. He scorned |
them, it is true; but he hated the sight |
of them, and therefore removed from |
the city,
And he never came to you or
wrote to you afterwards?' said l.
Never. The last | heard OF him |
he was in New York, and in tOlerable |
circumstances. Oh, what triumph |
it would be to him could he SEQ me |
thus reduced-shorn OF my pride and |
former wealth.
You see | am now left alone in |
the unfriendly world with the child |
who brought you hither. AS my riches |
failed me, being swept away by mis- |
fortunes, my old friends dropped off |
one by one; and now sickness has re- |
duced me to the helpless, miserable |
condition in which you behold me. |
There is not an individual living who |
cares for me or mine! You have |
already shown some kindness TO us
for which heaven reward you! |
but you are the only one-the only
oner'
The sick man turned his eyes up
wards, then closed them with sigh. |
At this moment l observed that the
stranger, who at first seemed to take |
no interest in the old mans story, had |
at length drawn his chair close to the |
bedside, as If TO listen.
My pride is humblcd now" resumed |
the invalid, after a long pause. II
think l might be brought TO ask relief |
OF the very sou | have disowned. O |
God! how just has been my punish
ment! to think that he, whom | cast off,
is now, in all probability, able 10
laugh at my fall in the midst OF his !
growing prosperity. But think YOU he
would do it? Think you my William.
who was once my Joy and pride, would |
have the heart to triumph over me in |
my misery?'
mo, he would not" said a deep, |
earnest voice behind me, which made |
me start.
On looking around, ! saw the strang-
er had admitted approaching the bed |
side. As the light fell upon his brow,
beheld 1t was dark with agony, and |
there was tear glistening in his eye.
"Who spoke? what voice was that ?"
demanded the invalid, turning on his |
pillow.
made way for the stranger, and he
drew near the bed. He bent over the |
form of the old man, and their eyes
| met.
1T was l who spoke" said the
stranger, in hurried, husky tones; "it
| was my voice.
The old man stared at him wildly.
"And who are you!" he demanded.
''Do you not know me?n murmured
the other 80 God! that it should
come to this-that l am forgotten by
my fatherr'
William! my son William" sobbed
the invalid-"Oh, my injured my
noble and forgiving boy"
The old mans voice was choked by
sobs, as with his feeble, arms he drew
his son more closely to his bosom.
turned away to dash aside the tears
WHICH came to my eyes, dimming my
sight; and when 1 looked again, near