The Arizona sentinel., 1889-12-28

pressing honest opinions, ''you can leav,
 the room"
 s ssNo, no," said Uncle Silas, who liket
 the little girl-she was only fifteen !, .sBessie doesn't mean to be rude. S
 she thinks I'm miser, does she; 7 Shylocl1, because don't give my hard earned money to professional beggars
 My dear, if 1 did I could not give yoV
 the pearl and ebony writing-desk yol
 wanted for Christmas. Hey, my pet" II don't want it." said Bessie, witt
 spirit; II would rather have that old ont
 of grandma's up in the attic, the one sht
 signed many a check on at Christmas tC
 go to the poor"
 Hey! is it there? Is m-m-other''
 desk up in tn attic, Sophie? member
 it quite we'll"
 ''Yes, and it looks lonesome up there
 too, but it is old-fashioned and clumsy,
 answered his sister.
 'I like old-fashioned things, and old
 fashioned people if they have good
 hearts like hers and do good with their money as she did" said Bessie.
 ''Well, well, let's have some games and music," said the old man with gruff good nature and soon the entire family engaged in a game of blind-man's s-buff to wind up the evening.
 ''Be very careful of yourself, Silas, g said his sister; you may be robbed or murdered some of these nights going hOme.'
 II haven't a cent about me-" said the old man, hastily, but not without shud- der.
 ''Do you want me to see you safe home, Uncle Silas?" asked Bessie, who had re- covered her good temper.
 ''No, Miss Spitfre, not tonight. Your old uncle's got some fight in him yet It's only two short blocks to my house and have good cane in my hand"
 ''I wish you would rent that house and come live with us," remarked his sister. She was in independent circumstances herself, but not rich. She wanted her brothers money when he was done with it, not sooner. But she never saw mill of it. and his fine offer of the writing desk to Bessie was all bravado and she knew it. He had never given the child present in his life.
 But he talked poverty, poverty, all day long, and declared that the hand some house in which he lived alone, and where his wife had died-as some said for lack of the necessaries of life-was mortgaged to it's full value. Bessie had often gone to him knowing that he had coffers of gold-and begged money for some Christmas tree or charitable enter tainment, and it always pleased him he liked so well to deny her. When he was gone and the door closed after him, shutting out the awful chill of his pres ence, which seemed to intensity the cold night air, Bessie sat down and waited patiently for her mothers lecture. She felt sure it would come and was not dis appointed. The younger children had gone up to bed, so there was no inter- ruptiOn.
 Its perfectly disgracefulr' her mother began; you know your uncle expects to leave his money to us, and you treat him in such manner that he will go and endow a charity with it.
 T wish he would, mamma" answered Bessie; 'T'm sure his money will never do us any good. He will hate to see anybody spend it. I asked him for ten dollars for our Christmas tree for the poor, and he danced up and down and declared he hadn't so much money in the world. Mamma, he is very poor"
 Poor! Your Uncle Silas poor? Why, child. he owns blocks of brick houses on the avenues and he has enormous sums out at interest,"
 What does that do for him? When he wants good dinner he comes here and gets it. Every Sunday and every holiday he eats at our expense, and when I ask him for a paltry ten dollars he de- nies having it. hate Uncle Silas."
 ''Go to bed, miss," said her mother, angrily; ''you are wanting in respect to your Uncle Silas and to me"
 Not to you, mamma, dear" said the child, softly; ''there is another crows toot-let me kiss it; every time that Uncle Silas comes here he leaves crow feet and wrinkles, if not on our faces in our hearts"
 Silly child" said the mother, but in a softened tone. There was look of her dead father in the girls face that dis armed the mother of her anger. Then she was such brave little thing, daring to speak the truth and do the right. | They parted with another caress at the | foot of the stairs.
 SilaS Marks went home looking at | every shadow, peering into dark places, ! and with his stick clubbed in his hand | ready for any raid from the highway as sassin. Nobody molested him, and he | ran up the steps of his house just as the | tones of the bell in the city | tower rang out ten. He was a little con fused, missed counting the strokes and | wondered what the bells were ringing for that night.
 He rattled his latch-key in the door of | his house and then he stopped to listen. |
 StepS-inside the house, coming slow ly and draggingly down the stairs to meet him!
 ''Pshaw!' he said, whistling a cracked tune to keep up his courage, ''it is the echo of somebody walking next door. Fol-de-rol-de-ro-de-rol-dor'
 He struck a match on the wall No body there. The dismal, faded hall and | stairs looked just as they always did.
 He lighted the candle that stood on the hat-rack-gas was too dear for him to burn-and then he locked and double | barred the doors and fastened the burg | lar alarm.
 Once upstairs in the room that he al- | ways used for his parlor and sleeping apartments he felt at his ease again.
 First he inspected a strong box-that