Connecticut western news., 1889-09-04
III.

 more carefully than usual, with view to his visit to the lawyer.
 elf it had come sooner!" she thought, as she watched the bent, be- loved figure down the street. Then she went back to her household duties.
 The burden of those long years was not to be shaken off in an hour. She had stiffened, perhaps, into habit of sorrow and poverty; it is certain that she labored faithfully throughout the day at her sordid cares, scarcely able to realize the strange fortune which had befallen them. But not SO the children. For them the good news was 8 reality. They drew together, building their castles ill the air, which, unlike such erections generally, had foundations of solid gold, and even in their unsubstantial ] upper stories were fitted up with sa- gseity characteristic of the early wise children of the poor. Eddy, from his sofa, spoke wistfully of marvellous cures, of health-giving breezes, of great doctors whose ser- vices he could now command. Eleanor moved about the house with new life, speaking little, but dreaming, dream ing, dreaming through the summer l hours.
 The wonderful day sped to its close. Once more the family gathered round the tea table, the tired father taking his seat at the head.
 ''Did you go to that lawyer, father3 ? A nice fellow he must be, should say!" cried Eddy, who was a privi- legged person.
 "And father, did you tell them at the office that you are not going back any more?" added Eleanor, with new gladness in her voice, new light in her eyes, which today, at least, were | the eyes oI pretty Slrl.
 sYour father is tired" said the mother, seeing that her husband neither moved nor spoke, but sat with his el- bow on the table, shading his face with his hand.
 "No, mo-" he said, quickly, 'sI am not tired"
 Then, lifting his head suddenly, he spoke out with curious harshness:
 "Wife, children, you must put to- day and yesterday out of your heads It has all been mistake"
 Half-imploring, half-defiant, he swept the dismayed circle of faces with his glance; then, dropping his eyes went on:
 ''The money was never ours, never could be ours. It was the fruit o1 cruelty and extortion; it was wrune , from the starving poor. It is money that no honest man can touch." He covered his face with his hand and there was silence in the room.
 Then, all at once, the youngest o1 } the children broke into loud crying , and Eleanor, with flaming cheeks an( blazing eyes, sprang to her feet. , aI knew it!'' she cried, and the an l ger and sorrow of her voice were sac to hear. "I knew it cou'd not b, . true that we were going to be happy r It is shame, shame, but knew it r : And she went from the room.
 Her father followed her into tn, : narrow passage, shutting the door be 3 hind them.
 She stood silent, motionless, with 3 her forehead pressed to the wall. 7 He stretched out tired, trenholm. 3 hand, and laid it on her shoulder. l "My dear''-the harsh note of pail : had faded from his voice; it was onl f very wistful and weary-''My dear, r am very sorry. But you would no
 wish it otherwise, know"
 uc was d IuaH OI IcW Woius ~sih1 t pie, timid, little given to demonstra
 tions of affection. 3 "You do not wish it otherwise?" h ,, said again.
 No answer; but he felt the shoulde e shaking with sobs beneath his touch. l. In the poor girls simple heart sh 
 e held her fathers decision as absolutel d without alternative as he had don