St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1889-12-26

utloCICNCu tuC iIOiu uOOts OhO
zinc plate OH which was inscribed in
gilt letters: Josef Gross, Broker"
Then he went i'm aud went 10 rest. To
rest? He closed his eyes, and from I'M
der the compressed lids one old. solitary
tear stole out.
what is the matter?" asked the wo-
man.
''The heart-the old trouble. On the
street was again seized with spasm.
L fell to the ground, and servant led
me home. | knew that it would end
thus; my foot pains me violently, as if
boiling water were flowing through my
veins instead of blood. Prepare my
bed
do not lose courage. The physician
says there is nothing the matter with
you"
Nothing but that l must diel What
will become of yeu?"
''Of the girls?"
''Of you?'
"And of the little child"
A vainly suppressed. low moan forced
itself up from his broad chest. The
little child asked i'll pampered voice:
Papa, what have you bought for
me?''
"Nothing"
Then his daughter came in. His
oldest child. The image of the mother.
A tall figure with a berry mouth and
curved eyebrows. She was not yet
eighteen, but the pretty little pink
dimple under her chin was already
ing side by side, the daughter and the
mother. one might have taken them for
a pair of sisters.
And as the broker looked at them,
first wild, then dull. despair seized
him. What was to become of his wife,
what of his manageable daughter, if
he should die? The wife could, per-
haps, find bread and shelter with one or
the other of her relatives, but the
daughter? How is she to find huS-
band? Who will marry her without
money? Nobody! Or perhaps some
coarse, uncOuth mechanic, which is still
worse. How his oldest son will go to
ruin. who. in spite of his great intelli-
gence, has not improved one jot;
thoroughly goOd-hearted fellow, but
who perhaps at this very moment is
playing cards somewhere. for no one
has had as much as glimpse of him
since yesterday. And what, finally, is
to become of him who is almost as near
to his heart as his wife? What is to
become of his youngest, five-year-0ld
son, his splendid boy? OF this too deli
cate, spoiled idol? God knows what he.
had life been spared, would have made
of him.
But it cannot be-: the broker feels that
he must die. Once, twice more the
spasms OF the heart sized him more vio-
lently than ever before; then the feet
began to swell, and it came, what he
had expected with mortal dread, but
still prepared, as one condemned to
death expects the downward SwOop of
the axe that has been lowering over his
head-drOpsy.
His father and his two elder brothers
had died from this disease. The broker
had observed the beginning of it, and
was acquainted with the conditions that
served to hasten the cataStrophe-the
exciting va-banQue game with life. lie
was present when his father one day,
during a brokers' transaction on the
exchange, broke down. He knew that
the consequences of an unhappy specu-
lation changed one of his brothers from
a vigorous man into a dying Skeleton.
He had seen it. and all their dying be-
gan like his.
The image OF approaching death
would not have been so terrible to him
were it not that he must die now, must
leave his family now, when he had not
a penny to call his own; now, when he
was not even able to meet his interest
for the next quarter. In several months
things would change thoroughly. Then
he would procure money, if he had to
dig it out of the ground.
The sick man is alone in the room. 1t
is dusk. Through the open door he can
see the guests sitting in the parlor. In
the CHEEKY. home-like CLEAN Of the
hanging lamp the faces look so friendly,
so tull of love. His d lighter is sitting
at the table, and is pouring tea into her
neighbours cup. The strong. sun
burned young man thanks her, smiling
deferentially. There is peculiar ex-
preston about tho lips of the young
girl when she addresses the yonng man,
and now and then flaming red floods
her face and snOwwhite neck. And
the young man listens to and answers
only her. And as the broker looks at
this pair of lovers, his heart contracts
still more. They can never belong to
each other. But if he had lived, or
had left a fortune?
The sick man is entitely forgotten.
And he forcibly suppresses his groaus
and signs in order not to interrupt the
in thenext room, not tOcause
the slightest discOrd in their low laugh
ter. In the laughter of his wife and
daughter. which only too soon will
change into loud sObbing. Into weep
ing ard lamenting as soon as they hear
that all the splendOr, their high living,
was empty delusion, their wealth
hollow SOap-bubble; when
the furniture, the beds and the linen
,l,o l,, Of
the low remark shall pass from mouth
to mouth: "He, too, was swindlerw
They will be driven out of these apart
ments that have grown so dear to them;
and into the cellars. in which they will
then live. none of these guests here will
follow them, not one; and, in spite of
his great love. the old, faithful admirer
also will disappear from the side of the
girl.
A light was brought in; the physician
had arrived.
Nothing of moment" said he, "only
you must look out for your bealth."
The woman went out with him.
'WilI he recover?'' she asked briefly.
"Certainly," answered the physician.
''When?'
"In week or two. that is--are you
"Of course Will he dier'
The physician stared at the woman.
I'm week or two, 1t is quite certain.
Be prepared for it."
The woman trembled visibly; her
features for moment were contOrted.
.'Weli, what does the doctor say?'
asked the husband.
"Nothing...... My monthly allowance
IS at an end. What am l to do? Are
you not expecting some moneyp'
mo. NV affairs are wound up"
"And what is to become of me?"
The sick man gave all ag0nized moan;
The woman continued:
1--WE must pawn something"
"But what?'
securities from the safe"