The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1889-12-15
THE MORNING NEWS: DECEMBER 1889TwELvE

trough MS heart beat almost 20 suif0catlOn.
As you saw, no one will ever kn w you
killed me. She must De your charge II is
what YOU viii owe 10 Isabel II you rob her
little girl Of her father
My charge. Yes, my charge Mon
sleur lie Cure had seated himself again in
MS former place, and now was repeating
Tue words vacantly, not once, not twice,
out dozen times. Suddenly he stopped,
as though conscious Of his own action, and
stole a side look at his companion. LET us
talk business he said, abruptly, with an
evident effort TO concentrate his Thoughts.
How would your death materially affect
your daughterp
"As a child it would Of course only mako
her miserable. l don't pretend TO shine IN
many ways, but do as a father, and it is
not my fault if Isa still misses her mother
never go home without taking her toys
ana sweets; all the bright less of her life
comes from daddy But, as l say, it is
when fine grows older that sine viii feel it
most. / have made lot Of money, but
I've saved nothing, and Isabel must turn
out and work she will be lust the age her
mother was when you first saw her, and
they viii be as much alike as two rain
drops. Can't You imagine how tho little
\ head VIII droop under the burden how the
gentle eyes will fill with tears when she is
treated harshly or insulted because she is
pretty, and because she stands alole2 You
must go 10 her sometimes Isabeps child
VIII not know it is to you she owed the
trouble and the misery which came upon
her. That it was you-n
A broken, inarticulate cry burst from the
| priests lips. 1t was more tho cry of a
wounded beast than the voice of a man,
| but Val Fairlie knew the battle was won
Monsieur le Cure leaped to his feet and
| stretched out his hands almost in supplica-
! ton. His deep-set eyes seemed literally
smolderlng in their sockets, and a great
| purple veins stood out out upon his fore
head.
"For Isabel's sake,n he said at last, the
words falling thickly FROM his indrawn
| lips, and in another moment Val Fairlie
was alone
The blacSness of the night was for brief
instant rent by sudden light as the house
| door of the vicarage was rapidly opened
! and shut, and then maddened, defenseesS
man, was added to tho playthings of the
storm. Struggling on against the wind
and rain, now slowly when his jaded frame
/ refused its task, now wildly when it was
stung into greater effort by the fretting
! spirit within, went Monsieur 10 Cure. For
a long time there was almost cessation of
| thought He knew he was running away, he
| knew he must run away, but the why aud
| the wherefore were still blank to him At
| last some sharp sound-it was the cracking
| of a branch overhead-roused the be
numbed brain, and he began recalling old
| Peris days, thinking of Isabel and even
| placidly of that handsome boy whom his
friends called Val, aud whom he himself
! had always rather despised. How beauti-
| full Isabel had looked that night when he
| had first met her at the embassy ball.
| harkl they were playing the lovely Valse
| again to which they two had first danced
He could just catch the strains. He stopped
abruptly and began swaying to and fro in
the darkness, with half-admiring, half
tender expression on his face.
Darling" he whispered, 'when we are
MARI
He broke Off with sharp cry, for some
thing had struck against him. Ii was the
little metal cross which hung around his
neck, and which, swaying with his own
| movement had thus been tossed against his
hand. After cropping painfully he found it
and held it tight. The familiar touch, the
| familiar Ora pro nobis, which sounded to his
excited fancy as though spoken by plead
| ing angel, brought with them sudden flow
of tears, and, awakening from his long be-
wilderment, Monsieur le Cure peered about
| him curiously. His wandering steps had
retraced themselves, and he was now under
| the shelter of the Old church: the ram was
abating, the wind no longer howled so
fiercely. Mechanically seeking for tho key,
ne UNASSIGNED Jhe door, ana securing 1t on
the inHer side, he stole softly along the
nave and knelt down in front of the little
altar Mind and body were alike exhaust
ed, and he knelt on there wholly oblivious
of time, and weeping quietly. But when
the coming dawn shot one long streak of
light through the small unpainted window
it fell upon the great wooden crucifx, and
| Monsieur le Cure glanced reverently up
ward. The light was resting upon the lips
of tho dead Christ, and their rigidity was
softened into a smile Of forgiveness and of
peace.
1t was all a nine-days' wonder among the
good folk of that Ardennes village That
Monsieur 10 Cure should absent himself for
four d-twenty hours was strange enough
in all conscience, but that the invalided
| Englishman should take that opportunity
to quit the place was even more inexplca-
BILE. He was rich, of course, this English
| MILFORD and if he chose to waste his money
and risk his life by insisting on heing con
veyed some twenty miles TO the neighbor-
| ing doctors house it was, of course, his
| own concern. "Mais mon Dieu, CONNIE,
lis etaient fous, ces Anglaisn Well they
were glad he was gone, for now Monsieur
lie Cure could spare more time for them and
their concerns. The strain Of nursing had
left him trille quieter, perhaps, thought
more silent, but otherwise just the same
| ce BON Monsieur le Cure.