The Russellville Democrat., 1889-06-27

l heavy upon his brow, and the finger-marks | of care were plain across his fine forehead. | Sisters or brothers he had never known, mother and father were long since dead. He was alone in the world, alone amidst | the inuumsrable who were proud to call 1 him friend or acquaintance; alone, with no | confdant, no single soul to receive the words that relieved the pent-up yearnings and emotions of his heart, save Bessie, his lov- ing, true, ever-patient Bessie, his alone, to whom he was god
 To her only did he pour out his most secret thoughts, his widest imaginings | tortures of the inquisition, he knew, could not wiring from her one word of betrayal of his trusts.
 From shadowed nook long she watched him, then stole silently and, resting at his feet, laid her beautiful head upon his knee and raised her beautiful eyes to read in his own the secrets of his soul. With lightness of an angels touch his great, brown hand fell upon her nut brown hair, lovingly it fingered among the sott, short curls, his brow cleared, his gaze be- came soft, tender, as it rested upon her, and sigh of relief told how thankfully5he rec ognized the bond of love between them, how willingly he resigned himself to It's power.
 Long they thus remained, silent, yet in full communion. But Thurlow was creature of moods, of strange, sudden, wild impulses. 1t times he seemed unable to resist the terrible outbursts of passion that swayed him, soul and body; the slightest,i seeming
 y the most insignificant action of those uu-
 CT his control-aud he considered all who acknowledged him as master to be under
 is supreme authority-the most trivial
 movement Of one of these would render aim frantic and terrible. In his wrath he would visit his anger on the innocent, .un- ruspecting victim with the heartless cruelty of Nero.
 No calm followed these storms, for waves of unchecked, soul-searching remorse would toss the unhappy man upon the sea of self accusation and restless penitence, while the 'pride hat would not down" part of his pncurbed nature rendered it almost impos- sihle for him to make the least exhibition of sorrow for the ills he had so ruthlessly inflicted.
 "The heart knoweth it's own bitterness" and no human creature ever dreamed of the agony this man endured when his pas sion had spent it's force.
 But to the lovely and loving Bessie he was tenderness itself, not invariably, alas still, her gentleness, her obedience, her beauty shielded her from many of the storms that beatupon the heads of others.
 It would be hard to tell, puzzling even to conjecture, what demon of ill found it's way into the atmosphere of peaceful quiet that surrounded these two as they sat together in the twilight.
 Spite of the good angel that seemed to hover over them, the demon forced it's way.
 What it was, Thurlow could never recall to his dying day. Some slight movement on her part that disturbed the tenor of his thought, perhaps it might have been only a turn of her head or wandering glance of her eyes that conveyed to him the idea that her heart longed for another resting place. Let it be what it might, the spark was struck, the train was fired, and, like q fash his anger was ablaze.
 He sprang to his feet, his eyes flashed with rage his lips trembled with passion. One word, only one word, he uttered, deep, stern, unanswerable "Gor' and with rigid, upright figure he stood, his arm ex- tended and his hand pointing out into the swift-gathering darkness.
 "Gor'
 And she, Bessie, the gentle, uncomplain. ing, eyer-obedient Bessie, hardly yet re. covered from the shock his sudden uprise had given her, with slow, lingering steps,