The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1890-12-05

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was rich then, and kept a carriage. She
allowed him an income, but he would
not accept it after that. And then he
worked zoo hard, went everywhere on
foot-and he was always dslicate-and
SO at last he fell i'll, ana died. And,
Mr.. Barker, when his mother came here
to see him, she told me l had killed
| him.
Poor child, those words may come
home to her some day. Were all his
people equally mkind?'
with the exception of his younger
sister, Margaret-Daisy he called her.
| She would have GOMEZ if she had dared.'
And She was the only one who show
ed you k%indness?',
THE only one"
Mr.. Barker nodded slowly,
when we were at our worst times.,'
Mary went on, "for we had some bad
times-Arthur could not always get his
monev in. and a doctor must not ask
he thought of writing to his Uncle
Michael"
II wish he had, .groaned the old gem
tleman. do not mind e me, it is only
NShS AlOtlillS Noall litSC
pleased his uncle better"
1T vas only at the last" Mary said,
shat he made up his mind. If ever
Uncle Mike comes to England, and you
sec him. Arthur told me, i know he
will fall in love with you and take care
OF you, and while there is time | will
write and tell him ell about our mar
riage.' And that is the letter he began;
it was never sent.n
"WhyY"
u would not part with it. I would
not send it; it would have looked as if l
wanted something, and l could not
And it did not occur to you that
you were wrong in letting your indie
pendence stand in the way of your
duty?" Mr.. Barker said, gravely. "That
letter was intended for Michael Allen
by, and you kept it YOURSELF
II should not have known where to
find him, sir"
That is begging the question, my
dear. Any West-Indian agent would
have forwarded a letter to him."
II did not think of that; and / meant
to show it to Uncle Michael if ever we
met"
"How could you hope to meet him
when he did not even know you were
Arthur's wife,"
but if he came to England he would
go to Arthur's people, and they would
tell him. Then, if he wished to see me.
he would come"
"We are not so sure of that. The
people do not like you; they might give
you a bad character. What have they
done for you since you were left like
thisp"
Nothing. They offered me fifty
p~oundsa-year if l would give up my boy.
They went 81 far even as to say they
had more right to him than l have"
And the proud little mother looked
quite stately in her insulted dignity.
Fifty pounds a-year; and they would
have brought the boy up well, sent him
to college, made a gentleman of him,
given him a profession and money to go
on with"-and he shook his grey head
slowly. II do not know, my dear,
whether you were quite right-whether
it was not a case in which natural feel
ing should be set aside in consideration
for the boys welfare. do not know
pray do not say So" said Mary, pas
sionately-"do not tell me l was wrong!
The same thought troubled me at the
time, but l could not give him up;
want to keep him all my own while he
is young. 1 will work and a v for him
while l have strength. Ihave not touch
ed the money his father left, and when
he is old enough he shall choose for
himself, but till them
"Do not imagine that l think YOU
are wrong" said Mr.. Barker. 81 mere
ly took the practical view of it, and you
naturally resented their injustice.
Not to me. l did not mind. But
they must have known how the hard
work told on Arthur; they must have
seen him breaking down; they thought
he would be glad to go back to them for
the sake of the carriage and their money:
they wanted him to leave me-"
"Poor child!' the old man said again;
don't cry. ] am going TO read the let
ter, and your uncle shall know l have
seen it. | see it begins in the old-fash-
Toned way"
DEAR ILL UNCLE M1KE,-I have TAX
en- up my pen q dozen times or so to send
yon a few lines, not knowing whether they
may find you in New Zealand or Jamaica:
but something in the shape of an Interrupt
ton has always come in. Ii / am not want
ed to assist an entrance, l am desired most
urgently to delay ar exit, or else to see
what can be done for any of the thousand
ills the flesh is heir to; aud !, who have a
decent reputation in these things, find my
self thinking that l have strutted and fret
ted my honr on the stage, and shall soon be
heard no more. l do not know that l should
mind for myself, lit is not so difficult to
tire of liying,-but l have a wife and an
infant boy, and l do not know what is 10
become Of them.
"If ever you see my wife, as I hope some
day you will, you will not wonder at me,
nor blame me so severely rs my friends
have done; 1t is not SO much for her beauty,
though that is of the gentle. sympathetic
order, but she is so good, so true, so thor
oughly a companion and friend. / cannot
tell you in a letter how my love grew upon
her when l saw what a life of ~self-devotion
she had led with her father, q poor old
scholar and gentleman, named Leonard. l
think You knew him, for when | mentioned
my Uncle Michael he grew rather curious;
but he changed the subject, and / could not
get him back to 1t. He was like Lear in
two things,-ths world had used him badly,
and he had a daughter like Cordelin; one
who chung to him i'll all adversely, and her
voice was sweet and low, surely the most
excellent thing q woman can have.
We have been very happy. If my moth
er had not set herself so bitterly against
Mary from the outset, l should not have
a care; but she will not see my wife, and so
l have only the painful option of not seeing
my mother. She forced the chain upon me,
and what could do, except as Holy Writ
tells me. 1 wish it had been otherwise.
Should the end be as near Us l think it
is, Mary will want friends, and II you come
to England look after her. 1 could not ask
this of anyone hut my Uncle Nike, the
dear old fellow l so we'll remember in my
boyhood-wllat friends we were. I wonder
If anyone in this world knew you SO we'll
as 1 did.
Now that Ihave begun there is so much
l have to say; but l am writing slowly, and
my faithful friend, George Hyde, tells me
to be careful of my strength-my strength,
when a journey from one room to the other
is a pilgrimage that leaves me without a
second breath to spare. Still, when the
Summer comes"
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