The times. (Owosso, Mich.) 1882-1897, 1890-03-21


While here Roger met with an accident,
which disfigured him SO greatly that he felt
almost as IL it were special providence He
had rushed to assist in saving some people
whose escape from a burning building was
cut or. and, after having brought them down
to the street in safety, q burning timber fell,
striking him ON the left side Of the face, and
burning it SO that the scar which remained
almost destroyed the entire symmetry and
color of that side Of his face
He moved away from that place and again
returned to New York, only now he bore tho
name of William Forney, and Suzanne in
few years seemed to forget that she had ever
had another name. But did she really for
gets Roger felt sure she had, for during
these whole ten years she had never made the
slightest mention, nor given one look that
/ might give rise to a suspicion that she re-
membered. So Rogers mind was easy Oh
that score. ...s...-
One day Roger eaid to her quite unexpect-
edly: rftrrre rater..s q.
Suzanne, wo are going to leave New York
and 60 to Paris, place you know nothing of.
What do you says'
~ shall like TO go whenever you do, father;
no matter where it is"
She said that calmly. and nothing in her
face showed a hidden thought, yet, after
Roger had gone out, her face saddened, and
a retrospective look came into tho depths Of
F, her lovely violet eyes. r
| They reached Paris, and Roger went boldly
about, knowing himself unacceptable, and
OH solid footing rs far as his identity was
concerned. He was received as rich Ameri-
| can Canadian who had made his fortune by
inventions relating to steel. .t
him. He passed the very judges who had
| Questioned him, he went to the concierge of
his old apartment where Julia had left tho
fatal money, and where he had lived So long.
but the concierge answered his trifiing ques-
tions as If to stranger. He went to his old fac
tory. No one knew him. His uncle, Ber-
nardit, had sold the factory just before his
death, which took place some two years be-
fore, and Rogers heart drew him toward tho
old place. 1t was the hour for dinner, and the
| workmen filed past him, but though they
| looked curiously at the man standing there,
| none OF them knew him, though he could
| have called them nearly oil by name.
| This and the regret caused by the death of
old M. Bernardo and his vito saddened
| Roger greatly. This noble and kind old
| couple had invented q story about having
| put Suzanne in a convent school, and the
| neighbors never questioned its truth SO
everything conspired to aid Roger in his new
| life.
Ono day Roger told Suzanne to not feel
| uneasy if he was not home as early as
| usual, that be wished to look at some coun-
| try houses and might be detained. This was
while they were still ct the Hotel Scribe.
| The truth was that he wished to wait until
night fell and 60 to Vile dAvray and kneel
| by poor Henriette's grave, which he had
never seen, hut which was holy ground to
| him.
All the late afternoon he wandered about
the little village into the woods behind and
beyond the house where he had lived. The
house was closed and the beautiful garden
had run to weeds. Desolation and neglect
were marked upon the place, and Roger
could not bear tue sight of his once charm.
! ing home thus gone to decay. He wandered
to the edge Of the town to the little grave
yard, but until night fell he dared not go to
the tomb he searched. The moon rose and
| by its light he discovered grave surrounded
| by an iron grating, and on the marble cross,
hidden by weeds that grew rank over the
poor martyr beneath, he found the name of
his wife. He sank down and laying his face
on the cold damp grass wept for his young
wife, whose death now seemed moro real to
| him than it ever had before He gathered a
| handful of the rank, coarse weeds and kissed
them and placed them in his pocket and rose
| to 60, with heavy heart for she had died
believing him guilty. He had turned to go,
when he thought he saw o womans figure
moving among the graves. His heart stood
! still, and he looked with wild eyes toward the
| phantom, il such it was He watched and
she walked from one grave to another,
searching everywhere and looking at all the
| inscriptions on the stones as she went.
| His heart stopped beating, as something in
| her walk or movement told him that it was
his daughter, though long cloak and hood
| drawn closely over her face completely hid
her from view.
IL it was Suzanne, then she had forgotten
nothingl She knew oil, and for ten long
years had so dissimulated that he was en-
tirely deceived, in spite Of oil the efforts he
| had made to discover her mind
| His emotion was so strong that he was
| obliged to seat himself upon q tombstone and
wipe away the thick drops of cold sweat
from his forehead.
~ will know if it is she," said he; II must
know. If it is really Suzanne she will 60 to
| Der mothers tomb"
As he was about to go back, there near him,
| stood the same dark shadow going toward the
| gate.
MADAME, mademoiselle, for PHYS sake, one
| word"
The shadow heard, but that voice fright
ened her, for she began to run swiftly and
| disappeared from view.
| 81 will know. will DO at the station and
await if necessary all night. He ran all the
way and reached the station, seeing no one
but men on the way; but there was no one
| there. The train did not leave for quarter
! of an hour, and he waited and watched ant
| he waited and watched again until another
| one had gone. Then he decided to go home.
| and there he would surely find out IL Su-
game was or had been out. When he reached
the hotel it was nearly IL o'clock, and Su-
zanne was not in their common parlor. Then
| the father went to Suzanne's bed room and
softly tried the knob. The door opened, but
| the room was dark.
"She has not returned, )" thought he, prey
| to violent agitation.
Just then the voice of Suzanne broke the
stiffness:
ais that you, fatherf'