Custer weekly chronicle. [volume] (Custer City, S.D.) 1890-1931, 1890-12-06

worked 100 nard, went everywhere on
foot-and he was always delicate--and
s. at last he fell i'll, and died. And,
Mr.. Barker, when his mother came here
to see him, she told me / had killed
him."
Poor child, those words may come
home to her some day. Were all his
people equally unkind2"
with the exception Of his younger
sister, Margaret-Daisy he called her.
She would have come if she had dared"
And she was the only one who show
ed you kindnessy',
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
money in. and "a doctor must not ask
he thought OF writing to his Uncle
Michael"
II wish he had" groaned the old gen.
tleman. "Do not mind me, it is only
another twinge-nothing would have
pleased his uncle better"
1T was only at the last" Mary said,
"that he made up his mind. IF ever
Uncle Mike comes to England, and you
see him. Arthur told me, L know he
will fall in love with you and take care
of you, and while there is time / will
write and tell him I'll about our mar
rage And that is the letter he began;
1T was never sent"
"Why?"
81 would not part with il. I would
not send il; it would have looked as IL /
wanted something, and | could not"
And it did not occur TO you that
you were wrong in letting your indie
%pendence stand in the way Of your
dutyY" Mr.. Barker caid, gravely. THAT
letter was intended for Michael Allen
by, and you kept it Yourself"
Il should not have known where to
find him, sir"
That is begging the question, my
dear. Any Wcst-Indian agent would
have forwarded a letter TO him."
Il did not think of that; and / meant
to show it to Uncle Michael if ever we
met"
How could you hope II 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"
ave 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
this?'
Nothing. They offered me fifty
pounds a-year if | would give up my boy.
They went so 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 90
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. l do not know
pray do not say So" said Mary, pas
sionately-''do not tell me was wrong.
The same thought troubled me at the
time. but | could not give him up; i
want to keep him all my own while he
is young. | will work and save for him
while l have strength. Ihave not touch
ed the money his father left, and when
he is old enough he shall choose fol
himself, but till then"
do not imagine that | think yor
are wrong" said Mr.. Barker. II mere.
" took the practical view OF it, and yoJ
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 60 back to them fol
the sake of the carriage and their money;
they wanted him to leave me-
Poor child!p the old man said again;
"don't cry. am going to read the let.
ter, and your uncle shall know | have
seen it. / see it begins in the old-fash-
ioEed way"
DEAR OLD UNCLE MIKE,-I have tax.
en- up my pen q dozen times or so to send
you a few lines, not knowing whether they
may find you in New Zealand or jamaica
but something in the shape of al Interrupt
ton has always come in. IL l nm not want
ed to assist an entrance, l am desired most
urgently to delay an exit, or else to see
what can be done for any Of the thousand
ills the flesh Is heir to; and l., who have a
decent reputation In these things, find my
self thinking that 1 have strutted and fret
ted my hour on the stage, and shall soon be
heard no more. / do not know thu should
mind for myself is not so dlnicult to
tire of living,-but l have a wife and ar
infant boy, and l do not know what is tC
become OF them.
ar ever you see my wife, as l hope some
day you Will, You will not wonder at me,
nor blame me so severely as my friends
have done: IL 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. l cannot
tell you in a letter how my love grew upon
her when | saw what q life of self-devotion
she had led with her father, a poor old
scholar and gentleman, named Lennard. j
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 it. He was like Lear in
two things,-the world had used him badly,
and he had q daughter like Cordelia; one
who chung to him in all adversely, and her
voice was sweet and low, surely lie most
excellent thing a woman can have.
I'VE have been very happy. II my moth
er had not set herself so bitterly agaihsi
Mary from the outset, | should not have
a care; bur she will not see my wife, and SC
/ have only the painful option of not seeing
my mother. She forced the chain upon me,
and what could l do, except as Holy Wrii
tells me. I wish 1t had been otherwise.
'Shouid the end be as near as l think II
is, Mary will want friends, and IL you come
TO England look after her. could not ask
this of anyone but my Uncle Mike, ths
dear old fellow / so we'll remember In ms
boyhood--what friends we were. l wonder
IL anyone in this world knew you so wei
as 1 did.
"Now that / have begun there Is so much
I have to say; but / am writing slowly, ant
my faithful friend, George Hyde, tells me
to be careful of my strength-my strength
when q journey from one room to the otheI
Is a pilgrimage that leaves me without Z
second breath to spare. Still, when thu
Summer COMES
Here it ended. That Summer never
came for him.
rIA.H