Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-01-03

| is looking like-like the thunder storm.'
 Thomas was the name of MT. Carson. her husband.
 After that I hid myself as we'll as I could behind a chair, for was shy, and watched little Stella Carson, who was the squire's only child, giving the chil- dren presents off the tree. She was dressed as Father Christmas, with some soft white stuff round her lovely little face, and had large dark eyes, which I thought more beautiful than any thing l had ever seen. At last it canse my turn to have a present-cddly enough, considered in tho light of future events, it was a large monkey. She reached 1t down from one of the lower boughs of the tree and handed it to me, saying:
 "Dat is my Christmas present to you, little Allan Quatermaln." |
 As she did so her sleeve, which was covered with cotton wool, spangled over with something that shone, touched one of tho tapers-how do not know-andl caught fire, and the flame ran up her. arm towards her throat. She stood quite still. l suppose that she was. para lyzed with fear; and the ladies who were near screamed very loud, but did nothing. Then some impulse seized me-perhaps instinct would be better word to use, considering my age-I, threw myself upon the child, and, beat: ing at the fire with my hands, mercifullyl succeeded in extinguishing it before 1t; really got hold. My wrists were so badly burned that they had to bo wrapped upi in wool for Q long time afterwards, but will ~f. 1ol her throat, little Stella Carson was not much hurt
 This is all that remember about thei Christmas tree at the Hall. What hap pcncd afterwards is lost to me, but to; this day in my sleep often sec little. Stclla's sweet face and tho start of ter TOT in her dark eyes as the fire ran up her arm. This, however, is not wonder full, for had, humanly speaking, saved; tho life of her who was destined to be my wife.
 The next event which I can recall; clearly is that my mother and three brothers all fell i'll of fever, owing, as 1 afterwards learned, to the poisoning of OUT well by some evil-minded person, who threw a dead sheep into it.
 It nut have been while they were i'll, that Squire Carson came ono day to the vicarage. Tho weather was still cold. for there was fire in the study, and sat before the fire writing letters on piece of paper with a pencil, while my father walked up and down the room talking to himself. Afterwards knew that he was praying for the lives of his wife and children. Presently servant came to the door and said that some ono wanted to see him.
 Ut is tho Squire, sir," said tho maid "and he says he particularly wishes to sec you.'
 ''Vcry well,' answered my father wearily, and presently Squire Carson ramo in. His face was white and haG- gard, and his eyes shone so tercely that was afraid of him.
 Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, Quatermain," he said in a hoarse voice, "but tomorrow l leave this place forever, and wish to speak to you before I go-indeed, must speak to you"
 Shall send Allan away?" said my father, pointing to me.
 No, let him bide. He will not under stand" Nor, indeed, did at the time, but I remembered every word, and in after years their meaning grew on mo.
 First tell me-" ho went on, 'how are they?" and he pointed upwards with his thumb.
 My wife and two of the boys are be- yond hope,' my father answered, with a groan. II do not know how it will ga with tho third. The Lords will bo done!"
 ''The Lords will be done," the Squira echoed, solemnly. And now, Quater. main, isten-my wife's gone.'
 ''Gone!'' my father answered. "Who with?"
 ''With that foreign cousin of hers. It seems from letter she left that she al- ways cared for him, not for me. She married mo because the thought me rich English milford. Now she has run through my property, or most of it, and gone. I don't know where. Luckily, she did not care to cucumber her new career with a child; Stella is left to me-"
 That is what comes of marrying a Papist, Carson," said my father. That was his fault; he was as good and char itable a man as ever lived, but he was bigoted. "What are you going to do follow her?"
 de lauSneu DlCLerly III answer.
 "Follow herv' he said; "why should follow her? If l met her I night kill her or him, or both of them. because of the shame they have brought upon my child's name. No, never want to look upon her face again. I trusted her, tell you, and she has betrayed me. Let her go and find her fate. But am go- ing, too. am weary of my life."
 'Surely, Carson. surely" said my father, "you do not mean"-
 ''No, no; not that. Death comes soon enough. But will leave this civilized world that is Q living lie. We will go right away into the wilds, my child and I, and hide our shame. Where? don't 'tknow where. Any where so long as there are no white faces, TO smooth, educated tongues"
 "You are mad. Carson," my father answered. "How will you live? How