Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-07-22
gaze, at the little face below

"What have you seen ?" the man con- tinued, gently drawing the boy toward him. "Tell me exactly. Don't shrink away from me. Tell me what you saw. I cannot hurt you, laddie you are not afraid of me 2"
 The voice which the lad had always known so prompt and bright and jest ing was almost wistful now and still there came no kiss from the childish lips, and no caresses from the little hands. -
 "Oh, father 1" he cried, piteously, "don't ask me. I can't tell it l"
 With a deep, acute pain, Fitz felt how involuntarily the child shrunk from him, and felt, too, how little he could wonder at this, or blame him for it.
 "Very we'll, laddie," he said, with quiet sadness "I will not ask you to tell me what you saw, because, of course. know; and know who saw it as we'll as you. Let us talk of something else, shall we2 Let us think of other things prepare for other things. Run, laddie, and fetch me all the treasures that you have for we must take them with us. "
 Without even asking his favorite upstairs, returning presently with a 
 "Here they are, dad; do you want themY" he asked, holding the box tightly,
 "Not to keep" the artist answered {; "only to see what you have got-what you have to cherish when we leave be- hind us"
 He checked himself, with smile into the child's inquisitive face. l bnl1 fha it safe, and I will make discoveries. Ali right. fOpen, Sesame r"
 Fitz turned over the tri6es gently, one by one, smiling little sadly to see how valueless they were. Not that he told the child this on the contrary, he handled the things with tenderness, and now and then exclaimed admiringly:
 "There's the jewsharp; how well I remember buying that And here's the old baby rattle; and here's-ah l" l The cry was slow and full of thought; only that one short word, and Fitz Spen- dir's eyes were keenly and intently bent on a small piece of gilded jewelry which he held between his fngers-a piece of jewelFy, at least, that had been gilded once, but was now in it's unmisGakably- brass undersuit. Breathing quickly, Fitz signed Jet away with the box, and opened the locket.
 "I-knew it, he muttered "Iwon- der why ! felt so certain of it all in 8 momentP An, what 6 good thing this is for my boyl He will have home. wonder whether I should have remem- bered every word of it, as I do, if any one else had told it to me? God bless her think never could forget any of her bright, kind, thoughtful words, even if had been used to such of late. Jet, he added, aloud, "don't look so Rstonished, dear lad. Come here and see this. Take it up to the lamp and describe it to me-"
 ''It is locket, father," the boy said, in his gentle, practical way, wondering why he must look at it alone there. I know all about it without looking. There's hair in 1t on both sides, and names under one hair there's Jessie written, and under the other there's 'Dorcas.' That's all. And it was mothers, you know, and she told me to keep it. Are you going to do anything to it, dad?"
 "No." replied Fitz, gently. "Take us tell stories to each other, like old times"
 "Yes," faltered Jet, without the prompt gladness with which in those old times he had always received the idea.
 "Shal we make up the fire first ?" asked Fitz, rising, and moving toward it with an attempt at his old ease, which failed most pitifully. "What do you think, old fellow ? Wouldn't few sticks brighten it up quickest? I'll light you 10 fetch them, for we've no time to lose. |"
 "Why no time to loseP" inquired Jet, curiously, even suspiciously. "What have we got to do, dad?"
 "Many things" laughed Fitz but the boy, watching him as he lighted the candle in his hand, saw no smile in his eyes. He piled the sticks on the little grate while Jet stood by, open mouthed.
 "Why, dad," he calculated at last, when his astonishment found words, "youn burn enough for whole week you'll burn 'em all II We can't light the fire tomorrow"
 "No," replied the artist, slowly, his face hidden as the cracking flames leaped about him, "not tomorrow"
 "There, dad, leave off," whined Jet, growing fretful because he felt he could not understand things tonight.
 "An right, laddie," assented Fitz, taking his own seat in the cheerful fve- light. "Come, are you too big to sit on my knee tonight r"
 But the boy, ignoring the invitation, 1 drew another chair up for himself, and took his seat silently and demurely. Fitz Spendir, in his sorrow and heart loneliness, felt this keenIy; but no glance or word told of the pain it gave him. His eyes, warm and pitiful as the boy had ever known them, turned to him as he drew the two chairs close to- gether; his words, genial as the boy had ever known them, too, were only these:
 "Now, Iaddie, it's my turn first, I suppose. I'm ready. You must listen all the time, because-because I want you to tell the very same story after. ward"
 "The same one, dad-whyP"
 Fitz generally stroked the little face uPturned in its surprise. It seemed to- night as if the strong, self-concentrated man longed and oraved even for the love and sympathy of the timid, cautious child.