The morning call., 1891-03-22

soon concluded, but he could print Justin's
name with pen and ink, and this he had
soon done. But even after he had inclosed
the letter within the envelope thus directed,
he had no fixed intent OF really dispatching
it. For long time he sat and gazed down
upon il, with both hands supporting his
bowed head. Nearly all this while tempta-
ton was growing stronger in his soul: At
last he rose and presently he had left the
house. During the next ten minutes the
letter was irrevOcably posted.
On the following day. with cleared mind
and moderated pulses, he became a prey OF
acute remorSe. What had he done, he asked
himself, except an act of the most unmanly
baseness? And if this act bore no fruit
more evil than that of his own self-con-
tempt, would not such dark product alone
be fOrceful enough to affect sternly his en-
tire future lie?
But the fruit which it bore was far bit
terer than that. Justin Worcester was
seated in his library, at work on his history,
when the letter came to him. He opened It,
read it through and turned pale as death.
Only few minutes ago his vile had entered
the room, clad in street costume. She was
going to picture show with Blagden, she
said. She looked specially pretty. lie
shut his eyes as he recalled her appear
ance, and the image came to him with
new and frightful irony investing it, The
side light from a near window had struck
her hair in this way, bringing from it GER
tain peculiar hazel gimmers that he loved.
She had worn gloves of a special tawny tint.
lie could see those gloves now. The kid
was OF that undressed sort he had always
liked, and she had a cluster of violetS at
her bosom. lie smelt those violets amid his
torture. Pm going with Oswald, she had
said. How the echoes OF her voice pierced
mis- brain. 1--WE shall be back for luncheon,
of course" she had pursued, in her sweet
voice, full of its dear characteristic chimes
and accords.
He rose, staggering. He had never been
a man of much moral or mental strength.
He possessed intellect it is true. but slight
virile power went with it. The surge OF
conviction that now swept through his soul
made him feel that he stood on the verge
OF madness. His memory darted through
hundred past incidents, recent or more re-
mote. Some men would have been agonized
by murderous longings. He was not; lie
scarcely thought of Blagden. IL was of her
he thought. of her whom he had almost del
fed in his allegiance, his confidence, his
confidence, his worship. Some weak people
are strangely unseitish, anu he WAS one of
them. a horribly sense Of culpability beset
him. IL 1t was true, cried his conscience,
then he was TO blame for it even more than
she. leS, he had neglected her. he had been
fatally needless, nliserably self-absOrbed.
But was 1t true? Well, he would fluid out;
he would learn from others if the world
were really making sport OF him like this,
Quitting the house he visited in succession
three persons whom he believed to be his
friends. Two were men; one was a woman.
The men both quailed and dropped their
eyes before his drastic and arraigning
questions. The woman (who had always
cared for him more than in his perfect
fidelity to Helena lie had ever guessed tod
him just what the world believed anu Just
what it asserted. He left her, and then,
with quivrriDg nerves and mind grown
drunk from his new and abrupt anguish he
let himself adrift, as one more victim of its
grim greed, into that black tide OF human
tragedy whose sullen course is forever flow
ing through our landscape of lie. AT a
certain shop he made a certain purchase.
Then he went 10 an obscure hotel and hired