Custer weekly chronicle. [volume] (Custer City, S.D.) 1890-1931, 1891-12-19

opened book and tried to read; but,
strangely enough, the words of the SER
mon, which had fallen upon his ear al
most without his noticing them, now
haunted him. He began to pace up and
down the small room, comparing him
self to the p.odigal son, and censuring
himself, as he always did, unsparingly,
while offering no excuses of any kind.
my father would be too proud 10 for
give me as the prodigal was forgiven; his
last words were proof of that, when he
prayed that he might never see my face
again. Poor old dad--it was cruel thing
to bring disgrace and shame upon your
honorable name? viii you ever know
that would give my life willingly-oh,
so willingly!rif could but wipe out the
memory and the results of my SIM
His voice faltered, and he covered his
face with his shaking hand and sobbed
aloud, the burning tears forcing their
way between his fingers. Then there
came TO him an intense longing and re-
sistless yearning to see his fathers face
again, and, after moments indecision,
he sprang up, a sudden look of determ-
ination in his blue eyes.
"Yes, will go, just to have look at
the old place, and to see if lac has altered
much. Poor old dad-it will do him no
harm, for i will not let any one discover
his graceless son.
In about fortnight's time Dick man.
aged to get few days holiday, and then
he determined to put his resolution into
force. He left Fairy in the charge of
kind woman with whom they
had been lodging, and took the train to
London. then went down from there by
express into Devonshire.
He slept at an inn few miles from his
old home, and the next morning he
walked across the moors he knew so well.
He contrived to reach the pretty village
Just as the shades of evening were falling
over il, for the days now were getting
short and cold, and already lights We're
burning in many Of the cottages, and
even in the church. There was no fear
of his being recognized, for the village
street was deserted. and the old inn, with
its brightly-painted sign. had only few
stray loafers standing near.
He walked down the quiet road for
short distance. then opened small gate
and went through the dark wood which
was the shortest way to the Grange.
The house was unaltered--it looked as
quiet and peaceful as ever-and he crept
quietly across the smooth lawn-like the
thief he was he thought bitterly-to the
study window.
The shutters were still unfastened, and
by the light of the lamp within he could
see that the room was almost as he last
saw it; then sudden mist came over his
eyes as they rested upon his father.
How white his hair had grown! How
feeble and old he looked--so different
from the proud man who fifteen years
before had stood with upraised hand,
bidding him begone, to darken his doors
no more,
Dick turned away with heavy heart;
no remorse Of his could bring back the
strength and the vigor of healthy man
hood to his father again. II was he who
had made him AN old man before his
time, and never would he know the bit
ter unavailing repentance that filled his
| sons breast.
One other spot he felt he must see
again before he left the old place for ever
| his mothers grave. He walked back
| quietly, and went through the small
gateway into the courtyard, to what was
| to him the most sacred spot of earth in
all the world; and, as he knelt, strong
though he was, he broke into sobs like o
| little child.
A woman came out of the church. and,
seeing the dark figure kneeling there,
stopped, her heart suddenly beginning
10 beat fast with hope; then she went
| quickly across the grass and placed her
hand upon his bowed shoulders.
Dick" she said tremAously--"Dckw
Dora" he cried. in startled tone.
''Oh, Dick, how glad l am that you
| have come home again. She put out
her hands and clasped his, tears OF joy
| sparkling in her dark eyes.
1T is not home to me now,' he an
swered brokenly.
"Yes, Dick, your home still-always
your home! Have some pity on your
poor father, who is slowly breaking his
heart because of your long silence. Come
with me to him now"
He said | was never to darken his
| doors again"
"Oh, that was years ago, when, in the
| fierceness of his anger, he said many
| things that he did not really mean! He
could not keep angry with you long
loved you too well, and forgave you years
ago. oh, come to him now, Dick" she
| pleaded.
You know, Dora, how have sinned,
and disgraced for ever the honorable
name he bears How can he-how can
| you forgive met"
"Dick, never did think badly of you
Il cared too much for you TO believe
that you could do wrong"
"But did do it, Dora; am a thief
forgerr
She only frightened the clasp of her
hands OH his and looked at him with her
clear trusting eyes.
1T was not done wilfully: know you
better, Dick"
He looked down at her sadly. at the
| sweet trusting face that bore traces of
sorrow, and yet had still the look of ten
| der faith that he remembered SO well.
Il have only one excuse To offer, and
| you may rightly think it quite as shame
| full as the crime itself had been going
the pace forgetting all good in life of
| dissipation and evil; and when j altered
! that check was mad. | had drugged
myself with wine. and hardly knew until
| it was too late the depth of shame to
which had fallen"
Dora did not speak, but her eyes never
left his face, and they were as tender, as
forgiving as at the first.
.sYou would not take my hand Dora,
| if YOU knew the life | have led since
then. have sunk to the lowest depths;
/ have not shrunk from any evil, how
ever hideous; have tried To forget my
remorse by living wild and reckless life. :"
But now, Dick, you will begin again
leave it all-all the sin-and come back
to us-come back to your father who
loves you, who has longed and prayed for
your return, and make me happy again;
for it will make me happy to see you at
home once more
| His face lost little of It's sadness as
he listened to her soft pleading voice.
! "Your father has almost given up hope.
Dick; he tried in every way to find out
where you had gone, and when all means
failed he lost hope, and thought that you
must be dead"
Better for all if were dead, he said,
sadly.
mo, Dick-don't say so; it is cruel, for
IL have never given up hoping. knew
YOU would come back some day; and to-
night. when / saw some one by your
mothers grave, knew i'm moment that
1t was you, come home to make us happy
again."
| II am coward, Dora, for am afraid
TO meet my father. cannot forget that
| have brought disgrace upon him--upon