The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1891-10-31

themums.
1t was not his wife--she was abscn
lit was Helen, who received me-
Helen, who had grown to be o grea,
girl OF Ia, with an awkward manner
She opened for me the door of hel
4 fathers study, end 1brusqusly liftin,
her great black eyslashes, turned or
me q timid and distressed glance.
i 4 found Airas huddled in an % sy
chair In the corner of the fireplace
wrapped in a sort OF bed-gowp, with
gray locks streaking his long HAIR
and by the cold, clammy hand which
he reached towards me, by tho pallid
face which he turned upon me, knew
that he was lost. Horrible! found
in my unhappy comrads that worn
and ruined look which used to strike
us formerly among the poor Poles we
Ah, well, old man, things are not
going wellf"
"Deucedly bad, my boy" he an
swered, with a heart-breaking smile.
\ W'm going out stupidly with con-
sumption, as they do in the fifth act,
YOU know, when the venerable doct or,
| With head Ike Beranger, feels the
first walking gentleman's pulse, and
lifts his eyes toward heaven, saying,
| The death struggle approached Only
the di6ercnceis that with me it con-
tinues; IL will not conclude the death-
struggle SDfok away; that DOESN'T
disturb me-" he added, seeing me put
my cigar one side, his cough sounding
like death-rattle.
TRIED to find encouraging words.
/ talked with him, holding him by the
hand and patting him affectionately
on the shoulder, but my voice had in
my own ears the empty hollowness OF
deceit, and Miraz, looking ut me,
seemed to pity my efforts.
| was silent.
| Look" said he, pointing to his
table; "see my workbench. For six
months have not been able to write"
made new effort to revive him.
Die! at his age. Nonsense! He wasn't
taking care ofhimself. He must pass
the winter in the South, drink n good
draught OF sunlight. He could. He
was easy in his money matters.
But he stopped me, putting his
hand on my arm.
Listen" he said, gravely, 1--WE have
seen each other seldom, but You aro
my Oldest, perhaps my best, friend.
You have proved me pen in hand.
Well, / am going to tell you something
in confidence. for you to keep to your
self, unless it may serve on some oc-
casion to discourage the young liter
airy aspirants who bring manuscripts
to you--always a praiseworthy action.
II hox, he. IL II
have been paid franc line. Yes, l
have made money, and there in that
drawer are certain number ofyellow,
green, and orange papers. from which
coupon is clipped every six months,
and which represent $500 OF income.
1t is rare in our profession, aud to
gain that poor hoard have been
obliged to initiate the unsocihble vir-
tues of q miser, know how to deny a
jewel to my wife, q dress to my
daughter. "But at last have that
money. And / often said to myself,
If should die their bread is assured,
and here is little marriage portion
for Helenl And was content-I was
proudl-for know them, the stories
of our widows and our orphans, the
4-penny help of the Government, the
tobacco shops for 900 francs
in the province, and, if the
daughter is intelligent and pretty
like mine, the dramatic author, an
old friend of the father, who advises
her to enter the Conservatory of
Acting, and who makes of her-mercy
of God! that shall never be.
But for all that, my boy, it is nee
cessary that l should not linger.
Sickness is expensive, and already it
has been necessary to sell one or two
bonds from that drawer. To seek
the sunlight, as you suggest, to bask
like a lizard in the tropics, one more
bond must go, and there would not be
enough to last to the end, if should
wait for seven or eight years more,
now that can no longer write. Hap
PLY, there is nothing to fear. But
what i have suffered since have been
incapable of writing, and have-felt
my hoard OF gold shrink and dmin-
ish in my hand like the Magic Skin
OF Balzac is frightful. Now you under
stand me, do you not? and you will
No; if you still pray to God ask him
to send me speedily to the under
takers"
Fifteen days later some thirty Of us
followed the hearse which carried
Louis Miraz to the cemetery. 1t had
showed the day before, and DR.. Ar
mold, the old frequenter of painters
studios, the friend and physician OF
the dead man, walking behind me,
called, in his brusque voice.
Every commonplace, but always
terrible the contrast: q burial in the
snow-black on white. The Funeral
of the Poor. Bril-
At last we came to the edge OF the
grave. The place and the time were
sad. Under cloudy sky the little
yew trees, swayed by the wind, threw
down their burdens OF melted snow.
The bystanders had formed circle,
and were watching the grave diggers,
who were lowering the coffin by cords.
Near a cross bearer, whose short
surplice permitted the bottom OF his
trousers to be seen, the priest waited
with a finger in his book; and, having
grasped the rim OF his hat under his