Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1891-10-10

| not some inspiration taught him that here on
this earth he must expiate his sin, H. indeed, il
| could ever be expiated. and work ont his saliva
ton. If, perchsnce, it could possibly be worked
out.
He t6lled day and night at his profession, no
| longer for wealth or fame-for these he had
lost all taste-but because for one reason, para
doxical as it may seem, he could not rest ex-
| cept in action; for another reason, he hoped
vain hope-to atone for his great sin by doing
| all the good he could He answered every call
made upon him. He visited and treated the
| sick poor without charge and even supplied
| them with medicine, food and every necessary
Of life at his own cost. Yet, Notwithstanding
his hard and continuous work. he did not break
down. He kept himself up by . seductive drug
| the powers of which for present good and the
danger Of which for future evil he knew. And,
| notwithstanding his liberal charities. he accu-
| mulated money faster than he could find use
| for it. And whatever else he was doing. he
prayed inwardly day and night. Prayed for
pardon for his one act Of madness, his one
| deadly sin. Prayed that he might be permitted
| to atone for it in labor and suffering. Prayed,
but prayed in vain. Oh for the peace and in
| nocence of few months ago, with all its pow
erty and privation Oh! for the lost paradise
| of his soul!
In the midst Of his mental tortures his atten-
| ton was drawn toward May in painful man.
| ner. 1t was during the short dark days before
Christmas that late one night Aunt Becky crept
into the young doctors Office with a mystic
rious NOT 10 Say Sullty, lOOk, went up 10 MIN
| and whispered that she wanted him just to take
a good look at May, ''promiscuous like, and not
to let on as anybody had put anybody up to
doing of it,"
To the doctors inquiries the old woman ex-
planned: The child had fever every after
| noon and sweats in the night and fits of
coughing in the morning, and that was the
way her mother began to go!
With troubled eyes Lee Ray gazed at the
speaker. Through all the dull gnawing Of
! ''the worm that dieth not he felt sharp
pang Was his .'child angel" falling ill3 And
| IN the nightmare of his life he had not noticed
it! He questioned Aunt Becky further and
| learned enough to alarm him for the young
| girls life. He promised to observe the in
valid and to do all he could for her relief.
| Aunt Becky again bound him over to secrecy
| as to her own interference ana then left his
office.
The next day being Saturday before Christ
mas the young teacher had holiday until the
Monday after New Years day. DIR. Ray took
occasion to put few adroit questions to her
without exciting her suspicion. which she an
swered frankly and, so far as she knew, truth
fully. ''She was not ill--not much. She had
cold. Almost everybody had at this season.
She was not going to lay up for it-not she. in
deed"
Upon careful examination the doctor discov-
cred that the girl was doomed; that her life was
a question Of q few weeks. or months at far
thest. He did not hint this fatal fact even to
Aunt Becky But he formed resolution con-
sonant with his morbid state of mind and his
theory of expation. He would marry this con-
sumptive girl, SO that he might take care of her
both day and night. He would devote himself
| to the prolonging. consoling and cheering her
NE, SO that she should never know her danger.
No not even when she should die i'll his arms,
| or slip from life to living on forever! She was
| already mt for heaven: And then his sin might
be pardoned for the child angels sake.
IL IL needless to repeat the arguments by
| which he persuaded her that her own health
| and his happiness depended upon her resigning
her position in the school and becoming his
wife. She was but child Of seventeen. weak
failing and suffering and she loved him, be-
! hcved in him and looked up to him. So they
were married early in the new year.
My story draws to close. The young hus-
band cOnsecrated every. hour not given to the
duties of his profession to his bride. But she
grew no better. He took, fine house. fur
| nished it sumptuously. He made her sick room
dream of comfort. elegance. luxury. He
bought closed coupe that she might drive out
without danger Of taking cold. The best of
wines, the most nutritious food, the strongest
tonics were procured for her. yet she grew
worse.
Nor was the nightmare of his own remorse
lifted in the least degree His toll his prayers,
| his charities to the poor, his devotion to his
dying bride all failed to lessen the depth of his
despair, that grew deeper every day. At last,
| as he foresaw. his child bride fell asleep one
evening in his arms and passed from the
troubled life of the flesh to the tranquil life OF
the SOU.
Then the crisis came! It was on the day Of
her funeral and it was in the cemetery. He
had never entered this cemetery before. Now
he stepped out Of the mourning coach at the
great gate and walked behind the pallbearers
who were carrying the casket toward the open
grave. To say that he walked like a man in a
hideous dream would be to describe his condi-
finp mot nlyf np lou h,,t Co. q he
time that had passed since the sense of unpar-
donable guilt had fallen upon his soul
Once he raised his eyes as he walked and
| there right before him! staring at him ac-
| cusing him. were five graves with five head
| stones bearing the names Of his victims. And
| for the second time in his life he tainted away
How he loved his young wife?' he heard
some one say, as he lost consciousness.
Wnen he recovered his senses he found him.
| self in bed. He knew that he must have been
brought hither in a state Of Inconsistencies.
The room WAS very dark. He could see but
| one spark of light which seemed to come from
| a night taper on the hearth and the indistinct
| figure Of some one near the foot Of the bed.
But he did not wish to SPEAK or to be spoken TO.
| He was in perdition, Parted from his Nav
parted from all that was good forever and ever
BY the great gulf that separates heaven from
| hell. All that he had done had failed in ex-
piation and atonemen:. His prayers had not
| been heard his good works had not been ac-
| ctpttu. why uoI WHeH us reIuOrbc uAQ Deen
| so deep; when he had tried 80 hard to expiate,
to atone.
1t seemed now to be borne upon his mind
| that his remorse had been only remorse and
not repentance. 1t could not be repentance
without confession. He must confess. The
| law could do nothing to him, he knew. The
| law could not touch him fer jumping off the
| coach, saving himself and leaving his uncon-
| scious companions to go on to be killed by the
| approaching train. Public opinion only could
| punish him for that. but with adherence exc
Grafton and ostracism much harder to bear
| than any sentence the law could infiict but not
| so hard SO awful as retribution from the pangs
| of conscience.
He would bear this burden Of guilt no
| longer, He would make open confession
Then. perhaps, at last. though he would be
| socially and professionally ruined, God would
| forgive him! Then he would leave Upper
| vile, take poor Mays little brothers with him
| and 20 to the far southwest and get work TOR
| himself on some ranch. He would die. but the
| boys would live and get on. Yes, this day he
would make his confession.
This resolution gave him more peace than he
had enjoyed since the night of his awful
crime. The nightmare was gone. He fell into
a sweet sleep. When he awoke again the room
was lighter. He sighed.
Some one came to the bedside and looked
T! over him. He made out the figure.
lis that you. Aunt Becky" he inquired.
'Oh, honey! do you know me? I'm that
glad! Thank the good Lord in heaven! How
| do you feel, honey
Better than for long time past,'
\ 81 .et me omen the window and take A good