The Kinsley graphic. [volume] (Kinsley, Kan.) 1890-1940, 1893-08-11

Father" she said. in sweet, grave
! voice. utterly devoid OF disrespect. II
| want you 10 listen to me quietly. When
j get through, then will be time enough
for any vapcring you may feel inclined
| to. .;ut things must be altered
You take advantage of my helpless
, old age 20 insult nc with impunity.
girl. 1t is the common lot of parents
to experience the ingratitude of chill
| Ircn. But go on: go on. l am listen
ing
1t was poor old Lcar's lament minus
its dignity and its provocation.
She let it pass without comment.
zone hears a great deal of what
| children owe to their parents in this
| world, father, but remarkably little of
| what parents owe to their children.
Among other fixed moral laws of crea-
ton is the one that compels child to
believe every word its parent utters,
for no better reason than that it is ut
tered by parent.
For twenty-one years, father, or, at
least, ever since 1 have had sense
enough to imbibe hatred, have been
told that it was my duty to hate any
body, everybody, rather, and every
thing, connected with White Cliffs.
And l honestly tried to do my duty in
that respect. l owed it to my father.
when l met Dennis Lorimer at the
Pass that summer on my one free holt
day and fell in love with him, felt
like the worst of criminals and a
traitor to you. There was some mys-
FERROUS thing between him and me, be-
tween me and my happiness. that
bowed before with the blindness of
fetichism. l drove my lover away from
me, with more resolution, perhaps, than
l would have exercised if he had COM
mitted crime in his own person. l
owed 1t to my father.
"When he came to me and told me
that he was going into exile for my
sake, that his mothers vindictive de-
termination to separate us had carried
her to the extent of telling him that he
must either vow never to try to see me, or
to return again, helped him to bow to
the fiat which bore equally upon us
both. I told him we owed it to our
parents. And when you, hearing
through Cato's treachery that he was in
the summer house that day, sent him
your insulting message, 1 almost de-
spised him for the promptness and
meekness with which he obeyed it. He
went away, and in my heart 1 called
him coward. l began to cultivate
hatred in my own person. Your leaven
was at work, you see, father. 1 owed
it to you to learn how to hate.
dennis came back to see me six
months ago, father. He told me then
that he had been looking for Sibley.
He could not wiring this rusty old secret
from his mother. You would not adj
init him to your presence, but if he
could find Sibley he would face him,
it was that stood between the houses of
White Cliffs and Glenburnie."
the old sybarite leaned forward in
his chair in an eager attitude of atten-
ton:
"Well? and Sibley-did he find him?"
st was not n difficult thing to do, IA
ther. Sibley is in New Orleans-has
been in a good business there for some
time now. You knew that?" He dropped
his eyes silently
1T is pitiable, father" she went on,
impetuously, ito see a parent drop his
eyes before a child-a helpless girl at
that! But was it right, father, to leave
me in ignorance all this time that Sib-
ley had written to you, telling you if
You would relinquish your absurd VOW,
and take your proper place at home, he