Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1893-03-31
TIE MISADVENTURES
CT JOHN NICHOLSON.
CHAPTER VIII-CoNrINUEp.
by ROBERT LUIS STEVENSON.

Dub Jue blOTiulcSb w q
have seen him reckless, desperate,
tried beyond his moderate pow
ers; of his daily self, cheerful,
regular, not unthrifty, we have seen
nothing; and it may thus be a sur
prise to the reader to learn that he
was studiously careful of his health
This favorite preoccupation now
awoke. II he were to sit there and
die of cold, there would be mighty
little gained; better the police cell
andthe chances of jury trial, than
the miserable certainty of death at q
dike-side before the next winters
dawn, or death a little later in the
gas-lighted wards of an infirmary
He rose on aching legs, and STUN
bled here and there among the rub
bish heaps, still circumvented by the
yawning crater of the quarry; or
perhaps he only thought 80, for the
darkness was already dense, the
snow was growing thicker and he
moved like blind man; and with a
blind mans terrors. At last he
climbed fence thinking TO drop in
TO the road, and found himself stag
gering, instead, among the iron fur
rows of Il plowland, endless, it seemed
as a whole country. And next he
was in wood, beating among young
trees; and then he was aware of Il
house with many lighted windows,
Christmas carriages waiting at the
doors, and Christmas drivers for
Christmas has a double edge) be-
coming swiftly hooded with snow.
From this glimpse of human cheer
fulness he fled like Cain; wandered
in the night, unpiloted, careless of
whittier he went; fell, and lay and
then arose again and wandered furth-
err; and at last. like Transformation
scene, behold him in the lighted jaws
Of the city, staring at lamp which
had already donned the tilted night
cap of the snow. 1t came thickly
now, a feeding Storm" and while
he yet stood blinking at the lamp. his
feet were buried. He remembered
something like it in the past. street
lamp crowned and caked upon the
windward side with snow, the wind
uttering its mournful boot, himself
cC'd had struck too sharply on his
wits, and memory failed him as to
the date and sequel of the remnisc-
ence.
His next conscious moment was on
the Dean bridge; but whether he was
John Nicholson, of bank in Cali
fornia street or some former John, a
clerk in his fathers office, he had
now clean forgotten. Another blank
and he was thrusting his pass-key
into the lock on his fathers house.
Hours must have passed. Whether
crouched on the cold stones or wan
dering in the fields among the snow,
was more than he could tell; but
hours had passed. The finger OF the
old clock was close on twelve; q mar
row peep OF gas in the hall lamp shed
shadows, and the door of the back
roOm-his fathers room-was open
and emitted a warm light. At 50
late an hour all this was strange; the
lights should have been out, the
doors locked, the good folk safe in
bed. He marveled at the irregular
Try, leaning on the hall table, and
marvelled to himself there; and
thawed and grew once more hungry,
In the warmer air of the house.
The clock uttered it's premonitory
catch. In five minutes Christmas
day would be among the days of the
past. Christmas!-what Christmas
Well, there was no use of waiting.
He had come into that house, he
scarce knew how; if they were
to thrust him forth again, it
had best be done at
once; and he moved to the door of
the back room and entered.
Oh, well, then he was insane, as he
had long believed.
There, in his fathers room, at mid
night, the fire was roaring and the
gas blazing; the papers, the sacred
rapers-to lay hand on which was
criminal-had all been taken off anu
piled along the floor; a cloth was
spread. and a supper laid, upon the
business table; and in his fathers
chair woman, habited like a nun,
sat eating. AS he appeared in the
doorway the nun rose, gave low
cry, and stood staring. She was a
woman, strong, calm, little maseu-
line, her features marked with cour-
age and good sense, and as John
blinked back at her faint resem-
blance lodged about his memory, as
when tune haunts us, and yet will
not be recalled.
"Why, it's joint" cried the nun.
81 dare say I'm mad" said John,
unconscioIsly following King Lear;
"but, upon my word, / do believe
you're Flora"
And yet IL Is not Flora at all,
thought John. Flora was slender,
and timid, and of changing color, and
dewy-eyed; and had Flora such an
Edinburg accent But he said none
of these things, which was perhaps
as well. What he said was Then
why are you a nunP"
''Suoh nonsensel' said Flora. ''Tm
sick nurse; and am here nursing
your sister, with whom, between you