Birmingham age-herald., 1895-04-21

face white as ashes.
 Like whom?" he whispered, through dry lips
 Yourself"
 He fell into a chair, his face buried in his hands. l pulled myself together with an effort.
 Come Tom, this won't do; you are driving yourself crazy. What have you been doing these three months? I'll bet the Jezebel is at the bottom of it.p
 He shook his head despairingly. Its no use, old man. he said hoarsely: its no use."
 "But you must get out of this; you are in a terrible state." But l could do nothing with him. The only satisfac- ton I could get was that if I would call at he would spend the evening in my chambers With that l was forced to be content.
 It seemed to me the hours would never pass. I was full of vague apprehension and could not take my thoughts from Tom. At last the bells rang out for 8, and I went swiftly up the steps and opened the door. The studio was in darkness and silence, and the very at mosphere of the place sent chill through every vein. l called Tom s name, and gave our old college whistle, but somehow it died on my lips. thought he must be in the inner room and by the light of the tiny lamp start ed to grope my way to the door.
 Half way of the room I stumbled and almost fell and with a hoarse, nervous cry I bent over a lifeless form. It was Tom Westmoreland. He was still In his velvet painting coat and the flame of the studio lamp flickered wierdly about his head as he lay, face downward.
 He had killed himself-you and l will never know why, unless the secret be told when the graves are opened
 Perhaps he had brooded over the fan cy that some day he would be found dead until it had turned his brain. Per haps. Poor Tom. for him 1t was indeed ended
 The beautiful yellow-haired Jezebel! She was simply the washer-womanS niece and didn't have a thing to do with it, at least we have no right to say.
 I came upon her in the south quarter one afternoon. She was sitting with a rosy baby on her knee and as entered the little shop she rose to follow and at- tend me. I noticed she looked wistfully at me, and when I questioned she tim idly hesitated over the unfamiliar words:
 "Da paing-ting in II Senor's room"
 Then I knew. Long ago Tom had painted me in my tennis .flannels-a mere daub 1t was, but be had always kept it, and in days gone by it had hung above his studio mantel glanced keen ly at the girl-for girl she was, in spite of the child in her arms.
 "Il Senor is dead" said slowly. "He killed himself"
 The tears welled to her large black eyes. She bent and laid quivering lips upon the baby's touSeled head.
 "Il Senor-ees dad," she whispered, and the child crowed in answer.
 "Maddalenai" came a harsh call from the inner room. She brushed away the tears hurriedly.
 'Il sposa" (husband), she whispered fearfully. "Si, Pietr.?'
 "Begone, I will wait upon da senor."
 A dark, i'll favored young fellow slouched into the shop, giving the girl jealous glance as she covered back to her chair. She sat with her face hidden in the babys hair
 The man bent threatening look upon them both as he asked my wishes. l wanted nothing more of them, so l turned into the street, where the yell low sunlight slanted. and as I went l wondered; yes I wondered
 MARGARET E. O'BRIEN.