Evening star., 1896-11-28

| perfect sense of the right eousness of the
sentence.
Yet, strange to say, that which was up
permost in her mind and steeled her soul
and justified the worst vas not her daugh-
! ters wrong, but the long years of lonelt-
| ness, the hundred, nay, the thousand petty
| sights of the past, bearable at the time,
| and in detail, but intolerable in the retro
spect, now hope was gone. She dwelt on
! these. and the thought of what was COM
ing filed her with a fearful joy. She
! thought of them and took the lamp and
| passed into tie next room, and throw
| ing the light on the rough face of brick
work that closed the great window, eyed
the cracks eagerly, and scarcely kept her
fingers from beginning the work. For
| she understood the plot. One man work.
| ing silently within, in darkness, could de-
molish the wall in an hour: then a whistle
rope ladders, line of men ascending, be-
fore midnight the house would vomit arm
ed men, the nearest gate would be seized
and the town would lie at the mercy Of
the enemy.
Presently she had to go to her daugh-
ter, but the curren of her thoughts kept the
same course. The girl was sullen, and lay
with her face to the wall, and gave short
answers, venting her misery in the COM
mon human fashion on the one who loved
her best The mother bore it, not, as be-
fore, In the patience that scorned even an
! upbraiding, but grimly, setting down each
peeVsh word to the scorn that was SO
soon to be paid. She lay all night beside
her weep and felt the bed shake with her
| unhappiness; and carried the scorn farther
farther, so that day, and the twittering
of sparrows, and the booming of early
guns took her by surprise. Took her by
surprise-but worked no change in her
thoughts.
She was so completely under the inf1u-
ence of this idea, indeed that she felt no
fear; the chance of discovery, and the GER
| tainty In that event of punishment without
| mercy, did not trouble her in the least. She
went about her ordinary tasks until late
| in the afternoon; then, without preface,
told her daughter that she was going out
| to seek lodging.
The girl was profoundly astonished. "A
| lodging?' she cried, sitting up. For usw'
Yes" the mother answered coldly. "For
whom do you think?'
| And you will leave this house?'
But when?
| Tonight"
Leave this house-for a lodging-to-
night?" the girl faltered. She could not
beney beIieys e., her ears 'Why? What has hap
Then the woman, in the ferceness Of
her mood. turned her arms against her
child. Need you ask?" she cried bitterly.
| DO you want to go on living in this house
in this house, which is your fathers?
| To go in and out of this door, and meet
our kind neighbors, and talk with them
on these steps? To wait here-here where
| every one knows you-for-for the man
| who will never Gomez"
| The girl sank back shuddering. The
woman covered her head and went out.
Presently she returned, and in the gray
! of the evening, which within the walls
| fell early, the two left the house. the elder
! carrying a bundle of clothes, the younger
whimpering and wondering. and so stupe-
fled by the suddenness of the movement.
| and the others stern purpose, that she did
not observe that they had left the door
on the latch, and the house on the wall
| unguarded.
The people with whom they had found a
lodging, little room under the sharply
| sloping tiles, knew them by name and
| sight-that in SO small place was inevita-
| ble-but found nothing strange in the wo-
| mans reason for moving-that at home the
| firing broke her daughters rest The
housewife. indeed, could sympathize
II never go to bed myself she said
| roundly, but I dream of those wretches
sacking the town, and look to awake with
my throat cut"
''Tut-tut" her husband answered, an
grily. ''You will live to wag your tongue
apd make mischief score Of years yet
And for the town being sacked, there is
small chance Of that