The daily morning journal and courier. [volume] (New Haven, Conn.) 1894-1907, 1897-06-26

who attended them, there was not
soul i'll the drab wooden house, which
was one of a long row, and differed
from it's neighbors only in the fact that
it was q little stiller and quieter than
even the dullest of them There We're
many years of this-years in which the
old woman, the prayer and
the drab house We're the limits of his
life. 1t was no wonder that he grew
stupid. That he was dull in school and
hopelessly deficient when an applicant
for admission to college was something
that neither the old lady nor the other
old people in the church, nor, for that
matter, the SNUG, serious-looking
young ones ever knew. They all looked
upon him as a very pious person-quite
as pious as his grandmother, which, in
view of his greater facilities for evil,
was rather surprising But nothing
surprised the persons who prayed in
that basement on Wednesday nights
and went to church up stairs on sun
days. Emotion was pitched there in
minor tone that never varied.
They may be surprised when they
hear about him now-if they ever do.
ANppOuy ever SuppOSGu Jul illt GIL tiipoS
years of prayer, at the meetings, failing
at school, and sitting in the quiet house,
that some plan really was forming it
self in that stupid head. He looked as
dull and patient, and changed very lit
tie from one year to another. Nobody
ever came to see him. He was never
known to spend any part of a comfort
able income that had fallen to him
| through the death of his parents. So
| little happened that when he came to
| church alone one Wednesday night one
of the women whispered:
| why, he's without his grandmoth-
| err"
1t was true. That night the preacher
prayed for the old lady, and so did her
grandson. She died the next day. and
all the regular church-goers attended
her funeral. 1t was the last time that
/ her grandson ever put foot in the
church The drab house was rented,
and as he moved to New York the con-
gregation was no more likely to hear of
him than if he had moved west.
| But the walters the nighthawks and
! the policemen began to know him then,
and to this day they retain their old ac-
| quaintance. Something of the former
| fervor has departed, for he has grown
shabbier than ever, and the flow Of
money that was likely to spatter any
| hand reached out to catch it Is not so
liberal as it was. There is still some of
/ it, for the grandmother died rich, and
all that he had went in only one way.
Walters tell still of the men or women
picked up anywhere who sat at table
with him, ate the best that could be
had, and drank the most expensive bev-
erages. They have seen him take an
expensive pin from his scarf and give 1t
/ to anybody who would take it; and
they can remember how often he emp
tied a pocketbook of every bill it con-
tanned and handed the money to any
| body in the house that would take it,
He was especially attracted by any
body connected with the stage. When
a man said he was an actor, or when a
woman claimed to be an actress there
was no end to his liberality. He never
talked or smiled, but sat with the glum
look that years of the drab wooden
house and the prayer meetings had
painted on his face. When his money
was gone he would often stalk out of
the place, muttering to himself, while
the group he had left behind him
laughed if he was known or wondered
II it were the first night of their meet
ing.
The suppers are fewer, the wine scar
Ger, and the jewelry quite used up, He
may still be seen rushing through the
street morning and night at gait
which is almost run. Sometimes he