Shepherdstown register. [volume] (Shepherdstown, Va. [W. Va.]) 1849-1955, 1897-03-25
TOO LATE.

nothing but 60 up to the farm for the
funeral. 1t was difficult to do even
that, for the Judge was the leading law
yer in x, and every hour was worth
dollars to him.
AS he sat with bent head in the
grimy little train that numbered
through the farms, he could not keep
the details of his cases out of his mind.
Yet bitter grief, he felt, was un-
called for. He had been good, re-
spectful son. He had never given his
father heartache and the old man
had died full of years and virtues. "a
shock of corn fully ripe" The phrase
pleased him; it seemed to close the
story of his fathers life, leaving room
for no regrets.
The village doctor met him at the
station, and they walked up to the
farmhouse together.
Il wish to tell you" said the doctor,
gravely, that your fathers thoughts
were all of you. He was i'll but an
hour, but his cry was for John John :
increasingly
"If l could have been with him =
said the Judge.
"He was greatly disappointed that
you missed your half yearly visit last
spring. Your visits were the events
of his life. There were no others.
Last spring Oh yes l took my
family then to California.
Il urged him, said the doctor, "to
ru2 down to see you on your return,
but he would not go. -
The Judge remembered that he had
not asked his father to come down.
The old gentleman did not fit into the
life of his family, who were modern
and fashionable. Ted was ashamed
of his grandfather's wide collars; and
Jessie, who was a fine musician,
scowled when she was asked to sing
the Portuguese hymn every night. The
Judge humored his children and had
ceased to ask his father into the house.
The farmhouse was in order and
scrupulously clean, but its baroness
gave a chill to the Judge, whose own
home was luxurious. The deaf old
woman who had been his father SER
want, sat grim and fearless by the side
of the coffin.
Martha was faithful, whispered
the doctor; "but she's deaf l don't
suppose she spoke to him once week.
His life was very solitary. The neigh
bors were young. He belonged to an
other generation. y
He reverently uncovered the coffin,
and then, beckoning to Martha, went
out and closed the door
The Judge was alone with his dead
Strangely enough, his thought was
still in the cold baroness of the room.
Those hacked wooden chairs were
there when he was boy. 1t would
have been so easy for him to have
made the house comfortable--to have
hung some pictures on the wall How
his father had delighted in his en-
cravings, and pored over them
Looking now into the kind old face
with the white hair lying motionless
on it, he found something in it which
he had never taken time to notice be-
fore-a sagacity, a nature fine and
sensitive. He was the friend, the
comrade whom he had needed so Of
ten He had left him with old Mar
tha tor his sole companion
There hung upon the wall the pho
tograph of a young man with an eager,
strong face, looking proudly at chub-
by boy on his knee. The judge saw
the strength in the face.
my father should have played
high part in life, he thought. There
is more promise in his face than in
mine"
In the desk were bundle of old
account books which showed the part
he had played. Records of years of
hard drudgery on the farm ; of work
in winter and summer, and often late
at night, to pay Johns bills and to
send John to Harvard. One patch Of
ground after another was sold to keep
John while he waited for practice ; to
give him clothes and luxuries which
other young men in town had, until
but a meagre portion of the farm was
left.
John Gilroy suddenly closed the
book. "And this was the end !" he
said. "The boy for whom he lived
and worked won fortune and position
and how did he repay him ?"
The man knelt on the bare floor
and shed bitter tears on the quiet old
face. If be would come back 1t
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