The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1898-09-18

of will and attempts of self-control!
The following afternoon Val Brooke, In
| his quarters, was composing an epistle to
| Kitty, trying to bake it very serious and
| sensible, and toning down the ardent OK
| pressions which flowed so naturally from
| his pen. His love for Kitty was of the
! higher order of feeling, and from the time
| her quiet resistance and gentle dignity had
| stirred the inner depths of his nature, he
| had felt more earnest and ambitious
! man, though the impetuOsity and needless
ness of youth had led him into difficulties.
| His spirits were better, too. He found
his creditors more accommodating than ne
| expected. They were quite civil and
ready to give him time to arrange mat
ters. He was thinking pleasantly, his pen
| still in his hand, when his orderly brought
| him a letter. 1t was addressed to him
ia a small, clear. firm caHgraphy, which
| he did not recognize. He opened it and
| glanced at the signature, flushing with
pleasure as he read, Yours, Kitty
| Graeme."
Uncle McShane," it began, wants to
| see you very much. He has met with an
| accident and sprained his ankle. You VIII
find him at No. 81, Clarendon Terrace Cir
| Gus road, not very far from this at Mrs.
| Dickson's. There mas been a frightful
| scene and quarrel. He viii tell you all
about everything. Do go and see him as
soon as ever you cam
A phrase followed, bebeginning do tell,
was hastily crossed out. Val read these
few lines over more than once, and pom
dered over the conclusion, yours, Kitty"
Was he to take the expression at its full
worth and meaning?
But he must not lose time. He caught
up his forage cap and started in search
of the major who was in command just
| then. The desired twelve hours leave was
| q
! ed as a larger number of men than usual
! were absent. But leave was promised on
| the next day but one. He, therefore, was
obliged to content himself with sending
| few lines to Uncle McShane explaining the
reason for delaying his visit
| 1t was about noon the following Satur
day when Val reached Clarendon Ter
! race He was evidently expected, and was
| shown into a diminutive front parlor,where
| his uncle was lying on black, horse-hair
| covered sofa, of the stonest description.
| There were some cushions, however, I'M
der his back and manned foot which made
| him seem tOlerably comfortable. He look
ed very white and Wretched, and the cor
ners of his mouth drawn down and eX-
pressing extreme dependency
"Ah! Val, NEE dear boy. / knew ye'd
come Faith, IFS like a CLEAN of sun
shine to see ye," he cried, Frightening up.
"Why, of course, you might be sure 1
would come" said Val. shaking hands
warmly. "Now tell me all about every
thing. l had only two lines from Kitty,
who said you had a story to tell me-"
Faith, have. A tragedy-no less-that
might be told in blank verse. Anyhow,
it's left me blank enough. Now, to be-
gin at the beginning. Three or four months
ago. YOU know how your father and Mrs.
B. begged and prayed me, on their bend
ed knees-in a manner of speaking-when
first l landed in England, to make their
house my homer"
Val nodded.
''Wen, 1 did, and they were as good as
gold. as hospitable, and just couldn't do
enough. Faith, if I'd been a king hey
| couldn't have done more. And l was
as proud as Punch. only there was one or
two things l didn't quite like. First, Miss
Sarah Jane was cruel unkind to that sweet
little darln NIFTY, and you We're trifle
| 100 kind to her only L was pleased TO see
she did not seem to heed you much. Wen,
then came your trouble, and somehow L
seemed to feel that your father took
sort of a doubt against me, though 1t was
all of a minute. l told him many a time
| l was a poor man, but could see he didn'
! believe me. Well, the day before yester-
day, l went away to town about bit OF
| business. and coming back, waiting for
| a bus at the corner of Baker street, up
| came q butchers cart full tilt, and, among
| the general noise, l. never perceived IT,
| The shaft just took NEE shoulder and sent
| mo spinninC | fell with the right foot
doubled under me. I can't tell how, but
| felt pain enough, and bruised all over
| They lifted me up and put me into cab
| and took me home; and there kAtty-bless
| her dear heart-sent for the doctor, and he
| lapped me up with rags and lotions ana
! the lord knows what. SO l got 10 sleep,
| and when / woke there was Sam-I mean
vour father-and Mrs. b., the pair o them
| looking as black as thunder, and he says
| This is raYther unfortunate, says he,
mighty stiff
- Bedad. ye'd say so, If We felt as 1
do says l.
- L feel a good deal hurt, for that mat
| ter he makes answer.
YES says his wife, hurt and asham-
ed
"sGod bless us, and what about? says
! 1, for was cross with the pain.
You may well ask she returned.
"Be quiet, Sarah, says he. 1 don't
wish to be too abrupt. Pray Mr.. Nc
| Shane, had you a partner in your bust
ness. and what was his name|
| =" TO be sure, | had says |, one Mo-
rIarty as big a BLACKBOARD as you'd
| meet
"'Ah,' says he. with a sort of a moan,
then 1 have not been misinformed, and
| your firm smashed up
Faith it did, Sam 1 says, and 1
was ruined entirely
with that he up and told me I was
an impostor and had traded on him, till
he reused me to answer him back and
remind him Of the ten pounds I used
to send him and your poor dear mother
now and again, ay when l could i'll af-
| ford it, and they were sore needing help.
1t was name Of me to do it. but / lost
my temper, while that she-devt, his wife
| God forbid me for saying twas throw
| ing in little contemptuous stabs from time
| to time. Then your father seemed little
| ashamed. and said that he did not want
| me TO move TIL 1 was all right and the
I pair Of them went off to dress for a big