Daily inter mountain. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1881-1901, 1900-10-25

could not brave just yet, on penalty oc
losing a million or SO dollars. For awhile
society talked, and then, firing Of it,
busied itself with newer themes-the af-
fairs of other people. And the fool plod-
ded along, silently, uncomplainingly,
only there was a tired look in his eyes,
and the lines on his waco were deeper,
and he seemed worn and old.
Gradually the truth came out. The
wealthy stranger was simply a soap
who had been Laid off" by his
house for a few ~months,and who thought
1t would he a fine joke to startle the ma
tlves in the far away own during his
enforced idleness. He knew one crack
Drained youth there who readily joined
In the scheme and secured for him the
necessary introductions. Rumors began
to fly thick and fast, that the young
woman and the erstwhile millionaire
w ire living in a far off city and-and
there had been no marriage ceremony
whatever.
The fool did not get angry with her. He
heard it; oh yes. some of his friends took
pains that he hould know all about 1t.
But he felt sorry for her. The old love
had given way to pity; he knew Just
how SHE had been duped and was after
wards poWerless to return home, from
whence she would have been cast out.
and still more powerless to compel the
man who had deceived her to 2make
reparation.
One day the fool got a letter dated
from a city in the far west. 1t was a
miserable, tear-stained scrawl from her.
The end had come. She was alone-de-
serted. She was sick and sad and pen
niless. She begged the fool for one line
of forgiveness, for she could not die
without it, and die she would, for the
disgrace, the shame, the self-contempt
We're more than she could stand-she had
resolved to end it all. Her letter was a
long one. She did not make excuses, and
had nothing to offer in e~xtenuation, but
she saw the awful mistake she had made.
The FOOLS month was up that evening,
He drew his salary and fent to his lone
ly lodgings. He did not light the lamp,
but sat down in the darkness and silence
to think over the dead days-those when
he had been happy. He could remember
her. bright and innocent, and taking 50
much delight in the plans they laid for
their future life, the thousand and one
ways in Which his heart tendrils twined
about everything in the least connected
with her.
Then he thought of her as she was, and
an ineffable pity came into his soul and
abided there. And her fate, what was
it to be-a plain pine coffin and a lonely,
unmarked mound of clay in the potter's
field? The city clock doomed the hour Of
twelve. Still he sat and thought-and
thought. What good was his life any
way? No matter how things went, he
would have his cross to carry. The hours
We're tolled by the clock, and the tomb
like chill of approaching morning was in
the air. Even the cricket on the hearth
had ceased it's lonely song, and the mice
had long since stopped scampering about
the room and over his feet.
The gray daW at last broke over the
wilderness of %chimneys and roofs, and
found him with his head pillowed upon
his arms, and resting upon the table. A
tear or two had crept down his face-tha
traces were still there. He looked old,
and wan, in the pallid twilight, and his
face was drawn and haggard with silent
suffering, but there was a new light in
his eyes.
1t was almost five o'clock. The train
for the west left at half past. He paused
i~rresolute. Then he threw some wearing
apparel in a grip. He wrote a short note
to his employer telling him that he was
going away to be married and would
never return, and as the first rays of the
rising sun gilded the great steeple upon
the cathedral the train glided swiftly out
toward the distant city. The fools gaze
remained upon the cross as long as 1t
was in sight, and then without regret
he took up the cross he had assumed.