The daily morning journal and courier., 1900-10-02

"Its an awful thing to be alone, | said, for I knew and the doctors wife assented sympathetlcally. Then I went on for my walk.
 That was the day before, and to-day was the great annual festival of the Burial club. Already the church bells were ringing, and the men folk were strolling up the hill to the big held from which the procession was to start The green sashes they wore across their broadcloth coats were as incot- gruous as Paul Kruger's presidential scarf, but they made brave show and their wearers displayed them proudly. The children were streaming up the hill in noisy companies the little girls by themselves in the stiffest of white frocks, with elaborate hats instead or their pretty everyday sunbonnets, and with preposterous parasols the little | boys by themselves in their sunday suits, with enormous collars, and well greased boots.
 | The atmosphere of bustling animal | tion was9 not congenial to me, for 1 was | picturing Aaron Gollop sitting moodily | by the bed on which his dead child was | lying I had known him all my life; a 1 harsh, stern man, who, since the death | of his wife in childbirth had centered | his affection in his little Monica; a auarrelsome man, whose moods could | only be controlled by the prattle Of l baby lips; drinking man, who ] yet would abstain for weeks, and spend long days alone In the stone kitchen with his daughter, netting hammocks 1 |, ,t,,cr carving rude dolls for her to play with; an ignorant man, whose reading was confineo to the Bible, and whose conversation was a strange mixture of coarse blasphemy and almost Pharlsaical pietlsm. | could imagine him with dry eyes | and rebellious heart sitting alone in the cottage up the hill, listening sullenly to the sounds of the festival outside to which the child looked forward so ea- gerly; could imagine the grim expres- sion on his rugged face as he remem- bered that 1t was the feast of the SICK and Burial club, and I could imagine him turning away from the placid fig- ure on the white bed, and resolving to take the advice given to Job py ms wife and curse God and die.
 The vision put me out of conceit with merry-making, so I left the happy Will laee and walked down Sea Lane, past the school-house toward the beach. Al the end of the lane, upon the right hand is a deserted factory, where once ce' nent was made, and on the left hanc the river zigzags into the sea, narrow foot-bridge across it giving access to a battery of guns I had intended to lie down on the grass earthWorkf and smoke an idle pipe In the sun, but a figure on the beach attracted me and I went on.
 It was Aaron Gollop, in his thick blue Jersey, bare-footed and bare-armed cutting bait. I could tell from his boat that he had not been long ashore, and went up to him.
 Morning, Gollop," I said, what luck?"
 Bad tally. sir" he answered, short ly: bad tally; seven prawns.
 He finished cutting up an evil-loolI ing dogfsh, and wiped his knife on his trousers. Then he produced some cak' tobacco and carefully shredded up z pipeful with q grunt he accepted thu lighted match offered him and sucked noisily at his pipe until the tobacct was well aglow.
 "Monica's dead,' he said, sullenly and in much the same tone that h'
 would have used in telling me that was fine day.
 nodded.
 "so the doctor told me. What ar, you going tosdo?"
 An obstinate line formed around hl
 clean-shaven mouth and another deel one cut up across the furrows in hi
 forehead.
 "Bide here till byne-bye," he an
 swered; tonight I'm going, fishin'. :
 Then he added in a softer tone
 There's nought for me to do up alon'
 now"
 "The doctor did all he could" I sai, rather lamely
 "Oh! yes" he agreed, "the doctor di all he could. I've no fault to find wit the doctor"
 5 Although 1t is the sense of isolatio
 that makes grief hurt so much, yet tn l isolation is itself one of grief's most sa cred privileges, and f hesitated to in
 trude upon this mans sorrow. So
 was silent, and let my eyes wande
 past him and drink In the beauty of tn
 place. To the westward. the blue lia cliffs bend slowly out into the sea, an
 the bay is closed in on that side by tn
 stone cobb of the neighboring town. To the eastward the blue lias give way to sandstone, and the cliffs ris
 more sharply until they culmtnate i Golden Cap, ablaze with brilliant gors' l when they seem to sink downwar again and end In the needle point
 Portland Bill It is a quiet bay, who's l waters are seldom ploWed by the ke
 of any ship larger than the collier . putting into the cobb two miles away I suppose I love it because it is f quiet; there is no esplanade backed b 3 pretentious villas with stucco front t and patrolled by vapid fashionabl e idlers; no long, depressing parade Of 1T e valids in bath chairs; no line of decaye - landaus and broken down victoria S drawn by ragged ponies. There are T
 bathing machines and but few boat
 the village belongs to the villagers ar
 they seem to wish to keep it to then selves. Therefore, I do not give u
 name, but it is written on my heart. Go1lop was silent, too, and for qu1 half an hour no word passed betWee = us we smoked in sympathy, and con u muned with our hearss and were stl
 But he must have been thinking Of n last words, for presently he repeatf
 them, and added his next thought