The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1901-10-26

THE doctor was soft-hearted man;
l he had done his best to console,
and had failed. He was not little
troubled and anxious. 1t is always
very sad to see old grief in young
eyes.
This is not natural. If j could only
make her cry!" thought DIR. Ross.
1t was not natural, as he said. And
yet there was another side to the
passing, vcXes us, makes children
weep; and, though the care that
writes itself on our foreheads is to
them unknown, yet the sudden blow
that strikes man once or twice in his
history, swaying him as a tree that
in the rush of the storm bends and
groans and filings out protesting arms
and murmurs with n thousand voices
this sudden sorrow in child is an
agony thrusting an unwelcome pres
ence into n kingdom where it is
least to be desired. and from which
it is always soon dismissed.
DIR. Ross said to himself, perhaps
had better leave her now, poor, poor
little thing!"
He moved towards the door. The
lonely inmate of the room did not
notice that he was leaving her. She
sat before n morsel of fire-a quaint
little figure that had known IL years
of living, three without mother, five
without father, and the rest with n
sister-'tall, grown-up," who had
been mother and father and every
thing else that is good and brave.
And now the sister was gone, and
the child was alone.
"Good-by," said the doctor.
He was not answered because he
was not heard. He closed the door
softly, saying to himself that he
would come to see her again on the
morrow. He descended the shabby
staircase, to which few remnants
of cheapest oilclotH-still chung. The
landlady's children were playing
''touch wood" screaming vociferously
as they rushed from landing to land
ing. A woman's tired voice urged
them to be quiet.
out the doctors cheerful voice; "let
them play, it will rouse her."
"Ah, poor thing! How is she, doc
tor?"
"Quiet, much too quiet. 1t is ex-
traordinary in child of her years"
rs anything settled as to what is
to be done?"
81 fear not. She seems quite friend
less"
"You don't say so, sir? Friendlcss!
Dear, dear!"
Long after DIR. Ross had left the
house that word "friendless" insist
emily remained with him. Suddenly
it introduced to him another word
a name. He paused in his walk, for
the idea that had come to him was
startling.
At no great distance from the
house which DIR. Ross had just quilted
lived Gideon Beth, scholar and re-
cluse. 1t may be as well to say at
once that the doctor intended to
visit this man, whom he knew, that
he might enlist his sympathies on be-
HdlI VI ~ CDilu Stiu oub Wndb
is there startling in this? Had Gideon
no sympathy? Is he poor and old and
grabbed and crotchety? Is he one
of those singular beings who stop their
ears when children play, and speak
of "brats," pests" little nui-
sance?" No, Gideon hardly comes
under these headings. The truth is
that Gideon Beth had been friend
less from his youth up, and, resting
on his own strong character. had
grown to view the world with an
apathetic and dispassionate eye.
The trouble began with retiring
disposition, which is not given to any
boy to cultivate. He lacked spon-
taneity, and so was always at dis
advantage. On such one judgment
is easily passed, yet there is no in
stance in which It might with more
wisdom be withheld.
Then an unkind fate buffeted him