Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1902-10-27
HIS LAST BURGLARY.
A TALE OF THE PRoDIeAL's RETURN.

less of his mission. he went to his faith
er.
1t was not in the human heart to re-
sist the appeal. And there they sat,
hand in hand, until the creeping gray
dawn silvered the windows and cleaned
on the fallen snow. In his excited state
the appearance of Frank at 2:30 a, m.
seemed to his father the most natural
thing in the world. But when Franks
misdeed, which drove him to leave home
and all it's loving association-the theft
of money to hide his extravaganza
had been discussed, the happy father be-
gan inquiring as to Franks mode Of life
since that occurrence and now.
Frank, who was sincerely repentant,
had hoped to avoid this by some skill>
full lying, but the return of the silver
to it's proper place bothered him great
ly. Moreover, his dark lantern made a
bunch on his breast, which he feared
might arouse inquiry at any moment.
But as he saw the depth of his faith
er's love and realized that deceit upon
that earnest love would be more than
crime he wavered. 1t was a fearful
thing to confess to his father that he
was a burglar, had been a burglar for
the past ten years. and possessed small
fortune in other mems property and cash.
It was especially hard to shock the heart
which now overhowed with supreme hap
piness. But his father was a clergyman,
and to him confession of sin meant more
than to other men-perhaps he would for
give him, and at any cost Frank could
never live at home with that awful
shadow hanging over him. If he failed
to forgive, Frank calculated, he could
still catch that train.
At last he found the way opened to
him for confession.
Frank, my boy, it has just occurred
to me to ask you how you came to an
swer my prayer by your visible pres
ence."
Father, the reason is very sinpleA
was robbing your house."
Franks future hung on the next few
words. The answer did not come for
some time and then it was in the form
of question.
"How long have you been a criminal,
my boy?"
The word cut like knife. but Frank
did not shrink.
Ten years; but, oh, father, If you can
forget, my criminal career ends at this
hour. I have no plea to make in excuse.
1 fell because imagined your attacks
upon evil associations were old-fash-
toned. 1 have sinned but repentance
and atonement will be mine as far as pos
sible If you will but take me home again.
Upon you. father. rests my disposition Of
life and soul; you may save or you may
| send me to prison. 1 am tired Of being
, hunted from pillar to post, and-and-I
want to zee mother"
For the first time in a decade tears
stood in the eyes of the iron-nerved GRIM
inal He had risen now, and held out
T, his hands in a dumb plea for mercy. On
| the left wrist dangled a rubber ring for
the dark lantern to swing from.
It seemed like handcuff.
, for just a little while the old man sat
! SILENT looking at the white face above
! him.
Then he rose and took the outstretched
hands in his own, and while from the
snowy streets outside there came float
| ing the silver murmur of Christmas bells,
father and son clasped hands over a
chasm of crime and sorrow, and Frank
Fairman. burglar, was a burglar no more.