The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1902-04-12

Oscar; perhaps she had been dazzled
by the strangers wealth. Her sister
had seen that she was growing dis
contcnted, but had not known the
cause of it. She was an impulsive
girl, and
Oscar did not wait to hear the
rest. He turned abruptly away,
steadied himself a moment at the
foot of the steps, and then hurried
up the street. He did not know
where he was going, and he did not
care. He was conscious of the fact
that there were people on the street.
but he did not see them. Horrible
thoughts peopled his brain. He saw
himself with his hand on her throat
choking her life out. He forced that
out of his mind only to picture him
self grinding his heel into the face Of
the man who had taken her away.
He imagined his rival PROSTATE at his
feet, and in his frenzy he twisted
the heel off his boot grinding it on
the pavement. That thought brought
him to his senses for a minute and
he hurried on. He had no plan, no
settled purpose; there was murder
in his heart, but it had not taken
definite form. Visions appeared and
disappeared. He saw her in the en-
brace of another, and then he saw
her dishonored by a mock marriage
and cast aside. He vowed vengeance
on her one minute and was all tender
ness the next, swearing that she must
have been betrayed and deceived by
a designing scoundrel. He called alike
on heaven and hell to spare the girl,
but to put the man within his grasp.
1t was three o'clock in the morning
when he reached his room, still with
out any definite plan. He had not
had time to plan; his passions had too
complete mastery over him. He was
haggard and his clothes were dusty
and dirty, but he threw himself on
his bed without even removing his
coat. Yet he could not escape his
thoughts, his visions. 1t seemed at
times as if he would go mad with inn
potent rage, and at other times he
called on her to come back to him and
he would forgive everything. He pic
tured her laughing at his grief, and
then condemned himself for think
ing she could be so heartless. He
told himself that he ought to hate
her, but he knew that he loved her.
Two days passed before he slept,
and he had walked almost constantly.
A couple of hours was the most he
could spend in his room at time,
and even then he locked the door and
refused admittance to every one;
even Bertram. The picture had been
put to one side. At first he had been
tempted to destroy it, but he had
restrained himself, and moved 1t to a
corner without even removing the
curtain.
at can watt" he said, bitterly.
"There is time enough to finish it
now"
After he had slept he was quieter.
He saw Bertram and treated him
much as of old, although he was
moody. Nothing was said by either
of what had happened. Bertram knew
the story, but he knew also that he
could give no direct comfort or aid,
and that he could show his friendship
best by maintaining silence on the
subject. Others also knew the story,
and they made jest of it or ex-
pressed sympathy, according to their
natures. Pity-that sentiment that
a man most rebels against under such
n 90 hn
of them had, and Oscar instinctively
knew it, and so far as possible kept
aloof from them all. He had regained
control of himself, but his passions
ragged just as violently within his
breast. He could conceal but he
could not conquer them. His long
walks availed him nothing, and he
felt as If he were gradually becoming
insane. The burden seemed too great
for him to bear alone, but there was
no one in whom he could confide, no
one to whom he could lay bare his
emotions-except his art. He did not
reason it out, but one day he again
locked himself in his room and began
u new picture. He hardly realized
himself that, recoiling from the
thought of showing his heart even
to Bertram, he was making a conf,
dante of his canvas, but the subject
he had outlined reflected his own soul.
Friends can be sympathetic, friends
can be loving and steadfast, but what
can be so responsive to an artist as
his canvas? To that he can tell his
story so that it will draw sympathy
from all, and yet his secret will re-
main inviolate. To that he can con-
fide his love, his happiness or his sor-
row SO that the world may read,
wonder and admire, and yet not know
the truth. And to his canvas Oscar
laid bare his heart. All his grief was
put into picture of Truth Weeping
for Hayward Daughter" He worked
almost night and day on it, and yet it
was not like work. He was striving
for relief; he was unburdenihg his
mind. 1t did not seem like creation
of his fancy, either; it was something
real that he was depicting, and his
every thought was in each movement
of the crayon or brush. Never had he
worked with such terrible earnest
ness. Vengeance had passed out of