The Morris County chronicle. [volume] (Morristown, N.J.) 1877-1915, 1902-03-07

PatEHeS Oh RED on his cheeks were red
der and hotter Hector made tea, but
the painter could not eat and would
not stop his work even when the gas
was lighted and his friend put on his
coat for an evening out.
II must work while my vogue lasts"
he explained. 1Besides, she will need
the money. She has debts and dare
say she wants to help her mother. Hec-
tor, you remember her mother the
old, white-haired woman we met in
Lombardy? Iwonder If Leontine will
bring her old mother"
And while Hector was gone Thatcher
sketched and painted and worked till
his hand shook and his head ached.
Then he stood before 1.-THE Chrysan-
themum'' and hoped. It was like that
in the studio for days and weeks and
months. Thatcher's vogue waxed as
his strength waned, and then there
came day when his brush fell upon
the rug and his large head hung limp
upon his fiat breast. Hector put him
to bed and called doctor. For few
days he told dream-tales with his eyes
open and filmed, recognizing nobody,
but incoming always of Leontine "The
Chrysanthemum." When he awoke
from the long trance he asked for his
letters. Hector handed him the lit
tie pile, watching as he strove to sep
arate the little mauve-colored square
ones with the Paris date-line from the
rest. He tore one open at last and
tried to read, but he could not hold
the paper steady.
Read it to me, Hector" he whis-
pered, "read it loud; there's buzz
in my ears"
Hector read the letters from
France one after the other in order
of their dates. They were jolly, flip
pant, cajoling letters. She acknowl-
edged the receipt Of money, but in.
the postscript. every day ] discover
a new old debit" she exclaimed, airily,
shut am nearly free Of them" The
rest of her messages were the old,
old assurances; trite they seemed to
Hector and too ELUSIVE, but he read
them tenderly and was glad for the
satisfied eagerness that showed upon
Thatcher's face. Then, at his friends
request, he answered each letter in
turn, signing them: sYour boy
Thatcher, per Hector Graham"
The painter chung hesitatingly to
consciousness for two days and then
relapsed. Brownlow called one day
and spent an hour looking at "The
Chrysanthemum."
He had brought fruit and flowers
for the sick man, but looked grieved
when Hector told him that Thatcher
would not sell the picture. It was
all alone now on the dingy wall.
'sI'll tell you, Graham explained
the rich amateur, speaking softly as
he twiddled his hat near the door,
TIM obliged to you for explaining
why poor Thatcher won't sell the
picture now. don't blame him. But
I'll tell you what / want to do.
don't suppose either Of you has much
money"
"Oh, wen not starve," began Hec-
tor, flushing.
II don't mean that" Brownlow
FASTENED to explain, "but this sick
business is expensive. You're all
right, of course, but Thatcher ought
to have nurse and. Here, Graz
ham, I'm going to have that pic
ture, that's all, and I'm going to pay
$4,000 for it. Hold on now. Here's
$1,000 on account. I'll pay the rest
when she comes. You needn't tell
him about it. just take the money
and use it on him.
But If she don't come? If he
won't sell at last?" Hector was puz-
lied.
IF she don't come, hen die, Gra-
ham,"
Brownlow counted out a roll of
bills and laid them down. Then he
went sloftly away, leaving Hector
alone with his friend The sculptor
sat down and wrote strangely earn
est letter to her. He explained that
the money inclosed was to pay her
passage to New York. ''Your boy
will die if you do not come,'' he
wrote, and signed his own name. The
end was at hand when the answer
came. 1t was to Hector, and he read
1T IN the hallway so that Thatcher
would not know. Frivolously senti-
mental, heartlessly romantic, it con-
tanned the answer to all Hector's
misgivings. II had not the heart to
tell him." it said. II love him dearly,
but / cannot come. For my mothers
sake, must retrieve our fortunes by
marriage. The vicomte is
wealthy, SO you need not worry about
the money he has loaned me. We are
to be married New Years. Etc, etc"
So Thatcher got no more letters.
At midnight, New Years eve, the end
came. Hector had set "the chrysan-
themum" on the foot of his bed,
where she smiled at him to the last.
The sculptor held his hand till it was
cold and still, and then he hung the |
picture up with it's face to the wall,
and on its back painted in bold, red
letters, the word: "SOLD. - Chicago