The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1903-06-05

eye, my task will be easier. Come to
think of it, | know just where your
eX-cabin is, and I've seen you yourself
leaning upon your arms across the
window sill, like the photograph pre-
cisely. So you're gone! If that were
not so, should say you ought to have
been gone long ago, because you were
so dirty and horrid looking with that
scarecrow face, old and pale and grim.
But since you really are dead l feel
sorry for you. Yet why? You did no.
body any good while you were alive.
Why should you have been let stay so
long?
God forgive me! What good does
Ned Ball do anybody? Ned, it would
kill me if you We're to die, even though
l know you would be out of pain, even
though l can never hope to see you
again. It's brute selfishness in me to
want to hold you here, 1 know; but,
dear, 1 think it would really kill me
to have you die. 1 dream of you still;
last night again. Do you know what
they are, sweetheart? Dream kisses
from lips of living loved ones whose
faces we may behold never more on
this earth. Oh, my love, my own true
love.
One thing more, particularly as you
will never see this, and then 1 turn to
my typewriter, for l know what I'm
going to say about my old window
man now. Tim Greene got his revenge
on me for not marrying him-at least
his wife did. He married Milkman
Boss daughter. You never knew Ka-
tie Boss, but 1t doesn't matter. After
Tins father died it was found he was
much richer than was supposed. Tim
was left at least half millionaire.
His native cunning did much for him,
and luck did more to make him very
rich, and now his wife is on the ragged
edge of high life. She has to be very
careful and exclusive.
Two weeks ago her sister ran away
and married the Greenes' milkman-a
case of heredity, l suppose. 1t made n
great stir. The managing editor sent
me to ascertain the state of Mrs.
Greene's feelings and do them up for
print. She babe her lackey spurn me
from the door-she, the girl who used
to carry milk to our house-although l
sent up my card with my name en-
graved in plain letters. She must have
known it, but she stood at the head Of
the grand staircase and shouted down,
SO 1 would be sure to hear:
"Jawkin, let none of them low bred
reporters in!'
l really don't think l cared much
Who am l, indeed? l am only a poor
newspaper hack. must be at beck
and call for any work that comes up.
l get very little money, but probably
get as much as I'm worth. If l We're
happy or had any hope, l might write
better l could write words that would
touch the hearts of men and women,
for l know human life as only doctors
and newspaper people can know it.
But what's the good? My heart is just
broken, that's all.
Now, my old Dick Deadeye, here's at
you. One more scribble to get a good
ready, then my type keys will begin to
click.
Eli, what's this? The pencil in my
fingers wrote it its own self:
"The window SILL"
never wrote this out of my head. l
Swear l did not. That's where old
Watkin was found dead, leaning over
the window sill. It's queer. l suppose
that's the unconscious cerebration they
talk of, though l never knew it acted
like that. 1t reminds me of something
more | will write to Ned in this letter
he is never to see. l can't do up Dick