The Savannah morning news. (Savannah, Ga.) 1900-current, 1903-09-20

in the office lamenting the emptiness
OF bottle which had been filled with
fiery bourbon in the afternoon.
Nanrevel went to his own room, lock-
ed the door, and took the letter from
his pocket. He held it between his fin
| gers carefully, as though it were alive
and very fragile and he looked at it
long time, holding it first in one hand,
then in the other, before he opened it.
At last, however after examining all
the blades of his pocket-knife, he Sc
lected one brighter than the others, and
loosened the flap of the envelope as
gently and carefully as if it had been
the petal of a rosebud that he was
opening.
Dear Mr.. Vanrevel:
Il believed you last night, though 1
did not understand. But l understand,
/ now-everything- bitter to me as
the truth is, l must show you plainly
that know all of it, nor can rest un-
! til l do show you. / want you to an
sWer this letter--though l must not see
you again for long tfine-and in your
answer you must set me right if l am
anywhere mistaken in what 1 have
learned.
''At first. and until after the second
time we met, 1 did not believe in your
heart, though I did in your mind and
humor. Ever since then, there have
come strange, small, inexplicable mis-
trustings of you, but now l throw them
all away and trust you wholly. Mon
sleur Citizen Georges Meilhac!-I shall
always think of you in those impos-
slble garnishments of my poor great
uncle and / persuade myself that he
must have been a little like you.
L trust you because l have heard the
story of your profound goodness. The
f1rSt reason for my fathers dislike was
your belief in freedom as the right of
all men. All, it is not your pretty ex-
aggerationS and batteries q laugh at
themD that speak for you, but your
career, itself, and the brave things you
have done. My fathers dislike fared
into hatred because you worsted him
when he discovered that he could not
| successfully defend the wrong against
you and fell back upon sheer insult.
He is man whom 1 do not know
strange as that seems as | write it. It
is only to you, who have taught me so
much, that I could Write it. 1 have
tried to know him and to realize that
am his daughter but we are the cold
est acquaintances, that is all; and l
| cannot see how a change could come.
| do not understand him; least of all do
| l understand why he is a gambler. It
has been explained to me that it is his
| great passion, but all I comprehend in
these words is that they are full of
shame for his daughter.
This is what was told me- he has
| always played heavily and skilfully-
adding much to his estate is that way
and in Rouen always with a certain
coterie, which was Joined, several years
ago, by the man you came to save last
night.
Your devotion to Mr.. Gray has been
| the most beautiful thing in your life.
| know all that the town knows of that
except the thousand hidden sacrifices
| you have made for him, those things
4 IL IL.
| you see, l know them after allD For
your sake, because you love him, I will
! not even call him unworthy.
81 have heard-from one who told I'M
| willingly-the story of the night two
years ago. when the play ran so ter
ribly high; and how. in the morning
| when they went Away, all were poorer
except one, their host,-how Mr. Gray
had nothing left in the world, and owed
| my father a great sum which was to be
| paid in twenty-four hours; how you
took everything you had saved in the
years of hard work at your profession.
| and borrowed the rest on your word
| and brought it to my father that after
noon: how when you had paid your
friends debt, you asked my father not
! to play with Mr.. Gray again: and nv
! father made that his excuse to send you
| a challenge. You laughed at the chaI-
| lenge-and you could afford to laugh
at it.
But this is all shame. shame for
| Robert Carewe's daughter. 1t seems to
| me that | should hide and not lift nv
head; that 1, being of my fathers
/ blood, could never look you in the face
again. 1t is so unspeakably painful and
ugly I think of my fathers stiff pride
and his look of the eagle,-and he still
| plays with your friend, almost always
successfully And your friend still
comes to play!-but I will not speak of
that side of it,
Mr. Gray has made you poor. but
| know II was not that which made Won
come seeking him last night, when I
found you there in the hall. 1t was for
MS sake you came-and you went away
| for mine. Now that 1 know, at last
| now that / have heard what your life
! has been (and oh l heard so much more
| than l have written D--now that nv
eyes have been opened to see you as Won
are, l am proud. and glad and humble
that can believe that you felt a
| friendship for me strong enough to
| have made you go for my sake You
| will write to me just once, won't Won >
| and tell me if there was any error in
what I listened to; but you must not
come TO the garden. Now that I know
| you. l cannot meet, you clandestinelv
again. 1t would hurt the dignity which
! | feel in you now. and my own poor
| dignity--such as il is have been ear
nestly warned of the danger to Won.
Besides you must let me test MYSELF
am all huttering and frightened and
excited. You VIII obey me. won't yous
do not come until I send for you.
Elizabeth Carewe"
Mr.. Gray, occupied with his toilet
about noon. heard his partner descend
| ing TO the Office with a heavy stem ana
/ issued from his room 20 call heart,
greeting. Tom looked back over bis
shoulder and replied cheerily. though
| with a certain embarrassment. but
| Crailey. catching sight 81 his face. ~
tered a sharp ejaculation and came
| down 10 him.
why what's the matter. Tofa7
l You're not going 10 be- sick2 You lool
like the devil and all,"
I'm an right never fear" Tom
/ laughed. eVad.ng fhe others eye. .Tt,
going Out in the country ou some biie-
lness. and : dare f4y I shall nof b. mn
| FOR q couple ~ days BE- piH b. Ia tlr
and down thc county" He sd down 4
travelling Dag be WAS carryiuF and ~