The Tupelo journal., 1903-04-24


home by his friends. He had been
drinking. He'd be all right in the
morning"
Two men coming out of my neigh
bor's door, speaking volubly in
French, corroborated the mans state
ment.
| went back, turned on the cleo
trio lights and prepared for an hour
or tive of hard work, wondering over
what seemed rather inexplicable.
1t was quite late when there was a
light, hurried knock at the door.
I'm afraid he is very i'll. He is so
restless, and he does not recognize
me. | can't leave him, and / saw the
light over here, so l thought"
l stood silent. too much amazed at
the beauty of the face before me, to
answer her timid request, until a soft
color k a pink flame swept over it
and her great grey eyes filed with
tears.
Il beg your pardon a thousand
times" / said hurriedly. "Of course
| will do anything in the world for
Monsieur Daubert. l am sure you
are needlessly alarmed. If you will
let me go to him l can judge better
| what to do"
We went down stairs and over into
my neighbours room, which was bare
and forlorn, an Erard piano standing
against the partition wall.
On a poor, little cot Mr.. DAubert
lay, muttering and tossing.
Nothing to be alarmed abogt," I
said, arranging a bandage through
which blood had oozed.
She knelt by him, and leaning Ter
head e him, murmured soothing
ly, while stroking his restless hands.
who is she?" l wondered, doing
what l could to relieve him, before
going for a physician and nurse.
When | came back with both 1
learned that the wound was not Sc
rious.
His habits, like all these Bohemian
musicians, are evidently very bad.
The man is a hard drinker. But
he'll be all over it in a few days. my
friend Bolton said, writing out a pre-
scription, after giving directions.
That daughter of his is the most
perfectly beautiful woman 1 ever saw.
Splendid, too. She's devoted to him,
and miles superior to him. Good old
stock, but he's gone to the dogs, and
she follows him all over the country
to take care of him. Strangers? No
indeed, I've known 'em for years."
Bolton added, as we went down the
hall together.
why, I've told Alma a hundred
times she ought to marry me instead
of supporting that, her good-for-
nothing father, teaching music and
nursing him when he gets into trou-
BILE. She's the greatest pianist 1 ever
heard and the g%randest woman I
know"
The front door closed on Bolton,
who promised to come early in the
morning, and | went slowly back. to
the bare room where the wounded
man lay.
The nurse says she won't have you
here. That you must go to bed" 1
said, gently taking Alma's hand and
leading her away.
We nursed him together for a few
days and he recovered.
eve leave Tomorrow" Alma said,
leaning her folded arms on the iron
railing of the balcony that last even
ing l recall so well. She was looking
musingly out at the ancient old city,
and narrow, lamp-lit streets. softened
by faint mists, and the shadows of
night.
But 1 will never forget your kind
ness" she said softly.
you will come back?" I asked
slowly.
"Oh, yes, some day-when we are
married." she added, smiling, while a
radiance swept over her face.
The Erard piano was to be carted
away after they left.
But now it stands in a corner of
this Dom and the Cupids and Psyches
in the fresco ceiling look laughingly
down because it is never open.
1t am getting on very well with
my work. / have collected an i'm
mense amount of valuable data. The
press has made fattering mention
entirely unsolicited-as to the COM
ing book and it's author.
Reputation and wealth? Satisfied
ambition? BAH"
The evenings are dull and slow in
passing, and l often sit idle and long
vainly for the light touch of agile
fingers to bring to me those melodies
which used to drift in with the O
light, through the open door.
But the scratching of my pen is the
| only sound audible. She slipped away
from me, like the paling light on the
balcony, and these empty, useless
years.-N. O. Times-Democrat.
His Word for 1t.
NTrc proyx,, SC n voron aOno11xy