Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931, 1903-03-21

don hesitated to go to bed. 81 He almost
feared that Barton would never wake
up, the pallor Of his face, the attitude
of the body, were SO suggestive of the
great change. @z..:,: .yss.zs. Z.
He was still sitting there, his cheeks
still wet with the tears that he did not
try to repress, when Williams came in
softly on tiptoe. & @ $500
There's queer old lady: outside,
Mr. Gordon. says she wants to see Mr.
Barton, if it amt too late She's a
mighty queer looking specimen. She
won't go away, and thought maybe
you'd 60 and see her." --:-, =:
Barton is asleep now. He can't be
wakened. Ask the lady to come into
the hall"
Gordon went out, drawing the cur
tains between the first room and the
wide hallway, and met in the hall the
visitor, who was promptly ushered in
by Williams.
She was dressed in remarkably old
fashioned style that struck John Cor
don as exceedingly interesting rather
than grotesque.v She was very old, at
least ninety, but straight and vigor-
GUS. Her keen blue eyes looked search
fngly at John Gordon, and she spoke
in sharp but remarkably clear voice.
"Afe you Mr.. Barton?"
mo, madam. l am his friend, Mr..
Gordon. Mr.. Barton Is asleep and
not well. What can do for you?
| Will YOU be seated?"
"In moment, SIR She placed up-
on the floor a faded old carpetbag,
took a handkerchief out of her pocket,
| carefully busted one of the hall
seats and then sat down. AS she
| took out the handkerchief a delicate
aroma was waited to John Gordon.
! 1t reminded him of the fragrance
he remembered once while visiting the
East India Marine museum at Salem,
Mass, when the attendant opened an
old sea chest, lined with cedar and
packed with silk shawls.
John Gordon was now thoroughly
awake. The sharp eyes looked at him
kindly.
II am exceedingly sorry to hear that
Mr.. Barton is ill., I very much wished
to see him. First l must be pardoned
for calling at this unreasonable hour.
But ! had the address and saw the
light and knew that newspaper men
kept queer hours. l have called at
the office of the paper and was told
Mr.. Barton was at his apartments. |
must so on my journey tonight
John Gordon had not the remotest
! mixing as to the old ladys GRAND. She
was evidently person of great refine.
ment and culture.
"How much of a friend are you to
MIR. Barton?'
The question was so direct and frank
that Gordon smiled
Il am his dearest friend
"Man or woman?" the old lady asked
with twinkle of the eyes that made
John Gordon smile again.
My friend has never had any love
affair. He is q confirmed bachelcr.'
:Ah, don't deceive yourself, young
man. l am old enough to be youl
grandmother, your reat-grandnothe1
almost, and have seen a great deal Of
the world. But, pardon me; must tell
! you what l came for"
She put her hand into a little has
that hung from a silk cord tied about
her wrist. AS she opened the bag the
same delicate aroma penetrated the
hall again.
She handed card to Gordon. IL
took it and read:
Mrs. Captain George Efingham, Sa
lem"
'Well?' Gordon said.
81 am Captain Effingham's widow
My great-grandson was born on the
day Captain Efnngham died. His name
was Clark bingham. He ran away tc
sea when he was sixteen. Since then
/ have heard nothing of him until a
week ago | had letter from him
dated Colorado Springs. He was con-
sumptive, but is getting better. am
on my way to see him.
She paused, and John Gordon, still in
: the dark as to the object of her call on
Barton, said:
"Well?"
''You said you were Mr.. Barton's
nearest friend? How much of his real
! life do you know?"
| Gordon was thoroughly surprised
! For the first time he looked suspicious
~ and even doubtfUlly at the old lady.
/ Il know him we'll. There is not q
kinder, purer, truer soul in this city
| than David Barton"
81 believe you,' the old lady nodded
I vigorously. "But 1 know more about
him than you do Listen! One night
six months ago a young man, penniless,
homeless, alone in this great city, was
walking it's streets in cold, penetrat-
| ing rain. An east wind blew off the
water. The young man was proud. He
would not write his relatives for help.
He was afraid to let his aristocratic
grandmother know that he had drifted
off the sea, into one kind of vaga bond
life after another, until he was on the
verge Of starvation and crime in a
great, merciless city. s .@,..~s.= =.
~ ..Out in the night, that night, this
lad stumbled against your friend Mr..
Barton He gave him shelter and food.
Then he sent him out to Colorado be-