The Camden chronicle. (Camden, Tenn.) 1890-current, 1904-11-18

and in the heart. A sudden and great
tenderness fell to Robert Hammond
as he listed to his children's voices
and looked round on his happy home
and the face of his good, true wife.
And he remembered his faults that
night. Where were Lucy and his
father? For nearly three years he
had heard nothing certain, and the
last wondering and uncertain intelli-
gence had been Of a very sad and I'M
pleasant nature. He recalled easily
enough all the dark, hard points in
his fathers character. but that gave
him no satisfaction Somehow he was
sensible tonight that he had not been
faultless. And Lucy? In all the years
they lived together, he could not re-
member a single wrong that gentle
soul had done him.
And now perhaps both were suffer
| ing the pangs of poverty while he had
enough and to spare. The thought
had crossed his mind before, and very
often of late, in his counting-room, in
his lumber yard, among his children.
But never had it affected him as now.
1t vas as if some mighty hand had
shan y him out Of lethargy and in
tones Cfyearning and reproach call
ed to him, Robert Hammond, where
is thy father and thy sister," He
might have answered, II am not their
keeper" but he never thought of such
an excuse.
Mary" he said to his wife, in tones
so solemn and earnest that she opened
her eyes with a start. MARY, where
do you think father and Lucy are?"
God knows, Robert-and that is
one comfort-but | was just thinking
about them"
Were you? That is strange"
Then, after few minutes intense
thought, he got up and walked up and
down the room. pushing in his pre-
occupation chairs and ottomans out of
him way.
Mrs. Hammond waited quietly, TAX
ing stitch after stitch, and glancing
occasionally nto the troubled face of
her husband.
Presently he stopped before her and
said:
Mary, the river is dead-locked with
ice. | can leave my business now bet
ter than Il could ever have done the
last ten years. If | start at once, I
can be in New York by Christmas.
What do you say?"
God go with you, Robert, dear!
think you are right
So the next morning Robert Ham
mond set his face eastward, and in
due time tried the familiar walks OF
New York city. But he found his
fathers office iN strange name, and
his memory had passed from the con-
stantly changing financial world The
old home was empty, and falling into
that look of decayed gentility which
is SO much worse than honest poverty.
Then he suddenly remembered lit
tie farm not far from Patterson, which
had been part Of his mothers fortune;
and hiring horse and buggy, he tried
to find it, it was only low stone cot
tage, surrounded by cherry trees that
were old and bare The fields about
were white and still, the little stream
bound in icy letters, the cattle STAR
ing piteously on the barren earth, and
dumb In their cold hunger and COM
fortress life.
A rude, implanted fence divided a
small garden and yard from the gen
eral waste of desolation; and, walk
ing slowly across the yard, was fig
ure which, in spite of shabby clothes
and ageing years, Robert easily recog-
uiZed as his father.
The old man saw the approaching
buggy, and going to the gate, called
out in querulous tones
"You need not alight, sir; we have
no room to entertain strangers. We
never do, sir! No, indeed"
He kept up his protestations the
more fervently as he saw the stranger
did not pay any attention to them.
man. eanwhile standing inhospitably at
We closed gate.
Robert saw a pale, weary-looking
woman come for moment to the
door, and then, after a vacant stare,
close it again. 1t was all very dis
couraging, but he never for one mo-
ment hesitated in his intentions.
Leaving the horse tied to the fence,
he walked up to the closed gate, and
stretching his hand across it, said: !
Father"
The old mans face grew suddenly
gray and the lines about the mouth
deepened Involuntary; he dropped
his eyes, but raised them quickly to
say:
Il am poor man now, Robert;
there is nothing to be got by seek
ont,