Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940, 1906-05-24
by ROBERT BoNNER's SoNs.
WALTER BLOOMFIELD

1t again, and returning it to it's place.
l became pale and haggard, and my
evident want of the usual attributes of
youth was noticed and remarked upon
by my fathers friends, who were at a
loss how to account for the change
which had come over me.
Though the days seemed long and
wearisome, and the nights almost in
terminable, yet time passed away with
more apparent swiftness for being
marked by no particular event. 1t was
the early springtime when first be-
held the girl whom had fondly hoped
to win for my own. from whose sweet
companionship had been ruthlessly
severed by the strangest of events;
and that never-to- -be-forgotten season
had merged into summer, which In its
turn had declined and died, and now
the autumn was at hand.
One glorious September morning l
was listlessly gazing through the win.
dow which led out on to the veranda,
my hands clasped behind me. From
that spot it was last beheld my uncle
Sam rs he stood in the roadway con-
templating his birthplace, and my pO-
sitlon induced a train Of thought which
could hardly be said ever to be absent
from my Mid. "Pshaw" l muttered,
turning suddenly round and walking
quickly away; II am n very fool.
Here am l pining miserably, wasting
my life in unproductive thought. If
action based Oh impulse be bad, surely
prolonged contemplation out of which
no action grows must be worse
Though Constance Marsh can never
be mine; though my father and uncle
sumo my days In useless self-afflic
ton. l will travel; will 80 to Amer
lea; perhaps l will call on my uncle;
perhaps"
Father" I asked. minute later,
as stood by his side in the study.
where he sat examining an account
book; "do you know what next Sun
day will bc?"
My father looked up at me, and his
face wore puzzled, querulous ex-
preston. "Yes, my boy" he replied,
and as he spoke l observed that his
hair had grown very grey of late; II
have not forgotten it. On Sunday you
will complete your twentieth year"
at is of that was thinking" said.
And / have also thought that
change of scene would be good for me-
AS you know. l have been very
wretched since that affair with uncle
quite unable to fix my attention on
any matter save that from which l
would gladly divert it. If you can bear
the expense, and do not object to my
leaving home for awhile. think l
should like to travel for few
months"
My father looked up sharply. "Why
don't you speak plainly, and say out
right that you are tired Of your father
aud long to be with your uncle?" he
asked.
Because If said so I should lie,"
| retorted warmly; "and that is what
l never did yet. have told you my
opinion of my uncle. and l think as
well of him now as ever. But that cir
cumstance does not diminish the af-
fcction and respect I bear for you.
And I may tell you, that l have aban-
doned all hope of ever being anything
more to Miss Marsh than am at this
minute. Indeed, it Is to confirm me
in my present mood that l seek the
permission and means to travel"
~ take it as most unflial, most un-
kind in you, Ernest" continued my
father in an Injured tone, regardless
Of the declaration l had just made,
that in all these months that have
elapsed since your uncle was here you
have never thought proper to ask me
to show you the proofs of his perfidy.
though | volunteered to do so at the
time. You stated then land now you
reiterate) your belief In you" uncle's in
noccnce What is the inference? That
your father is careless in n matter of
the utmost gravity. on which the honor
of his only brother wholly depends"
"Surcly you don't wish to open that
question again" / exclaimed In dis
may.
Certainly I do" continued my
father. You tell me- you wish to
trarel-at your age natural desire,
which l heartily approve and will pro-
vide money for. But you cannot leave
here with my good will until you have
heard and seen the things by which
justify my attitude towards your
uncle. Having heard and seen them,
you will be at liberty to retain or
abandon your present ideas respect
ing the robbery"
"There is nothing l am less willing
TO be convinced of than my uncle's
guilt, but let it be as you say" l as
sented; and, taking a chair, l seated
myself close 10 the desk.
My father at once thrust his hand
into his pocket. drew forth three coins,
and laid them In front of me. "See,"
said he; "there you have three Vene-
tion seoujns Do me the favor to eX-