The Montgomery advertiser., 1908-06-14

A
 | When you were in the water making what headway you could in that awful l sea-when my little child's life hung in | the balance, and the anguish of my wife's heart nearly tore my heart in | two. I said to myself. If we had a son should wish him to be like that | meant it then. and I mean 1t now! | Come to me as you arei Faults, and | past. and all. Forget the pasu What ever it was we will together try to | wipe 1t out. Much may be done in. | restoring where there has been any l wrongdoing. Take my name as your own. It will protect you from the re- l suit of whatever has been, and give | you an opportunity to find your place l again. Whatever you have done has not. I am certain, been from base mo- I tive. Few of us are spotless as to facts. You and I will show--for we | shall confide in none other-that a | strong, brave man may win back all | that was lost. Let me call you by | my name and hold you as the son of my
 heart; and it will be joy and pleasure l to my declining years"
 | As he had spoken, Harold's thoughts
 at first followed in some wonderment | as to what result he might be driving at. But gradually as his noble pur- | pose -unfolded itself, based as it was I on a misconception as to the misdoing | of which he himself had spoken, he had
 been almost stricken dumb. At the | first realization of what was intended he could not have spoken had he tried; | but at the end he had regained his | thoughts and his voice. There was | still wonderment in 1t, as realizing I from the long pause that the old man
 had completed his suggestion. he l spoke:
 l "If understand you alright, you are
 offering to share your honor with mo. I With me. whom, if again I understand. | you take as having committed some l crime?"
 T inferred from what you said and
 your sadness, your gloom, your desire to shun your kind. that there was. if
 not crime, some fault which needed | expiation.'
 But your honor. sir; your honor" There was a proud look in the old
 mans eyes as he said quietly:
 'tIt was my desire, is my desire, to
 share with you what have that is best; and that. take 1t, is not the least valuable of my possessions, such as l they arel And why not? You have | given to me all that makes life sweet, l without which 1t would be unbearabie. :, That child who came to my wife and l me when was old and she had passed her youth is all in all to us both. Had | - barter in the moments when my child 1 was quivering between life and death. l I would have cheerful1y purchased them l with not half, but all Sir, should have given my soull I can say this now, for gratitude is above all barter; 1 and. surely it is allowed to father to
 show gratitude for the life of his
 childT
 This great-hearted generosity touch- | CT Harold to the quick. He could hardly | speak for a few minutes. Then in-
 stinctively grasping the old mans hand l he said;
 CHAPTER xxvX.
 seYou have been 90 good to me- SO | nobIy generous in your wishes that I l feel I owe you a certain confidence. I But as 1t concerns not myself alone, l | will ask that it be kept a secret be- | tween us two. Not to be told to any other; not even your wife"
 T win hold your secret sacred. Even | from my wife; the first secret I shall have ever kept from her.
 "Ffrst, then, let me say, and this is l what I, know will rejoice you. that I l am not leaving home and country be- | cause of any crime have committed; not from any offence against God or | man, or law. Thank Godi 1 am free l from such. have always tried to live upriwhtly. :" Here a burst of l pain overcame him, and with dry | sob che added: And that Is what
 makes the terrible unfairness of 1t
 aHp
 The old man laid kindly hand on
 his shoulder and kept 1t there for few
 moments.
 My poor boy! My poor boyr' was
 if to dislodge the bitter thoughts. Mas | tartue him aalf hN went on.
 | There was lady. Her father was my fathers friend. My friend | too, Gold knows; for almost with his | dying breath he gave sanction to my marrying his daughter. If 1t should l ever be that she should care for me In that way. But he wished me to wait. | and, tili she was old enough to choose, | to leave her free. All this, you under
 stand, was said in private to me; none other ever knew 1t.
 q honestly kept to his wishes. No | man who loved a woman, honored her. worshipped her, could have been more scrupuiously careful as to leaving her free. What 1t was to me to so hold l myself no one knows; no one ever will know; ever can know now! For I l loved her, do love her, believed | we loved and trusted each other. But But then there came a day when | found by chance that a great trouble | threatened her. Not from anything | wrong that she had done: but from | something perhaps foolish. harmlessly | foolish except that she did not know. ." He stopped suddenly, fearing
 he might have said overmuch of Steph- | en's side of the affair. When I came l to her aid. however meaning the best. and as sfngle-minded as a man can be. | shA misunderstood my words, my mean | ing. my very coming; and she said | things which cannot be unsaid. Things had to listen. She said things
 that I dld not believe she could have | said to me, to any one. Things that | I did not think she could have thought | I suppose I bungled in my desire | to be unselhsh. What she said came | 10 me in new lights upon what I had
 done. But anyhow her statements
 were such that I felt I could not,
 should not, remain. My very presence 1 must have been trouble to her here
 after. There was nothing for 1t but | to come away There was no place Tor me! There Is none on this side or the grave! For love her still,
 more than ever I honor and worship her stiIl. and ever will, and ever must 1!
 I am content to forego my own hapniness: but feel there is a danger to her from what has been. Worst of all is inc thought and the memory that | qha should have done so she who . .. | she
 He turned away overcome and hid
 his face In his hands The old man sat
 still: he knew that at such a moment | silence is the best form of sympathy. l rI .