The Salt Lake tribune. [volume] (Salt Lake City, Utah) 1890-current, 1908-11-08

| 10. III II DULY Olu uOi',
he observed, as he lit brace of can
dies. 1t wasn't any trick to file
key, and l sleep in the library now now
as snug as a bug in a rug; he held
the light higher. tYou look sight
| bctter,' he said. "More flesh on your
bones, and the beard changes you some.
( too. That scar healed up fine on your
forehead-it's nothing but red line
now'
His guest followed him into the
! spacio hall, scarce conscious OF what
he did, A double door to the left was
| shut, but he nevertheless knew per
! fectlv that the room it hid had tall
! French window, letting on TO a garden
where camelias had once dropped like
blood. The open door to the right led
TO the library.
There the yellow light touched tho
| dark wainscottiug, the marble mantcl-
piece, dim paintings on the wall, and
1 a great brassbound Korean desk in
corner. What black thing had once
happened in that room7 What face had
once looked at him from that wheel,
chair7 II was on old face, gray and
| lined and passionate-his father, doubt
less, He told himself this calmly, with
an odd sense of apartness.
The others glance followed his pride
| fully, cts fine property, he said.
1.-THE owners an invalid, [ hear, with
one leg in the grave. He In some
| sandCoIluW anu eau get uuch Rouu VI
! it. Nice pictures, them, he added,
sweeping a candle round. "There s a
good locker over there-must be the old
man s daughter, / reckon. Well, II
90 and get YOU a finger or two to keep
the frost out of your lungs. II IL be as
cold as Billy be-dam tonight Make
yourself al home The door closed
behind him.
The man he left was trembling vio-
| 1ently. He had scarcely repressed a
cry. The portrait that hung above the
mantelpiece was Jessica's. III house
dress of soft Romneyblue and a single
white rose caught in her hair. "'The
to, echo and re-echo about the walls,
voicing a new agony without a name.
| Then Jessica was his sister.
The owner of the house, his father,
an invalid in a sanatorium? 1t was
sanatorium on the ridge Of Smoky
which he had broken that stormy night
Had his father been there then, yearn-
ing in pain and illness over that evil
career of his in the town beneath7 Was
relationship the secret of Jessica s in
terest, her magnanimity. that he had
dreamed was something more2 a dizzy
sickness fell upon him. and he clenched
his hands till the nails struck purple
crescents into the palms.
AS he stared dry'eyed at the picture
in the candle-light, the misery slowly
passed. He must know, Who she was,
what she was to him, he must learn
beyond peIadventure. He cast a swift
books stared from the shelves, the ma
hogany table held only pile of old
magazines. He strodc to the desk,
drew down its lid and tried the drawers.
They opened readily and he rapidly
turned over their litter of papers, writ.
ten in the same grabbed hand that had
etched the one damnIng word on the
draft ne had found in the cabin on
Smoky Mountain.
This antique desk, with its crude SYM
bols and quaint brasswork, gift to
him once upon time from Harry San
derson. had been David Stires carry
all; he had been spending last half
hour IN sorting its contents when the
bank messenger, on that fatal day, had
brought him The slip of paper that had
told of his son s disgrace. Most of the
papers the searcher saw at a glance
were Of no import, and they gave him
no clue to what he sought. Then, mys-
teriously guided by the subtle memory
that seems of late TO haunt him, though
he was but half conscious of its guild
ance, his nervous fingers suddenly
found and pressed a sprirg-a panel
fell down, and he drew out folded
\ parchment.
Another instant and he was bending
over it with the candle, his fingers trac-
ing familiar legal phrases of a will laid
there long ago. He read with the blood
shrinking from his heart:
''To my son Hugh, in return for the
care and sorrow he has caused me all
the days of his life. for his dissolute
career and his graceless desertion. do
give and bequeath the sum OF one thou
sand dollars and the memory of his
4 ,,,tS l,,o .r
tate, real and personal, | do give and
bequeath to my ward, Jessica Holme
The blood swept back to his heart in
flood. Ward, not daughter He could
still keep the one sweet thing left him.
His love was justified. Tears sprang
TO his eyes, and he laid the parchment
back and closed the desk. He hastily
brushed the drops away as the rough
figure Of the watchman entered and
set down two glasses and n bottle with
flourish.
"'There you are; that'n be worth
five miles to you He poured noisily.
His guest drank, set down the glass
and held out his hand, "Good luck. -
berth here; maybe I shall find one, too,
one of these days.
The dog thrust cold muzzle into his
hand rs he walked down the gravel
path slowly, feeling the glow of the
liquor gratefully, with the grudging
release it brought from mental tension.
He had not consciously asked himself
whittier now. In some subconscious cor
ner of his brain this had been asked
and answered. He was going to his
father, Not to seek to change the stern
decree; not to annul those bitter
phrases: "his dissolute career-the
memory Of his missepent youth" Only
to ask his forgiveness and to make what
reparation was possible, then go out
once more to the world to fight out his
battle His way was clear before him
now. Fate had guided him. strangely
and certainly, To knowledge. He was
thankful for that. He had come ST.
lent shadow; like q shadow he would
go.
He retraced his steps, and again
stood on the square near where the rose
window of the Gothic chapel cast n
tinted lustcr on the clustering shrub
berry. The audience"room was full now,
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