The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1909-01-21

y
coast, where it's warmer. Nothing
much doing with you. eh?'' .
Nothing much,' answered the man
he addressed. Others might recognize
him as the black sheep, but this non.
descript Waterman whom chance had
set here could not. He knew him only
as the dingy vagabond whose broken
head he had bandaged in the box car.
I'm in better luck" went on the
man in shirt sleeves. II struck this
about two months ago as gardener
first, and now I'm kind of a sort Of a
Waterman. They gave me q bunk in
the summer house there"-he ierked
his thumb backward over his shoulder
-"but l know game worth two of
that for these cold nights. I'll show
you. l can put you up for the night"
he added, "if you Ike
The wayfarer shook his head. 81
must get away tonight, but I'm much
obliged
Haven't done anything, have you?'
asked his one time companion curl
ously. ."'You didn't seem that sort.''.
The bearded face turned away. I'm
not wanted by the police, no, but I'm
on the move, and the sooner take the
trail the better. I don't mind night
| travel"
"You'd be better for rest" said the
Waterman, "but you're the doctor.
Come in, and We'll have nip of some
thing warm anyhow"
His guest followed him into a spa
cious hall, scarce conscious of what he
did. A double door to the left was
shut, but he nevertheless knew perfect
" that the room it hid had tall
French window letting on to a garden
where camellias had once dropped like
blood. The open door to the right led
to the library.
There the yellow light touched the
dark wainscoting, the marble mantel-
piece, dim paintings on the wall and a
great brass bound Korean desk in a
corner. What black thing had once
happened in that room? What face
had once looked at him from that
wheel chair? It was an old face gray
and lined and passionate, his father
doubtless. 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, I hear, with
one leg in the grave. He's in some
sanitarium and can't get much good OF
it. Nice pictures, them,'' he added,
sweeping candle round. "Thats a
good locker over there. Must be the
old mans daughter, I reckon. Well,
I'll go and get you a finger or two to
keep the frost out Of your lungs. It'll
be cold tonight. Make yourself at
home" The door closed behind him.
The man he left was trembling vio-
lently. He had scarcely repressed a
cry. The portrait that hung above the
mantelpiece was Jessica's, in house
dress of soft Romney blue and sin
gle white rose caught in her hair. "The
old mans daughter!", The words SEEM
ed to echo and re-echo about the walls,
voic1ng new agony without name.
Then Jessica was his sister! ....a.s
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 peradventure. He cast a swift
glance around him. Orderly rows Of
books stared from the shelves; the ma
hogany table held only pile Of old
magazines. He strobe to the desk,
drew down it's lid and tried the draw
ers. They opened readily, and he rap.
idly turned over their litter of papers,
written in the same grabbed hand that
had etched the one damning word on
the draft he had found in tie cabin on
Smoky mountain. Most of the papers
the searcher saw at a glance were of
no import, and they gave him no clew
to what he sought. Then, mysteriously
guided by the subtle memory that
seemed Of late % haunt him, though he
was but half conscious Of it's guidance\
his nervous fingers suddenly found and
pressed spring, a panel fell down.
and he drew out folded parchment.
Another instant and he was bending
over 1t with the candle, his fingers
tracing familiar legal phrases of a will
laid there long ago. He read with the
blood shrinking from his heart:
ITO my son, Hugh, in return for the
care and sorrow he has caused me all
the days Of his life. for his dissolute
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