Catoctin clarion. [volume] (Mechanicstown, Md.) 1871-1940, 1909-02-04

nmph of Eastern architecture was
expressed therein, but wonder there
was not. 1t was as II the old man
knew every line and turn, and was
now gazing on them as one who bids
farewell.
The sharp, concise tread of an Off.
cious police agent sounded on the
stones behind the old fellow. but he
never turned or needed it.
He seemed lost in reverie where
in perhaps figured the grim personal
ity of Ivan the Terrible. who had
and then, when it was finished. see-
ing. despite his coarse and barbar-
Gus nature, that 1t was almost super
human, had blinded forever it's name
less architect. But what should an
old hat-seller know of these things?
'Thou wilt sell no caps here" said
the obtuse police spy at his elbow.
"No?" answered the old man quiet
ly, without looking round.
"No; go on, one way or the other"
"Then in Moscow one may not
even look at a church," said the old
man, turning to go.
mo. l turned away an English
man from here yesterday; and If an
Englishman-for they see every
thing--may not look. surely thou
mayest not"
Same fellow, my man. Same fell
low, you thick head" muttered the
old man in perfect English. as he
hobbled toward the Holy Gate. In
passing through he reverently
barred his head, looking sideways up
with senile awe toward the sacred
picture.
He quickened his shambling pace,
but stopped suddenly in one of the
narrower streets of New Moscow. A
blue letter-box was fixed to the wall.
and upon this he laid his stock OF
fur caps. separating them and shak-
ing out the little black curls of hair
with a practiced hand. He arranged
and sorted his diminutive stock in
trade for some time, till the street
was clear of passers-by. Then he
slipped one hand into the breast of
his long coat and produced a letter.
After glancing at the address, he
dropped it into the box, and muir
INJURED in English:
There goes the last link. l am
off at last, and a week ago to-day |
was putting up scenery at Broom
haugh!"
When the Post Office collector
came shortly afterward with his bag
to clear the box. the old hat-seller
was still examining his wares, one Of
which he pressed upon the letter car
rier with a little clumsy pleasantly
about the cap coming in useful when
he received his pension.
The old fellow spoke the cultural.
coarse Russian of the south.
Beneath his shaggy brows he
watched his letter fall from the box
into the canvas bag, and then turned
away toward the high road leading
to Mini Novgorod.
Thus Winyard Mistley turned his
back on civilization, and started on
his lone and wearisome' journey of
three thousand miles. The hurried
at the porch had been
indeed farewell, despite his CHEEKY
assurance to the contrary. Twenty
four hours after leaving Broomhaugh
he was on board a little merchant
steamer gliding slowly down the
Humber. An interview at White
hall, a second at the War Office, and
he had received his instructions. No
outfit, no letters of introduction, no
baggage WAS there anything to
delay his starting immediately" he
had been asked. mo, nothing!"
/ he answer was not very prompt;
there was the shadow of hesitation
In it; and for a moment the white
haired, anxious soldier who had asked
the question relaxed the coldness Of
his official demeanor
1T is sometimes BETTER" the old,
traveller said, ito find that
there is no time to say goodbye
do you not find it so?"
"Yes, perhaps 1t is better So" Win
yard had replied, with sudden
smile, and all was said and done.
And now that was all over-a
mere memory Of the past. The hur-
ried preparations, the difficult letter
to Mrs. Mistley, written at a club
amid the laughter and merry-making
Of men who would have been silent
enough had they known. The un-
farewell at Kings Cross
and the last grave pressure
Of the hand from the two old travel
ers, who, partial strangers as they
were, had made point Of seeing him
off.
Now he was fairly at work, and
his old confident delight in the at
tendant difficulties was returning to
him.
CHAPTER XIV.