The Plymouth tribune. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1901-1911, 1909-08-05
CHAPTER III.-(Continued)

lightly touched his arm.
Thank you," he said, abruptly, and
hen, recovering himself, went on:
THE priest came from the nearest set
1ement to bury the poor little chap with
III due form. He had christened him
when he was born, so that there was no
iificulty about that.
Besides the funeral, he did another
,riestly job-that of frightening the poor
mother into fits with the announcement
hat the child's death was due to her sin,
md with threats of eternal birthstone to
olIow.
$50 having accomplished that nice piece
" work, he left US TO the contempla-
Ion of that little white cross on the hill
ock opposite the house, and with all
he flaming terrors Of purgatory rampant
between US.
Luckily for me. harvest time was COM
ng on, and l was too busy by day. and
700 tired by night TO think-but without
thinking. there was always the latent
knowledge that the purpose l had worked
or was gone.
The harvest was over, and the first
winter days were as gloomy inside as
sut- The poor woman was crushed by
priestly terrors, and had once or twice
broken out that she must go and ask the
iuns to take her into the convent, to end
ler days there, and make her repentance,
md pray for the child's soul. Poor thing,
| believe that what mind she had never
July recovered the shock of the child's
ieath.
1T was on this state of affairs, with
he long winter ahead Of us, that there
ame a telegram from Orwell with news
" my brothers death-'Home, come home
1t once. Bring your family it ended
with. / sat and chuckled over it. II
peemed such an irony of fate And then
| blessed God that my boy was dead
md that that woman could not brand
him with cruel name.
Il might have felt some grief for my
brothers. death, If he had ever been any
thing to me save a bugbear Of respecta-
sility held over my erring head.
"All at once a great longing for rly old
IDENTITY came over me. To go back and
b my first, my real self again, and lei
Ill these hard ten years of ceaseless toll
sade into a dream. To 60 back to a life
6 ease and pleasure, and assured place
To wear decent clothes and sit at de-
cent table once more. Then / looked al
Mathilde, crouching by the stove, looking
more squaw-like with every fresh tear
she shed.
81 could give her no place in that new
lie. / had bought my lesson and knew
that my race must be saved from her
but could desert her? If she had shown
,ne sign of clinging to rne, am not sure
but that even then / might have sent
back word that / belonged to the new
sfe, and would have set to work to make
myself place in my new country.
But the fates willed it otherwise
While this ceaseless problem was haunt
ing me through the days round, 1 came
In one twilight TO find the priest in pos
session-very much in possession, too, fol
be was about TO carry Mathilde of with
him. She had her few worldly goods al
ready done up in a bundle, and though
she wept and walled, was quite deter.
mined to do.
$50 / did my best to get the business
through as quickly as possible. l told
the priest that / was leaving the country
but would place In his hands a sum FOL
her maintenance. Then l watched then
drive of towards the settlement, behind
the hillock where the white cross stood
ap against the dark sky, and went bacl
into the empty house, a free man.
The next day / cabled to my father
that / YVES coming home at once, anc
that my boy was dead. As to the wife,
said nothing. Then / put my foreman
In charge, and started off to see wha
vas the next move In the game.
There, do you see anything very helm
,us In all that?" He turned a look o.
keen inquiry on his companion, who me
Il unfirchingly.
No." she said. mo, l suppose that
Judging ~ mems usual standards, yoI
are not to blame for anything much, 81
Tar. "Only," she hesitated, Il do not SCI
now it can possibly fit In with"
with you?" he interrupted. "Well
bear with me little longer. You see,
am now going back, with my family il
utter ignorance as to any details of N,
life.
MY father has no power to do me on
Of the baronetcy or the estates that g,
with it, but he can do what he likes witt
the lands on which are situated the col
neries which supply the cash that make
she whole thing worth having. / receive,
inst before starting, another Of his an,
hy sister-in-law's joint epistles, sayir,
that if he were satisfied that my life wa
4 thoroughly reformed one, be would a
once make a will leaving everything t
me.
IF, on the contrary, there appeared b
have been any dubious events in my re
cent life, every penny that he had powe
TO will should 60 to my sister-in-law an
to the charities that they are both in
terested in.
"And so you see, the fat would be il
The fire should those two get word o
Mathilde.
MY father cannot live very long. III
had q second stroke after my brother
death, and is quite helpless. l ha
made up my mind to tell them that m
wife was dead; but even that had it
risks. II / we're going to say so at all
should have done so when / sent tn
arst cable, and have got them used to tn
idea before they met me.
Anything else, however, means hand
ing over the best part of the property t
that woman, and giving her the chanc
Of branding my boys name. By heaven
she shall never do that" And the lear
brown hands clenched fercely at the in
solerable thought.
Evidently feeling that the crisis of hi
onfidence had come, he spoke quickly
" though choking back any misgiving.
1T was only yesterday that the idea of
new solution dawned upon me. You
answer decides 1T. Will you marry m
As soon as we land, and come to Orkwe
and represent my five years wifeY
Throughout the last half-hour Mis-
Thorne could not but see these words a
The end of the conversation. All the
same, Sley struck her like a blow an
4 deep, painful flush of shame burne
her face.
AS 'habitant' woman? As the motl
r of the dead child? 1t is impossible,
she said, her voice sharp with pain.
Stewart watched her closely, but spok
With apparently undated courage
please think 1t over a little bit befor
rou decide. Surely, the place and pos