The Prince George's enquirer and southern Maryland advertiser. (Upper Marlborough, Md.) 1882-1925, 1909-07-09
CHAPTER XIX.
Continued.

"And you will be sure not to tell
him what l have told you, sir" whis-
pered the young man, as he leant
over him.
The effect of his sons presence on
the canon was something marvellous.
His brightness and his tenderness
worked upon him for good, as the
sunshine and the rains revive the
dropping flower. A sort of Indian
summer seemed to have set in with
him; and but for his old friends ILL
ness T think he would have been as
happy as he ever was in his life,
though not quite in the old fashion.
"You may tell your Alma, Robert, :"
said Aunt Maria, that her dutiful
advice to you has saved your fathers
life" She knew that way of putting
it would please him better than if
she had praised his own unselflshness
in coming to England. eff you were
not here he would hardly stand these
distressing visits to dear Mr.. Ma
vors."
And, indeed, the spectacle of his
old friend and contemporary gradu-
ally losing his hold upon life gave
him unspeakable pain. There was
nothing, of course, terrible in such
mans deeease; no haunting fears or
distrust of the All-wise and Allmerci-
full. Indeed, it would have been curl
Gus to those acquainted with the turn
of thought prevailing among men of
their stamp at Cambridge, that be-
tween these two men-bOth being
clergymen-the subjects so common
ly dWelt upon under such circum-
stances were rarely alluded to. They
spoke of old times with which they
were conversant, rather than of the
nnknowable; of their lifelong
(though undemonstrative) friend
ship, rather than of their reunion
hereafter; of their common friends,
alive or dead. Once, however, a
something of bitterness in some re-
mark made by the dying man, sug-
gested the inquiry from his compan-
ion, "You are at peace, trust, Ma
vors, with all mem"
with all that are worthy of the
name of man." was the stern and un-
expected reply. Then, as if regretting
his harshness, the tutor added, with
smile, There is not much malice and
hatred in my heart, Aldred, I do as
sure you-nothing, l trust, to be re-
pented of in that way; little envy
of yourself, my friend, that's ALL
"How so?"
because you have great posses
sions-a son, a wife
NAY, my poor wife is Dead" said
the canon, scothingly, as one speaks
to a sick man whose mind has gone
astray little.
Yes, but you have the memory of
her. Believe me, my friend, it is
we'll to have such memories to dwell
upon
The canon had no prescience that
he had behe1d his friend for the last
time when he walked home one after
noon with thoughtful step that grew
unconsciousIy more free and buoyant
as he neared the little home which
held his new-found treasure.
On his study table, however, was a
letter, the contents of which, for a
momene, put even Robert out of his
mind It was in his wards hand
writing, which in itself argued moth
ing strange (for she had never ceased
to correspond with him in a sup
pressed, mechanical fashion,; it had
not, as usual, been sent on to him
from the Laurels, but was directed to
his prelent address. 1t must have
come to Sophy's knowledge, there
fore, that he had removed to Provi-
Cerce Terrace. Though this was a
piece OF information that might have
coed out any day, he opened the en-
velope with no little apprehension
that she might have CLEANED still fur
taer knowledge, and the first sentence
convinced him that it was SO.
Aindest and best of friends, whom
1 have robbed and grieved-dear
guardian, whose care and love have
repaid by falsehood and ingratitude
pity if you cannot pardon me. If
came to you in person (Which l dare
not do, for the sight of your dear face
would kill me; and my life, other
wise worthless, is necessary to my
child)-I say, if l came into your
presence and groveled at your feet
with tears and prayers, 1 could not,
believe me, feel greater abasement
than l do, as l sit here and write
these shameful words.
Until recently, though fully con-
scious of my base behavior to you in
other respects, l was not aware of the
ruin I had brought upon you. 1
thought that l had only lies and de-
ceit to reproach myself with-trans-
gressions that have brought their
own punishment upon me, and con-
cerning which I thought, therefore,
that l had some sort of right-as If
such a wretch as | had rights at all!
TO be silent. But now | know what
an irremediable injury l have done
10 YOU and yours, it seems to me that
no sufferings in this world can be in
ficted on me commensurate with my
ofenses. That I was but an uncon-
scious instrument in the hands of an
other is no excuse for me, for, but
.Or my own misdoings, | should never
have fallen into his hands. The his
tory Of them you will find inclosed
(there was a paper in the envelope
containing short narrative of her
first marriage, and the causes which
mad, as she thought, compelled her to
make the second). and when you
have read it, after the first sharp
pain of anger and regret is over, cAe
source of sorrow will be dry foraIeF.
This is one Of the reasons why l nave
written to you, Notwithstanding th&1
1t has been enjoined upon me not to
do SO. AS you, in your great Alno-
ness and consideration for my f22l'
ings, would have hidden from me- lAe
real cause of your ruin, so it was
Judged by those who knew OF my Ill
behavior under your roof, that iI was
best to spare you that knowledge;
but my hope is that, though you MAJ
still pity me (as we pity the worst o.