The Tupelo journal., 1910-10-28

digging at the plaster; that they had
stopped when she went in, and she
had felt 6 gust of cold damp air. In
! support of her story she carried in
my wet and muddy boots, that / had
unluckily forgotten to hide, and held
them out to the detective and myself.
What did l tell your" she said
dramatically. Look at EN-. They're
yours, Miss Rachel-and covered with
mud and soaked to the tops. l tell
you, you al scott all you like; some
thing has been wearing your shoes.
AS sure as you sit there, there's the
smell of the graveyard on them. How
do we know they weren't tramping
through the Casanova churchyard last
night, and sitting on the ~graves!"
Mr.. Jameson almost choked to
death. II wouldn't be at all surprised
if they were doing that very thing,
Liddy," he said, when he got his
breath. They certainly look like it."
l think the detective had a plan
on which he vas working, but which
was meant to be a coup. But things
went 10 fast there was no time to
carry it into effect. The first thing
that occurred was a message from
the Charity hospital that Mrs. Wat
son was dying and had asked for me.
l did not care much about going.
There is a sort of melancholy plea
sure to be had out of a funeral, with
its pomp and ceremony, but I shrank
from a death-bed. However, Liddy
got out the black things and the crepe
veil | keep for such occasions, and /
went. l left Mr.. Jameson and the
day detective going over every inch
of the circular staircase, pounding,
probing and measuring. / was inward
ly elated to think of the surprise l was
going to give them that night; as it
turned out, did surprise them-al
most into spasms.
l drove from the train to the Chari-
ty hospital, and was at once taken
to a ward. There, in a gray-walled
room in a high iron bed, lay Mrs. Wat
son. She vas very weak, and she
only opened her eyes and looked at
me when l sat down beside her. 1
was conscience-stricken We had been
, so engrossed that / had left this poor
creature to die without even a word
of sympathy.
The nurse gave her a stimulant.
and in a little while she was able to
talk. So broken and half-coherent,
however, was her story that I shall
tell it in my W way. In an hour
from the time I entered the Charity
hospital / had heard a sad and pitifuI
narrative, and had seen a woman slip
into the Inconsistencies that is only
a step from death.
Briefly, then, the housekeeper's
story was this:
She was almost 40 years old, and
had been the sister-mother of a large
family of children. One by one they
had died, and been buried beside their
parents in a little town in the middle
west. There was only one sister left.
the baby, Lucy. On her the older girl
had lavished all the love of an impul-
sive and emotional nature. When
Anne, the elder, was 80 and Lucy 10,
a young man had come to the town.
He was going east, after spending the
summer at a celebrated ranch in wy
oming-one Of those places where
wealthy men send worthless and dis
sipated sons for a season of temper
ance, fresh air and hunting. The
sisters, Of course, knew nothing Of
this, and the young mans ardor rath-
er carried them away. In a word,
seven years before, Lucy Haswell had
married a young man whose name was
given as Aubrey Wallace.
Anne Haswell had married q car
penter in her native town and was q
widow. For three months everything
went fairly well. Aubrey took his
bride to Chicago, where they lived at
a hotel. Perhaps the very unsophisti-
cation that had charmed him in Val
ley Mill Jared on him In the city. He
had been far from a model husband,
even for the three months, and when
he disappeared Anne was almost
thankful. It was different with the
, young wife, however. She dropped
and fretted, and on the birth OF her
baby boy she had died Anne took the
child and named him Lucien.
Anne had had no children OF her
own, and Oh Lucien she had lavished
all her aborted maternal instinct. on
one thing she was determined, how
ever: That was that Aubrey Wallace
should edtcate his boy, n was p part