The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1910-07-20

Mrs. Sleeman was a cheerful old lady who managed her house and her husband with great tact. It was said that her influence was very great at the little Bible Christian chapel to which she went on Sundays. John Sleeman, her husband, was but little in evidence. He worked on his little farm patch through the day, and in the evenings spent his time in the little kitchen, which to Leicester was sealed chamber.
 No newspaper was brought into the cottage, and letters came rarely. Indeed, the postman never came at all. By mutual agreement it was arranged that when letter came for Mr. Sleeman, it should be left at the house of Mrs. Maddern, who lived close to the high road. Occasionally MT. and Mrs. Sleeman harnessed their little horse and drove to the market town, which lay several miles across the moors, but this was only on very rare occasions.
 As a consequence, therefore, Lei testers life was completely isolated. Day after day passed without any event happening to break the mono tony of life, and he spent his time roaming over the moors trying as best he could to face the problem of his life, and to fight the despair which was gnawing at his heart. He knew nothing of what was hap pening in the country; and he asked no questions. He was sick of the world, and sick of life. The great question was, what should he do? Should he commit suicide. and thus put an end to an existence which to him had no meaning or purpose, or should he go somewhere and begin anew? His nature, in spite of his
 beliefs, rebelled against the former. He could not bring himself, little as he cared for life, to destroy it by his own hand. As for the latter alterna- tive, the old question reiterated it.
 self. where should he go? What should he do?
 He loathed the thought of going
 back to London, to live the life of a useless parasite amidst clubs and club loungers. The political door was closed against him, and even if it were not, he felt he could not enter it now. He had an income sufficient for all his needs, and as a conse- quence had no need to work for his
 living. It would have been better for him if he had. Humanly speaking,
 there are few better moral tonics than work.
 Looming larger than all other questions was this: Had he for ever lost Olive Castlemaine? Had he won
 her only to lose her? But for the
 determination which in spite of his despair lay at the back of his mind, I imagine he would have put an end to an existence which at times be- came almost unbearable.
 He was pondering all these things for the hundred time it seemed one day as he was walking across the
 moors alone. The clouds hung heav- fly in the sky, while occasionally gusts
 of cold wind, accompanied by driv- ing rain, reminded him the winter
 had not yet come to an end. As he
 walked and thought, storm had
 gathered, and he saw that the sky | threatened a downpour of rain.
 What do I care ?'' he laughed bit terly. 'I feel like old King Lear Nothing is wanting now but Tom
 Fool to make the picture complete. Blow, blow, thou winter wind'.'' The rain fell in torrents, and in spite of his wild mood, he made his | way to a lonely farmhouse in order
 to find shelter. By the time he reach ed it, his clothes were soaked with
 rain.
 He stood in a cart-shed, and watch | ed the flood as it fell. The few trees
 that grew around the farmstead look ed drear and forbidding; away in the
 distance the hills seemed to smoke. And this is life," he laughed. we are born, we suffer, we make fools of ourselves, and we die.''
 And yet he knew it was not life as it might be. If he could have had Olive Castlemaine by his side, he | could have been happy man. But she had driven him from her pres ence, she had commanded him never l to speak to her again
 Wont Zee come in by the wire,
 zur? You mus be fine 'n' wet'' Thank you" said Leicester, in re- | ply to the invitation of the buxon farmers wife. He entered the large farm kitchen, at one end of which
 a huge wood fire was burning. Why, you be fair streamin'," said
 the woman. ''Zet cloas by the wire,
 and dry yerself Do 'es then You'll
 catch yer death eff you doan't." Well, there'd be one less in the
 world" said Leicester, ''and as the
 world is sufficiently populated, that would not matter"
 ''Fer shaame, zur. You be jokin'. :" 'I never joke" replied Leicester.
 ''Still, if I died, there'd be the trou- |