Atlanta Georgian. [volume] (Atlanta, Ga.) 1912-1939, 1912-08-09
1.-The Gates of Silence -
By Meta SfmmfnS, AutJE0y 0f"yu,hed Tzto

sohtary confinement" he told himself
mere was something about the woman
Waitlng with him that reminded him Of
| ms wife. He thought of his wife for the
hrst time deliberately and with no pitv
Nhere was she now? What was she do
lngE Pros2ering. of that he had no
doubt. W"A-len OF that kind always pros
pered.
But for the first time in all these
months a certain uncomfortable sense of
responsibility stirred in his heart. After
all she was his wife, even if she had
slnned. 1t was as though contact with
MS fellow beings, contact with suffering
with fear, had lessened something of the
| hatred in his heart
The door of the consulting room opened.
ana the servant summoned the waiting
woman. As he held the door for her a
burst of childish laughter sounded in the
nan, and there was a scamper of child
lsh feet, and flying figure came dash
| ing INTO the room His visit was for
moment only: a scandalized nurse fol-
| lowed and caught up the little boy.
! bundle of white wool surmounted by
growing, rosy face and golden curls, who
mad so gloriously trausgressed the most
stringent of the nursery laws. But the
sight of him had been enough to set
the venom of hatred at work again in
Anthony Barrington's heart So might
his son have been but for his mother.
1t was the first time he had ever de
liherately accused Edith in his heart of
| being the direct cause of their child's
death.
His face was very hard, very ugly in
It's set lines when his own turn to enter
the consulting room came
Only Himself
No thought of Edith, no thought of the
dead child. no thought of anything but
himself and the verdict to be pronounced
over him, now when he sat in the arm
chair and submitted to the searching ex-
animation, the flashing of those strange
lights that hurt his eyes so cruelty.
The doctor was very vague; long expe-
rience had taught him the art of con-
cealing truth in the midst of words. But
Anthony Darlington could read faces. and
he read his own fate in the grave eyes
of the man bent above him.
The truth, please" he said. You see.
! am painter, and naturally my eyes
are very important to me"
They are to most people," the ocuist
said. bluntly. a little nettled by touch
of arrogance in Barrington's manner.
Then he felt ashamed. and gave his YER
dict stiIl dressed in many words. but un-
mistakable now; and as the meaning of it
filtered home to Barringtons brain he
turned faint and reeled.
Decay OF the optic nerve No chance
no earthly chance-of recovery.
The words whirled in his brain
How long do You give me-" he asked
suddenly. looking up.
The oculist was busy with siphon
and a glass He turned and came, hand
ing the glass to Darlington, who took 1t
mechanically and with a shaking hand
six months-with care" he said, drop
ping his verbal veil now. with extreme
care--temperance in all things, and utter
freedom from mental worry. ] am afraid
[ can promise no more than six months,
And with intemperance and the usual
worry inseparable from a man who knows
that his life is dropping to pieces about
him." asked Darlington.
Three, perhaps. You see, YOU came TO
me too late"
The words rang in Barrington's ears
as he left the house. Too late-too late!
His feet beat out an accompaniment to
them as he stumbled up the street, and
the hoofs of every passing horse Joined
in the refrain.