The Keota news., 1913-12-12
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END OF THE S0LIL0QUY
BY IDA N. MuNsoN.

fashioned clock In the dark front hall
OF the Crawford mansion had already
struck five, and out of doors the early
twilight was ushering In a cold. dreary
night The wind blew the snow In all
directions and whistled down Chin
neys with a mournful cadence.
BY the open fireplace In her sitting
room sat Mary Crawford. No matter
how imposing the exterior of the Craw-
ford mansion. so called because its ap-
pearance was superior to that Of the
surrounding houses In the town. no
matter how large and grand all the
other rooms in the house might be.
there was one cozy apartment on the
second floor, just over the conserva-
tory, where the sunlight seemed to lin
ger longest and where, even though
the rest of the house might be cold
and cheerless, there was always the
temperature of q soft Indian summer.
Even now. when the darkness was fast
approaching. one could almost see to
read by the faint light that came In
through the western window and the
cheerful fire threw such a radiance
over everything In the room that the
thought of cold and hunger seemed
very remote from this woman reclin-
ing in soft. easy chair by the glowing
hearth Yet there was hardly a poor
family in Crawford who could not tell
Of her gentle ministrations of love in
times of sickness or misfortune.
The little woman by the fire stirred
uneasi1y and opened her eyes She
could hardly have been asleep. for
there was a tear on her cheek and she
raised one hand to press her forehead
as though 1t ached.
On the small stand near by lay vel
vet case and. drawing the table toward
her. she opened the article. disclosing
neat pair of kid gloves and several
hAndkerchiefH.
"Barbara's gift" she said softly.
"She remembered that this Is my
birthday. She always remembers ev-
erything that she thinks will please
me. dear girl"
For while the woman moved her
hand back and forth over the top Of
the velvet cover with a caressing
touch
Il am old. Barbara" she said to her
self, as II talking to the girl, Il am
thirty-nine years old today. You are
young, and above all things, want
you to be happy. 1t does not matter
about me, dear. and although you have
been the same as my own little daugh-
ter for ten happy years. happy just be-
cause had you, will let you go and
leave me now. Yes. Barbara, will be
brave and not make you unhappy. You
shall never know how my heart aches
when you go. l will bear it all in sill
ence because of my promise"
Suddenly she arose and. stepping to
the door softly locked 1t, then knelt
before cabinet in the room contain
ing several drawers. From a chain
around her neck she drew key and
inserted it in the lock of one of the
drawers. Her face was very pale and
her hand trembled so that she clutched
the side of the cabinet as II for sup
port, After opening it she took out
the only thing it contained; sheet OF
yellow letter paper. The writing was
almost obscured in some places where
tears had fallen on it. Clasping it
tightly with both hands she reseated
herself In the armchair and read:
London, England. Nov. 25. 1898.
my dear friend:
Being falsely accused OF a crime
for which l have received a sentence
Of life Imprisonment, I write to- ask OF
you a great favor. / know not why
my thoughts turn to you in my trouble