Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1913-03-07

he murmured; Il ought never t
have abandoned my search for you
With little patience and determine
| ton I might have found you, perhaps
might have saved you from all you
sufferings with that woman. My poo
child, forgive me-say that you for
give me-"
Il have nothing to forgive" she an
swered, tearfully. DO not reproacl
yourself. You did what you could
and, as for my mother, she is dead
we must forgive her everything"
Presently she began to ask hin
about the sister that she had neve
seen. Her whole face lighted up witt
eager interest. He answered her kind
ly and patiently-told her all that sh
! wished to know. '
! And she is countess" muset
Mercy, gravely. "A lady Of rank ant
fashion. Do you think sne will car,
to have me for sister?"
II trust SOL hope So" he replied
"Ethels heart is in the right place
Yes, she is a woman Of fashion, bu
she is very unhappy, I fear, IN her for.
match. I wish to heaven 1t hat
never been! Mercy, I know your cour:
age, your goodness, your wisdom-ant
something tells me you will be a grea'
solace and support to Ethel In the
days to come"
She started up In her agitation, and
stood beside him, one hand resting or
his shoulder.
"Papa-I may call you that, may
not?-do you mean that Ethel shall
know"
"Yes," he answered. Surely. It is
time"
"And you are not ashamed to ac-
knowledge me to the whole world, pa
pa"
Something like a groan broke from
his lips.
Ashamed? Great God! Don't talk
like that, Mercy. You hurt me sorely
Are you quite blind to your own beau
ty, your own worth?"
Papa, you are rich and great, you
are known and honored everywhere
and to think that / am your child
that am to step from my small world
into yours, which Is so different, sc
grand, confuses and bewi!ders me
yes, takes my breath. Am to leave
school-am I to go with you to your
homer"
Rich and great!" he repeated slow
ly; known and honored everywhere!
Quite true, dare say. Certainly, you
will leave school; certainly, you will
go with me to my home"
AT once" she urged, eagerly; "to-
night?"
mo" he answered, with an almost
imperceptible shudder, mot tonight
Have patience. In few days, Mercy
He drew out his purse. Here Is q lit
tie pin money for you-you may want
1t before I see you again. Remember
your bills are all paid to the end OF
the present quarter-I hold Madame
Manners receipts for the same"
But, papa, I do not need any mon
ey," said Mercy, my purse Is well
filed. You give me more than I can
spend. And now, that am to leave
this place so SOON
Take It," he interrupted, quickly;
"one never knows what a day may
bring forth" ......
And she obeyed. wondering at his
strange manner. He gave an uneasy
start as a clock on the mantel struck
the hour.
muttered; "and have still 80 many
things to say to you. My brave, beau.
tiful darling, fear your lines were
never made to be cast In pleasant
places" -.
She did not understand this speech
nor the weary sigh that followed 1t
He passed one hand across his fore
head.
II am worn out" he said. "Sing me
one of your Gospel songs, Mercy. Per
haps your voice can exercise the de-
mons that have got possession Of me.
She took her place at the piano, and
played and sang her best for him. He
listened critically. He asked her
hundred questions about herself, ano
the knowledge which she had acquired
at the school.
Il had planned to send you abroad
to foreign teachers" he muttered
butt Is scarcely possible now. II
such a thing was necessary, Mercy, dc
you think you could earn your living
by your talent?"
YES" she answered, Il am sure Of
it."
He seemed strangely loath to leave
her. Long afterward she remembered
how he fingered, and fingered, while
the rainy day, and the mournful twi-
light began to creep into the room
She remembered the tenderness in his
voice and manner, the kisses which
he pressed on her forehead and hair
the sad reluctance in his face wher
the time came at last, to bid her good.
by. He even turned back from the
door, hat in hand, to embrace hel
again.
A great heaviness fell, like a sud.
den cloud, upon Mercy's heart. Tears
rushed unbidden to her eyes.
Papa, you will not return to New
York tonight" she pleaded.
ha onawara6. HT % another
"wiil you let me see you tomor
row?"
He was very pale, but he smiled al
he answered.:
| "Yes-tomorrow."
| She clung to him, sobbing.
| Somehow, l cannot bear to hav'
you go. Oh, will you come again In TIT
morning-shall we meet in the morn
ing, dear papa? And are you sure tina
you love me?"
81 love you more than anything els,
In the world" he replied, from th'
depths Of his wrung heart; "and WI
shall meet in the morning, dear chile
never fear"
| One last look in his gray face-th'
door closed. She ran breathless!y t
the window, and saw his tall. impos
ing figure moving away from the doc
IA dark shape, around which a dark
er night was gathering. He glanced
back at the eager face pressed agains
the window of the mushroom, kisset
his hand to 1t hurriedly, then went on
and vanished in the storm and tn
| gloom.
| Mercy had found her father, AM
she had lost him again.
| From Madame Manners school Cul
len Sardis went straight to his hotel
where he supped with his usual ap
petite, and then retired to privat
parlor with Jacob Phillips, who ha'
come to talk with him upon matter
of business. The two were closeted to
gether for a long time; then Phillip
departed, and the banker locked nj
door and sat down alone to write
letter to his wife.
. It was a long-a very long commun
ication. In it he related Mercy Dill
story, and commended her to the car
and affection Of Mrs. Sardis. OF Ethc
he wrote: God only knows what will
become Of her now. Her marriage ha
been my ruin, as well as her own.
With the brief statement Of fey
| facts which were destined to aStOniS