The Lakeland evening telegram., 1914-05-23

FOOT Of THE HILL
BY MARY ROBERTS RINEHART.

Grandfather Hnxley was relic In
the family He had been handed
down for many years, from father to
son, along with the brass andirons and
the mahogany settle. Unfortunately.
although the last two pieces OF fam
lily property were more or less appre-
ciated the older they grew, almost the
reverse was true with the old man.
When his daughter had died. In
late middle life, she willed the family
homestead her father, who had
built ito her son. The old man
was seventy-1ve then, and his wife
had been dead dozen years. The
grandson was kindly enough; to his
mothers father he gave comfortable
room and a half-contemptuous kind
illness which showed itself In a total
disregard of the old mans politics
and an evident idea that at three
score and fifteen one should lose all
interest In this world and prepare for
the next.
If Grandfather Huxley rebelled. he
said nothing. He began to take the
evening paper upstairs after the fam
lily had finished with 1t, and to spend
great deal Of time polishing the
sword he had carried in the Mexican
war.
Old people as a rule have few pos
sessions. One by one they dispose Of
unnecessary things. The belle Of 80
years ago, who took dozen trunks
and boxes with her to make months
visit, at seventy-tive generally has an
old-fashioned bureau full of necessa-
ries, and, locked away In a little
trunk, handful of letters and senti-
mental trifles. And so with GRANDPA
ther Huxley; the possessions of q
lifetime had dwindled to a huge up
holstered chair, with which he de-
family refused to part, and his old
sword.
The sword hung in its scabbard just
across from the old mans bed, where,
IN the sleepless hours that come to
age, he could lie and dream about It..
From much tramping and dragging
the scabbard was worn away at one
corner; 1t was that corner which gave
Grandfather Huxley his dreams Of
long-ago marches through cactus
plains and desert, his nightmares Of
longago thirst and heat.
Below the sword was his wife's pic
ture. There was another portrait Of
her in the room; a photograph taken
when her cheeks were furrowed and
her thin, white hair parted and
crimped; but, oddly enough, he never
looked at that one. He was very.
very old, and he lived in his youth.
Everything between was hazy and
dim. The picture at which he looked
was that of girl, little old water
color of a girl with thoughtful eyes
and frivolous hair.
After his ninetieth birthday Grand
father Huxley became abnormally SEN
sitive. Sometimes he could hear
scraps OF conversation about him.
And how old is the old man today ?
It's almost uncanny, isn't it?"
"Oh, he's always just the same.
But in the nature Of things he won't
be with us very long"
One day some army officers dined
at the house. Grandfather Huxley pol
ished his sword until 1t glittered and
fixed his white ne6kcloth with trem-
bling fingers, At the table the conver-
sation turned to things military, and
the old man, filled with fire, told Of
that wonderful campaign of 1S47. The
officers listened respectfully-they
were gallant fellows; but when Grand
father Huxley dropped back in his
chair he heard the apologetic voice OF
his great-granddaughter, Ellen across
the table.
Hes q dear old SOUL" she said
"but getting childish now; go on with
what you were saying"
After dinner the old man went up
stairs. He took the shining sword
from his bed and fingered 1t lovingly
Il guess you and I have lived past
our time," he said huskily, and then
ne reached for his handkerchief and
polished away carefully q snot Of