Cheyenne record., 1915-09-23


Had Oliver not seen him in his old
he would not know these features. SO
sunken, vet SO eloquent with the peace
Of one for whom all struggle is over,
and the haven Of his long rest near.
Had he been able at this moment to
look beyond the fences which his fear
had reared, he would have seen at
either gate silent figure guarding the
walk, and recalled, perhaps, the hor-
ror Of other days when at the contem-
plation of such prospect, his spirit
recoiled upon itself in unimaginable
horror and revolt. And yet, who
knows! Life's passions fade when the
| heart Is at peace. And Archibald Os-
trander's heart was at peace. Why.
his next words will show.
"Oliver"-his voice was low but
very distinct, never have a secret;
never hide within your bosom a
thought you fear the world to know. II
| obeyed the law either of God or man
| seek not to hide what can never be
hidden SO long as God reigns or men
make laws. l have suffered as few
| men have suffered and kept their rea-
| son intact. Now that my wickedness
| is known, the whole page of my life
defaced. content has come again. l
| am no longer a deceiver, my very
| worst is known
"Oliver?"-This some minutes later.
Are we alone?"
"Quite alone, father. Mrs. Scoville
is busy and Reuther-Reuther is in
the room above. can hear her light
step overhead"
The Judge was silent. He was gaz-
ing wistfully at the wall where hung
the portrait of his young wife. He was
no longer in his room, but in the
CHEEKY front parlor. This Deborah had
insisted upon. There was, therefore,
nothing to distract him from the con-
temptation have mentioned.
There are things l want to say to
you. Not many; you already know my
story. But do not know yours, and
I cannot die till do. What took you
into the ravine that evening, Oliver.
and why having picked up the stick,
did you fling it from you and fly back
to the highway? For the reason |
ascribed to Scoville? Tell me. that
no cloud may remain between US. Let
me know your heart as well as you
now know nine"
The reply brought the blood back
into his fading cheek.
Father, l have already explained
all this to Mr.. Andrews, and now l will
explain 1t to you. l never liked Mr..
Etheridge as we'll as you did, and I
brooded necessarily in those days
over the influence which he seemed to
exert over you in regard to my future
career. But l never dreamed of do
ing him a harm, and never supposed
that l could so much as attempt any
argument with him on my own behalf
till that very night of Internal compli-
cations and condolences. The cause
of this change was as follows: l had
gone upstairs, you remember, leaving
you alone with him as knew you de-
sired. How I came to be in the room
above I don't remember, but I was
there and leaning out of the window
directly over the porch when you and
NIL. GtACIlu6S CdIlC Oul anu StOou IA
some final debate on the steps be-
low. He was talking and you were lis
tening. and never shall forget the ef-
feet his words and tones had upon me.
l had supposed him devoted to you.
and here he was addressing you tartly
and in an ungracfous manner which
bespoke man very different from the
one l had been taught to look upon as
superior. The awe of years yielded
before this display, and finding him
just human like the rest Of us, the
courage which had always lacked in
approaching him took instant posses
sion of me. and I determined with a
boys unreasoning impulse to subject
him to personal appeal not to- add
his influence to the distaste you at
present felt for the career upon which
I had set my heart. Nothing could
have been more foolish and nothing
more natural, perhaps. than the act
which followed. I ran down into the
ravine with the wild intention. so
strangely duplicated in yourself few
minutes later, of meeting and pleading
my cause with him at the bridge, but
unlike you; l took the middle Of the
ravine for my road and not the Sc
cluded path at the side. 1t was this
which determined our fate, father, for
here | saw the stick and. catching it
- A.