Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1915-06-08

temptation I have mentioned.
There are things want to say to
you. Not many; you already know my
story. But do not know yours, and
cannot die till do. What took you
into the ravine that evening, Oliver,
and why, having picked up the stick,
did you fling 1t from you and fly back
to the highway? For the reason l
ascribed to Scoville? Tell me, that
no cloud may remain between us. Let
me know your heart as well as you
now know mine"
The reply brought the blood back
into his fading cheek.
Father, l have already explained
all this to Mr.. Andrews, and now will
explain it to you. l never liked Mr..
Etheridge as we'll as you did, and
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 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 1 came to be in the room
above l don't remember, but | was
there and leaning out, of the window
directly over the porch when you and
Mr.. Etheridge came out and stood in
some final debate on the steps be-
low. He was talking and you we're 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 ungracious manner which
bespoke a man very different from the
one 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 1 had always lacked in
approaching him took instant posses
sion of me, and l determined with
boys unreasoning impulse to subject
him to a personal appeal not to add
his influence to the distaste you at
present felt for the career upon which
l had set my heart. Nothing could
have been more foolish and nothing
more natural, perhaps, than the act
which followed. | ran down into the
ravine with the wild intention, so
strangely duplicated in yourself few
inn LOT ~ nj MI
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
up without further thought than of the
facility it offered for whiting, started
with it down the ravine. Scoville was
not in sight. The moment was the
one when he had quit looking for Reu-
Their and wandered away up the ra-
vine. l have thought since that per-
haps the glimpse he had got of his lit
tie one peering from the scene of his
crime may have stirred even his guilty
conscience and sent him off on his
purposeless ramble; but, however this
was, I did not see him or anybody
else as l took my way leisurely down
towards the bridge, whiting at the
stick and thinking of what l should
say to Mr. Etheridge when 1 met him.
And now for fate's final and most fatal
touch! Nothing which came into my
mind struck me quite favorably. The
encounter which seemed such a very
simple matter when | first contem
plated it, began to assume quite diff
ferent aspect as the moment for it ap-
preached. BY the time | had come
abreast of the hollow, l was tired of
the whole business, and hearing his
whistle and knowing by it that he was
very near, | plunged up the slope to
avoid him. and hurried straight away
into town. That is my story, father.
If heard your steps approaching as
plunged across the path into which
had thrown the stick in my anger at
having broken the point of my knife
blade upon it, | thought nothing of
them then. Afterwards l believed
them to be Scovilles, which may &C
count to you for my silence about this
whole matter both before and during
the trial l was afraid of the witness
stand and of what might be elected
from me if once got into the hands of
the lawyers. My abominable reticence
in regard to his former crime would
be brought up against me, and | was
too young, too shy and uniformed to
face such an ordeal of my own Volt
ton. UnhAppily was not forced into
it, and But we will not talk of that, |
father"
"Son,"-a long silence had inter
vened-"there is one thing more When !
-how-did you first learn my real rea-
son for sending you from home?
saw that my position was understood
by you when our eyes first met in this
room. But twelve years had passed /
since you left this house in ignorance
of all but my unnatural attitude to-
wards you. When. Oliver, when?"
That I cannot answer, father; it
was just a conviction which dawned |
gradually upon me. Now, it seems as
if l had known it always; but that
isn't so. A boy doesn't reason; and
it took reasoning for me TOTO ac-
cept-"
yes, I understand. And that was
your secret! Oh, Oliver. shall never |
ask for your forgiveness. | am not |
|"0~o-o~0O0~"-0~o~"-"-o>~-~-