Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1919-04-29

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only this morning that she would
be happier if she had some folks o.
her own L could scarcely refrain
from telling her"
| tonight if you wish. But wait until
we get home"
DO you think he will be pleased"
Il am sure he will, and 1 am so
delighted with the way it has turned
out. Poor Annie, she has wanted
folks so long"
She must remain with us until
Annie Ami '1 While she 'f IS with U.S. ~
"Of course. But why do you speak
| so? Has the doctor told you she
may" l stopped. 1 could not put
into words the loss of his wife to
her sake kept on smiling.
Yes: he told me month ago
that she was apt to leave us at any
time 1t is her heart. 1t has grown
| very weak lately"
Just then Mrs. Curry called to us,
and we babe them good night and
walked slowly home talking of An
ME, of Lawrence, and of what Mr..
| Curry had told me of dear Mrs.
| Curry.
Now, I have something to tell
| you, Frank-somethinG that-s will
surprise and please you very much.
[ hope" We were sitting costly in
| IL
it was far earlier than our usual
hour for retiring.
''All right, dear; I am all atten-
ton"
Chapter LXxvIII
Y@tANK did you ever have a
." II sister other than Mrs. Older
the widowed elder sister
who attended our Wedding?"
Yes; why do you ask"
Tell me about her please?'
II was a lad about fifteen or six
teen when it happened. She married,
against fathers wishes, a handsome
| unprincipled sort of a fellow who
was killed in some sort of a bra wi.
My sister died soon after in child
birth"
And the child?"
THAT also died"
mo it didn't; that child lived
What do you mean? Why it hap
pened over twenty years ago, How
do you come to know anything about
81 know that the baby did not die
although your sister did. You had an
old aunt, your mothers sister,
Yes. She, too, quarreled with
father. 1 never saw her but once"
She it was who took your sisters
child; rather she provided for her"
1t was a girl?'
e.l,o
paid a small sum each month for the
little girls keep; but without tell
ing the people into whose care she
placed her that there were other rel
atives who might assume the respon-
sibility of the girl if she should die"
girl would do, judging from what
father told me of her. She was a
cantankerous old dame"
well your aunt died about six
years ago. The people with whom
she had placed the child threw her
out when they saw that there was no
more money Forthcoming. The girl
had always passed as their own
daughter, in fact believed herself to
belong to them"
"But-Olive-is the girl living?
Where is she now? We must do some
thing for herr
Yes, we must do a great deal for
her. Frank For that girl is Annie
Fagin.'
i never saw such a completely OF
emotions upon any human counte-
nance as struggled for expression
upon Franks face.
annie Fagin, my own niece. No
wonder L loved her" He had spoken
without thinking and then, realiz-
ing what he had said, looked at me
in the most peculiar maner, flush
ing deeply req. II did think | cared
Foo, LA, n ld
no right to care-for a little time.
But"
II know, Frank. l knew all the
| time. But it has come right, even
before you knew. So we won't think
of that part of it, dear. 1t was the
call of the blood"
But how did you find out about
herr"
Then after promising him money he
got him to mention the name Of the
woman who placed Annie in their
care. 1t was Lampheer-"
Yes. Aunt never married."
Mr.. Curry found out where this
Miss Lampheer had lived. From that
on it was easy, so he said. You see,
Annie had no recollection OF any one
as this aunt never allowed her to
see or know her. Annie really be-
| lived Fagin was her father and that
horrible woman her mother. If she
had never come 20 US she might new
or have known"
Does she know now
| Yes. Mr.. Curry was TO tell her
and Lawrence after we left
Poor little Annie. My own niece.
Thank God we have found her and
thank Him fOr-many other things"
I knew too we'll to what my hus-
band referred and [ also said in a
whisper: Thank Him."
We talked until long past mid
night; talk of Annie, our desire to be
all we could to her to make up for
her cold and unloved childhood.
II always told you she had gentle
blood in her." [ said when finally we
rose to retire.
Yes, and NOW she has folks. TO
me that has been the most pitiful
thing about her; that desire to be-
long to some one, to have some one
who really belonged to her. IL will
be our duty and our pleasure. Olive.
| to show her that we are the right
kind of 'fOlks'-if she will forgive
me-. The last so low | scarcely
heard, and which l pretended not to.
IL am the haQpiest woman in all
New York tonight, Frank l have a
husband who loves me, I have found
| that a dear girl whom | love is re
lated to us, my work is progressing
beyond my rOsiest dreams. | don't
know how any one could ask for
more
And dear, pray God | may be
worthy of you; Of your faith and
trust"
As he took me in his arms 1
thought that my way, one woman'S
way, had not turned out so badly
after. all. But l never shall let
was or how much I knew. There
are some things which are best for