Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1924-03-06
CHAPTER xII-continued.

the porCly form OF the Houo0Ao0l'o4
appeared on the porch.
"There's Mis- Curry" the girl cried,
Selling her fathers arm and inVlting
the preacher with her eyes. Break
fast's ready, and our bouquet not nan
finished.
She was the life of the little group
that assembled a few minutes later In
the gloomy old dining-room, with the
candles Pickering over its bare Walls
and waging a losing battle with the
shadows lurking in the corners. only
for her, the scene and setting might
have been somber enough-the stark
walls, stiff old furniture, decorations
and ornamentation severely in keep
ing with the taste of day long gone !;
the grim gray figure that presided at
the head of the table.
Banker Colin was man out or
whom life had squeezed most of the
finer sensibilities and coined them into
gold. The dreams of boyhood, the ro-
nance of youth, the glory of manhood
-gone-bargained away for price.
table, a disappointed, weary old man,
his soul cried out to rue the bargain !;
to trade back with fate. But none
had learned the lesson better than he
that fate trades not back; that there
he was doomed to sit, a hopeless
mourner over the dead ashes OF the
might been.
The forenoon he spent in the small
room, busy with his papers, or IN
meeting people who came to pay him
money-or borrow it.
In the afternoon he tried to take
nap, but so long had his mind been set
to its daily grind that it now ran on
In spite. of him-a sort Of mental en-
CINE whose clutch could no longer be
released.
Rest; a quiet nap-they were no
longer his. He. had sold them-part
of the price he had paid for-what p
the privilege to pocket interest money /;
to collect rents; to write his check.
Cheated again. The devil never loses
in a trade.
1t would be hopeless task to trace
his thoughts as he thrashed about over
the bed and fidgeted the hours away.
His business; the farms his squan-
dered years all passed in review. And
what was left? To sit by musty win
dow and pile up wealth-for somebody
else to spend He couldn't spend it
himself He didn't know how. He had
toiled so hard to make it that he had
never learned how to spend it-an in
fnitely finer thing to know.
Sleep-he was never wider awake
in his life. He fioundered off the bed
at last, less rested than when he lay
down, and stormed out to the porch
only to stand drumming a restless
tattoo upon a post with his long bony
fingers.
The voices of Texie and the preach
er were borne to him from the rustic
seat under the giant maple at Whis-
pering spring. He mildly wondered at
It; reflected that the genial day had
probably for once lured the young
man from his studies, and sauntered
back to his easy chair In the sitting
room.
AS he sat there, with the pulse and
purr of the wonderful May day borne
in through the open door, his mind
cropping back over the distant past, a
memory held him in far-fung retro
spection. Minutes long 1t held him;
until it smoothe6f the lines on his face
and softened his hard old eyes.
He rose from the chair at last !:
paced back and forth across the
floor a time or two; went into the
small west room to his safe. unlocked
It: with a noticeable effort swung the
heavy door open; fumbIed inside and
drew out a large envelope Of stout
manila paper; unsealed; fumbled
deeper and brought out a small locket
Of gold; closed the safe, without lock-
ing 1t, and went back to his easy chair.
A long time he sat, with his elbow
propped up on theschair-arm, his chin
In his palm; finally with fingers that
trembled, he pressed in the catch Of
the locket. It sprang open. There
were two pictures inside-a woman
and a man. But the face of the wom-
an was not the face over the mantel
in the sitting room; 1t was the face
of the woman beneath the draped
flag in the cabin under the crimson
rambler-what 1t had been in her girl
hood. And the face of the man in the
locket was not the outstanding soldier
above the sword and spurs, in the uni
form of a colonel of Mounted Rangers !;
it was the face of Simon Colin-+what
it had been in the days of his young
manhood
The old man gazed at the beautiful,
highborn face of the woman in the
locket; again and again laid it to his
grim old lips, held it close against his
breast-suddenly with a gasp,
snapped the locket shut.
A mighty spasm of pain had gripped
his side. He clutched it with his
hands; fought for breath. When it
was over and he was able to breathe
again, his lips were blue, and clammy
sweat stood heavy on his craggy brow.
Still clutching his side, he opened
the locket, with its secret, trying not
to see the beautiful face, lest it turn
him from his purpose; took out both
pictures; struck a match, ,set them
alight ano watched them burn to
ashes