The Cotton Factory Times. — 1887-05-06 (Manchester, Greater Manchester, England)

TRUE FRIEND.  It was a bad place for a sick man. The room was large, too large for any attempt at coziness or snugness to be successful, and the surroundings were most inappropriate. Here a lay figure, grotesque in its drapery, carelessly flung on to get the garments out of the way; there an easel, with a white sheet thrown over the unfinished picture upon it, and looking weird and ghostlike when the light was dim; in corners, piles of pictures, framed and unframed, sketches, portfolios, drawing-boards —all the surroundings of an artist—scattered about, pushed aside, heaped on chairs or tables; but all bearing the unmistakable air of long neglect. In one corner half screened, a cm bed, beside it a small table and a chair. Upon the bed Frank Mason, artist, sleeping; on the chair Tom Gwyune, artist, wakeful and watching. .  And at any time, day or night, for ten days previous, the same might have been seen, excepting that the invalid had not slept, but tossed and raved in wildest delirium. The time was summer—early June—the hour between sunset and dark. Everything that could be open was open, and the hum of the city came, softened and subdued, up to the fourth story of the tall house, the studio of Frank Mason, artist. The watcher, weary with his long strain of nursing, was wondering drowsily if he might venture to lie down for a nap, when the invalid opened a pair of large, mournful, dark eyes, and looked into his face. And Tom's heart gave a quick, strong throb of delight as he recognised the return of reason in the wasted face and the questioning expression. "How long have I been ill ?" the faint voice asked. "Only ten days; and you will do famously now," was Tom's reply, in a cheery tone; "only you must not talk, and you must take this," holding a tiny glass to Frank's lips as he tenderly lifted his head. "Thanks,' drinking obediently the far from tempting mixture. "I—have I talked much ?" "A great deal of nonsense. Nobody pays any attention to fever fancies, old fellow; so don't worry about that." . .  "Did any one hear me but you?" "No one, unless the doctor caught a few words. Now don't look so troubled. You are too weak to talk now."  "Did I rave about him—my father?" The last two words came in a choked, gasping whisper, and on the pale face the perspiration started in heavy drops. "Dear old boy," Tom said, caressingly, while, tenderly as a woman, he wiped the clammy moisture from his friend's face, "you must not talk of it now. You need rest, sleep; and this agitation is very bad for you. What you said is as if it were never spoken." "A true friend !" Frank murmured, "a good friend for nearly three years, and I deceiving him all the time. Why do you not shrink away, as every friend did when my father was hanged— hanged for murder !" and his voice grew thick and hoarse. "My father my dear father! You must listen! I must tell you!" he said, as Tom vainly urged quiet. "It was one mad fit of anger, not intentional murder," and he shivered at the word. "But it was a fatal blow he struck—only one blow —and his friend, the friend he had loved and trusted, and who was false to him, fell, striking his head upon the corner of a bookcase. Even then my father might have denied the blow, for not one kuew of the quarrel, the first, the last they ever had; but he gave himself up. And we were not popular in Millbanks, while the murdered man was the idol of the place. So the jury conyicted the man who made no defence—" "Frank! Frank? dear old fellow! Stop, I beg of you! You are killing yourself I" Tom pleaded. "I gathered it all from your fever talk, and you do not need to tell me." But the sick man never heeded him. "My mother would not leave Millbankg, and we endued ha 11141;1 10.14 oudure of sc.cau. coutenat