Year: 1878

Days linked themselves into weeks and
months before May again saw her father.
His letters to her were long and frequent,
and as the child could neither read nor an
swer them, Maggie was forced to do so. But
in no way did she show that she
was aught but the amanuensis of the
child. She added no word or suggestion
of her own, but simply wrote the childish
sentences that May dictated. But Wills
letters were as precious to her as the sunlight
and pure air are to the prisoner newly
liberated from a dungeon. She read and re-
read every sentence, for there was much
written for her, though it was addressed to
May. Slowly but surely the wretched man
was learning the truth that retribution is
certain-that as we SOW even so shall we
reap. He had never loved Maggie, even in
her beautiful girlhood, as he loved her now,
but he would as soon have died as have dared
to ask her to be again his wife. No; he felt
how righteous was his punishment, how just
the judgment Of his own accusing conscience.
He remembered how coldly and cruelty he
had put her from him with neglect and un-





been to her when, as his wife, she had a
right to expect and demand love and
protection from him. He felt that though
once he had possessed her hearts richest
affection that now it was forever lost to him.
The more he realized his sin and its punish
ment, the more he longed for the prize that
he had so carelessly let slip from his life.
He dared not go to her, for her calmuess had
so deceived him that he believed she
hated him, and would spurn every advance
that he could make. He prayed for an op-
portunity to meet her where he could talk
to her without incurring her displeasure
Soon-aye, sooner than he expected-the
chance came. He had been travelling, but
without any settled purpose. He had money
and time, but neither brought to him an
hours peace or rest, and he wandered list
lessly from place to place, seeking something
to absorb his mind, that now was tortured
by remorse. He had been south, but had
come by easy stages TO st. Louis, and while
there a telegram was handed him one morn
| ing, and ere he read it an
underlined horror seized him, and
~
moment more, and be was ready to obey the
brief command. "WiIl Phelps, ST. Louis:
May is dangerously i'll. Come quick. Mar
gAret Phelps" Never but once before had
he seen that name thus written and that
was upon the gravestone of the little child
they had buried in their early married life.
Margaret Phelps-staid, womanly Margaret: /:
not the childish, winning Maggie. He was
almost wild with nervous forebodings and
ar xiety, and, though the journey was made
with all speed, it seemed a century before
he landed in the little wayside village in
Colorado. The resident physician at the
home met him, and drew him into the re-
ception room with close. firm clasp of the
hand. "Is she living yet, doctor?' he
gasped, for the awful fear was growing deep
er. "Yes, but she is very, very low. You
must be perfectly quiet before you go
into the room. The least noise might
kill her, so highly strung are her
nerves; but l tell you now, if she lives it
will be owing entirely to Miss Maggie's
attention and nursing. She never leaves
her. She seems endowed with superhuman
strength. She has done everything possible
| to win May back to life. You owe her
much, Mr.. Phelps" The miserable father
buried his face in his hands and groaned
heavily. Ahl the waves of anguish swept
from him every earthly excuse he had ever
clung to fox his desertion Of her to whom