THE NOVELIST.

Daily Telegraph (Napier), Issue 5923, 30 August 1890, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE NOVELIST.

THE JUDGE

CHAI'TEK XXII

Liberty is valuable only under certain conditions. Harry did not especially prize it when it came to him. Dostmy liml him l>y tlio tlmmt. There was no escape apparently—mr destiny is not a slight opponent. ' What i.» do Hi*. 1. was it question that he might well lind it .liftieult to answer. To timl Mar.iraret was to find tlio -ludge, and the least that, IlaiTVomld wish, was the judge should not'l...' found. It w the. .oro. impossible Io put detectives mi their track. The -.earch must he conducted quietly. ■Pond did not conic near him. and lie did not look him up. lie was thankful from the bottom of his heart, for the de.otioii Pond had shown iv his cause, and vet he secretly accused him of coarseness* and of sensationalism in his method of showing up the unfortunate 0 l(j man _.or Harry felt so much horror for Mart., ret.':- father. ilavry did not stop to consider that Pond's lirst duty was to his paper, and that Pond had actually heen disloyal to that duty for a time, out of friendship for him. ile only knew that Margaret had been made to suffer. To lind her, and to comfort her. was his on. idea. Tillin .ham marshes were sent to Hi., first thing. altliou-h Harry but little hope of finding the fu_riiives there. A search was made in the city, hut a search can never be thorough in a great city.

Harry was satisfied, after an investi■vation/tlKit Margaret bad plenty of uionev with her. and tint relieved his su.xio'tv slightly. The safe sto;,l open. _. . tb.*'iu.l_e bad left ii that morning ot the flight. Han-v knew em.i_.li of the judge's habits »■» be certain of,he large ; in ,oun, «.:' money he ordinarily kept there, and it*- K.-sont moneyless n ~..1--ti„n assured him thai the leave-tak'mg liad IV! been without calmness. Mrs. McKee. th" tilouriifii! hoiiseke .per. was. fortunately, phevd :•■'■ 'a-- . -< «■'<- something ..f'.er ye::;- ot waning to jind ; „, ade.,ua- ■•'.":••! for 1.--r talent for sorrow. .he had s-.mp.y swartlt.--i herself in the habiimen: s of woe. and 1!1 „ved with a slow and -lately grace that suggested the funeral rort'-g". >ne recalled iiirideriis : n lh" l:!"oi Margaret incident- of kindness—and told tlu-m -.villi a .--.vi ..;" oi.itual accent. Harry [mind door h-11 muti!" 1. am. tinchairs lied up in '1'" llehair! "00-r-. while the piano was covered with a . haMlv winding sheet. X-t a Im-- or 1 el.ie' eoitld IIa.TV lind. thai wail, '..v. hint of Margaret's hiding plan. : ul ,n,eeam".otl,"e.,iel„-ionH,alshe had gone withoui plans, and had , <>ne where chalice directed. lie dosed im th" house. .."pi .Ml,-. )|,|{,v and the -tab!.' iad t > iook after j.,. house and direc-d the r-st . . ticservants ,„ lind other ma.-e-. I he i-,,,1. ..'s ,-oom he thought best to io.k up. To be sure lb" p.lhv lia-l alr-ady nmi-a-ved in it. but wiib.oui tiiidiuganythmg ;,n llt erest ,o,hem. bm i< "a- impos.'.----),,],,,e. tell what luightd'e Colieea,"! I here. h was a trial that „ 1- poetic man might have suffered fr0,,,, to cimr th" room where Margaret had si.-pi ~,rough all be- sweet gVlhood. Not a .1n... wa, disturbed. Jn i!te closet hung he ,l lV s.es so dearly familiar: on t.i.- table Avere the late magazines and < h- b ■oks ,!,..( she and Ilarrv ho cd. and ha.l read „..r ami over togeiher for many year--. T^^erfmue^.theiewelcases.tlr.poned ,h- divan with „s lurkish cwftii-.n- all wrung his heart want her f-_.iliarity. Standing -ml" by side n »r the divan were two htth- sl.ppcrs o_,t bore the imprint oi her 1.-.-t stih. Above was a guitar with its worn ribbon.

Over on Walnut street .-« rep-nimn of the trial await-l him. But Margaret had never impressed her individuality upm, ,i,_t pia.v. . n ™< «-»■. y damsel who was v.s.blc th-re m he l-ri.ditnessaiidtheairoi industry. 1 he toon, was somewhat too crude, too gay. for Margaret. A simple taste and a n.o-my one was visible there Margaret Jl luxurious habits ami ._ lov lor rare an-T historic things. A pleasant little Jen t hough, did Harry f.ndit, although the poor'little mist res. was not m a -pleasant mood. She was engag-d „. {~'-:„,. down th" fashion plat-s that ■; unc /..n ,1," walls, nnd as -he ,le. so .he heaved many a grevmus sigh. Harry had neyer met,l." httle damsel. l„ lt shc'kncw who he was immediately, from the picture of him sh- had seen. .„„] ,■„, held our both hands with a „,,.,, .;,,„• .Vesture of welcome, v.rv eiigagtu,- ". . , Something about he- sn r.ty brought t!,e tears to Harry's hot eyes. • There i-- not.'- that I can thmk ot. except mv own dear girl, that I. Would he so glad to see as you." he -aid with truth

- Dear. me. v.-.' said .leanne meo],erentlv. • No more glad than I, I guess. •Sit down. Yon are awfully white 'H,,w do Vol! feel '.'' • feel pretty well." said Harry, growing laconic, merely b-eause she wa-. • Last few days hard on you. no doubt.' 'Y)h. terribly. I have got the megrims, ■j-hat i- the way grandma would express ;,' 1 a m packing up. Papa I- to come for me voii know. He would have <~,„„. several days ago, o„!y 1 put him of*' Someway 1 could not get over the i.le's that Miss Margaret, might want n .,,;\ U] , U o,„e hen- ,o look forme. If _l,e catlie. I could not bear that ,U<should lind me gone » \n«l vet they say thai women do A Who SiIAS ii, erted .leanne. p'|t,.l,g J](!l . lll>a ' ll like at, angn -,iano,v. . \„v one whose opinion ,s worth m,y- ---,". ' , J once heard a man .-a\, Ie "T"'", '-'c. mi: ...»' I" 1 " 1 -' ' 1J "" . i" ........ '..111.- »•".' Il ""- ---'". r ::- i !;;;,rn:., T y.v.,, i..... >. t ' l- uivsell that the men va bo ~iv ' lt,lD ,'oi the inability of,omen

themselves. Have you any idea—for I value a woman's opinion—that Margaret is in the city ?* *Xo. [haven't.'said .leanne. thoughtfully. • I think if she had been in the city she would have let me know. But anyway, I think she would get out as early as possible." •l>o you suppose the judge would have his wits about him ?' *01i! do not speak of him,' cried Jeanne, putting a minute hit of muslin up to her eyes, • 1 shudder when I think of her being alone with that monster ! At night I dream that she is dead— killed. How can we tell where he might lake her to. or what he iiii.__ht do .' That is what gives me the megrims, you know.* with a sudden smile breaking out.

' 1 don't believe anything could give them to you very long, could it?'

'Not very.'.leanne confessed. 'There are times when I think that my way being pleased all the time—or almost all tlio time— is actually coarse. lint _lis. _ largaret liked it". She said it was worth the price of admisson just to see me smile. She called me her patent smiler. And now, where is she, Mr. Leiter.' The tears followed close ou the heels of the last smile.

'T should have thought the smiles beautiful anyway. Miss Whitfield, but I am hound to do so now that Margaretdid.' said Harry, ignoring the tears for diplomatic reasons, that every man will understand.

'Mr. Leiter." said Jeanne suddenly, growing a little white about the mouth. • I want, to know if you are going back on Mr. Pond.'

' Going back on him ? What do you meat! .' Why should I?' ' He thinks you and he can never be friends again now.'

• Well, it is ipiitefrue.Miss Whitfield, that he did promise me that he would not betray the judge. We held that knowledge in common, and he swore io me that it should not be made public'

' Hut it .-.is to s-.v. your li. . Don't yon see .' He would never ha\"e broken his word otherwise. You knoAv he never would. Mr. Leiter."

• Well, certainly. I shall always count him my friend. f know how devoted he was. Yet i think the temptation to do a piece of brilliant newspaper work brought about the exposure as much as any de-ire to help me. And yet, do not imagine that 1 underestimate his kindness. Hut for him Margate, might lie safe now." ' With yon under sentence of death, and .ith her living in the house with her mad fat iter .' 1 think she would have been in a . oi.e way than she is HoW .* • Perhaps she Would —if i, could be v.oi-5... Do you think 1 shall ever have her back again .'" •! am sure of it. 1 —I feel it in my b.nes, Mr. Leiter.' • 1 h,,pe your hones ar- 1 pro, .leiie." said Harry. V. ith a look <-f wi-; fulness. • 1 have no such pleasant inward assurance. ■! am imi a prophet myself. 1 have heard thai woiii"ii never are." •Oh ! There's Mother . hipim and Cassandra.' • They are ;.,,( very well autli-iitieaied. are they .'. • Nothing is, that happened vester lay. I have heard it said that it was p .ssihle , . j.i-ov,- thai Napoha.n Honaparte never existed." ■ I wish it were possible to prove that I am right about Margaret." • 1 have got to prove il some way. This is mi- .-.,;•]• mm. My occupations niv gone now. and 1 will devote my t initio (hiding my poor girl.' • What are you going to do with your lloUse .'" • Wnh uncle's house .' It is mine. I ! suppose. 1 shall sd! it. f could 1,0, stand it to live- in tlmse dear rooms now. They an- ruined for me. 1 should see that terrible figure whenever 1 entered the beautiful old music room. You never saw it. Miss Whitfield . You ought to. I shall give the violins to an old collector who lias grown sour envying uncle the possession of them. He'luiS offered fortunes for them, but I will surprise him by making him a present of iheui. It "ill more than iikelv kill him. He is silbicet to apoplexy.' ■ You will get your revenge and be generous at the sa time." ' Precisely. 1 have found a purchaser for tie- iild lious". and most of the furnit lire goes with it. ■ What a pity it s.-ems .' • Doesn't it .' T'llt 1 oollbi 110 l live among those, things. If ever happy days come to me again, they must, he spent faraway from her", and in anew, bright home. I shall miss the old. rich associations. Hut 1 must have my household goods fresh and pure—not wish she memory of terrible deeds upon them.' • Yi--.' cued the little damsel, furnishing Margaret's home in iter mind's eye, • yoti must have (lowers, and clean curtains, and wood .lours, and—•—'

I •That is it : you grasp the idea j exactly. And pictures of pleasant i places, and statues of happy gods and j people—none with the old tragedies i j upon them. No dying gladiators, no '.Ophelias, no (Mho'los, no mourning i .-'appbos. Only Mercury and Pan. and j l'osalind. and Kros ' I • I am sure lie is no give;- of happiness. I If am one has tie- shadow ~f the trage- ! dies upon him, he has/ : • Lh ! Vmi arc not -~,•;,,! ls » \y { .\] ; its none of my business—but you know j I want to help you in anything I can. ; Of course I do not need t,. say thai, do i .' I Is there anything i can do for you .'" j • Ho .' No. There is nothing the I matter with me. I suppos,. | VMI make j tin absiraei remark, as Mr. Potid would ' '■ Doe,. |> llM ,l come here inucll /' I ' N-no : lei very much.' Jeanne i turii.-d her attention once more to the ; fashion plates, which were imtall taken | down yd. • I shall see nothing of him : ; now, for 1 am going home j ■ l>o y.,11 live in an impregnable castle - i then, may I ask •?' ' ! ' I live in a funny farm house |' ; . 1 I has painted it :[ p : ,h- pink. | „.,.;,„ Air. , Pond ivdl never .-.,., vi , j,.,, |- a| . ■• ■ i ' • N '": ' -uppos,- a man u,..,l t(1 raeiim ' ' "ver the < linen; a.- h- j s will „,, t he i a hi.- Io make' a trip of |j V( . ,„• s j x ~„■],s y ' What, will Mr. ion.l e_ ime ~u t to ii

I dull farm-house for .' T cannot imagine I him making such an effort. Why do jwe talk about, it at all .' You must } think me very familiar for a stranger. I Mr. Loiter.' '

' Our acquaintance lias been cemented by too many sorrows—common sorrows —for us to be strangers. 1 have heard a great deal about you. and if anything could make me happy now. or lift this load that 1 am conscious of day and night, it would be meeting you."

' You are ever and ever so kind to say so, ami I believe you mean it. We will both lie happier some time."

• .Ye must, pass through deep waters first, then. Hut I forget that these troubles touch you only remotely, and that your friendship all comes from your kindness of heart, merely,'

•We all love Margaret,' said the little damsel softly. 'That is the bond." She looked vei'y dainty indeed as she stood there, flushed with feeling and a trille tremulous about the lip.. Her transparent skin was as fair to look at as a rose with ihc dew on it. Her lashes, moist, with tender drops, revealed, yet concealed, her friendly eyes. Looking at her so, Harry said she, stood for whatever was womanly, unselfish, true, and homelike. .lust then then there was a knock at the door. •('mucin.' cried.leanne. It was Pond who responded. • T beg pardon." he said. No one had the grace to make a reply, .le-inne flushed scarlet now. and Harry had some trouble in stammering out a * Glad to see you." I»ut the apprehensive eyes of the little damsel noticed that they did not shake hands.

- 1 owe yoti a great debt' said Harry stilly. '1 ought to have written ; but it, is not easy to thank a man tor doing what, you did for me."

• I can see very well that you think I was not. disinterested. Well, then, I was. Cut. you will know about that some day. And then .1 suppose you will think worse of me than ever."

• Think worse of you ! Are you trying to pick a quarrel. Pond .' What should I lime against vmi .'"

Well. 1 kept you from being a marThat is hard to forgive, I should

•Now you are together,' broke in .leanne. finding her tongue and her tact, • Why don', you talk about the best wav to lind Margaret .'"

•Sure enough,' cried Pond. looking at her with thankful eyes, 'that would he more like it. Ask us to sit down, Miss Whitfield. We must begin sonic

• Hy to-morrow or the next day.' said Harry, taking the chair set for him, •my business affairs will be brought to an end. The- house, th" horses, the furniture, and all the rest will be sold, and [ shall be free to wonder where I

wili. l-'rom that time I will devote mvseif to my melancholy search. Mr. P..nd. Dennis looked up sharply at the • Mister." but said nothing.

Then they talked for an hour, but as Jeanne remarked to herself after they 'eft, thoy <lj,l not seem to arrive at very much.

• Thai is a jewel—that little girl," said Ilarrv to Pond, with the first really cordial lone he had used.

•She is that,' replied Pond.. 'Odd that I do not fall in love Avith her. isn't

CHAPTKK XXIII

The traveller is apt to stumble upon titiv villages anywhere upon the Illinois prairie It is difficult to determine what excuse for existence these little hamlets have, unless it is to supply a postollice, and thus apologise for our great system ~f inconvenience known as our postal

• service.' The busy farmer drives from three to twenty miles f„r his letters to one of these dreamy little towns, aud the grocer, th" butcher, and the dry goods merchant availing tbemselvesof this impertinence on the part of the government, bring their wares where they will tempt and console the neglected and put-upoii farmer. Less than fifty miles from Chicago is such a place known by the name of Hathorne it had no manufactories, few enterprises, no competition—and the post.-ilice. The acquaintainee of the neighbors, one with another, was intimate. Hach woman know exactly how many rinsing waters her neighbor put her wash through, and there' Avas a iccijie for graham gems Avhich Avas common property, and which avus <>i-

U'wd to each new comer as a guarantee ~f good fellowship.

ln the midst of one of the grassy .streets of this friendly hamlet had stood for several years, a deserted .smithy. The horse of the neighboring farmers were shod at a brisk place down the west road, and no enterprise of a competitive nature was started, ilathorne was not a little surprised, therefore, Avhen it became aware one morning that a genial glow from ihe old forge lit up the cob-webhy interior, and the resonant clang of the anvil was breaking tin- quiet of the morning. ('lose upon this discovery came Will Wiiidoin. the urbane mid plethoric 'real estate dealer,' of the place, who gave it forth at every door that the day before a. strange old man had visited his place and purchased the old smithy ' for clean spot cash.' This last announcement alone was calculated to arouse public amazement. To what a degree, then, Avas. it agitated Avhen the daughter of the old blacksmith avus seen going from place to place purchasing the necessities for housekeeping. So many things hiul not been sold in the (own m one day for many a long month. There were apartments above the smithy and these were selected by the daughter as the best living rooms to lie bad for the price in town. Low,large, and melancholy, they had a peculiar, not easily defined charm, especially on a day when the tender spring rain came falling ! with musical resonance upon the root, as it did on this day,

• Father h:>.> not done any blacksmithing for a long time' the girl com lided o\ ci- i he counter to the furniture dealer. ' But his health has failed him at. bookkeeping, and hard work of a physical sort is the best, thing for him, the doctor says.' This tale, was rapidly

circulated, and before night the old man possessed an able assistant in the person of a young man who concluded that he could better himself hy leaving the smithy down the west road.

Some great willows thing their limbs against, the upper windows of the smithy, and the smith's daughter appeared to set much store hy them. Already a tender flush was to be seen in their supple branches and it was evident that tlio youngling-? of spring would soon appear. Leaning out of ihe hare window, th. smith's daughter felt these branches with loving and curious hands. The new assistant, hidden in the shelter of an awning across the street, found chance to scrutinize lier as she did so. She was very pale, and wonderfully sad, but she looked as if she knew how to be happy, and he could not help seeing that she was very pretty in spite of the ugly manner in which her hair was shaved. She wore a dress of purple calico, with a large handkerchief of cream silk knotted" about her throat. The young maiden. of Hathorne would not, have appeared in a dress so devoid of 'style' under any circumstances. But*then, to he sure, one had no right, to expect much of a blacksmith's daughter.

The watching matrons Avere in some doubt about this young girl. It stood to reason that she had been used to work all her life, and yet she certainly had a very remarkable, way of doing things. there was a shaking of the feminine heads at the way she went at her Avork. For instance, she innocently went about settling the sitting-room first, with no thought for tbe kitchen, and When the dinner hour arrived she actually Avent over to the town hotel with her father, instead of heating tea on a neighboring stove, as it had been hoped that she would do. Hero was an obvious waste on the part of the young maiden which the frugal matrons Avere sorry to see. It Avas impossible to get more than a word with her which AVaS another thing against her — for she staved with hor father constantly, and it was noticed that though she Avas very quiet and sad when she was out. of his'sight. that she affected great merriment when with him, and Avas even heard to sing little songs in a very sweet and joyous voice.

■ When she" had put matting down on (he floors of the room, and had the walls—which Avere ceiled—gone over Avith a ncAv coat of paint, and put flowers at (he AvimloAvs, with some light muslin hangings, the old placa became quite transformed. She found part of a set of quaint blue dishes and had them put in a cabinet that the furniture dealer had despaired of ever selling, and she laid in a good store of them, which was the one thing the housewives admired her for. But once settled, she seemed to care little for keeping the house up, and general disapproval spread about, the neighborhood when sho hired a woman to do the Avork for her. while she sat for the most part in the blacksmith shop with her father. Now a blacksmith simp is the place of all places for men to congregate, and is certainly no place for a young girl, even though she bear herself with the greatest discretion. But not, at all did the smith's daughter mind the criticisms passed upon her, although they were brought to her immediately by the stalwart assistant, Peter Ford. He had no sympathy with these harsh reflections', and vvas ready to stand for his employer's daughter to any length. The gentle Avay in which she thanked him for every favor, and a certain regardful interest she seemed to take in him, touched him deeply. She was not. loud of voice like the other girls in the village, and though she did not look so pretty as they did, with their elaborate over skirts and beribboned hats, she had an eye which pierced him through and through with a sort of pain as he had never felt before. He defended her from the intrusions of the other girls who Avere anxious to visit her, and to talk her over, and he tried with his simple stories to help her pass the evenings, which he spent before the forge, with her father, and herself. Sitting herewith the glow of the fire reflecting in her mournful eyes, poor Jack decided that she was dit.-rent from all the other women in the world.

■ What is your first name ?' he asked one evening.' ' 1 only hear your father call yon daughter.' No answer came at first. Instead of replying the smith's daughter colored a painful red, and avoided bis glance. Poor .lack was overjoyed at this confusion, and set it down to embarrassment at the familiarity of his question. But apologies were not in his line, so he waited.

•My name, is Margaret,' she said at length. • but I do not like to be called by it.'

* • Ye don't !' cried the young felloAv heartily, slapping his thigh with a loud laugh." • Well. I think that is as tine a name as ye could find if ye picked it (,'out ver self.' ' Father does not call me that any more' ' He makes a mistake. Why not let me call ye Meg—or Mag. 1 ain't no hand at putting on airs.' • Call me Meg if yu like. But do not be surprised if I do not always answer at once I am not used to the name.' After that, the girl at the shop was known as Meg Farrier, but her father was seldom referred to in any other manner than 'old man Farrier,' an expression Avhich he never resented, but seemed to actually derive some amusement from. Sunday the smith and his daughter appeared at church, clad in some, new garments that, they had purchased the day before at (he I lathoruc dry goods store These garments did not show the aspirations that distinguished the rest of the inhabitants. The people of Hathorne felt that they were as good as any one and they acted as if they did. But Meg Farrier avus dressed in such a severe gown of black, and a wide black hat with nothing but a band of ribbon around it, as though she were anxious, to announce herself a daughter ~f the people. Silently the two — father and daughter—entered, and contrary to the custom of the church, they knelt side by side for a I.ay moments

upon entering, and prayed together, with her hand in his. At the close of the service, to which thoy listened attentively, they went out without stopping to salute their neighbors, as was the habit of the rest, and those who looked closely saw that the old man was trembling, and weeping.

Immediately great hopes were entertained of a conversion, that should afford legitimate theme for church talk for a time, to come, but the hopes entertained were crushed when the. quiet of the Sabbath was broken by the blows of the old man's hammer in the smithy. Labor was not thought too much of at any time in Hathorne, and on Sunday it was deemed a crowning sin. Never before in the history of the place had any one so deliberately offended in this particular, and after the work had gone vigorously on for sonic time, a deacon of the church was delegated to go to the smithy and remonstrate with its new tenant.

Deacon Melton had grown old in the service of the church and its observances. He could not. have told you, had he fried, what part of his life was directed by the Lord and what part by the traditions of the church. Hut there was certainly every authority for (he sinfulness of work on Sunday, and lie accepted his errand with eagerness.

The front door of the smithy was closed and locked, and though he knocked repeatedly, he could not make himself heard above the terrific clangor inside. So the deacon picked his way carefully through the spring mud to the rear of the ..hop. The back door was also closed, but it yielded to Deacon Melton's efforts, and opened.

What, the deacon shay then he will never forget, though he avouUl Avillingly do so. Certainly he will never he able to understand Avhat it all meant, though he lias related the incident to his friends many times and has talked it over with an attention to detail that sliOAved an unconscious absorption of the artistic spirit of the age.

The fire was glowing fiercely, and in (he full sAveep of its red illumination was the old man, . Avinging his hammer with prodigious movements. Those arms Avere strong, but not the arms of a blacksmith. The cords stood out in them but it was from the unwonted straining to which they Avere being subjected, and not from muscular development. And in their gestures Avas a sort of frenzy that amazed and dismayed the deacon, for they wrought no Avork, they merely dashing the resounding implement, against the gloAving iron, without producing any recognizable thing. As the smith raised his eyes at the. opening of the door, the deacon saw depicted upon his face, a suffering so acute, an impatience so intense, that he lost heart and feared to enter. The eyes the smith fixed upon him had no recognition in them ; indeed, the deacon, has since said, they had no humanity. ' 1 killed a coyote, once Avest,' the deacon is Avont fo say in speaking of it, and when he died he had just such a look in his eyes. It Avas an animal look you know, but it, had a sort of horror in it, too.' The smith did not stop for the approach of the deacon, but Avent ou swinging his hammer Avith terrible force, regardless of Avhere it struck or Avhaf. it accomplished. To get within the reach of that SAveeping hammer avus a dangerous thing, and the look in the smith's eyes Avas not inviting. Fascinated, the deacon closed the door behind him and stood silently in the corner, with staring gaze upon the Avild old man. After a time it seemed to him that the blows groAv Aveaker. Then he avus certain that the arms Avere wavering. Finally they trembled convulsively, dropped the huge hammer and fell to the smith's sides. Then the old man raised a changed face. It was haggard, Avorn — and very humble.

' Saved,' he said to himself

Then from out. the shadows at the far end came his daughter. She avus as pale as death, and something more than ordinary fear shone in her large eyes, which wore an unnatural aspect to the bewildered deacon. She held out, her arms to her father, and he fell in them, sobbing like a grieved child.

Tenderly, with soothing Avords, and many puttings of the hand and caressing touches, the daughter led him up the narrow stairs that led to (he apartments above, and as they went the old man still murmured 'saved,' until they were out of hearing. Then the deacon stole aAvay, and told the story to every one he saw. [to bk con tin* i;ki>.]