THE FORTUNES OF THREE GENERATIONS.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXI, Issue 13370, 24 February 1904, Page 3

THE FORTUNES OF THREE GENERATIONS.

(By WILLIAM R. LIGHTOX.)

Old Bill Faulkner’s clay was par,!. In that.-day lie Lad been a. mighty man, a leader of mighty men, a rude, sturdy fighter, a -very master of robust life and of big affairs. • That was in tire pioneering time, when the Missouri River was the border and all that. lay beyond was wilderness. Then men of primal power had' never wanted for the rough, hard tasks they loved; then they alone had been the geniuses of the land, the prophets and ministers of its destiny. In every battle with the untamed forces of plain and mountain, Faulkner had been foremost in daring and in achievement. He had been a sort 1 of godfather to the new country ; he had given" literally the sweat and blood of his own body for its baptism ; flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone bad been buried in the soil and become, a, part of it, and he had learned to look upon it with feelings of fiery intensity. But the swift, turbid flood of events in the West, called by the sounding no me of progress, had swept that lime very far away, and Old Bill, with ail of his kind, had been thrown high and dry upon - the stands beside the stream, and left there to warp and rot away in disuse. It. was not that his strength had gone from him, leaving him a, crumbling wreck. That was the pTty of it, Kis powers had been at their highest and best when the change came—a change so radical and so rapid that ho could not adapt himself to it. The virility of lyhcb as he had made the wide land pregnant', with great opportunities; new men, with adroiter faculties, had come in to take up the new tasks ; new standards of life had been set; cleverness, cunning, .subtle ingenuity, had taken the place of the downright, forceful qualities that were his. There wn.s no further use for the spirit of the pioneers ; their work was done ; thenceforward life couljl bo to them nothing more, Ilian if marshalling of the hosts of memory. Almost everyone in town know Old Bill by sight When lire town was showing off before , isilors, be was commonly pointed out as oik- 1 of the chief showpieces —ns ‘‘the Hon William Faulkner, one. of our solid citizens.” The' showmen would dwell at large upon his wealth, which ran into hundreds of thousands, some said into a full million; they would call attention In the. half-dozen modern granite piles that were his, and that gave a proud air to the main streets ; they would mention the fa/,-1; that he controlled the town’s strongest bankinghouse, and that lie was, a director ami stockholder in business enterprises too many to be named offhand. He was a line asset in those boastful times. At. other times these same men spoke of him simply as Old Bill Faulkner, and held him in ’ con-! tempt for bis rudeness. |

Kudo, lie surely ivas. His body was of >;nfc bulk, ponderous, coarse-grained, with thick loss and arms, and hands that wove almost umnstrnus; his head was big, broad

and shaggy, set upon a huge neck that was coarsely blotched and wrinkled by the exposure of the old days ; his face, wheh o'ften showed a week’s growth, of stubbly beard, was massive, seamed with purple veins, heavy in its expression to the point of romliveness, with wide, close-set lips, and eyes in- which the old fires smouldered but dully. His dress was never varied for hour nr occasion ; at all. t ifnea he wore cheap, .shapeless trousers, dusty top-boots, a blue flannel shirt with the top-button left unfastened, showing Iris hairy throat, and a shabby, weather-stained fe.lt hat. A cheap cob-pipe, blackened and fouled with years of use, carried continually between his clenched teeth, completed Iris outward presentment —a presentment that might well arouse the derisive scorn of nice folk. Home

paid that hip. uncouth appearance was but boorish affectation ; but they did not know him. This had been the garb of his working days, and he had clung to it in spite of fashion; it was all that remained to him of the time when be had been- a man

amongst men. These later days were, of a deadly tininess for him. They held nothing vital or real —-nothing but his wealth-—and he had como to hate bis money with a bitter hatred, seeing into what straits of inertia it had brought him. Anyone with money could easily take the place that now was his. Ho had never cared for it. In tho old time ho bad fought and laboured for the sheer joy of fighting and labouring, never for the sake of piling up a- fortune. Tha t fortunorereemod lo him now but the dry, bony, grinning skeleton of his- former power. .

He was an early riser. That was lifelong habit , not to bo broken simply because the need was gone. At dawn, in all weathers and all seasons, ho was abroad, always alone, and without apparent purpose save to be out of doors. But he never loitered, as other men do who are killing time ; he walked sturdily, a good five miles an hour, with a long, vigorous, forward fling of his thick kg.% his big shoulders held_ erect, his eyes looking straight ahead. What ho rtnimht. about at those times no one knew, for lie wn.s not a talker. If some passerby gave him a morning greeting, his invariable response was no more than a short, curt nod, delivered without a glance aside. He seemed moodv, brooding, self-absorbed. It was as though the figures of the .-topping, pallid, nervously excited - folk, hurrying to their day’s work withindoors, were to him but, phantasms, compared with the burlier figures that walked in his memory.^ Lnler in the day, when he had fed grossly, like the hearty animal he was, the hours' gathered in weariness. There would most li'kolv bo a mooting of one or. another of his many boards, and ihosc meetings he never shirked. He would march .in with bis rolling stride, drop info his chair, taping the group of starched and perfumed gentlemen,' running his eyes over their immaculate figures in a quick scrutiny. Then lie would tip Lis chair, bark against the wall, cock his great boots up on the table, light his foul pipe, end sit in silence while the business went forward. He was never known to volunteer a word; but all were aware that bis big red oars missed nothin g_ of what was said, for when, in some, extremity, he was appealed to for an opinion, bo would growl out a- sparse dozen of short, crisp, rliiirp words, cutting straight to the heart of the mutter in hand, mud causing his daintier felldws to shift in their seats and look at one another in furtive uneasiness. His was the master-mind amongst them all. Yet he loathed the business of trn (flicking and financiering, holding it more chJW’s-plav. It was as a doer, a fighter, in the blaze of sun and the beat of rain, with danger and death in the sir, that, he had tasted the only reality. What did those cunning schemers know of life? Afterward, when there whs nothing more to hold him, he would go to his office—a. small, dingy, unkempt mom on the topmost flonU nf his highest Building—and drag through the hours somehow until the time came for his eveninsr walk. The office was hardly a place of business, for he bad paid agents'who looked after the. petty, harassing details of his affairs ; it. war. more a. phico of retirement. For most of the tbr.o ho lay stretched upon a battered couch, plodding his way through the day’s newspapers, reading every line as though it were a duty of. conscience, and dozing between whikre. . He had few visitors at bis office, save beggars of various ranks, from whining professionals to exquisite patronesses of some fashionable charity. To all of these ho gave prodigally, without distinction, yet with an ill-concealed scorn for the sort of suffering that money could assuage; and not one of these swarming beggars guessed what vaster and drearier sorrows were eating his heart out to an empty shell. When the day had .worn on to sunset he would wander an hour or two about the streets, in the same unseeing, unheeding •fashion, and regularly at half-past nine o’clock he would! turn in, sometimes in a hotel bed, but more often on the narrow couch in his dingy room beneath the roof, to wait for the coming of another day like this.

Of course, there were many stories afloat concerning him; stories good and bad, and all tope enough—for, being strongly human, he had mixed plenty of bad with the good in his life. The story oftenest told was one that revealed the relations between himself and his only son, whom the sporting element of the town knew as “ Wild Willy.” Except, this “Willy,” Old Bill had no living blood relatives —no kindred at all save a few nondescript odds and ends, distantly linked, whom ho knew chiefly through the fact that they were forever appealing to him to be helped from the pitfalls of their own incompetency. There were those who remembered that he bad idolised his boy in the earlier years. The primitive, sterling manhood of the farther had been sapped out of the son lay tbs indulgences of. wealth,, carried to the last excess. Old Bill had wished to give the boy all that he himself had missed in his youth ; he wished him to have the advantages of a gentleman’s training, so thait lie could pass current amongst gentlemen, since that was the breed that was surely taking possession of the city's newer life; and to that end he had sent the fellow to the best college wherein he could gain entrance. He came cut a> more hopeless vulgarian than before—a, common cadger, vain, weak-willed, sycophantic, with a half dozen mean, vices and a, score of recklessly extravagamt habits; ashamed of Ills former place inAbe social scale, ashamed of his father, with iiO' ambition in life save to find some way of blotting out the- ignominy of his low origin. In him every stern, strong quality of the father was perverted, turned to base, snobbish use. He chose his companions from the city’s flashiest set, seeking to secure bis place by outdreKsing them and ctitdoing them in every contemptible vanity that was theirs. Even though hb -divined the drift or things, Old Bill clung to his boy with a foolisli fondness, hoping against hope, and keeping the fellow supplied with endless sums of money. Walking up tho main street one evening, with the inevitable pipe between his teeth, and his old hat pushed back from his bulging forehead. Bill espied his son approaching with two or three of his companions. All were in evening dress, and carrying themselves with the swagger of their kind. While- they were still a little distance away they halted, and, apparently at a, word from the.son, turned and crossed to the other side of the street. Old Bill crossed after them, and when they entered a- gay bar-room he still followed. They affected not to eeo him. but he pushed ids way into the group as they stood before the bar. Those who 'looked on saw that hh big jaw was set grimly.

“This drink is on me, Willy. ” lie said simply. The son had already -chunk more than arms good for him ; he turned and stared at hi« father with ioy insolence. “ When you see mo with gentlemen ” he- began, but stopped suddenly, cowed by the swift change that came over the old -man’s face. The fires that were covered thick with tho ashes of years biassed up anew in Old Bill at- the cruel insult, and he spoke ns none had ever heard him speak | befos*.

1 “ Since you want it so, we’ll be strangers after this,” Old Bill said at last. “ Yon damned cur! If you dare to speak to me again, till I give you leave, I'll break your neck with my bare hands.”

He turned away with that and lefl them, and in the five years that followed, before tne next event in his life, be kept bin bitter pledge lo the letter. IE the two chanced to come face to face, no word or sign of recognition did Old Bill give. They were .strangers in all particulars save one. On flic clay following the meeting in tho barroom, Old Bill visited his lawjcr and made over to the son the income in rents from one of his downtown buildings —enough to let the boy go bis own way at his own gait. That: he, struck a pace more v/ildly dissolute, than before, Old Bdl seemed neither to know nor to care. If ho ever thought again of that encounter, or felt sorrow or regret at it, no one could do more than guess at his feeling, for his lips were scaled. The only token of change in him was that his grim face grew a little grimmer, as with increasing age, and his interest in his money concerns, always . slight enough, was perceptibly slackened. Life was not the same to him after that, despite his brave pretence. At the end of thoiso five years, the news got around in the town that Old Jiill would soon take his second wife, and the town broke into gleeful laughter, as at a rich joke. His first wife, the mate of his fighting clays, and dead these twenty-odd years, was dimlv remembered by some of the older citizens—a- plain, illiterate, common sort of woman, her body stooped and her hands knotted by the active part she had taken in Old Bill’s early struggles with poverty. Slip had died just when those struggles were definitely ended, and Old Bill had mourned with tho simple sincerity that marked his every show of emotion. It seemed fairly grotesque that he should bn thinking now of a second marriage; and that with Jake Newman’s widow !

She was a good thirty years Bill’s junior ; a beautiful, bold animal, thoroughly broker, to the ways of the world. Her three years of widowhood had given her a reputation which the knowing ones canvassed with rdy winks and nods. She had made Newman’s life a merry perdition for him, with her passionate desire to make herself conspicuous in the town’s fastest social circles; he nnd’been only moderately rich, hut much in love with his money. When he had seen his money dissipated by her masterful hand, with ruin confronting him, he had committed suicide, leaving her only the merest pittance. Every one knew that site would many again when she had found the man she wanted —the man who’ could give her what she wanted. But Old Bill, the worldly-wise! Ares, that was very funny. W,hat.these knowing ones did not know or take into account was That the old man, like all of his make, was simple-hearted as a child in every matter of the affections, and powerless as a child before tho arts of a clever woman who had once made up her mind to dominate him. He ha-d kept throughout his life a primitive, high-mind-ed regard for women, looking upon them all as creatures somehow set apart, front baseness.

Gossip said—and gossip spoke truly — that Willy Faulkner had been first caught in the net of the gay widow’s charms and had laid strong siege to- her, not without encouragement, for she was desperately in need of money, and Willy was but a weak fool whom she could easily manage. But , a second thought cleared her vision and emboldened her to look at the fountain-head of Willy’s wealth; and then Old Bill was a marked man. How she effected it does not much matter; it suffices to say that, a short time after the birth of the rumour, she married him. Rome of the talkers said that he. had cut Willy out, because of the hard feeling between them ; but they did him; an injustice. He was incapable of that. He had yielded helplessly, because his big heart; hungered and thirsted for the companionship ho thought he had fonq-d in this beautiful woman. He forgot his age, forgot his ugliness, forgot everything but the"on© fact that the- regal creature thought well enough of him to become bin wife. He seemed boyishly proud and happy when ho went away cn his wedding journey.

Even before the wedding be had begun the, building of a home in the best quarter of tho city. . No money was to be spared; there would be no other house in that part of the State to equal it in grandeur; it wan to be a. veritable palace. Six months passed before it was completed ; six months in which the woman used her every cleverest art of cajolery, winning old Bill into expenditures that set the town agasp. Ho cared absolutely nothing for the money that ran, out in a, torrent; ho thought it nod spent if it brought such satisfactions as was his. Then, when the house was finished and furnished, and when deeds of trust had made reckless provision for ike woman, Ins awakening came. Thus far she had got all she demanded ; but her ambition did not stop with that. Social' laws were lax enough, in all conscience, in those days in the West, but recognition by the few who made the inii-r | circle had been denied her in the past/and now, with half a million dollars in hex ov\ n | right, she meant to visit punishment upon j the exclusive ones. The uncouth old man, her j husband, would be a stumbling-stone in her j way of triumph, and he must bo put out of 1 the. path.. , , Heifiier was it known just how sue j brought that about; all that people knew was that, when her social campaign began, j Old Bill suddenly returned to his former i manner of life—putting on his old clothes, walking the streets in the old way, sleeping on the' old couch in his dingy room under tho downtown roof, and resuming again the old maskUke stolidity of face, vv h(jtever ho suffered was suffered only in the inner fastnesses of his soul. Never again did he set foot within the doors .of Ins palace. , -V year later, Wdlv took a wife—a fat mate for kin weak nature; a pretty, silly frill, whom Old Bill knew by name, hardly by steht. Not a word came to ihc father concerning the affair, save through the common channel of news. Ho accepted this, as he had learned to accept everything, without the betrayal of feeling. _ ■ The years went by—five, or six, or seven ; Old Bid rather lost count. His wife had trained her coveted place, as absolute dictator in the town’s' social life, whom none dared affront. Her doings, at home and in fashionable circles elsewhere, were famous, notorious. Willy hadj fallen gradually t inevitably, to lower and lower levels of inanity and dissipation. One child had teen born to him, a. son ; but Oid Bill bad not seen the baby, and knew of its existence only by hearsay. It didn’t matter. Rothintr mattered any more. The. world had come to its end for him, long ago, in all important particulars; all that remained was the one minor detail of death. That would come too, by and by ; indeed, it was already making overtures to bfln, inasmuch as his days were but a living death. One day, while ho was abroad on one of his lonely morning walks, a young man stopped him on a street- corner—a- very young man, fresh of face and eager of manner, who showed the -awe he felt in presuming to speak to one so ex'altedi and so envied.

“Mr Faulkner,” he said, “I am Mr Jennings, of tho ‘ Herald.’ Onr Sunday editor has given me an assignment to write (feme articles about the successful men here, getting thorn to tell how they've succeeded, mid you’re tho lir.st one I want, h you have time'lo talk to me fora, little while.” Old Rill stared for a moment into the boyish face. His eyes were dull, as it ho did not quire comprehend what tho youth was driving at. “ Successful men,” he echoed presently. “I don’t believe I’ve got anything lo f-ay about, that." .

“Oh, yes!” the boy returned. “Yoji can say a lot —just the sort of thing ] want —tho fiort of thing that will help the young fellows who are starting out. lou’ve succeeded, you know ”

Old Bill interrupted, scowling. “ Sue teeded! Oh, have I'; What put that no jon in your head!'*

“ Why, the boy stammered, “ why you're—you’re rich—and ” “Rich!” Old ißill spat out the word ns it t lie taste of it sickened him. “Yes, I'm rich, damn me! Look here, youngster, would you trade places with mo? Eh? Do you think I wouldn't trade? Rich! God!” 11c brooded heavily for a time, chewing upon his pipestem. “Rich!” he growled, with a long snarl deep in his throat. “ That, word's the devil's own bait for us all. If you want to tell your fellows how to fail, here’s the a million dollars. When they’ve done it, they’ll know what failure la. I've done it, 'and all I’ve got out of it is distrust of every man, woman and child that breathes on earth. Do you call that success in life? I don't trust one of ’em any more—not one —not one!” He stopped suddenly, abashed by bis own unwonted freedom of speech. “That ain I; the kind of stuff you want for your paper, I reckon,” he said, with a return of his habitual stolid manner. u Don't you print that.”

While they stood together, in mutual, embarrassment., a woman went by them—a pale, pretty ’woman, richly dressed, full of the nervous hurry of one on a shopping errand. She held by the band a tiny boy, ridiculously clad in starched while garments, a beribbontd hat, and short stockings .that left half his legs bare. They were very short legs, that could not keep the pace set by the woman ; he was pulling back upon her hand, dragging his small feet upon the pavement and screaming with fatigue and temper. The woman stopped long enough to give the little fellow a vigorous, angrv shake, jerking him to Tils feet and slapping his flushed check. Old Bill’s gorge rose at the sight. “ Who is that fool woman?” he asked of his companion. “Do you know her?” The hoy stared in his turn. “That? Why. that’s your son’s wife,” he said. “ Yes, of course. Mv son’s wife,” Old Bill echoed, mechanically. Without a- word of parting, he walked after the two, slowly, keeping a. short distance,in the rear. He had no defined purpose, yet he followed on as they threaded their way through the crowds" By and by the woman stopped again, to visit a pettish punishment upon the child. , 'Then Old Bill lengthened his stride and overtook them. He made no bones of his greeting. “ You’ve Mrs Willv Faulkner,” he said. “Do you know me? ■ I’m your husband’s father! Let me take the kid awhile, will vou ?”

She "rave him a swift, keen looking over. Old Bill read doubt in the look. “ I’ll take good care of him,” he said. “I’ll send him out homo after a hit. I’d like to tnke(him.” , She relinquished her charge, not nnwil-

linglr. “ Yw. you can take him,” she said, peevishly, her voice sounding tight ond strained with weariness. “He frets nie more than I can stand, davs like this.” Old Bill stooped and lifted the ba'by in his strong arms. “I’ll send him home,” he said, over his shoulder, and went off in his swinging walk down the street.

The. tot submitted passively to the change. He stopped crying at once, and his tear-stained face took on a look of grave wonder as his eyes searched tie man’s face for the signs on which to base a judgment. He was an odd little chap, with- an indefinable air of sober, aviso maturity, that was almost pathetic in 'Old Bill’s sight. Bill felt i hat'he was being accurately appraised. He held back from speech for a. time, contenting himself with- clasping the bov close against his burly shoulder, smiling kincllv info the serious eyes. “What’s your.name, little man?” he ventured presently. ' The hay spoke wifh a- prematurely distinct accent that somehow seemed to befit him well.

' “ Mv name, is Willy, Percy Claude Faulkner,” he sa.i-d.

“Oh, Lord!” Old Bill groaned. “Willy Percy Claude ! And you’ve got a grandpaw named Bill. Did yon ever bear of him?” “ I’m not got rto grandpaws,” the mite returned, with unvarying gravity. “Bobby Meade, he has got two grand-paws, hut I’m not got no grandpaws. I asked my papa, ami he said I isn’t. He said one of my grandpaws is "up in heaven, maybe, when I asked' him, and he said ”

“Wh.-tfc did ho say. Willy? 1 ’ Old Bill prompted, with, hungry eagerness. i “He said my other grandpaw can g.-> to hell, if ho wants io. My mama told him to be. ashamed of himself, because ‘hell’ isn't a nice word. But my papa says it, and I say it too. when I’m mad, when nurse washes me and pulls my hair. When I tel! mama. ‘ hell.’ she slaps me. Do you think she ought to?” Old Bill walked on blindly, his heart throbbing with pain, his thoughts a. hopeless tangle. “ You’re hurting me,” Willy Percy Claude protested, writrgling under the fierce pressure of the great arms; and Old Bill relaxed (heir torsion. “ I’m your other grandpaw, Willy,” ho Bard, softly. “Your papa made a mistake, didn't he? I’m right here. What do you think about mo, anyway? Are you glad you’ve got me?” / “Yes, I’m glad,” tho hoy answered, with the same odd solemnity. “ Tell me what you think about me, then.” The midget took another long, critical look. “Your face isn’t pretty,” he said. “It isn’t pretty at all; but it looks kind o’ useful, I think.” Then a strange thing - happened. Old Bill laughed—stood stock-still on the walk and laughed aloud ; a great, booming, thunderous laugh, that made tho walls of tho towering buildings ring with echoes ; laughed until the tears filled his eyes, and ho had to loan for support against an area railing. The passers-by halted in their hurry and stood looking on, as at a rare show. “ You’ll do, kid!” Old Bill cried, when he could speak. “ Now, come on. Wc’ro going to have a lark, you and me. What do you Tike to eat. the very best in the world?” “Pie!” Willy Percy Claude answered, promptly. “ And bolony! I like them the very bestest, because yon know they aren’t good for mo. Let’s ns have them.” Old Bill brought prodigally of, tho proscribed dainties. With their bundles they sought the seclusion of tho upper room, where Bill locked the door on the inside; They feasted royally, and through the golden hours of the afternoon they kept to their retreat. Again; and again and again was Old Bill surprised into a burst of titanic mirth —he, with whom the trick of laughter had been almost forgotten. Tho tenants upon the upper floors of the building could not make it out, sake upon tho theory of drink. But the time was not wholly given up to laughter. Once' Old Bill asked of the boy : “°Say, Willy, is your papa good to you?” And the child’s artless answer laid a weight of sadness upon the old man’s heart. " My papa is not good to me,'’ Willy answered, gravely matter-of-fact. “ Nobody is good to me, only you. I like von. When ray papa gets drunk, lies sort of kind to me; bub when.- he gets drunkhesays ‘hell’ and bad words, and my mama won’t lot me stay. And when he doesn't ger. drunk ho gets nervous. Do you get nervous when ycni’re not drunk ! My mama, and papa- are. awful cross to each other. My mama calls my pap a boaete and my paua calls iny'mnmx old cat. Isn't a cat a kind of beast, 1 think it is- And once, whv, once m y , papa- knocked my mamai down with his fist, and marie her hair all over bloody. 1 saw it, and it made me dreadful sorry. Wouldn’t you be dreadful snrrv?” <

It was a hideous picture, (he baby drew, in his innocence ; .the man s face grew drawn and grey with pain as lie contemplated it. A son of his striking a woman! When* evening came on, Old Bill was , not yet ready to part with his companion. 1 He despatched a brief message (o his son's home, saying that he would keep the boy over-night. By and by the little fellow fell ■asleep in his arms ; and then Old Bill laid him gently down upon the ragged couch, j undressing him with awkward, unaccus- > tomed hands, and covering him snugly with a, big overcoat. He did not sleep himself, hut sab all night long beside the couch,

holding one of the tiny, soft hands in his, dreaming strange waking dreams. In the early morning they breakfasted together upon more pie and “ bolony.” When the time came for Bill to go to one of his board meetings, they parted with lingering fondness. Willy Percy Claud© cast his small arms tight about the thick, ugly neck and pressed his lips aigainst the blotched cheek in a. kiss of ecstatic fervour. “ I love you!” he cried 1 . |

They did not meet again for threa months. But the time was not vacant for Old Bill. He had something good to think about.

One morning in the early winter, as ho read the day’s newspapers in his office, a bluff old physician entered with a hasty message.

"Y r our son’s little boy is sick,” he said, abruptly. “Dangerously, I’m ( nfraid. There are strong symptoms of meningitis. He’s crying for you, and won’t be quietYou’d better go out, if you can.” Old Bill got heavily to his feet, groping for his hat;and coat. “What—who ” he blundered, vainly trying to form a question.

“ His mother’s gone,” the physician said, with a blunt economy of words. “ She quit her husband two weeks ago. Hadn’t, you heard? And your son’s on a big drunk—has 'been. ever since she went ,away- I found him a bit ago in Doherty’s place, and tried to send him home; but I couldn’t make him- understand anything. You'd better go, Bill.” And Old Bill went, at mad speed. The deserted home, with its crass parade of rich luxury, seemed very unreal, almost unearthly, with ’its still atmosphere, in which the spirit of tragedy hovered like soihething tangible. Stiff, formal servants were about in plenty, and one of these led. Old Bill'to the sick-room where his baby grandson lay, in dire extremity, his flaxen head rolling upon the pillow, his parched lips babbling foolishly. At sight of the plain old faco that benf above him,' his hands vvere outstretched.

“Grandpaw!” he whispered. “Take mo, grandpaw.”

Old l Bill lifted the hot body from the bed and sat down in a 'deep, chair before the open fire that- blazed in the room. There he sat for two days and two nights, motionless, silent, sleepless, tireless, with the small -head resting against his breast. Trained nurses were by to do their needful offices ; but the chief office was - Bill’s. Not for a moment would he surrender his charge into other hands. The whole of life—life temporal and life eternal-seemed present with him just then,; time and eternity"' were in those forty-eight hours.; Sometimes, at broken intervals, the chili would . drop into troubled sleep; sometimes lie would seem to be almost, himself; oftener he was tossing and crying in delirium. Once a terrible convulsion seized him, and Old Bill thought the end ■had come. When the doctor came he, would not commit himself to prophecy. 1 “To-night’ll tell,” was all he would say. Toward midnight the baby’s fevered restlessness passed into the quiet of a profound sleep, and hope quickened in ' Old Bill’s heart. A nurse dosed before the fire, crouched! upon the hearthrug. Silence bung heavy without- and within. Once the baby woke long enough to ask drowsily for a drink of water, then cuddled down again in his •resting-place,' his breathing deep and even. Bill’s eyes did not leave the pale little face; minutes and hours were blurred into a mere pulseless duration. A distant door opened and closed, steps sounded faintly along the thick carpet in the hallway, and the child’s father entered the rooms. At the door he paused, blinking and shaking, then crossed the floor fdowlv, uncertainly, and stood at Bill’s side. The wild years had stamped themselves deeply upon him; the traces of his last debauch were on his face, but- there was another fire than that of mere bestiality in his eyes as they rested upon -the squall sufferer. As he looked, he sank to his knees, beating his clenched fists together. “My God! -My God!”- he breathed, and bent his dishevelled l head upon the chairarm, sobbing aloud. 01(1 Bill put out his big, coarse hand and laid it- upon the bowed head,'stroking the tumbled hair with a light touch.. “Hush, Willy,” ho whispered. “Don’t do "that, boy : you'll wake him up. He’s got to

sleep.” Willy’s hand sought his father’s, clasping it with a; straining pressure ; and thus they sat, side t>y side, while the miracle worked itself out. When the doctor came agaih and saw the child, an hour or two afterward, he sighed with; relief. “ He’ll do now,” he said, quietly. ■ “ You’d better put him in his bed. ■■ He’ll sleep soundly for hours yet, and you, need some rest yourself. Give me a place to lie down, and.l’ll stay till morning.” ‘ , Tho, grey dawn came, and all was well. Old Bill, and his boy stood together at the bedside, looking upon the tranquil sleeper. They had hardly spoken in the interval; but’now Old Bill said, slowly, dully, aa though he found it hard to breads: through, the shell of his long silence: ' He’s made me think, Willy—the little chap. It’s been; like, old times, somehow, holding him—a longtime ago, when you was—something like him.” , . ’ Their eyes met, and,the years and their nameless cruelties became as nothing. The young man’s arm was laid across the . old man’s broad shoulders.

“ Father ” he faltered, and could get no further.

“Don’t, . Willy,” Old Bill sighed.' “ What’s the use? It’s all right, boy— all right. We’ve got to hang together, soniohow, you and me and him.”

Tiio Venice Campanile, which collapsed on July M last, was built of brick, aad its foundations' were' stone, resting oa timber piles buried 20ft below ground.