{ title: 'Silver Springs signal. (Silver Springs, N.Y. ;) 1892-19??, December 28, 1916, Page 2, Image 2', download_links: [ { link: 'http://www.loc.gov/rss/ndnp/ndnp.xml', label: 'application/rss+xml', meta: 'News about NYS Historic Newspapers - RSS Feed', }, { link: '/lccn/sn88074193/1916-12-28/ed-1/seq-2/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn88074193/1916-12-28/ed-1/seq-2.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn88074193/1916-12-28/ed-1/seq-2/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn88074193/1916-12-28/ed-1/seq-2/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
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THE SILVER SPRINGS SIGNAL ^ JAMES WITCQMB RILEY All who knew Mr. Clark Intimately, •casually, or by sight alone, smiled al ways, meeting him, and thought, \What . an odd man he is I\ ' Not that there was anything extremely or ridiculously obtrusive in Mr. Clark's peculiarities either ot feature, dress, or deportment, by which a graded estimate of his really quaint character might aptly ' be given rbut rather, perhaps, It was the curious combination of all these things that had gained for Mr. Clark the transient celebrity of being a very eccentric man.' And Mr. Clark, of all the odd inhab itants of the busy metropolis in which he lived, seemed least conscious of tbe fact of his local prominence.\ True it was that when familiarly addressed as \Clark old boy,\ by sportive Indi viduals he never recollected having seen before, he would oftentimes stare blankly in return, and with evident embarrassment; but as these actions may have been attributable to weak eyes, or to the confusion consequent - upon being publicly recognized by the quondam associates of bacchanalian hours, the suggestive facts only served to throw his eccentricities in new re lief. And in the minds of many, that Mr. Clark wns somewhat given to dissi pation, there was but little doubt; for, although In no way, and\ at no time, derelict in the rigid duties imposed I upon him as an accountant i n a whole sale liquor house on South John street, a grand majority of friends had long ago conceded that a certain pufllness of flesh and a soiled-like pallor of com plexion were in nowise the legitimate result of overappllcatlon simply i n the counting room of the establishment In which he found employment; but as to the complicity of Mr. Clark's direct associates In this belief, it i s only jus tice t o the gentleman to state that by them he was held above all such sus picion, from the grny-hutred sentSr of the firm, down to the pink-nosed por ter of the warerooms, who, upon every available occasion, would point out the eccentric Mr. Clark as \the on'y man in the blzuez 'at never sunk a thief er drunk a drop o' 'goods' o' any kind, under no consideration I\ And Mr. Clark himself, when play fully approached on the subject, would quietly assert that never, under any circumstances, had the tnste of ^intox icating liquors passed his Hps, though at such asseverations it was a notice able fact that Mr. Clark's complexion invariably grew more sultry than its wont, and that his eyes, forever moist, grew dewier, and thnt his Hps nnd tongue would seem covertly entering upon some lush \conspiracy which in Its lnclplency he would be forced to smother with his hastily-drawn \ handkerchief. — In point of age Mr. Clark might hove been thirty, thirty-five, or even forty years, were one to venture an opinion solely by outward appearance and under certain circumstances and surroundings. As, for example, when a dozen years ago the writer of this sketch rode twenty miles In n freight caboose with Mr. Clark as the only other passenger, he seemed In age at first not less than thlrty-flve; but on opening a conversation with him, in which he Joined with wonderful vi vacity, a nearer view, and a prolonged and studious one ns well, revealed the rather curious fact that, at the very limit of all allowable supposition, his age could not possibly have exceeded twenty-five. What it was In the, man that struck me as eccentric at that time I have never been wholly able to define, but I recall accurately the most trivial oc currences of our meeting and the very subject matter of our conversation. I even remember the very words in which he declined a drink from my traveling flask^-for \It's a, raw day,\ I said, by-way of gratuitous excuse for \offering It \Yes lie said, smil ingly motioning the temptation aside; \it ia a raw,day; but you're rather young_ In years'to be doctoring the weather^—at lenst you'd better change the treatment—they'll all tie raw days for you after a while I\ I confess that I even'felt an Intvard pity for the / man as I laughingly drained his health * and rettirned-the flask to my valise, But when I asked him, ten minutes later, the nature of the business in —wfflchjje'wns engnged,- J «nd he hand ed 4n \e In response and without com ment the card of a wholesale liquor house, with Tils own name-In crimson lo.tters struck dingonally across' the sur face, I winked naively to -myself\ and thought \Ah-hai\.And as If read\f-nyerged ing-my very musings, he said: \Why certainly, I carry a full line-of sam-. pies; hut, my dear young friend, don't imagine for a minute that I_ refuse your brand on that account You can rest assured that 1 have nothing bet ter In my cades. Whisky is whisky wherever/it is found, and there Is no •best* whisky—not In all the world I\ Truly, 1 thought, this is an odd source for the \emanation of temper ance sentiments—then said aloud: • \And yet you engage in a business you dislike! Traffic In an article that you yourself condemn I Do I under stand you?\ \Might there not be such a thing - ,'' Jie said quietly, \as inheriting & bust- ; ness—the same as inheriting an appe tite? However, one advances by gra dations: I shall jsell no more. This Is my last trip on ,the road in that capacity: I am coming in now to take charge, of tho firm's books. Would be glad to have you call on me any time you're in the city. Good- by.\ And, as he swung off the slow ly-moving train, now entering the city, and I stood watching him from the open door of the caboose as he rapid ly walked down a suburban street I was positive his gait was anything but steady—that the step—the figure—the whole air o£*the man was that of one thenjnborlng under the effects of par tial Intoxication. I have always liked peculiar peo ple; no matter where I met them, no matter who they were; if once im pressed with an eccentricity of char acter which I have reason to believe purely unaffected, I never quite for get the person, name or place of our first meeting, or where the interesting narty may be found again. And so it was i n tbe customary order of things that', during hasty visits to.the city, I often called\\bn the eccentric Mr, Clark, and, v as he had promised on bur first acquaintance, he seemed al ways glad to see and welcome me in his new office. The more I knew of him the more I HkedJiIm, but I think I never fully understood him, No one seemed to know him quite so weU as that Once I had a little private talk re garding him with the senior partner of the firm for which he worked. Mr. Clark, just prior to my cnU, had gone to lunch—would be back in half an hour. Would I wait there In the of fice until his return? Certainly. And the chatty senior entertained me:— Queer fellow—Mr. Clark 1—as his fa ther was before him. Used to be a member of the firm-^hls father; in fact, founded the business—made a fortune at It—failed, for an unfortu nate reason, and went^'up tho flume.\ Paid every dollar that he owed, how ever, sacrificing the very home that sheltered hl3 wife and children—bur never rallied. He had quite a family, then ? Oh, yes; had a family—not a large one, but a bright one—only thoy all seemed more or less unfortunate. The father wns unfortunate—very; and died so, leaving his wife and two boys—the older son much like the fa ther—splendid business capacities, but Incked will—couldn't resist some things—even weaker than the father in that regard, and died at half his age. But the younger brother-;our Mr. Clark—remained, and he was sterling —\straight goods\ in nil respects, Lived with his mother—was her sole support A proud woman, Mrs. Clark —a proud womnn, with a broken spirit —withdrawn entirely from the world, aud had been so for years and years. Tho Clarks, as had been mentioned, were nil peculiar—even the younger Mr. Clark, our friend, I had doubtless noticed was an odd genius, hut-he. had stamina—something solid about 'him for all his eccentricities—could be re lied on. Had been with the house there since a boy of twelve—took him for the father's sake; had never missed a day's time In any line of work that ever hnd been given in his charge—was weakly looking, too. Had worked his way from the collar up— from the least pay to the highest— had saved enough to buy and pay for a comfortable house for his mother and himself, and, still n lad, main tained the expense of companion, at tendant _nnd maid servant for the mother. \Yet with nil this burden on his shoulders, the boy had worried through some way, with a jolly smile and a good word for everyone. \A boy„ sir,\ the enthusiastic senior con cluded—\a boy, sir, that never was a boy, aud never had^ a tnste of genu ine hjjyhood Ih' his life;—no more than he lever took a taste of whisky, and you couldn't get that in him with a funnpl 1\ At this juncture Mr. Clark himself appeared, and in a particularly happy framo of mind. For an hour tho de lighted senior and myself sat laughing at the fellow's anoint conceits and witty sayings, the conversation nt last breaking up with an abrupt proposi tion from Mr. Clark that I remain In the city overnight and accompany him to the theater, an invitation I rather eagerly, accepted. Mr. Clark, thank ing me, and pivoting himself around to him,^letting my hand drop lightly on his arm. - '' Still no response. I only felt the shoulder heave, as with a long-drawn quavering sigh, then heard 'the regu lar though labored breathing of a weary man that slept I had not the heart to waken him; but lifting tho still moistened pen from, bis unconscious fingers, I wrote where I might be found at eight that evening, folded and addressed- the note, and laying, i t on the open page before hlra, turned duletly away. . \Poor man!\ I \mused compassion ately, with a touch of youthful senti ment affecting me.—\Poor man! Working himself into his very grave, and with never a sigh or murmur of complaint—worn and weighed- down with the burden ,of his work, and yet with a nobleness of spirit and re solve that still Conceals behind glad smiles and laughing words the cares that He so heavily upon him I\ The long afternoon went by at last and evening came; and, as promptly as. my note requested, the jovial Mr. Clark appeared, laughing heartily, as we walked off down the street at my explanation of the reason I had writ ten my desires Instead of verbally ad dressing him'; and laughing still loud er when I told him of my fears that he was overworking himself. \Ob no, my friend,\ he answered gayly; \there's flo occasion for anxiety on that account.—But the fact is, old man,\ he went on, half apologetically, \the fact Is, I haven't been so over worked; of lnte, as overwakeful. There's something i n the night I think, that does it Do you know that the night is a great mystery to me—a great mystery I And It seems to be growing on mo all the time. There's the trouble. The night to me is like some vast incomprehensible being. When I write the name 'night' I in stinctively write I t with a capital. And I like my night deep, and dark, and swarthy, don't you know. Now some like clear . and starry nights, butj they're too pale for me—too weak and fragile altogether! They're popular minded of a Httle business I have with him. He i£t about closing, too, and I'U see him now, as I may not be down this way again soon. No; you wait here for me—right here*,\ and he playfully but firmly pushed me back, raq across the street, and en tered the store. Through the open door I saw him shake hands with the man. who stood behind the counter, and stand talking in the same position for some minutes—both stIU clasping hands, as Itfsee'med; but as I mechani cally bent with closer scrutiny, the druggist seemed to be examining the hand of-Mr. Clark and working at it as though picking at a spUnter in the palm—I could not quite determine what was being done, for a glass show case blurred an otherwise clear view of the arms of both from the elbows down. Then they came forward, Mr. Clark arranging his cuffs, and the druggist wrapping up some mipute ar ticle he took from an upper showcase, and handing It to my friend, who placed i t in the pocket of his vest and turned away. At this moment my at tention waa withdrawn by an extra tumult of jeers and harsh laughter in the saloon, from the door of which, even as my friend turned from the door opposite, a drunken woman reeled, and staggering round the cor ner as my friend came up, fell vio lently forward on the pavement, not ten steps In our advance. Instinctive ly, we both sprang to her aid, and bending over the senseless figure, peered curiously at the bruised and bleeding features. My friend was trembling with excitement He clutched wildly at the limp form, try ing, but vainly, to lift the woman to her feet. \Why don't you take hold of her?\ he whispered hoarsely. \Help me with ber—quick 1 qufck I Lift her up!\ I obeyed without a word, though with a-shudder of aversion as a drop of hot, red blood > stung me on the hand. \Now draw her arm about your shoulder—this way—and hold it so! And now your other arm around her waist—quick, man, quick, as you your- on his high stool, with a mccjinnlcal \flood afternoon!\ WtSHft once sub- In his books, while the senior, following me out and stepping into a carriage that stood'waiting for him at the curb, waved me adieu, and was driven,,, away. I turned my steps up \the street but remembering'that my friend had_ fixed no place to meet me in the evening, I stepped hack Into the. storeroom and again pushed open the glass door of the office. - Mr. Clark still sat on the high stool at his desk, his back toward the door, and his ledger spread-out before him. \Mr. Clark!\ I .called. He made no answer. \Mr. Clark l\ I'called again, in an elevated key. , He did not stir. \GOOD NIGHT—GOOD NIGHT!\ with the masses, of course, these blue- eyed, golden-haired, 'moonllght-on-the- lake' nights; but somehow, I don't 'stand In' with them. My favorite night is the pronounced brunette—the darker the better. Tonight Is one of my kind, and she's growing more and more like It all the time. If it were not for depriving you of the theater, I'd rather just drift off now in the deepening gloom till swallowed up in It—lost utterly. Come with me, any how I\ \Gladly I nnswercd, catching some thing of his own enthusiasm; \I my self prefer It tc the play.\ \I heartily congratulate you on your taste,\ he said, diving violently for my hand nnd wringing it \Oh It's going to be grimly glorious !-ra depth of darkness one can wade out Jpto, and knead in his hands like dough 1\ And he laughed, himself, at this grotesque conceit And so wo walked—for hours. Half consciously I had been led by my companion, who for an hour had been drawing closer to me as we walked. His arm, thrust through my own, clung almost affectionately. We Were now In some strange suburb of the city, evidently, too, In a low quar ter, for from the windows of such business rooms and shops as bore any evidence of respectability the lights had been turned out and the doors locked for the night Only a grue some green light was blazing i n a lit tie drug store just opposite, while at- onr left as we turned the corner, a tumble-down saloon sent out on the nig]* a mingled sound of clicking bil liard balls, discordant voices, the harsher rasping of a violin, together with the sullen plankings ot a banjo. \I must leaYe you here for a min ute,\ said my friend, abruptly break ing a long silence, and loosening my I arm. \The druggist over there is a I paused a moment,- then went over 1 patron ot our house, and I am re- self will wont God's arm about you when you fall I Now, come I\ And with ho other word we hurried with our burden up the empty darkness of the Btreet I was utterly bewildered with It nil, but something kept me silent And so we hurried on, and on, and on, our course directed by my now wholly re ticent companion. Where he was go ing, what bis purpose was, I could not but vaguely surmise. I only recog nized that his intentions were hu mane, which fact was emphasized by the extreme caution he took to avoid the two or three late pedestrians that passed us on our way as we stood crowded in concealment—once behind a\ low shed, once In an entry way; and once, at the distant rattle of a police whistler wo hurried through the black ness of a narrow alley Into the' silent street beyond. And on up this wo passed, until at last we paused at the gateway of a cottage on our left On to the door of that we went, my friend first violently jerking the bell, then opening the door with a night key, and with me Uf ting the still sense less woman through the hall Into a dimly-lighted room upon the right, and laying her upon-a clean, white bed that glimmered In the corner. He reached nnd turned the gas on in a flaring jet, and as he did so, \This Is my home,\ he whispered, \and this woman is—my mother!\ He flung himself upon bis knees beside her as he spoke. He laid his quivering Hps against the white hair and the ruddy wound upon the brow; then dappled with his kisses the pale face, and stroked and petted and caressed the -faded hands. \O God!\ he moaned, \If I might only weepl\ The steps of someone coming down the stales aroused him. He stepped quickly to the door, and threw i t open. It was a woman servant. He simply pointed to tho form upon the. bed. ' \Oh sir!\ exclaimed the frightened woman, \what has happened? 'Wiat has happened to my poor dear mis tress?\ \Why did you let her leave the house?\ \She sent me away, sir. I never dreamed that she was going out again. She told me she was very sleepy and wanted to retire, and I helped her to undress before I went But she ain't bad hurt, i s she?\ she continued, stoop ing over the still figure and tenderly smoothing back the disheveled hair.— \It's only the cheek bruised and the forehead -cut a little—it's the b.lood that makes it look like a bad \hurt. See, when I* bathe it, it is not a bad hurt, sir. She's just .been—she.'s just worn-out, poor thing—nnd she's asleep —that's all.\ He made no answer to the woman's speech, but turned toward me. \Five doors from here,\ he said, \and to your left as you go out, you will find the residence of Doctor Worrel. Go to him for me, and tell him Be i s wanted here at once. Tell him my mother is much worse. He will understand. I would go myself, but must see about arranging for your comfort upon your return, for you will not leave me till broad daylight—you must not!\ I bowed la silent acceptance of his wishes, and turned upon my errand. Fortunately, the doctor was at home, and returned at once with me to my friend, where, after a careful exami nation of his patient, he assured the anxious son that the wounds were only slight and that her unconscious condition was simply \the result of overstimulation, perhaps,\ as he deli cately put It She would doubtless waken In her usual rational state—an occurrence really more to be feared than desired, since her peculiar sen sitiveness might feel too keenly tbe unfortunate happening. \Anyway ho continued, \I will call early In the morning, and, In the event of her awakening beforo that time, I will leave a sedative with Mary, with di rections she will attend to. She will remain here at her side. And ns to yourself, Mr. Clark,\ the doctor went on in an anxious tone, as he marked the haggard face and hollow eyes, \I Insist that you retire. You must rest, sir—worrying for the past week as you have been doing is telling on you painfully. You need rest—and you must take It.\ \And I will,\ said Mr. Clark sub missively. Stooping again, he clasped the sleeping face between his hands nnd kissed it tenderly. \Good night I\ I heard him—whisper—\good night— good night!\ He turned, and motion ing for me^to follow, opened the door —\Doctor good night! Good night, Mary I\ He led the way to his own room up stairs. \And now, my friend,\ he said, as he waved me to an easy chair, have but two other favors to ask of you: The first is, that you talk t o me, or read to me, or tell me fairy tales, or riddles—anything, so that you keep it up Incessantly, and never leave off till you find me fast asleep. Then In the next room you will find a comfortableT*down bed. Leave me sleeping here, and you sleep there. And the second favor,\ he continued, with a slow smile and an affected air of great deliberation— \oh well, I'll not nsk the second fa vor of you now. I'U keep It for you till tomorrow.\ And as he turned laughingly away and paced three or four times across the room, in his step, his gait, the general carriage of the figure, I was curiously reminded of the time, years before, that I had watched him from the door of the caboose, as he walked up the subur ban street till the movement of the train had hidden him from view. \Well what will you do?\ he asked, ns he wheeled a cozy-cushioned lounge close beside my chair, and removing his coat, flung himself languidly down. —\Will you talk or read to me?\ \I will read,\ I said, as I picked up a book to begin my vigil. \Hold Just a minute, then,\ he said, drawing a card and pencil from his vest.—\I may want to jot down a note or two.—Now, go ahead.\ I had been reading in a low voice steadily for perhaps nn hour, my com panion never stirring from his first po sition, but although my eyes were never lifted from the book, I knew by the occasional sound of his pencil that he had not yet dropped asleep. And so, without a pause, I read monoto nously on. At last he turned heavily. I paused. With his eyes closed he groped his hand across my knees and grasped my own. \Go on with the reading,\ he said drowsily—\Guess I'm going to sleep now—but you go right on with the story.—Good night l\ His hand fumbled llngerlngly a mo ment then was withdrawn and folded with tbe other on bis breast I read on in a lower tone an hour longer, then paused again to look at my companion. He was sleeping heav ily, and although tbe features in their- .repose appeared unusually pale, a -wholesome perspiration, as it seemed, pervaded all the face, while the breath ing, though labored, was regular. I bent above him to lower the pillow .for ' his head, and the movement half aroused him, as I thought at first, for he muttered something as though im patiently; but listening to catch his mutterlngs, I knew that he was dream ing. \It's what kiUed father,\ I heard him say. \And It's what killed Tom,\ he went on, in a smothered voice; killed both-stilled both! It shan't kUl me; I swear it I could bottle it --case after case—and never touch a drop. If yon never take the first drink, you'll never want it. Mother taught me that What made her ever take the first? Mother I mother t When I get t o be a man, Til bny ber all the fine thiflgs she used to have when* fa ther was alive. Maybe I can buy back the old hornet -with, the roses tip the walk and the sunshino ball.\ nsmne Anting ln ^ •^hd so the sleet„.r , Sometimes the voice J TT u «i ••—-«- urn-it and discordant, sometimes aud cleat and tuneful as a child's. \Never ;nncb whisky!\ be went on, nlir.«.\=t hnrshly \Never—never! Drop in the street first I did. The doctor will com. then? and he knows want. Not whisky.—Mi kind that makes com* *'«\ Jo, •Heine; th« kmakesyouwnnttolh\ \\\\ aKal °- ^S,*™* w * Isk *- L« other ' l, ut *.n't eve, drink it if they want it Si-ll it to them; they'll get it anyhow, hut don't yon touch It! It killed your father, rt killed Tom, and—oh'— mother! mother 1 mother 1\ Tears actually teemed\ 'from underneath the sltvpefs lids, and glittered down the pallid and distorted features. \There u tue&. cine that's good for you when you want whisky,\ he went on—'When you are weak, and ever) body i -l .v ig strong—and always when the flag stones give way beneath. your le«, ana the long street undulates as you walk; why, ,),,,, '\' d waven you to take hnt me u * it quick! Oh.itwdl ! \C 1 ^ Utile pale blue streak /' hands will bulge ( ,ut \l' t0 tingling blood, Ld H \\71 from its stagnant pools „„„ Jrt <* vein to vein till It rendu- v , ,rT farthest height and ^ '.n. \2 and folds down over ley ij,,,-\ !l a like a soft veil mols.,.„,,, „„, ^ warmth. Ah 1 It is so dehrlouMy , v« and restful!\ Mt I heard a moaning i n the r,,,,,,, t*, low. and then steps on the Miur< Z a tapping at the door it M * Mrs. Clark had awakened and wns m. ing for her son. \But we muat not awaken him,\ I said. \Give Mrs Hark the medicine the doctor left for r .et that will quiet her.\ \But she won't take it, sir She won't do anything at all for me- and if Mr. Clark could only cotue to her for a minute, she would—\ The woman's speech wns hmfcen or a shrill cry in the hall, nnd then tie thud of naked feet on the Malnnj, \I want my boy—my boy'\ walled tie hysterical woman from without. \Go t o your mistress—quick.\ I said sternly, pushing the maid from tie room.—\Take her back, I will cone down to your assistance In a moment\ Then I turned hastily to see If the sleeper had been disturbed by tie woman's cries; but all was peaceful with him yet; and so, throwing a cov erlet over him, I drew the d\<ir to si lently and went below I found the wretched mother in an almost frenzied state, and her increas ing violence alarmed me &o that I thought it best to summon the phy sician again; nnd bidding the servant !-ttot to leave her for an in-r mt I hur ried for the help so bndly needed This time the doctor was lung d.iijed al though he Joined me with all pustule haste, and with nil speed accompa nied me back to the unh:ipp\ 1.-uie. Entering the door, our ears w, re greet ed with a shriek that rune piercing the hall till tin- \er\ c hem- shuddered as with fear I: w i- the patient's voice shrilling from the -deep- er's room upstairs:—\O o..d ' .\I> hoy! I want my boy, and he will not waken for me I\ An lnstnnt later we were both upon the scene. The woman in ber frenzj had brok en from tbe servant to find her son. And she had found him. She had wound her arms about him, and had dragged his still sleeping form upon tbe floor. He would not awaken, even though she gripped him to her hpart and shrieked In r very soul out In hii ears. He would not waken. The face, though whiter thus her own, betokened only utt> r rest and peace. We drew her. limp nnd voiceless, from his side. \Wo are too late,\ the doctor whispered, lifting with his finger one of the closed lids, and letting It drop to again.— ^ee here!\ He had been feeling at the wrist; nnd, as he spoke, he slipped the sleeve up, bared the sleeper's arm. From the wrist to elbow it was livid purple, and pitted and scarred with minute wounds—some scarcely sealed as yet with clotted blood. \In heaven's name, what does It all mean?\ I asked. \Morphine said the doctor, \nnd the hypodermic. And here.\ he ex claimed, lifting the other hand—\here is a folded card with your name at tho top.\ I snatched it from him, ami I rend, written in faint but rounded charac ters: \I like t o hear your voice. It s\ unds kind. It is Uke a far-off tune. To drop asleep, though, as I lt \ lng now, is sweeter music—but read »n.— I have taken something to make me sleep, and by mistake I have taken too much; but you will rend right on. Now, mind you, this Is not suicide, as God listens to the whisper of tin- Pen cil ns I write! I did it by rotate. For years and years I hnve taken the same thing. This time I t<\' k t0 ° much—much more than I meant to-- but I am glad. This is tbe second fa vor I would ask: Go to my employ ers tomorrow, show them thW h\ nJ- writing, and say I know for my sake they will take charge of my affair* ana administer alt my estate In the best way suited to my mother's needs. Good-by, my friend—I can only w 'good night' to you when I shall taiw your hand an Instant later and rum away forever.\ , Through tears I read It all. and end ing with his name in fuU I turned ana looked down \on the face of this; mas that I had learned to love, and tw full measure of his needed rest ™ with him; and the rainy day that glow ered and drabbled at the eastern win dow of the room was as drearily stare back at by a hopeless woman a demented eyes,
