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9 > Page 9 of Bad Hugh / by Mary J. Holmes.

his broad chest heaved with something like a stifled sob as he recalled the little childish form to which he had clung so madly until the cruel timber struck from him all consciousness, and he let that form go down-down 'neath the treacherous waters of Lake Erie never to come up again alive, for so his uncle told wvhen, weeks after the occurrence, he awoke from the delirious fever which ensued and listened to the sickening detail. " Lost, my boy, lost with many others," was what his uncle had said. Ile heard the words as plainly now as when they first were spoken, remembering how his uncle's voice had faltered, and how the thought had flashed upon his mind that John Stanley's heart was not as hard toward womenkind as people had sup- posed. "Lost"-there was a world of meaning in that word to Hugh more than any one had ever guessed, and, though it was but a child he lost, yet in the quiet night, when all else around Spring Bank was locked in sleep, he often lay thinking of that child and of what he might perhaps have been had she been spared to him. He was thinking of her now, and as he thought visions of a sweet, pale face, shadowed with curls of golden hair, came up before his mind, and he saw again the look of bewildered surprise and pain which shone in the soft, blue eyes and illumined every feature when in an unguarded mo- ment he gave vent to the half infidel principles he had learned from his uncle. Her creed was different from his, and she ex- plained it to him so earnestly, so tearfully, that he had said to her at last he did but jest to hear what she would say, and, though she seemed satisfied, he felt there was a shadow between them-a shadow which was not swept away, even after he prom- ised to read the little Bible she gave him and see for himself whether he or she were right. He 4iad that Bible now hidden away where no curious eye could find it, and carefully folded be- tween its leaves was a curl of golden hair. It was faded now, and its luster was almost gone, but as often as he looked upon it, it brought to mind the bright head it once adorned, and the fearful hour when he became its owner. That tress and the Bible which inclosed it bad made Hugh Worthington a better man. He did not often read the Bible, it is true, and his acquaintances were frequently startled with opinions which had so pained the little girl on board the St. Helena, but this was merely on the surface, for far below the rough exterior there was a world of goodness, a mine of gems, kept bright by memories of the angel SPRING BANK 9