xt7kh12v4k6d https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7kh12v4k6d/data/mets.xml Read, Opie Percival, 1852-1939. 1893  books b92-257-31805605 English Laird & Lee, : Chicago : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Colossus  : a novel / by Opie Read. text Colossus  : a novel / by Opie Read. 1893 2002 true xt7kh12v4k6d section xt7kh12v4k6d 




              A NOVEL


            OPIE READ

Author of "The Carpetbagger," "Old Ebenezer,"
"The Jucklins," "My Young Master," "On the
   Suwanee River," "A Kentucky Colonel,"
   "Emmett Bonlore," "A Tennessee
      Judge,""The  Wives of  the
      Prophet," "Len Gansett," "The
         Tear in the Cup and
             Other Stories.



  COPYRIGInT, 1893,
(All rights reserved.)



Chapter.                                          PAGE.
      I. LOOKING BACK AT EARLY LIFE ..................... -..     7
      II. A SLEEPY VILLAGE AND A FUSSY OLD MAN ............. 13
    II1. ALL WAS DARKNESS ................................... 18
    IV. A STRANGE REQUEST .................................. 26
    V. DISSECTING A MOTIVE .................4.. J4
    VI. WAITING AT THE STATION .        ............................  :'7
    VII. A MOTHER'S AFFECTION ........         .............. 46
    VIII. THE DOMAIN OF A GREAT MERCHANT ................... 49
    IX. THE INTERVIEWERS .        ..................................  65
    X. ROMPED WITH THE GIRL ............................... 73
    XI. ACKNOWLEDGED BY SOCIETY ............................ 81
    XII. A DEMOCRACY ......................................... 84
  XIII. BUTTING AGAINST A WALL .         ............................  100
  XIV. A DIFFERENT HANDWRITING ........................... 106
  XV. TOLD HIm HER STORY.........   ............... 111
  X[VI. AN AROUSER OF THE SLEEPY ............................ 117
  XVII. AN OLD MAN WOULD INVEST.12...               16
  XVIII. THE INVESTMEN-T....                         133
  XIX. ARRESTED EVERYWUERE....                      136
  XX. CRIED A SEN;SATION....                       148,
  XXI. A HELPLESS OLD WOMAN .............................. 153
  XXII. To Go ON A VISIT. .  ........... 159
  XXIII. HENRY'S INCONSISTENCY.                      164
  XXIV. WORE A ROSE ON HIS COAT.                     1.
  XXV. 1MPATIENTLY WAITING ................................ 177
  XXVI. TOLD IT ALL ..........................      ............. 18.
XXVIII. THE VERDICT ........................................ 200
XX1X. A DAY OF REST ......................      -    ........ 207,
  XXX. A MOTHER'S REQUEST .................................. 212
  XXXI. A MOMENT OF ARROGANCE.........   ..............   9
XXXII. A MOST PECULIAR FELLOW......  ............... 231
XXXIII. THE TIME WAS DRAWING NEAR .........         ............... 237
XXXIV. TOLD HIM A STORY .................................... 245
XXIV. CONCLUSION ..........                        252

 This page in the original text is blank.


          THE COLOSSUS.

                 CHAPTER I.
WHEN the slow years of youth were gone and the
    hastening time of manhood had come, the first
thing that Henry DeGolyer, looking back, could call
front a my, terious darkness into the dawn of memory
was that 1a awoke one night in the cold arms of his
dead mothc . That was in New Orleans. The boy's
father had aspired to put the face of man upon lasting
canvas, but appetite invited whisky to mix with his art,
and so upon dead walls he painted the trade-mark bull,
and in front of museums he exaggerated the distortion
of the human freak.
  After the death of his mother, the boy was taken to
the Foundlings' Home, where he was scolded by women
and occasionally knocked down by a vagabond older
than himself. Here lie remembered to have seen his
father hut once. It was a Sunday when he came, years
after the gentle creature, holding her child in her arms,
had died at midnight. The painter laughed and cried
and begged an old woman for a drink of brandy. He
went away, and after an age had seemed to pass the
matron of the plaee took the boy on her lap and told



him that his father was dead, and then, putting him
down, she added: "Run along, now, and be-good."
  The boy was taken by an old Italian woman. In
after years he could not determine the length of time
that he had lived in her wretched home, but with vivid
brightness dwelled in his memory the morning when lie
ran away and found a free if not an easy life in the
newsboys' lodging-house.  He sold newspapers, lhe
went to a night school, and as he grew older he picked
up "river items" for an afternoon newspaper.   His
hope was that he might become a "professional jour-
nalist," as certain young men termed themselves; and
study, which in an ill-lighted room, tuned to drowsi-
ness by the buzzing of youthful mumblers, might have
been a chafing task to one who felt not the rowel of a
spurring ambition, was to him a pleasure full of thrill-
ing promises. To him the reporter stood at the high-
water mark of ambition's "freshet." But when years
had passed and he had scrambled to that place he
looked down and saw that his height was not a dizzy
one. And instead of viewing a conquered province, he
saw, falling from above, the shadows of trials yet to be
endured. lie wor Ad faithfully, and at one time held
the place of city editor, but a change in the manage-
ment of the paper not only reduced him to the ranks,
but, as the saying went, set him  on the sidewalk.
Then he wrote "specials."   THis work was bright,
original and strong, and was reproduced throughout
the country, but as it was not signed, the paper alone
received the credit. Year after year he lived in this
unsettled way - reading in the public library, musing
at his own fireside, catching glimpses of an important
work which the future seemed to hold, and waiting for




the outlines of that work to become more distinct; but
the months went by and the plan of the work remained
in the shadow of the coming years.
  DeGolyer had now reached that time of life when a
wise man begins strongly to suspect that the past is but
a future stripped of its delusions. Ile was a man of
more than ordinary appearance; indeed, people who
knew him, and who believed that size grants the same
advantages to all vocations, wondered why he was not
more successful. He was tall and strong, and in his
bearing there was an ease which, to one who recognizes
not a sleeping nerve force, would have suggested the
idea of laziness. His complexion was rather dark, his
eyes were black, and his hair was a dark brown. He
was not handsome, but his sad face was impressive, and
his smile, a mere melancholy recognition that some-
thing had been said, did not soon fade from memory.
  One afternoon DeGolyer called at the office of a
morning newspaper, and was told that the managing
editor wanted to see him. When he was shown in he
found an aspiring politician laughing with forced
heartiness at something which the editor had said. To
the Southern politician the humor of an influential
editor is full of a delicious mellowness.
  When the politician Vent out the editor invited
DeGolver to take a scat. "iMr. [)cGolyer, a number of
your sketches have been well received."
  "Yes, sir; they have made me a few encouraging
  The editor smiledl. "And you regard enemnies as an
encouragement, el 1] "
  "Yes, as a proof of success. Our friends mark out
a course for us, and if we depart from it and do some-




thing better than their specifications call for, they
become our enemies."
  "I don't know but you are right."   After a short
silence the edito: continued: "MA1r. DeGolyer, we
have been thinking of sending a man down into
Costa Rica. Our meexhants believe that if we were to
pay more attention to that country we might thereby
improve our trade. W1lat we want is a number of let-
ters intended to familiarize us with those people -want
to show, you understand, that we are interested in
them. "
  They talked during an hour. The next day DeGolyer
was on board a steamer bound for Punta Arenas. On the
vessel he met a young man who said that his name was
Henry Sawyer; and this young man was so blithe and
light-hearted that DeGolver, yielding to the persuasion
of contrast, was (Irawn toward him.  Young Sawyer
was accompanied by his uncle, a short, fat, and at times
a crusty old fellow. DeGolver did not think that the
uncle was wholly sound of mind. One evening, just
before reaching port, and while the two young men
were standing on deck, looking landward, young Saw-
yer said:
  "D Do you know, I think more of you than of any fel-
low I ever met  "
  "I don't know it," DeGolyer answered, "but I am
tempted to hope so."
  " Good. I do, and that's a fact. You see, I've led a
most peculiar sort of life. I never had any home -
that is, any real home. I don't remember a thing about
my fatther and mother. They died when I was very
young, and then my uncle took me. Uncle never mar-
ried and never was particularly attached to any one



place. We have traveled a good deal; have lived quite
a while in New Orleans, but for the past two years we
have lived in a little bit of a place called Ulmata, in
central Costa Rica. Uncle's got an interest in some
mines not far from there. Say, why wouldn't it be a
good idea for you to go to Uilmata and write your let-
ters from there  Ain't any railroad, but there's a mule
line running to the coast. IHow does it strike you "
  "I'd like to, but I'm afraid that it would take my
letters too long to reach New Orleans; still, I don't
know what difference that would make. as I'm not go-
ing to write news. After all," he added, as though he
were arguing with himself, "I should think that the
interior is more interesting than the coast, for people
don't hang their characteristics over the coast line."
  "There, you've hit the nail the very first lick. You
go out there with us, and I'll bet we have a miagnifi-
cent time."
  "But your uncle might object."
  "How can he  It ain't any of his business where
you go."
  "Of course not."
  "Well, then, that settles it. But really, he'd like to
have you. You'll like him; little peculiar at times,
but you'll find him all right. You'll get a good deal of
money for those letters, won't you "
  "No; a hired man on a newspaper doesn't get much
  "But it must take a good deal of brains to do your
work. "
  "Presumably, but there stands a long row of brains
ready to take the engagement - to take it, in fact, at a
cut rate. The market is full of brains."




  "How old did you say you were  "
  "I am nearly thirty," DeGolyer answered.
  "I'm only twenty-five, but that don't make any dif-
ference; we'll have a splendid time all the same. You
read a good deal, I notice. Uncle's got a whole raft of
books, and you can read to me when you get tired of
reading to yourself. I've gone to school a good deal,
hut I'm not much of a hand with a book; but I tell you
whlat I believe-I believe I could run a business to the
qlueen's taste if I had a chance, and I'm going to try it
one of these days. Uncle tells me that after awhile I
may be worth some money, and if I am I'll get rich as
sure as you're born. Business was born in me, but I've
never had a chance to do anything.   I have traded
around a little, and I've made some money, too, but the
trouble is that I've never been settled down long enough
to do much of anything.    I've scarcely any chance
at all out at Ulmata. What would you rather be thah
anything else  "
  "I don't know.    It doesn't seem that nature has
exerted herself in fitting me for anything, and I am a
strong believer in natural fitness. We may learn to do a
thing in an average sort of way, but excellence requires
instinct, and instinct, of course, can't be learned."
  " I guess that's so. I can see hundreds of ways to
make monev. I'd rather be a big merchant than any-
thiing else. Old fellow," lie suddenly broke off, "I am
as happy as can be to have you go out yonder with us;
and mark what I tell you-we're going to have a splen-
did time."




IN the village of Ulmata there was just enough of life
   to picture the dreamy indolence of man.  Rest
was its complexion, and freedom from all marks of care
its most pleasing aspect.
  Old Sawyer was so demonstrably gratified to have a
companion for his nephew that he invited DeGolyer to
take a room in his house, and DeGolyer gratefully
accepted this kindness. Young Sawyer was delighted
when the household had thus been arranged, and with
many small confidences and unstudied graces of boyish
friendship, he kept his guest in the refreshing atmos-
phere of welcome. And in the main the uncle was
agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he
flew out of his orbit of goodfellowship.
  Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolver
was writing, and blusteringly flounced upon a sofa.
Ile remained quiet for a few moments, and then he
blew so strong a spout of annoyance that DeGolver
turned to him and asked:
  " Has anything gone wrong "
  The old fellow's eyes bulged out as if he were straining
under a heavy load. "Yes," he puffed, "the devil's
gone wrong."
  " But isn't that of ancient date  " DeGolyer asked.
  "Here, now, young fellow, don't try to saw me."


And then he broke off with this execration: " Oh, this
miserable world - this infernal pot where men are
boiled ! " He rolled his eyes like a choking ox, and
after a short silence, asked: "Young fellow, do you
know what I'd do if I were of your age "
  a If you were of my temperament as well as of my age
I don't think you'd do much of anything."
  "Yes, I would; I would confer a degree of high
favor on myself. I would cut my throat, sir."
  "Pardon me, but is it too late at your time of life"
  " Yes, for my nerve is diseased and I am a coward,
an infamous, doddering old coward, sir. Good God ! to
live for years in darkness, bumping against the sharp
corners of conscience. I have never told Henry, but I
don't mind telling you that at times I am almost mad.
For years I have sought to read myself out of it, but to
an unsettled mind a book is a sly poison - the greatest
of books are but the records of trouble. Don't you say
a word to Henry. He thinks that my mind is as sound
as a new acorn, but it isn't."
  " I won't - but, by the way, he is young; why don't
you advise him to kill himself  "
  The old fellow flounced off the sofa and stood bulg-
ing his eyes at DeGolyer.
  " Don't you ever say such a thing as that again! " he
snorted. "Why, confound your hide! would you have
that boy dead  "
  DeGolyer threw down his pen. "No, I would have
him live forever in his thoughtless and beautiful para-
dise; I would not pull him down to the thoughtful
man's hell of self-communion."
  "Look here, young man, you must have a history."
  "No, simply an ill-written essay."




  "Who was your father"
  "A fool."
  "AAh, I grant you. And who was your mother"
  "An angel."
  "No, sir, she -I beg your pardon," the old man
quickly added. "You are sensitive, sir."
  DeGolyer, sadly smiling, replied: "He who suffered
in childhood, and who in after life has walked hand in
hand with disappointment, and is then not sensitive, is
a brute."
  "How well do I know the truth of that! DeGolver,
I have been acquainted with you but a short time, but
you appeal to me strongly, sir. And I could almost
tell you something, but it is something that I ought to
keep to myself. I could make you despise me and then
offer me your regard as a compromise. Oh, that
American republic of ours, fought for by men who
scorned the romance of kingly courts, is not so com-
monplace a country after all. M1any strange things
happen there, and some of them are desperately foul.
Is that Henry coming  Hush."
  The young man bounded into the room. "Say," he
cried, "I've bargained for six of the biggest monkeys
you ever saw. That old fellow "
  "Henry," the uncle interrupted, taking up a hat and
fanning his purplish face, "you are getting too old for
that sort of foolishness. You are a man, you must
remember, and it may not be long until you'll be called
upon to exercise the judgment of a man."
  "Oh, I was going to buy the monkeys and sell them
again for three times as much as I gave for them, but
you bet that when I'm called on to exercise the judg-
ment of a man I'll be there. And do you think that



I'd fool with mines or anything else in this country
I wouldn't. I'd go to some American city and make
money. Say, DeGolyer, when are you going to start
off on that jaunt  "
  "What jaunt  " the old man asked.
  "I am going to make a tour of the country," De
Golyer answered. "I'm  going to visit nearly every
community of interest and gather material for my
letters, and shall be gone a month or so, I should
think. "
  "And I'm going with him," said Henry.
  "No," the old man replied, "you are not going to
leave me here all that time alone. I'm old, and I want
you near me."
  "All right, uncle; whatever you say goes.)"
  When DeGolyer mounted a mule and set out on his
journey, young Sawyer, as if clinging to his friendship,
walked beside him for some distance into the country.
  "1Well, I'd better turn back here," said the young
man, halting.   "Say, Hank, don't stay away any
longer than you can help. It's devilish lonesome here,
you know."
  "I won't, my boy."
  "All right. And say, if you can't do the thing up as
well as you want to, throw up the job and come back
here, for I'll turn loose, the first thing you know, and
make enough money for both of us."
  " God bless you, I hope that you may always make
enough for yourself."
  "And you bet I will, and for you, too. I hate like
the mischief to see you go away. Couldn't think any
more of you if we were twin brothers. And you think
a good deal of me, too, don't you, Hank "



                 THE COLOSSUS.                  17
  "M1y boy," said DeGolyer, leaning over and placing
hlis hand on the young fellow's shoulder, " I have never
speculated with my friendship, and I don't know how
valuable it is, but all of it that is worth having is yours.
You make friends everywhere ; I don't. You have
nothing to conceal, and I have nothing to make known.
To tell you the truth, you are the only real friend I
ever had."
  "Look out, now. That sort of talk knocks me; but
say, don't be away any longer than you can help."
  "I won't ! " He rode a short distance, turned in his
saddle, waved his hand and cried  "God bless you, my


               ALL WAS DARKNESS.
DELAYS and difficulties of traveling, together with
   his own determination to do the work thoroughly,
prolonged DeGolyer's absence.  Nearly three months
had passed. Evening was come, and from a distant hill-
top the returning traveler saw the steeple of Ulmata's
church -a black mark on the fading blush of linger-
ing twilight. A chilly darkness crept out of the valley.
Hungry dogs barked in the dreary village. DeGolyer
could see but a single light. It burned in the priest's
house -a dark age, and as of yore, with all the light
held by the church. The weary man liberated his mule
on a common, where its former companions were grazing,
and sought the house of his friends. The house was
dark and the doors were fastened. He knocked, and a
startling echo, an audible darkness, came from the val-
ley. He knocked again, and a voice cried from the
  "Who's that "
  "Helloa, is that you, my boy "
  There was no answer, but a figure rushed through the
darkness, seized DeGolyer, and in a hoarse whisper
  "Come where there's a light."
  " Why, what's the matter, Henry "
  "Come where there's a light."


  DeGolyer followed him to a wretched place that bore
,ne name of a public-house, and went with him into a
room.   A lamp sputtered on a shelf. Young Sawyer
caught DeGolyer's hands.
  "I have waited so long for you to come back to this
dreadful place. I am all alone. Uncle is dead."
  DeGolyer sat down without saying a word. He sat
in silence, and then he asked:
  "When did he die  "
  "About two weeks after you left."
  "Did he kill himself  "
  " Good God, no ! Why did you think that "
  "Oh, I didn't really think it -don't know why I
said it."
  "H He was sick only a few days, and the strangest thing
has come to light! He seemed to know before he was
taken sick that he was going to die, and he spent nearly
a whole day in writing -writing something for me -
and the strangest thing has come to light. I can hardly
realize it. Here it is; read it. Don't say a word till
you have read every line of it. Strangest thing I ever
heard of."
  And this is what DeGolyer read by the light of the
sputtering lamp:
  " Years ago there lived in Salem, Mass., two brothers,
George and Andrew Witherspoon. Their parents had
passed away when the boys Caere quite young, but the
youngsters had managed to get a fair start in life.
Without ado let me say that I am Andrew Witherspoon.
My brother and I were of different temperaments. He
had graces of mind, but was essentially a business man.
I prided myself that I was born to be a thinker. I wor-
shiped Emerson. I know now that a man who would
willingly become a thinker is a fool. When I was



twenty-three-and George nearly twenty-one-I fell
in love with Caroline Springer. There was just enough
of poetry in my nature to throw me into a devotion that
was almost wild in its intensity, and after my first meet-
ing with her I knew no peace. The chill of fear and
the fever of confidence came alternating day by day,
and months passed ere I had the strength of nerve to
declare myself; but at last the opportunity and the
courage caime together. I was accepted. She said that
if I had great love her love might be measured by my
own, and that if I did not think that I could love her
always she would go away and end her days in grief.
The wedding day was appointed.   But when I went to
claim my bride she was gone - gone with my brother
George. To-day, an old man, I look back upon that
time and see myself raving on the very brink of mad-
ness. I had known that George was acquainted with
Caroline Springer -indeed, I had proudly introduced
him to her. I will tell my story, though, and not dis-
course. But it is hard for anl old man to be straight-
forward. If he has read much he is discursive, and if
he has not readl he is tedious with many words. I didn't
leave Salem at once. I met George, and lie did not even
attempt to apologize for the wrong he had done me.
He repeated the fool saying that all is fair in love.
'You ought to be glad that you discovered her lack of
love in timne,' he said. This was consolation, surely.
Mv mind may never have been well-balanced, and I
think that at this time it tilted over to one side, never
to tilt back. And now my love, trampled in the
mire, arose in the form of an evil determination.
I would do my brother and his wife an injury that
could not be repaired. I did not wish them dead;
I wanted them to live and be miserable. A year passed,
and a boy was born. I left my native town and went
west. I lived there nearly three years, and then I sent
to a Kansas newspaper an account of my death. It was
printed, and I sent my brother a marked copy of the
paper.  Two weeks later I was in Salem.   I wore a
beard, kept myself close, and no one recognized me.



I waited for an opportunity. It came, and I stole my
brother's boy. I went to Boston, to Europe, back to
America; lived here and there, and you know the rest.
My dear boy, I repented somewhat, and it was my in-
tention, at some time, to restore you to your parents,
but you yourself were their enemy; you crept into my
heart and I could not pluck you out. For a time the
story of your mysterious disappearance filled the news-
papers. You were found in a hundred towns, year
after year, and when your sensation had run its course,
you became the joke of the paragraphers. It was no
longer,  'Who struck Billy Patterson' but 'Who
stole Henry Witherspoon ' Once I saw your father in
New Orleans. lie had conie to identify his boy; but
he went away with another consignment added to his
large stock of disappointment. Finally all hope was
apparently abandoned and even the newspapers ceased
to find you.
  " Your father anti mother now   live in Chicago.
George Witherspoon is one of the great merchants of
that city, and is more than a millionaire. This is why
I have so often told you that one day you would be
worth money. You were yoting and could afford to
wait; I was old, and to me the present was everything,
and you were the present.
  " For some time I have been threatened with sudden
death; I have felt it at night when you were asleep
and now I have written a confession which for years I
irresolutely put aside from day to day. I charge you
to bury me as Andrew Witherspoon, for in the grave I
hope to be myself, with nothing to hide.  Write at
once to your fatlher, and after settling up my affairs,
which I urge you not to neglect, you can go to him. In
the commercial world a high place awaits you, and
though I have done you a great wrong, I hope that your
recollection of my deep love for you may soften your
resentment and attune your young heart to the sweet
melody ad forgiveness.
                       "ANDREW WITHERSPOON."




  DeGolyer folded the paper, returned it to Henry and
sat in silence. He looked at the smoking lamp and lis-
tened to the barking of the hungry dogs.
  " What do you think, Hank  "
  "I don't know what to think."
  "But ain't it the strangest thing you ever heard of "
  "Yes, it is strange, and yet not so strange to me. It
is simply the sequel to a well-known story. In the
streets of New Orleans, years ago, when I could scarcely
carry a bundle of newspapers, I cried your name. The
story was getting old then, for I remember that the
people paid but little attention to it."
  They sat for a time in silence. Young Witherspoon
spoke, but DeGolyer did not answer him. They heard
a guitar and a Spanish love song.
  "Yes, it is strange," said DeGolyer, coming back
from a wandering reverie. " It is strange that I should
be here with you ;" and under a quickening of his
newspaper instincts, he added, "and I shall have the
writing of it."
  "B But wait awhile before you let your mind run off
on that, Hank. I don't want to be described and talked
about so much. I know it can't be kept out of the
papers, but we'll discuss that after a while. Now, let
me tell you what I've done. I wrote to - to - father -
don't that sound strange  I wrote to him and sent
him a copy of uncle's paper -I would have sent the
original, but I wanted to show that to you. I also
sent a note that mother - there it is again - wrote to
uncle a long time ago, and a lock of hair and some
other little tricks. I told him to write to me, and
here's his letter. It came nearly four weeks ago. And




think, Hank, I've got a sister - grown and handsome,
too, I'll bet."
  Ecstasy had almost made the letter incoherent. It
was written first by one and then another hand, with
frequent interchanges; and DeGolyer, who fancied that
he could pick character out of the marks of a pen,
thought that a mother's heart had overflowed and that
a hard, commercial hand had cramped itself to a strange
employment -the expression of affection. The father
deplored the fact that his son could not be reached by
telegraph, and still more did he lament his inability,
on account of urgent business demands, to come him-
self instead of sending a letter. "Admit of no delay,
but set out for home at once," the father commanded.
" Telegraph as soon as you can, and your mother and I
will meet you in New Orleans. I hope that this may
not be exploited in the newspapers. God knows that in
our time we have had enough of newspaper notoriety.
Say nothing to any one, but come at once, and we can
give for publication such a statement as we think
necessary. Of course your discovery, as a sequel to
your abduction years ago and the tremendous interest
aroused at the time, will be of national importance,
but I prefer that the news be sent out from this place."
  Here the handwriting was changed, and "love,"
"thank God," "darling child," and emotion blots filled
out the remainder of the page.
  "You see," said Witherspoon, "that I have a reason
for depriving you of anl early whack at this thing.
Now, I have written again and told them not to be im-
patient, and that I would leave here as soon as possible.
I have settled up everything here, but I've got to go to




a little place away over on the coast and close out some
mining interests there."
  "It must be of but trifling importance, my bov, and
I should think -that you'd let it go."
  "No, sir; I'm going to do my duty by that dear old
man if I never do anything else while I live."
  HIe held not a mote of resentment. Indeed was his
young heart "attuned to the sweet melody of forgive-
ness. "
  "By the way, hank, here's a letter for you."
  The communication was brief.    It was from  New
Orle&ns and ran thus: "The five letters which we
have published have awakened no interest whatever,
and I am therefore instructed to discontinue the serv-
ice.  Inclosed please find check for the amount due
you. "
  "What is it, Hank "
  "Ol, not ing except what I might have expected.
R'ead it."
  Withierspoon read the letter, and crumpling it, broke
out in 1his inl)ulsiv3- way : " TLat's all right, old fellow.
It fits righlt into m) plan, and now let me tell you what
that is.  We'll leave here to-morrow and go over to
1) ura and settle up there. I don't know how long it
will take, and I won't try to telegraph until we get
through. Dura isn't known as a harbor, it is such a
miserably small place, but ships land there once in
awhile, and we can sail from there. But the main part
of my plan is that you are to go with me and live in
Chicago; and I'll bet we have a magnificent time. I'll
go in the store, and I'll warrant that father- don't that
sound strange  - that father can get you a good place
on one of the newspapers. You haven't had a chance,




Hank, and when you do get one, I'll bet you can lay
out the best of them. What do you say  "
  "Henry," said the dark-visaged DeGolyer -and the
light of affection beamed in his eyes - "Henry, you are
a positive charm; and if I should meet a girl adorned
with a disposition like yours, I would unstring my
heart, hand it to her and say, ' Here, miss, this belongs
to you.,"
  "11Oh, you may find one. I've got a sister, you know.
What ! are you trying to look embarrassed  Do you
know what I'm going to say  I'm going to lead you
up to my sister and say, 'Here, I have caught you a
prince; take him."'
  "Nonsense, my boy."
  "That's all right; but, seriously, will you go with
me "
  "I will."
  "Good. We'll get ready to-night and start early in
the morning. But I mustn't forget to see the priest
again. He was a friend when I needed one; he took
charge of uncle's burial. But," he suddenly broke off
with rising spirits, "won't we have a time  Million-
aire, eli  I'll learn that business and make it worth
ten millions."




               A STRANGE REQUEST.
T HE next morning, before it was well light, and at a
   time when brisk youth and slow age were seeking
the place of confession, Henry Witherspoon went to the
priest, not to acknowledge a sin, but to avow a deep
gratitude. The journey was begun early; it was in
July. The morning was braced with a cool breeze, the
day was cloudless, and night's lingering gleam of
silver melted in the gold of morn. Young Wither-
spoon's impressive nature was up with joy or down with
sadness.  The prospect of his new life was a happiness,
and the necessity to leave his old uncle in a foreign
country was a sore regret; so happiness and regret
strove against each other, but happiness, advantaged
with a buoyant heart as a contest-ground, soon ended
the struggle.
  On a brown hill-top they met the sunrise, and from a
drowsy roosting-place they flushed a flock of greenish