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THE COLONEL'S CHRIST
MAS MORNING.
by ROJIKKT C. V. MEYEH9
Jr. Fran): Letlie't IFMWv.
The colonel stood befide his desk cheer
fully contemplative.
The colonel was tall and stooped a little;
a thin lock of iron-gray hair atrayed over
the side of his forehead. The cuter office
was full of anticipated Christmas cheer.
Bob, the younger clerk, whistling
shrilly, now and then laughing to
his confrere, who was married and
bad children, and was determined to spend
his whole mouth’s salary to-night for the
young ones. Beyond the outer office was
the street; there were piles of Christmas,
greens there, and a forest of pungent-smell
ing trees, around which mothers and
fathers chaffered, and smaller fry looked
on, their hearts in their mouths lest only
the lesser spruces should be bought, and
those that oould not, by any possibility, be
got Into tfceir homes. l"ft for the purchase of
more stirring parents than their own.
Turkeys, fruits, sweets, merry voioes,
hungry eves—ail that the day before
Christmas brings to a naughty and unruly
world.
But the oolonel was oblivious to every
thing but the paper he held in his long,
veined old hand. It was a mortgage for
$4,000, and might be forecljsed to-morrow,
except that Christmas was a legal holiday.
But the day after would do.
“Thecolonel has gons!” suddenly sang
out Bob. to someone who has entered the
outer office.
The colonel started—had the mortgagor
brought the money i
He opened the door leading to the other
room. A hush fell there. Hob, who was
fixing an awkward bit of mistletoe in his
bntton-hole, slid his hand up to hide it.
“I thought you’d gone, colonel,” he said,
with his frightful new-time nonchalanoe.
Here’s a young man with a package
The colonel took the package—a box of
Christmas candies for bis mother—muoh
relieved that the man who owed him $4,000
bad uot brought the money. He put the
mortgage into his pooket and passed
through the room.
“The compliments of the season, gentle
men,” he turned to say to the olerks, and
with a bow to them passed out into tne
street.
He limped a little from his old war
wound and made his way through the
throngs of holiday providers, as he bent his
steps toward the station.
An organ, with a worn-out monkey with
an Italian at the end of its string, suddenly
broke into a jubilant strain—“ Dixie.”
Did the oolonel see the fields of long ago
and the bronse torsos moving through
them! Did he bear the twang of banjos, the
ecrape of fiddles, from the cabins dotting
the territory that had been hit, his father's
and his grandfather’s before him!
A shadow crossed his path. A woman
no longer young, with faded eyes partially
shaded by a rusty crape veil, was beside
him. She had a little wreath of holly in
her hand. The colonel’s form went up to
its full hight.
“Mrs, Anderson!" he said, stiffly. Had
she waylaid him—a scheme of her hus
band’s —to ask for a stay of proceedings in
the matter of that mortgage !
“Colonel," she said, “‘I saw you from
across thß way. The time of yeer is one of
peace. May I wish you e peaceful Christ
mas day I”
He bowed, his hat in his hand—he could
not move before the lady did.
“Good-by,” she said. “Your train is
sure to be crowded to-day." Then, as the
organ came nearer: “You hear that tune!
I—l thiDk it was the tune influenced me
most to speak to you. 1 am going to the
cemetery with my wreath. My children lie
there, you know. Well, a peaceful Christ
mas, colonel! Good-by.”
The colonel went on his way, and|yet this
was the woman he had once hoped to make
his wife, the woman his friend had taken
from him, the woman he meant to render
homeless the day after to-morrow. Ho had
barely time to make his train. He found a
a seat iu the crowded oar, and sank into it
wiping his forehead. The light in the west
was very beautiful. It opened a spaoe in
the frosty ether till one might almost say
he saw beyond acceptod vision into that
which to se should blind him with its re
vealing. His eyes on this light, the colonel
shifted around in his seat.
Why must that woman waylay him and
wish him peace! Uow old she looked. And
she had once thrilled him with her youthful
beauty. He could recall the first time he
bad met her. Bheeame from New York to
visit the Mcriton’s when he was taking his
haudsome mother to balls and routs. His
mother had not liked Alice from the first.
“I smell the groceries her father sells,”
madame had said.
Madame was a woman of action.
‘‘He shall marry Jane lmbray," she said.
“Count d'Evrieux admires her too much.”
But Alice and her father went to Europe
about this time, and that rather dissipated
madame’s fear. Besides, Count d’Evrieux
went over to madame, and Jane lmbray
petted the younger man till everybody im
pressed it upon him that ho cared for her.
Then one day madame’s son had a vision
s he rode his horse, Chedar. The magnolias
were pertaining the country for miles
ground; a red bird piped on the hedge; the
field hands droned a plantation melody; a
little branch tinkled Its way over some
sharp flints. Suddenly Chedar pricked up
his ears, and his rider beard the fail of a
hoof near at hand. Then out from the
covert of glistening green, seated upon a
snow-white Bteed, Alice Ramsay, in a soft
blue habit, rode into view.
After that it was all over with the plans
of his mother.
“Do you know,” said Mme. Stamford,
“that the count vastly admires Jane
lmbray?’'
Her son flushed to the eyes, looked sternly
at her, and said not a work. But madame
raised her right hand and smote him upon
the face.
She hated Alice for being the cause, as
she thought, of Jane Imbray’a acceptance
of the count’s addresses. When, toward
winter, Alice returned to New York, Stam
ford’s ring was on her finger.
That winter madame was suspiciously
calm, and took to reading the papers with
singular avidity.
Along about Christmas time Stamford’s
old chum, Anderson, came back from a five
years’ mconicg in a German university,
where he had gone to study political econ
omy and drop out of the aotlve energies of
the world.
Mme. Stamford had never oared for any
one but Mme. Stamford and her son. She
no w believed that her sou had poured into
his friend's ear ail the happenings of the
past year, and that tho young men laughed
at her for her still holding on to youth, for
her romance with Count d’Evrieux, and the
manner in which that romanoe had termi
nated. She read tbolpapers, and thought.
In January Alice Ramsay came again to
the Morisons, and Stamford was glad to
have Anderson meet her.
Then madame became attentive to An
derson.
“What strange things are taking place in
politics,” she said one day to the young
man.
“1 am greatly interested in them,” re
turned he.
“And in Miss Ramsay,” smiled madame.
“Yes; she interests me,” Anderson ad
mitted. “She is a novelty here.”
“In that she fails to appreciate you V' in
quired madame.
Anderson’s eyes glittered.
“Hut to more important matters,” smiled
madame. “Strange changes are in the
land. There! go up and shoot in the gal
lery. I hear my son’s pistol up there.”
And then the new President in the white
house!
Alioe and her father were agalu in New
xork at that time, and Stamford could but
gayaitenUou to what was going on around
Ar.deracn. filled with philosophy, hast
ened northward tor a fuller understanding
of affairs. Stamford went to New York.
“Which side of this cause are you onf’
was Alioefe father’s question.
He made his answer and went home—he
knew that Alice would be true to him.
And bow be missed Anderson, bis friend
and confidant!
" Where is your commission r his mother
one day said to him. “Have you not suffi
cient manliness to assert your manhood f
Well, be was Capt. Stamford, and not a
word from Alice!
This is what Stamford wrote, when he
could stand the uncertainty no longer:
“Tell me to come to you. and I will come.
I will give up everything, and we can go to
Europe.”
He gave the letter to Pompey, his body
servant, with money to pass him up north.
Two days later a oharjwhooter, searching
Pompey’s dead tody, oamo across the letter
and lighted his pipe with it!
Three weeks and Pompey was still away,
and there was no reply from Alice.
Then Capt. Stamford's oompany marched
away.
A few days later Alice presented her
self to madame; she was haggard, fright
ened. reckless
“Where is your son ?” she demanded.
“Attending to his duty,” answered mad
ame.
“I have a letter for him,” went on Alice.
“His duty is his own, but I would not have
him think he is any the less to me because
his duty is not that of the men in my part
of tne country. This letter tells him as
much. It is unsealed; you inay read it. All
the world may read it. Will you let me
leave it here, that he may get it when be
returns home, if you do not send it to him!
This trouble will soou be over.” Then she
broke down. “God help us all,” she said,
“but I love him!”
Madame let Alioe lay the letter on the
teble—then she ordered her out of the
house.
She would not read the lettor; It was not
for her. Out in the road some poor whites
were carrying valuables from a despoiled
house.
“The letter shall be protected.” she said,
' ‘it is not mine to destroy.”
She sealed the envelope and oarried it to
the upper gallery, where she screwed it
into a narrow strip and thrust it into a hole
in the wainscoting—a hole made by a bullet
from the pistol of her son or his friend,
when they practiced here in the rainy sea
sons long ago.
Madame beard of Anderson that day; he
had come after Alioe to bear her homeward
at imminent peril to them both.
When she wrote to her son she told him
that Alice bad been there, ar.d thut Ander
son bad taksu her north, but she said noth
ing about Alice’s letter—she had merely
promised that the letter should be there
when he came home.
Stamford read his mother’s words. There
was a reading between the lines—Alice pre
ferred Anderson for being on her side of the
cause from the outset.
A dreariness of time and Capt. Stam
ford was Maj. Stamford, then colonel.
Then came Chattanooga! There Col.
Stamford saw Anderson at the head of a
company iu blue. Something snapped in
his head. His blood-shot eyes on the man
he had loved and cherished, he rushed
through the smoke and carnage, bis hands
outstretohed for vengeance. Then there
was a twinge, a roar, and Stamford felt
the world slipping from him, and he knew
no more.
Then oame months of suffering—a ball
taken from his head, a ball left iu his leg;
failure was all around him, and Well,
It was all over and done; he was back
again on the old place, a poor man.
Madame never complained, but that she
let art go by and age come one was not the
least of solemn requiems for dead hopes.
After too many idle years Stamford
opened an office in the city and dabbled In
real estate.
And there was a surprise In store for him.
Anderson came back and brought his wife
with him.
The colonel met his whilom friend in the
street, and he knew him at onoe. He heard
that the couple were very unprosperous;
that Anderson was full of ideas that came
to nothing; and that all their children were
dead—they had brought their bodies hare
and buried them in a cemetery, the eldest
dead only a few days. All this meant that
Anderson bad come to stay.
After that he often came across the
oouple, and he would turn away to avoid
them.
Then he heard that Anderson bad an idea
of establishing an economic community in
the south. Nothing came of that, and he
mortgaged his old house for $4,000. This
money lasted five years, and he had written
books in those years and made no money. A
month ago the mortgage oame under the no
tice of the oolonel. It would be due in
thirty days—no one would take it—and the
interest on it had not been paid for a year.
The colonel bad the mortgage transferred
from the mortgagee to himself.
Here was his chance for reveDge on as
false a man and a woman os had over
lived.
He knew how pinched they were—there
are many ways of finding out the affairs of
those we hate—and Anderson was selling
his furniture in order to raise money that
he might get north.
Yesterday Anderson passed and rep&ssed
the office. The colonel knew that he was
fain to come and ask fir a little time, but
that he oould not bring himself to make the
appeal. To-day Andersoa had not been
visible, and the oolonel had not been with
out the fear that the man had become pos
sessed of the money In some miraculous
way and designed a coup at the last min
ute, hence the moment of agitation {when
the confectioner's boy came to the offloe.
The train rattled along; the we.-' had be
come sodden. The oolonel, coming out of
his reverie, turned his eyes into the car.
The car was not orderly to-day, as usual;
every passenger, man. woman and child,
had a package and a cheery countenance,
and they all seemed to he talking at once
about to-morrow, absent friends expected,
journeys to betaken, presents, expectations,
and the like. And everybody seemed to be
a little kinder than usunl; did not mind
crowding—men taking other people’s child
ren on their laps and questioning the n
about Kriss Krlngle, and inventing all
manner of absurdities to mystify tho little
ones.
“Stamford 1” said a voice.
The colonel looked at tbe man on the seat
beside him—it was his enemy.
“ I followed you down here,” Anderson
went on, hurriedly “to ask clemency. My
wife evidently suspected I wouid approaoh
you, for she hung around the depot till you
came along, when, uot seeiug me, she went
awav.”
“Why do you coma to me?” asked the
colonel, in a strained voice.
"My wife is in poor health," the other
man said. "She has never got over tho loss
of our last child. I shall not be able to pro
vide her with a comfortable home yet
awhile. I know what must actuate you ia
the foreclosing of this mortgage, and you
can have all tbe revenge you want in letting
her stay in the house through your
charity."
“I have very little sentiment,” the colonel
said.
"Sentiment!” echoed Anderson; "wh
the devil is trading iu sentiment? I am
asking only for humanity.”
“In this case the terms are synonymous,”
pursued the colonel. "I regret that you
should have taken so much for granted. A
certain indebtedness is duo me; in asking
that the conditions of that indebtness be
adhered to I am scarcely Inhuman.”
Anderson eyed him curiously.
“You make me regret indeed, that I took
tbs trouble of coming to you,” he said. “I
was a fool! My wife would never forgive
me if she knew. But I love her, after all
these years I love her, and no humility I
may be forced to undergo for her suke can
mean muoh to mo. Have I not been hum
bled already by the frustration of all my
plans, the success of which would have
made me an honored man in her sight?
Perhaps it was sentiment that brought me
to you—the Bentimentof the Christmas tide,
when Instead of a joyous offering to my
wife I must see her borne taken from her.
But that is enough. I leave the core at the
TIIE MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1891--SIXTEEN PAGES.
next station and return to town by the first
train that will take me there. Try to forget
that you have seen me."
He opened a book that was In his hand
ar.d rroceeded to real it. Tho colonel saw
that it was Bacon’s “New Atlantis”—still
harping on bis m and il communities.
Now the next station was the colonel’s,
and both meu reached the platform at about
the same time.
Down in tho road was old Chloe, with the
mud-splashed wagon that should take the
colonel to the hall. Anderson w >uld wait
iu the chill air for hours for the down
train, and discourtesy was abhorrent t<> the
colonel. Nevertheless, ho went down to the
wagon, grasped the reins from Chloe, and
made off so rapidly that the dusky woman
was nearly tumbled out.
The old mare jogged along with the
colonel ar.d Chloe, the one servant of the
place, who had been a slave in the old time,
and resented emancipation.
“lx:ok!” said Chloe, after awhile. “Dar’s
de star er HethTem,” and began to sing:
“Mary Id de garden airly,
Oh! t’other worT Is not like dig.”
A star had come out above them, and
shone down like a lighted flower.
Pretty soon the ramshackle fence was
reached, the gateway without a gate, the
rutty avenue to the piazza from which a
turkey flew off screaming.
Tne wind was rising, that star locking
down, as the colonel entered the house, his
footfall waking the echoes He lighted the
lamp and hung his hat and overcoat on the
antlers that did duty as a rack. He o;>ened
one of several doors on the side of the hall
and entered a large, empty room with a
little tablo drawn into the contor. The
tab'e was set for his solitary supper.
The colonel dropped into a chair and
waited till Chloe should have put away the
mare and the wagon. He rested his chin on
his hand and fell to thinking. Anderson—
and he !>eth ught him now that the man
had worn uo overcoat —must be walking up
and down the platform waiting for the
down train. He would go back to the city
and tell his wife how unsuccessful he had
been—for, of course, this was all a precon
certed plan of those two.
And to-morrow those two creatures would
be homeless—at least day after to-morrow.
He frowned to think that the morrow was
a legal holiday —a day of grace.
A shutter creaked, and the colonel looked
up expecting Chloe.
How dull the room was. His life was as
dull. Here ho was in the house alone with
his childish aud uncompanionable mother,
year in and year out, summer and winter,
hey-day and holiday. He should have had
eons and daughters around him, brave and
fair children, maybe grandchildren, for
whom the hall to-night would be lighted; a
great pine tree with gilded fruit on it there
in the middle of the room; ohildish voices
ringing with song and merriment over the
coming of a day, the happiest in the calen
dar of youth.
And whose fault was it that this was not
so! Whose but the man’s who had ruined
friendship years ago; the woman's who had
so unworthily deceived a loving heart!
Another sound, and Chloe was bringing
in the fried chicken and coffee.
* ‘Dem ttikkies kep’ me," she said. " ’Pears
day ’spec’ d:s am er sure 'uough Chris’iuas.
Trv dls pullet, cuunol; he done melt in yo’
mouf; he jes’ached to be fried Cbris'mas
ove.”
But the colonel had little appetite; nfter a
miserable attempt at eating he rose from
the table. “How wns madame to-day?” he
asked.
“Gwine on disrememberln’ ter-day,”
grumbled Chloe. “Better eat dat pullet.
Gord knows my ole gums cain’t tackle him.
Hain’t no light up dar,” —for tho colonel
bad crossed to the door. * ‘Madame wouldn’t
have none—she’s done disrememberln’.”
The colonel went out into the hall, took
the lamp from the table, along with the box
of oonfeotionery he had brought from town,
and descended the stairs.
In the wide uppor gallery a fire burned in
the grate, and the rising moon laid a long
silver finger across the floor. A padded
chair was drawn up to the Are, and the
colonel, setting down the lamp, wont tnere.
He looked down upon the wrinkled face
pressed up against the pillows. Eighty
live years old, and all that he had in the
world; all the love he had ever commanded I
The mortgage papers in his pocket rattled,
and a sudden twinge in his leg told him to
expeot falling weather soon.
His leg I His mind flew off to Chatta
nooga, and how near to murder he had been
that day. "An eye for an eye”—the lex
talionis! His satisfaction had but a few
hours to wait. "An eye for an eve.”
Chloe, in a high pitched voice, was singing
a Christmas hymn downstair), ne old hymn
that used to be sung on the plantation years
ago. He listened and thought of the old
Christmases aud the gayety then.
Madame’s hand moved a little, and she
softly sighed. Her still bright eyes opened
aud she iooked up into the face bending over
her.
"Well, honey,” she said, “is that tb6 boys
and girls singin’l Chloe's been singiu’ all
day about Christmas—’While shepherds
watched their flocks,’ ‘Peace on earth and
good will to men I’ How is your wife?”
It was. as Chloe had said, one of mad
ame’s “disrememberiu”’ days.
The colonel put the box of candies in her
lap.
“A happy Christmas, mother,” he said.
"I’vo seea eighty-five of ’em,” she re
turned, quickly. “My mother died young.
I’m not so very old —and Ido not rouge, it
is my own complexion. And I will uot
again pay S7OO for a barrel o’ flour; they
may burn our cotton, but 1 will not give
in."
Her voice and wiudled and her head drooped,
the hand the colonei held becoming limp.
He sat besido her and waited for her to
revive.
Did he see in the crackling logs the sum
mers they had known when those logs had
been trees? Did ho hear, m the sound* they
made in burning, the songs of tho birds that
uto l to perch on their leafy branohes*
He was thiuking cf the day after to-mor
row and his revenge.
But back of that day were many yester
days, and he could but think of them, con
sidering wbat the coming day meant for
him. VVas it the burning logs made a scent
in the gallery almost like the perfume of
magnolias? The colonel almost heard a
little red bird piping on the hedge, the
drone of the plantation melody; almost be
held a vista of green leaves against a sum
mer sky, and then a white horse with a
blue-habited girl on it
A hand strayed over to his, rejting on the
back of tho padded chair.
"Dear," said madame, “a shock unset me
to-day. A part of the wainscotin’ there
behind you fell. Tho whole house is giviu’,
it is so old, so old. Aud to-day there have
boon so many to see me, and wish mo a
joyous Christmas. My mother was hero,
ar.d she looked in my eyes and laid my face
against hers, and it seemed so strange that
I was so old and she was so young. And
your father was hare ." Her thin lady
hand pressed his, her still beautiful lips
smiling.
"I want to talk,” she said. And she
talked of herself, her beauty, her conquests.
She ran on in her gabble of old times,
bringing up incidents of her son’s childhood
along with her own. At last she uttered
Anderson’s name.
The muscles of the band under hers con
tracted.
"This is the gallery where you two used
to shoot,” she said. “The wainscot is full of
bullet-holes. All the plaster is riddled back
of that part that fell to-day. ‘Every bullet
has its billet,' ” she laughed feebly, repeat
ing, “ ‘Every bullet has its billet,’" as
though the words werethe refrain of a song
—the Christmas hymn Chloe still shrilled
downstairs.
The oolonel went over and tried to right
the part of the wall that had fallen.
Suddenly his mother uttered a word in
great paiu;
"Tho war I”
He was at her side in an instant quieting
her, holding her till she was calm agatn.
That word often frightened hsr in these
days.
He was glad when Chloe came in with a
caudle.
The oolonel led his mother to her chamber
door, and, kissing her, left her with Chloe,
wh i slept on a rug on the floor at the side
of her mistress' i ed.
He went back into the long gallery and
walked up and down, his bead bent, his
hands 1 -eked together behind him.
The moonlight poured in at the curtain
less window, the Are cracked. Tired at
last, the colonel seated himself in the pad
ded ohair and took the mortgage from bis
pocket and looked over it. He leaned back
in the chair to thick—and went to sleep.
A i'asn in the gallery—it was the sun of
Christmas day in the morning.
The oolonel, still and cramped, awoke
with a start. Where was he? The paper
on his knee fell to the floor. Then he re
membered everything.
He rose stern and implacable. He needed
the money that mortgage represented; the
house was tumbling down for want of re
pairs. Look at tne debris of the failing
wainscoting. He would run into town to
day aud make calou ations. He would have
the office all to himself; everybody else
would be celebrating Christmas, aud to
morrow be would see the mechanics.
Aud to-morrow would be his revenge!
He went to his room to bathe his face. The
Christmas sun attracted him to the window,
aud he looked out upon the morning world,
new-born as when the first man saw it;
new-born as it sbail be when the l ist man
gazes upon it some far-off last morning.
He looked much yo unger than be bad
looked last Bight wuen he went into the
gallery where madame sat in the chair
awaiting him for the Christmas breakfast.
Cjloo, wearing the new bandana the
colonel had given nor, had spread the table
with a piece of old rich damask, and
wreathed the plates of hot batter bread and
chicken with evergreen in honor of the day.
But the colonel v.as in a hurry, and be
thought Chloe would never have the coffee
ready. He felt that bu(was very much hur
ried indeed; he must make arrangements
for spending every cent of. that $4,000 in
repairs on tho house.
110 had to read the gospel for Christmas
day:.
“Ho was in the world, and the world was
made by hint, and the world knew him not.
He came unto bis own, and bis own reoeivod
him not”—all through he read it, Chloe
standing reverently by, his mother smiling
and understanding little or nothing.
Then he attacked the viands.
Once ho glanced up and found madame’s
bright eyes upon him, "You’re quite young
again, oolonel,” she said. “Goiu' to town?”
“Only for a w. ile, mother," he replied.
“I'll be home for Cbloe’s turkey."
“In a hurry to go, it seems?”
“You know I m ist catoh the train.”
"You don’t even look at the damage done
by the fallen wall.”
“I examined it last night. In a little
while I’ll have a good many things made
better—as soon as I can sell a certain house.
But I must go now.”
‘ ‘Glad to get rid of your old mother. She
always did play second part in your affairs.
Old!” and madame was working herself
into one of her passions. “I wasn’t always
old—l wasn’t alwayß deserted on Christmas
day. I was the belle o’ the oounty. One
Christmas I was the toast, and the stems
were broken from the glasses that they
might not be set down with a drop in ’em.
One o’ my ball slippers was filled with
champagne, aud my health was drunk iu
thatl Wasn't there a duel down by Talbot’s
branch? aud No, no, I wasn’t always
a wrinkled beldam. My silks would stand
alone, and for a wager I rattled up the aisle
one Christmas day till the rector had to
stop readin’ the lesson till I was seated. As
for my waist, your hands could clasp it and
the Angers moot. And here you are, glad
to be rid o’ me, and dictatin’ to me and
readin’ the gospel with profane haste. No
body ever thwarted me but a woman who
came between you and me and caused the
man I would have married to take the wo
man I meant for you. A grocer’s daughter,
a coffee importer s girl, to go against me!
So much for Alioe Ramsay 1”
Why did she speas that name? Could she
not see how hard bor son’s face became?
“Mother,” he taid, “I must go now.
Chloe is waiting with the wagon.”
“Don’t i kpow what has ailed you all
along?” cried madame. "It all came back
to me yesterday when that wainscot fell—
I’d forgot it be! re. What! You look at
me like that! Your mother is weak, light
headed, is she? You must treat her like a
child, eh! Go look back of that wainscot
that fell; look at that third bullet-hole in
tho plaster. Go, I say!”
“When I como home, mother,” said the
oolonel.
But madamo had risen to her feet, a ter
rible smile on her face, her eyes blazing.
“Treat me as a child,” she cried, “a child
to be cozened and excused I lam a woman,
an old woman—your mother I Go to that
wninso.t, 1 tell you—l command you!”
She extended a small, thin finger, her
head thrown back in a way the colonel re.
inembered tod made him tremble years
ago.
Fearful cf misting the train, thinking to
get off easier if he appeased her, he went to
the part of the room she indicated.
“Thoro is nothing here,” he said.
“You lie!” cried his mother. “Nobody
has touched it. I put it there. She asked
me to let her leave it for you, and I put it
there for safety. I never promised to speak
a word to you about it, only to let her
leave it for you.”
Something in his mother’s manner chilled
him.
He looked into tho hols in tho plaster—
was there sometbiug there? He took out
his puckot knife anil dug it into the hole
again and again, and then he dragged forth
a screw of yellow pacer. He opened it.
“Anderson has asked me to marry him,”
it read. Again; “If this quarrel between
your part ot the country and mine has not
altered your feeling for me, write to me—
say a word to me who am all alone in my
agony, my lather in battle, you away from
me. I will coma to you if you only tell me
to do so. But your sileace will mean that 1
am no longer anything to you.”
More, more he read, thinking of that let
ter he had sent by lost Pompey, and which
he now saw had never been delivered. What
thoughts did not surge through his poor
hraiu as ho stood there swayed by the
passion of that old latter!
Then—Aadorson assuredly know no’hing
of this letter; ho knew Anderson, and ho
knew he would never have married the
woman whoolu.ig to another man. Alice
had hardened borsolf, thinking her love
spurned, and had wedded Anderson.
“O, mother! mother!” all at oneo he said,
in a strange voice, and again “Mother !
mother!” ns limping to her he put his arms
about her, quite as though he ran to her
for protecting love.
With a cry madamo sank back in her
chair.
"My boy!” she said. "My dear boy!”
patting hii head ne she might have done
when ho was a child, though not knowing
why she wept, nor why he knelt there; only
that a long-standing quarrel of some sort
between them was over.
It was some minutes before the colonel
mastered himself.
“Now I must go,” he said.
“To attend to business on Christmas day?"
“Yes.”
"Kiss me, honey 1 I wasn’t good-humored
last night—that wainscot failin’ brought so
many thoughts to me. Kiss me!”
Bo he placed bis fnoe to hers. She took a
sprig of the green with which Chloe had dec
orated the plate* and put it iu his hand.
Then she let him go. When he was a good
way down the gallery he turned and looked
at her. She was so old, ho had not always
been thoughtful of her in his younger days;
she had goue through so much, and, lat
terly, she was alone so muoh. He turned
back and kissed her once more.
Then he hurried away.
“Lawd, Gunnel," complained Chloe,
grasping thesoat of the wagon, “you done
layin’ de mar’ out! Sho ain’t no bluo gratis
stock, and her off shoe’s loose. Huh I my
mis’ry!” But the colonel reached the sta
tion as the train puffed up
He saw nothing aronnd him In the train,
heard nothing. When he reached the oity
bis head had cleared a little, and he noted
the groups of happy people iu the streets.
With firm steps he took his way to the An
deroon house.
He panged by a church. They were sing
ing an anthem there, and the music came
out to bim as a voice of kindly greeting,
this Christmas anthem. But be hurried on
till he came to tho old bouse he had often
visited in his boyhood. There was no sign
of holiday cheer there. The blinds were
down, the doorsteps dusty.
He rang the bell and no one answered it.
He rang again witb no better result. Then
he rang angrily, furiously, he could not
have told why. And then the door opened
and Mrs. Anderson in her rusty black con
fronted him.
Bhe fell back at sight of him and a stern
look came into her face. The colonel went
• Inside, but he oould not sav a word; he only
looked at her.
“I presume you are here In reference to
the mortgage,” she said. “Mv busDaud has
just stepped out, but I think 'I can answer
for him, as he has told me about his meet
ing you yesterday. lam displeased that he
should have said a word to you. It was
entirely foreign to my will. We are pre
paring to go away,—up north somewhere,
and ”
The front door was still open, the knob
in bor hand, the colonel just across the sill.
"Will you invite me in!” said the oelonel.
"We have m right t > keep you out,” she
returned. "This is your house.”
“Aud you have t o inclination to make
me your guest?” he said.
She vouchsafed no reply to this.
The o lonel looked down. Then for the
first time he saw that he carried in his hand
the sprig of evergreen his mother bad given
to him.
“I did come in regard to the mortgage,"
he said. "It will be satisfied to-morrow.”
Bhe made an exclamation.
"1 pray jrou let me do this,” went on the
colonel. "I must not be denied. It is for
sake of ”
“Charity,” she interrupted harshly, "and
I blame my husband for this. And I de
cline to p -rmit anything of the sort.”
Could she not see tho burning light in his
eyes—or were his eyes too heavily clouded
by the mist of time to show the light be
hind them? He stood in the presence of the
woman he had loved and who had loved
him, both of them with silver in their hair,
both of them old.
Sho looked coldly away from him. For
years she had thought him a forsworn man.
Yesterday, on her way to lay a memorial
wreath in the plot whore lay her children,
she had come across him, the spirit of
Christmas-time iu her mind and all her
loneliness without her little ones. He had
looked so lonely, limping along, that the
impulse seized her to go over and say a word
to him. How had he met her advances?
Aud perhaps ho had never been con
temptible in her eyes before this morning,
when he came to her in her poverty and
offered her charity.
As he still stood there, and tho door was
open and it was none too warm in the house,
sho said: “If you wish to wait for my hus
band, you are at liberty to do so. But the
mortgage must be foreclosed, not satisfied.
Excuse me!” and she left him and went Into
a room on the right.
He looked around him in the old Anderson
hall at tho makeshifts for oomforts. What
had she not gone through? And sho still
thought he hud been false to her! Almost
on the run the c lonel limped up the
ball and turned the knob of the door behind
which she had disappeared.
She wai pacing the room, her har.ds
clasped in front of her, a frown on her face.
She stopped abruptly in her agitated walk
at sight of the colonel.
He went up to her holding out a little
yellow paper.
"I never read this until this morning,” he
said. “My mother put it away when you
took it to her, and she told ine of it only
to-day. Before you wrote this I had sent
you a like letter, which my messeuger could
naver have delivered to you,” and he placed
in her hand the letter she had written to
him so many years before. Her face
blanched, she crumpled the paper against
her palm.
* ‘Leave me!” she said, hoarsely. *‘l must
be alone!"
“And I may do as I will for tho old time's
sake, for my poor mother’s sake?" he asked.
“Leave me alone,” she said. “Go!”
He had turned away, when sho culled him
back.
She raised her faded eyes to his, she
placed both bands upon his uhoulders and
gave him a long, mute look—no hunger of
lcve in it, no wild regret; but only ineffable
satisfaction for the rehabilitation of a be
lief that had been thrown aside for years as
worthless.
Then her hands slid down, and sho placed
tho old letter upon the ruddy coals in the
stove beside her.
“Then I may do as I will?” murmured the
colonel.
Bhe did not answer, and her face was
turned away from him.
“I met you yesterday," he went on, “and
you oarried some Christmas green to your
dear dead. Here is a piece my mother gav e
mo this morning. Take it, and I shall know
that my own sorrow’s grave is thought of
by you, and I may do as 1 will. Will you
take it, Alice?"
So she reached around, her face still hid
den, and took the green. And her hand
was trembling.
The colonel went out without looking at
her again, and closed the door behind him.
Did he see Anderson in the hall with a
little basket in which wore a few Christmas
provisions? Ido not know.
But Anderson saw in his thin face a look
of joy that made him think of their young
manhood. He went up to him and they
took each other’s hands without a word.
“It was one of bis old jokes,” thought An
derson, “that hard manner of his. Ho Is
going to give us time, or the like, and he
comes to tell us this on Christmas Day;”
aud he looked after the colonel going out of
the house, the sunshiue lighting him up as
he stood on the front steps, the crisp air
waving the thin lock of gray hair at the
side of his forohead. And that was tbe
colonel’s Christmas morning.
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""JAPANESE
£m|p!LE
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A guaranteed Cure for Piles of whatever
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When T say cure X do not mean merely to stop them
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H. ti. HOOT, M, (!., 183 Pearl St., N. Y.
I'HK SUNDAY MORNING NEWS for sale at
the SOUTH SIDE PHARMACY, corner
Henry and Aheroorn.
CORSETS.
I THE ONLY AMERICAN CORSET AWARDED THr
g COLD MEDAL AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION, |BB*
C/B "
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1 ala Spirite
3 Corsets.
| FOR SALE BY LEADING RETAILERS.
DRY GOODS. a
ECKSTEINS
Store Open
Every Evening
This Week.
CloaksAlmostGivenAway.
Capes Almost Given Away,
Blankets at Half Price.
Dress Goods Half Price.
Dolls Almost Given Away,
Toys Almost Given Away,
Handkerchiefs Half Price,
Albums at Half Price.
ALL HOLIDAY GOODS
Recklessly Slaughtered.
NO FAIR OFFER REFUSED.
MW EMM.
MILLINERT GOODS.
iirismini
KROUSKOFPSimmense establishment
is now crowded with everything beautiful
and novel in the millinery line. The most
complete display ever seen. Onfirst floor—
Thousands of ribbons in new and novel
designs. Velvets in all grades and shades.
Plushes, Silks, Feathers, Hat sfor Ladies,
Misses and Children. On balcony—Fancy
leathers,Birdsand Hats. On second floor
--Millinery parlor just introduced. Here are
the choicest offerings in Paris and London
round Hatsand Bonnets,also exactcopies.
We have again inaugurated our great Ribbon sale to
continue until further notice. We also retail on first floor
same aa we wholesale upstairs. Milliners and merchants sup
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HOTELS.
err*' *• O J one of the most HLEOANTLY ap
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fllVl6 l/U G/VlO * CGMMODATIONB FOR GOO GUEBTK
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PULASKI HOUSE,
savannah. OA.,
ne W management | jgg t SangsteT;! propb " tob
(FORMERLY OF THE BBOWN HOUSE, MACON, <JA.> ,
This Hotel has been renovated and put In first-class order In partirdlar. Ail the
conveniences and modem ■improvements, Special acoommndaMoss for *
Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria* i
