HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Wingham Times, 1916-07-13, Page 7July 13th, 1916
THE WI'llGHAM TIMES
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The doctor looked up, with mild re
preach in his eyes.
"She has something far better than
'•thhe flowers of this world," he said.
'If ever a dead face told of rest and
peace, her's does; I have never seen
-such a smile on any other."
"I should like to find her a grave
where the sun shines and the dew
falls," observed Lord Charlewood—
'';;where grass and flowers grow and
'birds sing in the trees overhead. She
twoulcl not seem so far away from me
'then.,,
"You can find many such graves
+in the pretty churchyard here at Cas-
"tledene," said the doctor.
"In time to come," continued Lord
'Charlewood, "she shall have the
Fysrandest marble monument that can
'be raised, but now a plain white
cross will be sufficient, with her name,
'Madeline Charlewood; and, doctor,
while I am away you w•i'i have het;
grave attended to—kept bright with
flowers—tended as for some one that
you loved."
Then they went out together to the
green churchyard at the foot of the
'hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm,
"and serene, that death seemed robbed'
•o( half its terrors; while daisies and
golden buttercups studded it, the
dente foliage of tall lime -trees rip -
^pied above it. The graves were cov-
ered with richly -hued autumn flow-
ers; all was sweet, calm, restful.
,There was none of earth's fever here.
The tall gray spire of the church rose
'toward the clear bine sky.
"Lord Charlewood stood
around him in silence.
"I have seen such a scene in pie -
lures," he sa'd. "I have read of such
in poems, but it is the first I have
really beheld. If my darling could
'have chosen for herself, she would
'have preferred to rest here."
On the western slope, where the
-warmest and brightest sunbeams lay,
under the shade of the rippling lime
r•t;rees, they laid L^ dy Charlewood to
rest. For long yeses afterward the
young husband was to carry with him
'the memory of that green, grassy
grave. A plain white cross bore for
the present her name; it said simply:
In Loving Memory of
MADALINE CHARLEWOOD,
who died in her 20th year.
'Erected By Her Sorrowing Husband.
"When I give her the monument
.she deserves," he said, "I can add no
,more."
They speak of that funeral to this
•day in Castledene—of the sad, tragic
story, the fair young mother's death,
the husband's wild despair. They tell
':how the beautiful stranger was bur-
led when the sun shone and the birds
;sang—how solemnly the church -bell
tolled, each knell seeming to cleave
'the clear sunlit air—how the sorrow-
ing young husband, so soddenly and
so terribly bereft, walked first, the
• chief mourner in the sad procession;
they tell how whit his face was, and
how at each toll of the solemn bell
he winced as though some one had
truck him a terrible blow—how he
tried hard to control himself, but
'how at the grave, when she was hid-
den forever from his sight he stre'ch-
•ed out his hands, crying: "Madeline,
Madeline!" and how for the remaind-
er of that day he shut himself up
. alone, refusing to hear the sound of
• a voice, to look at a human face—
•. refusing food, comfort, grieving like
ono who had no hope for the love he
• had lost. All Castledene grieved with
him; it seemed as though death and
sorrow had entered every house.
Then came the morrow, when he
` had to look his life in the face again
—life that he found so bitter. without
Madeline. He began to remember his
father, who, lying sick unto death,
•craved for his presence. He could do
no more for Madeline; all his grief,
his tears, his bitter sorrow, were use-
less; he could not bring her hack;
'he was powerless where she was con-
cerned. But with "regnrd to his father
-matters were different. -to him he
could take comfort, healing, and con-
solation. So it was decided that he
• should at once continue his broken
looking
•-Mr'iihat of little Madeline, the
child who had her dead mother's
large bine eyes and golden hair? Again
Lord Charlwood and the doctor sat
in solemn conclave; this time the
fate of the little one hung in the bal-
ance.
Lord Charlewood said that if he
found his father still weak and ill,
he should keep the secret of his mar-
riage, Of course, if Madaline had
lived, all would have been different.—
he would have proudly ownedit then.But she was dead, The child was
so .young and so feeble, it seemed
doubtful whether it would live. What
need then to grieve the old earl by
the story of his folly and his dis-
obedience? Let the secret remain.
Stephen Letsom quite agreed with him
in this; no one knew better than him-
self how dangerous was the telling
of bad or disagreeable news to a sick
man. And Lord Charlewood added:
"You have, indeed, been a friend,
in need to me, Dr. Letsom. Money can
no more repay such help as yours
than can thanks; all my life I shall
be grateful to you. I em going now
to Italy, and most probably I shall re-
main there until the earl, my father
grows better, or the end comes. When
I return to England, my first care
shall be to forward your views and
prospect• in life; until then I want
you to t" ke charge of my child."
Stephen Letsom looked up with
something like a smile.
I shall be a rough nurse," he ob-
served.
"You understand me," said Lord
Charlewood. "You have lived here so
long that you know the place and
every one in it. I have been thinking
so much of my little one. It would be
absurd for me to
sto I
Iain;
,and as, for myather'sa,
tend to keep my marriage a secret for
some time longer, cannot send her to
any of my own relatives or friends. I.
•think the best plan will be for you
to find some healthy, sensible woman,
who would be`nnrse and foster -mother
to her."
"That can easily be managed," re-
marked Stephen Letsom.
"Then you will have both child and
nurse entirely under your own control.
You can superintend all arrangements
made for the little one's benefit. I
have thought of offering to send you
five hundred per annum, from which
you can pay what you think proper
for the child. You can purchase what
is needful for her, and you will have
an income for yourself. That I beg
you to accept in return for the ser-
vices you have rendered me."
Dr. Letsom expressed his gratitude.
He thanked Lord Charlewood, and be-
gan at once to look around for some
one who would be a fitting person to
take care of little Madeline, Lord
Charlewood had expressed a desire to
see all settled before leaving for Italy.
Amongst the doctor's patients was
one who had interested him very
'much—Margaret Dornham. She had
•been a lady's maid. She was a pretty,
graceful woman, gentle and inte li-
gent—worthy of a far better lot than
had fallen to her share. She ought to
have married a well -to -do -tradesman,
for whom she would have made a
most suitable wife; but she had given
her love to a handsome ne'er-do-well,
with whom she had never had one mo-
ment of peace or happiness. Henry
'Dornham had never borne a good
character; he had a dark, handsome
face—a certain kind of, rich, gypsy -
like beauty—but no other qualifica-
tions. He was neither' industrious, nor
honest, nor sober. His handsome face,
his dark eyes, and rich curling hair
had won the heart of the pretty,
graceful, gentle lady's -maid, and she
had married him—only to rue the day
and hour in which she had first seen
him.
They lived in a picturesque little
cottage called Ashwood, and there
Margaret Dornham passed through
the greatest joy and 'the, greatest sor-
iow of her life. Her little child, the
one gleam of sunshine that herdark-
ened life had aver `known, was born
in the little cottage, and there it had
died.
' Dr. Letsom, who was too abrupt
for the ladies of Castledene, had
watched with the greatest and most
untiring care over the fragile life of
that little child. He had exerted his
utmost skill in order to save it. But
all was in vain; and on the very day
that Lord Charlewood arrived at Cas-
tledene the •child died.
When a 'tender nurse and foster -
mother was needed for little Madeline,
the doctor thought of Margaret° hroe
ham, He felt that ell difficulty was
at an end; he sent for her. Even Lord
Charlwood looked with interest at
the graceful, timid woman, whose fair
young face was so deeply marked with
lines of care.
"Will I take charge of a little
the doctor's
child?" she replied to
question. "Indeed I will, and thank
Heaven for sending 'me something to
keep my heart from breaking."
,`You feel the loss of your own lit -
one very keenly," said Lord Char-
leiwood.
"Feel it, sir? All the heart I have
lies in my 'baby's grave."
"You must give a little of it to
mine, since Heaven has taken its own
mother," he said, gently. "I ern not
going to try tq .bribe you with inoriey
roney' does not buy the loud and
care of good women like you—but I
gsk you, for the love you bore to your
own child, to, be kind ;to mine. Try
to think, if you earl, that it'is your
own child brought ,baek to yeti."
"I will," she promised, and she
kept.her r:' ,rd.
' You writ spare neither expense or
trouble," he continued, "and when
T eefern you shall be most riehly
recompensed. If all goes well, and the
little one prospers with you, I shall
leave her with you for two or three
years at least. You have been a lady's -
maid, the doctor tells me. In what
families have you lived?"
"Principally with Lady L'Estrange,
of Verdun Royal, sir," she replied. "I
left because Miss L'Estrange was
growing up, and my lady wished to
have a French maid."
In after years he thought how
strange it was that he should have
asked the question,
"I want you," said Lord Charle-
wood, "to devote yourself entirely to
the little one; you will be so liberally
paid as not to need work of any other
kind. I am going abroad, but I leave
Dr. Letsom as the guardian of the
child; apply to him for everything
you want, as you will not be able to
communicate with me."
He watched her as she took the
child in her arms. He was satisfied
.Had Weak Back
and Kidneys.
KEEP THE BOWELS REQULAU
AND AVOID
CONSTIPATION.
When the bowels are not kept regular
they become clogged up with waste and
poisonous matter, causing' constipation,
biliousness, sick headaches, piles, and
all kinds of liver troubles.
Milbum's Laxa-Liver Pills will regu-
late the bowels so that you may have a
free and easy motion every day. One
pill every night for thirty days will
cure the worst cases of constipation.
Mr. John J. Smith, Elginburg, Ont.,
writes: "I had been troubled for a great
while with constipation, and tried many
different remedies which did me no good.
I happened to try Milburn's Laxa-Liver
Pills, and I have found them most bene-
ficial."
Milburn's I,axa-Liver Pills are 25
cents per vial, or five vials for $1.00; for
sale at all dealers, or mailed direct on
receipt of price by The T. Milburn Co.,
Limited, Toronto, Ont.
ri Ti ie;" 6. '�nnari , anal Cda-Cr her
to love me."
Then he bade f•trewell to the doctor
who had been so kind a friend to him,
leaving something in his hand which
made his heart light for many a long
day afterward.
"I am a had correspondent, Dr. Let-
som," he said; "I never write many
letters—but you may rely upon hear-
ing from me every six months. I shall
send half -yearly checks—and you may
expect me in three years from this
at latest; then my little Madeline will
be of a manageable age, and I can
take her to Wood Lynton."
So they parted, the two who had
been so strangely brought together—
parted with a sense of liking and
trust common among Englishmen who
feel more than they express. Lord
Charlewood looked round him as he
left the town.
How little I thought," he said,
"that I should leave my dead wife
and living child here! It was a town
so strange to me that I hardly even
knew its name."
On arriving and as someewhat to his
tination, to
his great joy,
surprise, Lord Charlewood found that
his father was better; he had been
afraid of finding him dead. The old
man's joy on seeing his son again
was almost pitiful in its excess—he
held his hands in his.
"My son—my only son! why did
you not come sooner?" he asked. "I
have longed so for you. You have
brought life and healing with you; I
shall live years longer now that I
have you again.'
And in the first excitement, of such
happiness Lord Charlewood did not
dare to tell his father the mournful
story of his marriage and of his young
wife's untimely death. Then the doc-
tors told him that the old earl might
live for some few years longer, bat
that he would require the greatest
care; he had certainly hr tint disease,
and any sudden excitement, any great
when he saw the light that came into
her face; he knew that little Madeline
would be well cared for. He placed a
banknote for fifty pounds in the
woman's hands.
"Buy all that is needed for the lit-
tle one," he said.
In all things Margaret Dornham
Promised obedience. One would have
thought she had found a great trea-
sure. To her kindly, womanly heart
the fact that she once more held a
little child in her arms, was a source
of the purest happiness. The only
r1•^•••hnck was when she reached
home, and her husband laughed
con,cely at the sad little story.
"You have done a good day's work,
Maggie," he said; "now I shall ex-
pect you to keep me, and I shall take
it easy."
He kept his word, and from that
day made no further effort to earn
env money.
"Maggie had enough for both," he
• said—"for both of them and that bit
of n. child."
Faithful, patient Margaret never
complained, i id not even Dr. Let-
daily life had increased, even though
she was comforted by the love of the
little child.
CHAPTER III.
Madeline slept in her grave—her
child was safe and happy with the
kindly, . tender woman who was to
supply its mother's place. Then Lord
Charlewood prepared to leave the
place where he had suffered so bit-
terly. The secret of his title had been
well kept. No one dreamed that the
stranger whose visit to the little town
had been such a sad one was the son
of one pf England's earls. Charlewood
did not strike anyone as being a very
uncommon name. There was not the
least suspicion as to his real iden-
tity. People thought he must be rich;
but that he was noble also no one
ever imagined.
Mary Galbraith, the doctor's house-
keeper, thought a golden shower had
fallen over the house. Where there
had been absolute poverty there was
now abundance. There was no more
shabby curtains and threadbare car-
pets—everything
com-
fortable. Thel doctors seemed to have
grown younger—relieved as he was
from a killing weight of anxiety and
,;are.
The day came when Lord Charle-
wobd was to say good-bye to his little
daughter, and the friends who had
been friends indeed. Margaret Dorn -
ham was sent for. When she arrived
the two gentlemen were in the parlor,
and she was shown in to them. Every
detail of that interview was impress-
ed on Margaret's mind. The table was
strewn with papers, and Lord Charle-
wood, taking some in his hand, said:
"You should have a safe place for
those, doctor. Strange events happen
in life. They might possibly be re-
quired some day as evidence of iden-
tification."
"Not much fear of that," returned
the doctor, with a smile. "Still, as
you say, it is best to be cautious."
"Here is the first—you may as well
keep it with the rest, said Lord Char-
lewood; it is a copy of my marriage
certificate. Then you have here the
certificates of my little daughter's
birth and of my poor wife's death.
Now we will add to these a signed
agreement between you and myself for
the sum I have spoken about."
Rapidly enough Lord Charlewood
filled up another paper, which was
Signed by the doctor and himself;
then Stephen Letsom gathered thein
all together. Margaret Dornham saw
him take frorri the sideboard a small
plain oaken box bound in brass, and
lock the papers in it.
"There will be no difficulty about
the little lady's identification while
this lasts," he said, "and the papers
remain undestroyed."
,she could not account for the im-
pulse that led her' to watch him so
closely, while she wondered what the
tapers could be worth.
Then both gentlemen turned their
attention from the box to the child.
Lord Chs.riekood would be leaving di-
rectly, and it would be the last time
that,le, at least, could see the little
one. There was all a woman's love
in his heart and in his face, as he
bent dow n to kiss it, and say fare-
well.
"In three year' time, when I come
back again," he said, "she will be
threc years lk and
talk. Yat: must f.,.+sel,;,her t—she will tsa: v
'COULD HARDLY MOVE IN BED.
When the back becomes weak and
-starts to ache and pain it is a sure sign
that the kidneys are not performing their
'Junctions properly.
On the first sign of backache Doan's
Kidney Tills should be taken and serious
'kidney troubles prevented.
Mr. Francis McInnes, Woodbine, N.S.,
• writes: "" I deem it my duty to let you
know the wonderful r Doan's have
dney
eeived from the use of
Pills. For a long time I had been suf-
fering from weak back and kidneys. I
used to suffer the most at night, and some
times could hardly inOve in bed with the
pain. I could do no hard labor on
account of my back. A friend advised
•me to give Doan's 1 idnee Pills a tl'ia1,
:and I am glad I did for the pain in my
kidneys is gone; my back is strong, .and
I can perform any hard labor and get
my good night's sleep. I only used three
boxes of the pills.''
Doan's. Kidney Pills are 50 cents per
box, or 3 boxes for $1.25; at a alt dealers, r
mailed direct on receipt of price by
. Milburn Co., limited, 'Toronto, f�'" •
When ordering direct atlecifv "Deal a "
wt,• • •-tea yoti fn nTthii 1•ii>:rlg?"
Lord Charlewood's face flushed. For
one moment he felt tempted to an-
swer :
"For my beloved wife, whom Heav-
en has taken from me."
But he remembered the probable
consequences of such a shock to his
father, and he replied, quietly:
"For one of my friends, father—
one of whom you did not know." And
Lord Mountdean did not suspect.
Another time the old earl placed
his arm round his son's neck.
"How I wish, Hubert," he said,
"that your mother had lived to see
you a grown man! I think—do not
laugh at me, my son—I think yours
is perfect manhood; you please me
infinitely."
Lord Charlewood smiled at the sim-
ple loving praise.
"I have a wornan's pride in your
handsome face and tall, stately figure.
How glad I am, my son, that no
cloud has ever come between us! You
have been the best of sons to
When I die you can say to yourself
that you have never once in all your
life given me one moment's pain. How
pleased I am that you gave up that
foolish marriage for my sake! Yon
would not have been happy. Heaven
never blesses such marriages.
He little knew that each word was
a dagger in his son's heart.
"After you had left me and gone
back to England," he continued, "I
used to wonder if I had done wisely
or well in refusing you your heart's
desire; now I know that I did well,
for unequal marriages never prosper.
She, the girl you loved, may have
been very beautiful, but you would
with have been happy with her.
"Hush, father !" said Lord Charle-
wood, gently. "We will not speak of
this again•'
"Does it still pain you? Tell me, my
son," cried the earl.
"Not in the way you think," he re-
plied.
"I would not pain you for the world
—you know that, Hubert. But you
must not let that one unfortunate af=
fair preiudice you against marriage.
I should like to see you married, my
son. I should like you to love some
noble, gentle lady whom I could call
daughter; I should like to hold your
children in my arms, to hear the
music of children's voices before I
nee"
"Should you love my children so
uch, father?" he asked.
"Yes, more than I can tell you. You
ust marry, Hubert; and then, as fax
s you are concerned, I shall not
ave a wish left unfiulfilled."
There was hope then for his little
adaline—hope that in time she
ould win the old earl's heart, and
revent his grieving over the unfor-
unate marriage. For two years and
half the Earl of Mountdean linger-
ed; the fair Italian clime, the warmth,
he sunshine, the flowers, all seemed
to join in giving him new life. For
o years and a half he improved,
so that his son had begun to hope
that he might return to England, and
once more see the home he loved so
dearly—Wood Lynton; and though
during this time his secret preyed
upon him through every hour of
every day, causing him to long to
tell his father, yet he controlled the
longing, because he world do nothing
that might in the least degree retard
his recovery. Then, when the . two
years and a half had passed, and he
began to take counsel with himself
how he could best break the intelli-
gence, the earl's health suddenly fail-
ed him, and he could not accomplish
his purpose.
During this time he had every six
months sent regular rembittances to
England, and had received in return
most encouraging letters about little
Madeline. She was growing strong
and beautiful. She was healthy,
and happy. She could say his name;
she could sing little baby -songs. Once
the doctor cut a long golden -brown
curl from her little head and sent it to
him; but when he received it the earl
lay dying, and the son could not show
his father his little child's hair. He
died as he had lived, loving and trust-
ing his son, clasping his hand to the
last, and murmuring sweet and tender
words to him. Lord Charlewood's
heart smote him as he listened; he
had not merited such implicit faith
and trust.
"Father," he cried, "listen for one
moment! Can you hear me? I did
marry Madaline—I loved her so dear
ly, I could not help it—I married her
and she died one year afterward. Bu
she left me a little daughter. Can you
hear ane, father?"
No gleam of light came into the dy
ing eyes, no consciousness into th
quiet face; the earl did not hear
When, at last, his son had made u
his mind to reveal his secret, it was
too late for his father to hear—an
m
m
a
h
M
w
p
t
a
t
tw
enviee*. any cause of trouble might
kill him at once. Knowing this, Lord
Charlewood did not dare to tthi
secret; it would have been plunging
his father into danger uselessly; be-
sides which, the telling of it was use-
less now—his beautiful wife was dead,
and the child too young to be recog-
nized or made of consequence. So he
devoted himself to the earl, having
decided in his own mind what steps
to take. If the earl lived until little
Madeline reached her third year, then
he would tell him his secretchild
would be pretty and graceful—shehie
wont' in all probability, win
love. HP could not let it go on longer
than that. Madeline could not re-
main unknown and uncared for in
that little county town; it was not to
be thought of. Therefore, if his father
lived, and all went well, he would
tell his story then; if, on the contrary,
his health failed, then he would keep
his would secret altogether,
knows that he had dis-
obeyed
s -
obeyed him.
There was a wonderful affection be-
tween this father and son. The earl
was the first to notice the change that
had come over his bright, handsome
boy; the music had all gone from his
voice, the ring from his laughter, the
light from his face. Presently he ob-
served the deep mourning dress.
•HIq, lees' -]a.. as P� znAdeney, "for
whimikibmihmaisimmame
The Army of
Constipation
le Growing Smaller Every Day.
CARTER'S LITTLE
LIVER PILLS are
waponsible—they sot
only give relief --
they permanently
oat
h
o-
cure C A
tiea. Mil.
lions use
them for
Bilious.
mos, Indigestion, Sick Hu hckc, Sallow Skih.
Small Pill, Small Dos., Small Prion,
Genuine must bear Signature
it
r g�, r
CA$TORIA'
Esinfants and Children..
Mothers Know That
Genuine Castoria
Always
Bears the
Signature
of
N0 k2
The Propriet� ate etciseArt,
AVe getable Prep arali on tornd us..
ti gtheStilati olhe Food maehsandliuWe sol:
Promotesess ,C scall-,
nese an hive nor Mineral.NOT '
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fianplin Sad
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flocheIkSaltr
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P inaionaeg.•
lifonSad
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for Constr.
lion. rStomach,assanda
Worms, Feverishness
gac simileSigna Signature
of
440.
COMPANY.
•
A
• THE REAL & N5 yYORK. `^
MONTREAL d
'QTS;
In
Use
For Over,
Thirty Years,
ST 'R1A
Exact Copy of Wrapper.
TMC CENTA"N COMPANY. NEM MONK C,TY-
the -iC 61111 'prue id Mgr, -t3'u"e to its
own maxims, began to respect him
when it was believed that he had good
fortune for his friend. In one year's
time he had the best practice in the
town. the ladies found his manner so
mach improved.
He bore his good fortune as he had
borne his ill fortune, with great
equanimity; it had come too late. If
but a tithe of it had fallen to his
share twelve years earlier, he might
have made the woman he loved so
dearly his wife. She might have been
living—loving, happy, by his side.
Nothing could bang her back -the
good fortune had come all too late;
still he was grateful for it. It was
his bilis
pleasant to be able to pay
when they became due, to be able to
help his poorer neighbors, to be able
to afford for himself little luxuries.
such as he had long been without.
The greatest happiness he had now
in life was his love for little Madeline.
The hold she had taken of him was
marvelous; from the first moment she
held out her baby hands to him until
the last in which he saw her she was
his one dream of delight. At first he
had visited Ashwood as a mere mate
ter of duty; but, as time passed on
those visits became his dearest pleas-
ures. The child began to know him,
her lovely little face to brighten for
him; she had no fear of him, but
would sit on his knee and lisp her
pretty stories and sing her pretty
sones until he was fairly enchanted.
Madeline was a lovely child. She
had a beautiful head and face and a
figure exquisitey molded. Her smiles
were like sunshine; her hair had in it
threads of gold; her eyes were of the
deep blue that one sees in summer
skies. It was not only her great love-
lin"e". but there was about her a won-
derful charm, a fascination, that no
on" could resist.
Dr. Letsom loved the child. She sat
on his knee and talked to him, until
the whole face of the earth seemed
changed for him. Besides his great
love for the little Madeline, he be-
came interested in the story of Mar-
garet Dornham's life—in her love for
the handsome, reckless, ne'er-do-well
who had given up work as a failure—
in her wonderful patience, for she
never complained—in her sublime
heroism, for she bore all as a martyr.
He heard how Henry Dornham was
often seen intoxicated—heard that he
was abusive, violent. He went after-
ward to the cottage, and saw bruises
on his wife's delicate arms and
hands --dark cruel marks on her face;
bat by neither word nor look did she
ever betray her husband. Watching
that silent, heroic life, be became in-
terested in her. More than once he
tried to speak to her about her hus-
hand—to see if anything could be
done to reclaim him. She knew that
all efforts were in vain—that there
was no good in him; still more she
knew now that there never had been
such good as she had hoped and be-
lieved. Another thing pleased and in-
terested the doctor—it wag Margret
Doenham's passionate love for her
foster -child. All the love that she
would have lavished on her husband,
all the love that she would have
given to her own child, all the repress-
ed affection and buried tenderness of
heart, were given
tothis littleto see how
was touching. pitiful,
she worshiped her.
"What shall I do when the three
years are over, and her father comes Careful search was car. to claim her?" she would say to the
doctor. "I shall never be able to part fo tit nyiie t rs tehnt mher ight
e concern liber.
with her. Sometimes I think I sh i11 but Stephen Letson had been faithftrt}
rid hide her,kept the se-
Zvi
telt foralied p
rr awe
in Y to his promise—he.
cret. There was nothing to give thot
least clew. There were no letters, nos'
memoranda; and, after tiai time. peoi
ple came to the conal
t i
would be better to let the child re-+
main where she was, for her father}
would be sure in time tb hear of that
doctor's death and to claim her.
So September came, awith tri a glory
of autumn loaves. Ju, C hie ye
had elapsed since Lady
lied died; and then the great troub
e•
p
MITT"" ihongat-'tris nom, "'S7ie is
good, earnest, tender, true, by na-
ture; but she is capable of anything
for the little one's sake."
So the two years and a half passed,
and the child, with her delicate, mar-
velous grace, had become the very
light of those two lonely lives. In
another six months they would have
to lose her. Dr. Letsom knew very well
that if the earl were still living at
the end of three years his son would
tell him of his marriage.
On a bright, sunshiny day in June
the doctor walked over to Ashwood.
He had a little packet of fruit and
cakes with him, and a wori�s:fu1 doll,
dressed most royally.
"Madeline!" he cried, as he entered
the cottage, and she came running to
him, " should you like a drive with
me to -morrow?" he asked. "I am go-
ing to Corfell, and I will take you if
you will promise to be a good girl."
She promised—for a drive with the
kind doctor was her greatest earthly.
delight.
"Bring her to my house about three
to -morrow afternoon, Mrs. Dornham,'•
said Dr. Letsom, "and she shall have,
her drive.
Margaret promised. When the time
came she took the little one, dressed!
in her pretty white frock; and as they
sat in the drawing -room, the doctor'
was brought home to his house—dead
It was such a simple yet terrible
accident that had killed him. A perm
man had been injured by a kick from
a horse! For want of better accommo-
dations, he had been carried up frits!
a loft over a stable, where the doctor
attended him. In the loft was an operr
trap-door, through which trusses off
hay and straw were raised and lowers
ed. No one warned Dr. Letsom about
it. The aperture was covered ere v
ritli
straw and he. walking quickly
fell throuele There was but one coin-
fort—he
oca
fort—he did not suffer long. His death,
was instantaneous; and on the bright
June afternoon when he was to have{
taken little Madeline for a drive, he;
was carried home, through the sun -lit?
streets, dead.
Margaret Dornham and the litt3e{
child sat waiting for him when the`
sad procession stopped at the door.
"The doctor is dead!" was the cry!
from one to another. Mare terrible pain shot through masa '
garet's head. Dead! Theft eddy dead,
who had been bei only
Then perhaps the child would bet
taken from her, and she should see!
it no more!impulse, for which she conldi
An
hardly setons{, and for which site was
hardly responsible, seized her. She
must have the box that contaithe the!
p
papers, lest, finding
pie should rob her of her child. Quick!
as thought, she seized the box-'
which always stood on a bracket hi
the drawing-room—and hid it undett++
her shawl. To the end of her life shed
was puzaled as to why she had donee
this. It would not be missed, shot
know, in the confusion that waslikely;at
to ensue. She felt sure, also,
one, save herself and the child's fn,-'
ther, knew of its contents.
She did not wait tong in that s �nno
of confusion and sorrow. Clasping
het
child in her arms, lest she should seal -
the dead flue, Margaret Dornbam hur-
ried back to the cottage, bearing withl
her the proofs of the child's identity.
The doctor was buried, and witlit,
him all trace of the child leeneeeds han
he died without knowing it. He died,
and was brought back to England, and
buried with great pomp and Magni-
ficence; and then his son reigned in
his stead, and became Earl of Mount -
dean. The first thing that he did after
his father's funeral was to go down
to Castledene, he had made all tr-
raneements for bringing his daughter
and heiress home. He was longing
most impatiently to see her; but when
he reached the little town a shock
of surprise awaited him that almost
cost him his life.
CHAPTER IV.
Dr. Letsom had prospered; one
gleam of good fortune had brought
with it a sudden outburst of sun-
shine. The doctor had loft his little
house in Castle Street, and had taken
a pretty villa, jest outside Castledene.
He had furnished it nicely—white
lace curtains were no longer an unat-
tainable luxury; no house in the town
looked so clean, so bright, or so pretty
as the doctor's. People began to loo
up to him; it was rumored that he
had had money left to hint --a fortune
that rendered him independent of his
practice. No sooner was that quite and o t
derstood than people began cleveru
that after all he was a very
man. No sooner did they feel quite
convinced that he was indifferent
about his practice than they at once
appreciated his services; what had
been called abruptness now bemire
troth and sincerity. He was declared
to be like Dr. Abernethy--wonderfnllq
clever, though slightly brusque
a In
manner. Patients began to
him; one or two instances of wonder-
17,1 euxothaetcs telt t • •
How little she dreamed that there
was a prophecy in the words.
"Her father has the first claim,"
said Dr. Letsom. "It may be hard for
us to lose her, but she belongs to
him."
"He will never love her as I do,"
observed Margaret Dornham.
Of the real rank and position of that
father she had not the faintest sus-
picion. He had money, she knew; but
that us all she knew—and money to
a woman whose heart 'hungers for love
"Thevery little.
m thing almost terrible
i o.tilac t .A£�. that load, that
ut�
of her life came to Margaret•
h tem.
(T0 BE CON'11Nt1ED4