CHRISTMAS STORIES.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 273, 24 December 1909, Page 3

CHRISTMAS STORIES.

|pr,.'pnt GHOST AT CHRISTMAS i Jttree days the north-east storm had howled round the square. The old trees at lust tnougut it playful had at I ]ut found it terrible, while their bougns urere "broken and scattered over tne j gjfjfts. As Mr, Miles, sitting in liis - 'iriitfttte room, heard the tinkle of the ol the. great teams that were taKthe snow away from the streets, "So j&inuch more of the city's money gone, •Wie thought. "So much the bigger tax « to pay." Upstairs his niece Emily thought, i£f-' t What bitter weather ior those puur iW-men to be up and out in, all night!' s§|.'But jiut then tue doorbell rang, and Jp there was a stamping oil of snow m tne fffi vestibule - and the ewish of Bridget's P. whisk, and then came, two or tnree A (tails at a time, a step she loved; auu

a. u Allan opened the door slie forgot all bf, r about storm and snow and everything I J but bim. - fr '] ' "I thought lie couldn't turn me out 11 I'.if I once got in, on such a nigut as this—fc«i' .*nd Christmas, Eve, too," said Aiian. Eli: "Oh, and "such a Christmas live as p - you make it by coming!" she exclaimed.' ?"■ "And I've half a mind to light the lire!" K . ■'Make it a whole mind. ' P'-j' "You are perishing! ] wui." And p . presently the blaze was rolling up the ft •' chimney and shedding a rosy warmth Lr, over the room, that in deed needed it I P'h to be worth living in, bare and threadt " fogre as it was', with only the remains b° «! the lew things ALra. Miles had gatu-i i ' «red before she went to prove the

j?,- greater joys of another life, 'l'-he sofa 1 K I U where Emily sat now with her lover, life I S'S'ind whose cushions she herself had made " • Jpf from some of the old brocade growns ber " had when she married; some chairs in bad covered with slips fashioned out it i §£& igf the dimities of the same wardrobe, life HF • little. work-table, a spindle-legged ] jaHPfiaoo, a mirror, and two or three pale "It jfllf*'. 1 engravings on the wall—this made the mu Bh| Beagle turnisttings; and here Emily sat " Bjg& fffhen she and Bridget had finished the hei household tasks, and polished her needle " HftV'Ud wrote her daily note to Allan, ana " Bsh tried to forget that she was unhapp;. tog Bt For why should she be unhappy as' long tha jf_ in Allan loved her? And now, with)car R? Allan beside her, a room far poorer andj her E; darker would have seemed a part 01 kis K paradise. 1, It is true the years were passing; " B; , they were growing older; Allan might I t ' eeue to love. Her beauty was of the in > : aort which, under tenderness and care, litt would last a lifetime; under trouble and the i4l v grief, would be fragils as a hothouse " lower. They bad been promised to each as - IK* Ather far almost a half-dozen years', and 1 : marriage seemed as far oH chs For, although Allan was her dui ad man, yet the meagre salary WI ed was far too meagre for det ana old Miles, as lie was list sld him by the bond of ancient tha rendered hy Mrs. Miles, in the yoi sr brief life, to Allan's mother. Ten iromised Mrs.-Miles he would Ha >ake her husband, she knowing, " tuition of love, that iier hus- hoi led some one devoted person i. B al ; had chanced that he had am oily since her childhood, and nol in love with her since her girl- cor nd thVn her uncle had dis- " he affair, and, 'being resolved " 5 money to fnoney, had per- my put an end to it in forbidding doi i house. "He might as well ire i to breathe!" Allan had said ruj le. a j aw, I| would rather it were " b else," Emily had answered. " house, you know." I i hould we mind that when he sor sus of our right every day— " is of years of happiness, by " keep 'us apart?" wh id not come to the house. The in whenever it waß possible, and des Ir walked together beyond the ids and out into the gre£n _' ruel," foid Allan once; looking ha; a her green gown with the dai buttercups they had picked, yoi the very spirit of spring in a ! s." ev< ed it myself with my needle- flu: ie said, rather proudly. "And is ( t myself! I think he knows ne= s doesn't say. any thing." sh( if he paid me what he should, as ler confidential men in such gel expect, you might have all the ap: nd everything on earth you yoi sept an automobile." eai i don't want that I only want an; lome —one floor, perhaps—per- Yo rooms only—and to hear your phi ng home to the dinner-1 shall e ready " > hear the key turn in the lock ' ts us in and away from the ga: ■et I don't know what uncle pie without me. Once in a while up and looks at me in a long, in; ray—J suppose it is because I ' ike Aunt Alice. -He loved her 1 as Bridget says." 1 toesn't seem to love you ga " spi am necessary, in a way, to if lappinesa." fai ippiness lies in cent, per cent, lef g up money." an for?" in| n only knows. The love ot do taon." mi at was at . other ahd previous pu o-night it was Christmas Eve, Mi i sort of tacit consent they ■vn Y nothing unkind of the person de - them apart. They would just a i the future and picture it to Oi rts' content—she ao fair, with to sd-up masses of her yellow hair ai delicate contour of cheek anil tii illumined and made rosy by the a ! the fire; he so dark and spirit- as snder, sitting there side by side, Hi times in each other's arms, and v( ie most of the moment, keep- m lext one, as far as they could, lij sting its dreary shadow over g< Che storm roared on outside, ' felt the joy of what Emerson tl tumultuous privacy. Well, to 0 , ; and ,well and in love—what tl mppines's comes to any? hi in the room he called his den, e , > one was ever allowed to come in idget with broom and duster, i n lis presence, Mr. Miles was sit-| S1 iring the tinkle of the bells of I« »s, leaning back from his writ- ( n , iind !!i« figures,he had 'beenUi i*i'. !. was chilly; he row If, itJ'i;' "Ud down the room, a pas a handful of fire in the p iut not for anything but money e have put on more coal. The T , as scrupulously clean; cleanli- ], lS his one luxury. The white t f the walls was spotless; what j, e there was had once been crim- j] , the velvet was now faded to a t rrcv with a suspicion of rose. e itild have felt that he kept it or some hidden reason—rhe who j othing now for beauty, hardly n g for comfort. * so he did. There on the walls', e one of the long white panels, picture, the full-length portrait , rife in her bloom; a sconce, low >r side, held a couple of candles i w their light upon it when the i ras pushed aside. Bridget, who >d with him before his wife died, sr eince. was the only one who ij he picture was there. No one lave dared to ask him what had ( of the painting—a crusty man- n sold extCTior, hindered that. He J 'locked up like whatever there , ie in the chambers of his heart, , rule," no one. asked of him a ( my mora than a question. He rer been known to grant any one , .. Sometimes people called him j les, sometimes they called him ler. The newsboys never offered , paper; the flower-girl never held ■ f carnations as he passed; the ■ tched palm of the beggar dropped ime along. He kept no holidays; , no guests; he had no mvitahe went from his house to bis ig-roqtn, from his counting-room , house7and to any outsider, takte of thejn, his days would have 'ft dreary blank. Emily, bent if nJiedle, or sitting opposite him i ; frugal table, often wondered tleasure he had in We, and found pitying Mm. He would not have d-tier-for-the pity; indeed, it have irritated him bitterly. If ,d obliged him to search his heart swer if there were ahv one in the he loved, he would at once nave ed'ves—his wife's niece, Emily, id come to tliem an orphan ba,by ir 'before his wife died. But liehe hnd an affection for her was ,6'on tbnt he should spoil her I>T slices. Whv had he taken oare iliese twenty-five years if !»' did w herf wltli all this tberp was one frrpat snder «|K»t in l»i* l^^rt—-tlie losh, emorv, the lov« nf liis wife, Alice. the floor iww he paused

. and shoved the panel aside, and lighted the candles in the little sconces, taking I care, however, to make one mateh ligiit 'them all; and he turned off the gas from the drop-light where he had been working.

He stood a long while looking at the I picture of the beautiful woman in her I white draperies with the breast-knot of ■blue forget-me-nots; the tender eyes ■seemed to meet his own i\iul follow them; the smile seemed to grow. He felt a little faint—the presentment of life wa& go real—and battling liie slorni on b:' way home had exhausted his strong.h. To be sure, he rould nave taken a cab, but it is the little foxes that spoil the grapes; that a cent spoils the face of a dollar was one of his favorite proverbs., Presently he went back to his desk and sat there, leaving the picture still uncovered. IV leaned his arm on the table, supporting -Tiis head with his band and shielding his eyes a moment. When he glanced up again a chill air seemed to surround him, and the lovely lady was moving gently forward from the picture frame, coming towards him, pausing just before him, and hen eyes, like the depths of the purplest violets, shone serenely just above him, looking into his, and he heard a voice murmuring: "Perhaps vou have forgotten 111 c, Stephen." "Xevcr!" lie cried. But as he spoke he wae conscious of an emotion like awe.

"Are you quite sure?" And her voice had the old warm tone in it that had so often stirred his heart of old. "Do not have any fear," she said. "Am I not still your wife?" "Ally! Am I quite sure? I don't know what vou mean."

"I mean that you have forgotten our life together." "I! I remember every day of it." "The day when we found a bird fallen in the snow as we walked, and you put it in your breast and warmed it back to life? Would you do it now?" Perhaps he did not hear the question. "It was the day you confessed—" he murmured.

'That I loved you. You were tenderhearted then, Stephen." "Ally—wife "

"One morning, when we were strolling together again, we came across a child that was crying. She was lost. You carried her in your arms till we found her distracted mother, and the mother kissed your hands.'—and—"

."That was long ago." "When you still were tender-hearted. I thought then what loveliness it was in you. I thought of One who took little children in His arms and blessed them. I told you so—" "Yes, yes. But I cannot say—it seems as if tihat were some one else."

"Is it possible? Can you have so changed? Oh, 110, it is still you; but dust and ashes have overlaid you. When we first plighted our troth—oh, dear troth! —and my father would not listen because you were- poor, we said that if ever we had the fortunes of young people in our hands we would Temember what the delay had cost us. Have you forgotten?" "How could I forget?" he breathed hoarsely. / "And then to reach our end you began to save, and you saved and spared and went without; and I said it was noble, because- you saved only for u<ir coming life together. How is It now?" "Why ask?" "And then my poor father died; and my money went into the business and doubled, and Emily came to us, and you •welcomed her. At_ first a little interruption to our peace and joy, and then a joy herself, as much to you as to me." "Yes."

"And tten I left you. Perhaps had I stayed, I, too, should have become sordid—"

"Ally!" I will "Was T really the wife of a man say hose whole soul could become wrapped I me. piling one dollar on another, who is'as >af to sorrow, blind to pity—" I by "Stop, Ally! Stop, my—" moi "But you have seen the sorrow of my was ttle Emily for five long years, and it a b is not moved you. You see her in inger of losing all her bloom with her ( )uth, of her lover wearying, and yet nig ] little of this money of yours, given rery year, so little that in your super- 8(m jity you would never feel, money that wa j due him, would afford them the happi- j ler :ss that you knew yourself in the few um lort years of our life together. Just j ier s many years as we were happy to- j n >ther have you kept them unhappy and A | j( part—for the sake of these hoards of ours that are only the dust of the irth, that do you, that dp no one else, • ly good, that are fairy gold after all. £ ] ou are a rich man, are you not, Stelen! " , • , Alii "Who says I am a rich man? wc] "Are you not?" ] lel "Yes." be said then, compelled by the ize of the violet eyes. "Very rich." ° hji "What joy does it give you, or what pre leasure?" ],j s "The pleasure of having and holdig." the "You will leave it all when you go." "It maljgs me shudder to think so." Be| "And why, for what purpose, do you w]) ither, do "you hoard? Why do you pend nothing of it—for yourself, even : not for others? r Will it be any satis- jj c iction in your grave that you have ift so and so much money? Is it your mbition to have left the name of havig put together so many and so many ollars? What is there more foolish. of lore childish, more Bordid? if you had ut together so many pebbles, so many in|( its of paper, so many snowllakes, it rould signifv the same t6 you, being ead. Oh, no; the man I loved was not , man of so low ambition and desire. )nce he seemed to me all that is given 0 a man to be —good and beautiful rad strong. Stephen! There is yet ,ime—" She came near. Her hand lay I 1 moment on his head—a touch light , is that of a butterfly's wing, but thriling through and through him. Her - roice, that had held a tone of infinite e nelancholy, took on a note of brighter, ighfcer, sweeter music —and she was roue. When Mr. Miles stirred he was chilled ihrough. The fire in the grate had gone no jut entirely; the room was as cold, he er: thought, as if a wind from the dead ty aad blown ■ through it. One of the nil sandles in the sconces was just flutter- ot ing out its last flames; the lovely lady n the picture smiled there serenely and ah sweetly again. "I have seen a ghost," da said Mr. Miles. But he left the panel yc IS it was. And if for a moment or two a he knelt there in a prayer that went up from his soul, there were none but the sa all-seeing eyes to See, none but tihe allpitving heart to answer. tli Allan and Emilv up in the drawing- ai room, with the light of the gay flames leaping about the room, could not help ci; trembling the least in the world as they heard a heavy and familiar step creak- ly sng on the stairs, and still more when the drawing-room door was thrown open tl and Mr. Miles came in. m "A merry Christmas to you, children, (he said. And the words startled them s: more than any bitter exclamations tl would have done. He went forward and stood a moment in front of the fire si ■warming himself, and looking at them w ■with something like a smile on his face, si "Since I heard you come in, some little while ago," he said, "I have been thinking, Allan, that you know the de- si tans of my business pretty well." d "Yes, sir. That is, I think so, said 'Allan, when he found Ms voice. . "Then I should like to have you come into the firm, at the beginning of the year. And in that case, I don t see that n fcnvthing stands in the way of your „ marriage, if you and Emily are still of v one mind," he said, looking about him t blandly. . f "Oh, uncle!" cried Emily. And in an- v •other instant she had run and thrown » foeraelf into 'his arms. s "There, there," he said, clasping ner s and smoothing the silky tumbled hair. "And then," he continued, hesitatingly, 1 "perhaps vou will like to stay on here with me. 'The house is big enough—and ] empty enough, God knows. I won t trouble you much. You shall have all ( the young people you want aboot you. i 1 shall like it. I think I shall like it 1 'And we'll have pome new furnishings. I think we'll promote Bridget, and have Home new maids and a couple of men. ] and I've like Christians. What do you : sav that, little girl?" "Ob uncle!" she sobbed. "I always km- vou would!" And hiding her eyes in hi* coat slic held out a hiind blindly to All-'n. And as the three stood there, they heard the chimes of Christmas <Rv(» potirins; out their nms' c ra fines melody upon the stormy gusts. "Tli» Christmas bells." «aid -Mr. Miles. '•'Christmas Eve. T can't give you a I,otter Christmas present. Allan, than this little ffirl. And vou have proved vonr faithfulness and your desert So \ VI . won't wait any longer. We ll have a wedding to-morrow, storm or no ?t But long alter the liappv lovers had , tenanted and said good-night, for the last time, lialf-dazed by their sudden 1 joy, the old man sat by the slowly-

dying flre where lie had heaped the logs; and now and then lie said a prayer, and now and then he murmured, "It shall be all right. Beautiful ghost, dear ghost!"