A STRANGE VISITOR.
It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on
Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last
letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he
saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy,
dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for
the joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed
stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even
now in the light of his kindly face.
He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had
awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his
wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his
little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who
worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and
whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly
to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad
and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the
screen-room.
But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery
surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble
though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to
which his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject,
the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly
nature was aroused and eager for action.
There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much
of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he
lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something
also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of
the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and
brought no unfamiliar sound.
The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from
his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked
absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of
this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.
By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.
Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby
clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from
the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no
sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.
He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table
from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by
his side, and laid his cane across it.
When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said:
"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of
coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?"
"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some
curiosity.
"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?"
"No, I don't remember to have met you before."
"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft,
Simon Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home."
"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?"
"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can _I_ do for
_you_?"
The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door,
which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat.
"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?"
"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in
front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention
for a few moments."
"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning
back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed."
Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only
a languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being
interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and
often enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the
conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to
be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his
listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly
short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. But his very
next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious
attention.
"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge
disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?"
"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have
good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?"
"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?"
"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed."
"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and
burned up after they went down, would it?"
"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me
these questions?"
"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and
all went down. Isn't that so?"
"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions?
It is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I assure you."
Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:--
"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not,
just as the fire was creeping up to you?"
The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by
calling up painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he
continued:--
"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in
the wreck, wasn't he?"
"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any
object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at
once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further."
"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important
object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to
answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at
Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?"
"Simply this, that you are mistaken."
"What do you mean?"
"Your boy is not dead."
Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face
took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his
lips.
"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof
of it."
"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw
him--yesterday."
"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you."
Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary
hopelessness on his face.
"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you
fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the
truth of what I say."
"Very well; produce them."
The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and
placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of
coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from
his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel.
Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook
it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little
flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained
and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were
completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned,
the edges of which were still black and crumbling.
"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man.
Burnham seized it with both hands.
"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where
did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?"
Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something
else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of
velvet and lace, and laid it on the table.
This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon
with loving eyes.
"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now
that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?"
His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far
away. He said, finally:--
"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's
picture in it. Did--did you find that?"
The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket.
The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly
for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears.
"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell
me now--where did you get them?"
"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept them
faithfully. But I will tell you the whole story. I think you are ready
now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly."
The old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the
table, cleared his throat, and began:--
"It was May 13, 1859. I'd been out in the country at my son's, and was
riding into the city in the evening. I was in the smoking-car. Along
about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more
jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. I got up and went out with
the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the
three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. I hurried
down the bank and did what I could to help those in the wreck, but it
was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to
do anything. Then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. But I
heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had
struck across the rear one, and I climbed up there at the risk of my
life and looked in. The fire gave some light by this time, and I saw
a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly
still. A sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. Then the child
cried again; I saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out
just as the fire caught in his cloak. I jumped down into the water
with him, and put out the fire and saved him. He wasn't hurt much. It
was your boy Ralph. By this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had
to get up on the bank.
"I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find
out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him.
He wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much
about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph.
I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and
the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to
discover some clew to his identity. But I couldn't find out anything
about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The
exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the
brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months
before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see,
from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means
and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's
friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search,
but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible
during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the
child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for
him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I
was placed.
"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and,
by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook
disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's
name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this
boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was
to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned
immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had
either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not
able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a
travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After
that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however,
I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and
well."
Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had
been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he
gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.
Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of
that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was
really alive.
"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that
I might have assisted you in the search for him?"
Craft hesitated a moment.
"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too
severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day
to find him myself."
"Well, let that pass. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say,
is my son?"
"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he
is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that,
I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation,
not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but
also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you."
Burnham's brow darkened.
"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object
is to get gain from it. Am I right?"
"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I assure you."
"Still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?"
"I do, certainly."
"Well, then, what is your proposition? name it."
"Yes, sir. After mature consideration, I have concluded that three
thousand dollars is not too large a sum."
"Well, what then?"
"I am to receive that amount when I bring your son to you."
"But suppose I should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the
person whom you will bring?"
"Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me."
Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!"
he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive,
unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand
dollars."
"In cash?"
"In cash."
"It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may
change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure
me?"
"Certainly."
Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following
contract:--
"This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867,
between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first
part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second
part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said
Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this
date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life,
and in good health of body and mind. And thereupon the said Burnham,
provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced,
agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand
dollars. Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid.
"ROBERT BURNHAM." [L.S.]
"There!" said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; "that will secure
you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement.
But let me be plain with you. If you are deceiving me or trying to
deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do
so, you will surely regret it. And if that child be really in life,
and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind
whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise
you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. Now you understand;
go bring the boy."
The old man did not answer. He was holding the paper close to his
eyes, and going over it word by word.
"Yes," he said, finally; "I suppose it's all right. I'm not very
familiar with written contracts, but I'll venture it."
Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down
the floor.
"When will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?"
"My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with
miraculous powers. I will bring the boy here or take you to him within
two days, as I have agreed."
"Well, then, to-day is Tuesday. Will you have him here by Friday?
Friday morning?"
"By Friday afternoon, at any rate."
The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited,
and putting them back into his hand-bag. Finally, Burnham's attention
was attracted to this proceeding.
"Why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? You have no right to those
things; they are mine."
"Oh no! they are mine. They shall be given to you some time perhaps;
but, for the present, they are mine."
"Stop! you shall not have them. Those things are very precious to me.
Put them down, I say; put them down!"
"Very well. You may have these or--your boy. If you force these things
from me, you go without your child. Now take your choice."
Old Simon was very calm and firm. He knew his ground, and knew that he
could afford to be domineering. His long experience in sharp practice
had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a
contest like this, always has the best of it. And he was too shrewd
not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that
was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech. He was,
therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed,
vehemently:--
"I'll have you arrested, sir! I'll force you to disclose your secret!
I'll have you punished by the hand of the law!"
"The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are
guilty of no crime," responded Craft, coolly; "and there is no
criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. Poverty is my
worst crime. I have done nothing except for your benefit. Now, Mr.
Burnham you are excited. Calm yourself and listen to reason. Don't you
see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out
of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my assertions?"
"But I have seen you produce them. I will not deny that you gave them
to me."
"Ah! very good; but you may die before night! What then?"
"Die before night! Absurd! But keep the things; keep them. I can do
without them if you will restore the child himself to me. When did you
say you would bring him?"
"Friday afternoon."
"Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait."
"Very well, sir; good day!"
"Good day!"
The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with
his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully
behind him.
Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed
face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were
striving for the mastery within him.
For eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. The terrible
wreck at Cherry Brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few
formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few
unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers
might bloom above them. The last search had been made, the last clew
followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and
these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. Still,
the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all
question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this
world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after
all be living.
And now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the
cloak and the locket. Did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope,
destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last?
But what if the man's story were true? What if the boy were really in
life? What if in two days' time the father should clasp his living
child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! Ah! his mother. She
would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to
her, if only for a day. But she had been taught early to believe that
he was dead It was better than to torture her heart with hopes that
could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. Now, now, if he
dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was
alive, was found, was coming back to them! Ah! if he only dared!
The sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as
he walked. It was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the
west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow
that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly
strength that held mastery in his heart.
There was a sudden commotion in the outer office. Men were talking in
an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:--
"There's been an accident in the breaker mine, Mr. Burnham."
"What kind of an accident?"
"Explosion of fire-damp."
"What about the men?"
"It is not known yet how many are injured."
"Tell James to bring the horses immediately; I will go there."
"James is waiting at the door now with the team, sir."
Mr. Burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife,
took his hat and went out and down the steps.
"Send Dr. Gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made
ready to start.
The fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the
hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and
stopped at the mouth of the shaft.
Many people had already assembled, and others were coming from all
directions. Women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were
there, with pale faces and beseeching words. There was much confusion.
It was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth
of the shaft. Men were busy clearing a space about the opening when
Robert Burnham arrived.
"How did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his
wagon. "Where was it?"
"Up in the north tier, sir. We don't know how it happened. Some one
must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp,
an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the
chambers where the men was a-workin'. I can't account for it in no
other way."
"Has any one come out from there?"
"Yes, Billy Williams. He was a-comin' out when it went off. We found
him up in the headin', senseless. He ain't come to yet."
"And the others?"
"We've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we
couldn't stan' it; we had to come out."
"How many men are up there?"
"Five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out."
The carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull
eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. It
was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their
unfortunate comrades. They were almost choked to death themselves,
with the foul air of the mine. One of them recovered sufficiently to
speak.
"We got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but
the after-damp got--so bad--we--" He reeled and fell, speechless and
exhausted.
The crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying.
People were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. Women
whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out
desperately that some one should go down to the rescue.
"Stand back, my friends," said Burnham, facing the people, "stand back
and give these men air, and leave us room to work. We shall do all in
our power to help those who are below. If they can be saved, we shall
save them. Trust us and give us opportunity to do it. Now, men, who
will go down? I feel that we shall get to them this time and bring
them out. Who volunteers?"
A dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; sturdy, strong-limbed
men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic
resolution gleaming from their eyes.
"Good! we want but eight. Take the aprons of the women; give us the
safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!"
Burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going
down. One of them cried out to him:--
"Don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!"
"I'll not ask men to go where I dare not go myself," he said; "slack
off!"
For an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded
its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed
his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the
rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness.
It was Ralph. After the first moment of surprise his employer
recognized him.
"Ralph!" he exclaimed, "Ralph, why have you done this?"
"I couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "I had to come. Please
don't send me back."
"But it's a desperate trip. These men are taking their lives in their
hands."
"I know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so
little as mine. They've all got folks to live an' work for, an' I
ain't. I'll go where they don't dare. Please let me help!"
The men who were clustered on the carriage looked down on the boy in
mute astonishment. His slight figure was drawn up to its full height;
his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes
shone the fire of resolution. Some latent spirit of true knighthood
had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature,
and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and
courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old
were ever prompted to perform. To those who looked upon him thus, the
dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and
poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed
to them almost as though a messenger from God were standing in their
midst.
But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he
saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments
of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He
thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared
them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like
a flash of light.
This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives,
desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to
sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten.
"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I
have found you!"
But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not
know what it meant.
The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off.
The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time,
no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do
that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now.
"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the aprons; Ralph, take
this; now then, come on!"
Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their
safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts.
They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate
and in pain. They knew that the spaces through which they must pass to
reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions
death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." But they
hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they
plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate
errand.
A half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and
then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." The great wheel
turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron
ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth
waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would
yield up to them. The carriage rose swiftly to the surface. On it four
men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in
their midst. The body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly
to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. Then a boy
staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched
arms of Bachelor Billy.
"Ralph!" cried the man, "Ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child!
brandy, quick!"
After a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the
people who were looking down on him. Then he remembered what had
happened.
"Mr. Burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?"
"Yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im.
Did ye fin' the air bad?"
The child lay back with a sigh of relief.
"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an'
brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along
'ithout me."
The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who
had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured,
but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:--
"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his,
an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done
the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o'
after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by
mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever
hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im
dee!"
Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his
helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every
one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life
and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the
assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were
turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers;
women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy.
There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth
to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence
at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the
multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist,
and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth.
Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came
outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes
were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and
whispered, sadly:--
"He is dead."