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About The Loup City northwestern. (Loup City, Neb.) 189?-1917 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 30, 1903)
THAT GIRL of JOHNSON S By JEA.fi KATE Ll/DLX/M. Author of '‘At n Girl's Mercy," Etc, Entered According to Art of Congress *.n the Year 18^0 by Street A fttnfth. in the Oflice of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. CHAPTER XXI.—Continued. Dolores’ heart was so sick, every thing was so dark for the moment she fa could not see or think clearly, but she remembered with stinging ili3tinel b ness. "What shall I do?” she cried, “what shall I do? If he should die—if ho should die before 1 have asked him to forgive me I cannot live—I could not live, I tell you, and let him die believ ing that.” “We will be in time, dear.” he said, quietly, and she did not question it, scarcely heard the more kindly name, though the horror somehow fell away from her heart and a silence and full despair mingled with an indefinite hope rested upon her. Not another word was uttered until they were standing at the door of the hospital, Dolores asked brokenly as xh# clung to his arm. unable to stand alone for the moment: “You are sure—sure we are—in time?” ‘ Yes," said the young man gravely, and with steady assurance in his voice. “Yes, Dolores. I5e brave as you al ways are, and all will be well." . And as Dr. Dunwiddie held her hand for a moment, putting new strength into her fingers from his steady clasp, he said, cheerily; “I am glad you are here. Miss John son. We will need you in the morn ing. but you can do nothing tow and would only tire yourself to no use. We will call you when it is neces sary.” • But I cannot sleep— 1 cannot rest until I have seen my father, Dr. Dun widdie. May I not at least speak to him?” “No. I must say no. Miss Johnson. Your father is quiet and in a half | doze: should you see him now he j would be too weal, to talk to you, and it would be worse than useless.” Dolores did not think of resting or sleeping with the great weight of her Injustice to her father upon her mind, but the woman who entered with them at the orders of tne doctor to. see that the girl should rest quietly, removed her things anti induced her to lie down for a moment any way, and she slept until a light tapping on her door awoke her. < She answered the rap. a tremor in her voice, her thoughts confused ".nd unable at first to comprehend where she was or why she was there, until the voice on the other side of the door told her to go to room 37 as soon as she was ready, and she realized what had come. When she entered No. 37. Dr. Dun widdie turned to her, as she approach ed with a quiet greeting. , “We think he wishes to see you, Miss Johnson,” he said. “Speak to him. please.” . 1 She leaned over the bed with won derful self-control; the hollow face among the pillows was pallid with the dews of death upon it; the coarse, scant hair, strayed on the pillow. In stinctively she touched it half timidly with her fingers, speaking faintly to him. ‘ Father,” she said. ‘‘Father!” He muttered something unintellig “Father! Father!" lble without opening his eyes, her ▼olee seeming to reach him even in his stupor. Then suddenly he started up and opened wide his eyes—brilliant they were with a swift, false light— and looked past the girl and those at the bedside, to where young Green was standing near the window away from the others. “Ded ye get ther water?” he whis pered, hoarsely. “Were ther gal thar?" Then he sank back muttering: “D'lores—D'lores? Why, she's jest D'lores—that’s all.” Then, his voice rising above the hoarse, weak whisper, he called clear ly with a new tone in it the name Do lores had never before heard from him—the name of her mother. "I'm a rough ole feller, Mary,” the weak, broken voice muttered faintly. "I dedn’t mean ter make ye cry. I told ye I waru't good ’nough fer ye.” br. Dur.widdie was standing beside Dolores, and unconsciously his eyes were fastened upon her face, spell bound, as were the tender eyes of her friend at the window—as were the eyas of ever} one for the time in the room. “Et’s a gal!” he muttered, weakly, bis voice falling- "I sed most likely et‘d be a gal. Jest my luck. Eft hed been a boy, now. But ef ever thet young feller kems around hvar a-put tIn* notions inter her head—yes. she’s purty 'nough. Mary, an' I don't blame ! ye. so don't cry; only ct’s my cursed luck thet—she—wa'n't a boy—” The muttering ceased; the weak voice sank into silence; a faint gasp stirred the white lips, and the hollow eyes opened for an instant, all the light gone from them, and rested on the face above him; then a strange, half-livid pallor spread over his face and Dr. Dunwiddie drew the girl gently from the bedside over to the open window. He poured out some wine from a glass on a stand near, and pressed .t to her lips, “Drink it,” he said sternly, and she obeyed him mechanically. Young Green came and stood at the back of her chair, as though to shield her from any more of life's strain, any more of the sadness that had followed her. nay, even to death. His friend seeing the expression of his face, laid his hand gently on his arm in sudden comforting. But Dolores’ hands lay in her lap like two hands of ice. She herself seemed turning into ice with no power of feeling or thought or wish. She seemed to herself in a strange half sense to have died when her father died. CHAPTER XXII. But l.ife Went On. Her father was d«ad; she know It; she accepted it in silence after the first wild return to the realization'of what had come upon her. Only once, when she was alone with young Green, while they wore making preparations to convey the body home, did she show any sign of emotion. Sho was standing at tho little window in their parlor looking out upon the busy street. Dora, who had come to her upon receiving the telegram of her uncle's death, was in the inner room with Mrs. Allen and the doctors and one or two of the attendants. Her father was dead—dead. Never before had she seen death. She knew absolutely nothing about any other life, about anything beyond the days that passed much alike to her—or had passed much alike to her until these friends came into her life. Heaven was where the stars were; her astro nomy told her of God, an infinite Be ing, all powerful, all merciful; the Creator of all things, but farther than that she knew nothing. Thought crowded upon thought, yet with a distinctness mingled with those strange half intelligible words of the past, that was intense suffering to her. She was in a half stupor, with her brain so active that it was wearing away her very life. Dr. Dun widdie said that she must be aroused; she must be brought nut of this state; she must bo moved to tears, or to some utterance of her grief. She could not go on like this. For a year now she had been in this strained state of feeling. He turned to Dora in this time of need. She was not the pale girl who arrived at the mountain a year before; her face had filled out; her cheeks no longer bore the hectic flush, but lield the soft color of ad vancing health, while her eyes had lost their strained look of suffering. Dr. Dunwiddie called her over to him by the window that morning and she went to him obediently. "Something must he done for your cousin," he said, gravely. "She is in such a state of half consciousness, her senses dulled by too much strain upon them that she is in danger of lising her mind. Go to her. You are a wom an, and will know what to do." "But I don’t know what to do," she saiil as gravely as he had spoken. "Dr. Dunwiddie. l^orie is so different trom other girls, I don t know what to say when she is like that.” "It sounds cruel,” he said. "Miss Dora, but it is the only thing that can be done, and is true kindness. “You are always kind,” she said softly, and the soft eyes lifted to his were womanly eyes, and the tender, drooping face was a sweet face to him. "We will take her away from here as soon—as—all is over. We return to New York next week. Dr. Dunwiddie. There is so much there to take her mind from these things; the change will he good—better than anything else, will it not?’ "You are going—so soon?" he said, and the grave voice proved the inward control of the tumult in his heart. “Dora—Dora, will you leave me with no promise, no word of kindness, no hope that I may see you again, have you—love you? You are very kind to every one, Dora Johnson, out of the pure sweetness of your neart—be kind to me and tell me of some kindly thought.” They had forgotten for the moment the girl in the other room. Dora’s hands were close in his, Dora’s tender face was lifted up to his with a half shy sweetness upon it. Dora’s lips were whispering something, he scarce ly knew what, only knew that Dora was giving to him the tender, sweet, womanly heart with its purity and truth—giving this into his keeping to be held, thank God. through all their lives as the sacred thing it was—a woman’s tender heart. Then, by and by—only a minute it might be, yet with a life's change to then—Dora drew away her soft, warm hands, and a new expression was on the sweet face, lifted with its tearful eyes to the face above her. ”1—1 must go to Lone—Harry,” she whispered, and there was a tremor In her low voice born of her great happl ness. “I tbust not forget Lorio eveu— even now.” ‘Always my thoughtful. tender girl,” he said, and the low’ spoken words brought toe deeper color to the smooth cheeks and a gleam ot happy light in the lifted gray eyes. She drew away from him and cros» ed the roc m to the door of the inner room, her heart beating rapturously in spite of the sadness that would come at thought of the sadness of the nobler girl In that still, empty room beyond. But in the doorway she paused and every thought left her— every thought save of the girl she had come to comfort, the brave, noble true girl who had suffered so much and so long aione. Young Green had just entered the room from the hall. There had been something in his manner lately that won Dora's deepest respect. The lightness that had made him such a . . i I “How can he know?1’ jolly comrade had given place to a quiet humor that made hint a charm ing companion. She had guessed, watching him. interested in him, lov ing Dolores as she loved her—she guessed of the thought he had for her, and she honored him loving such a girl as this grave cousin of hors, this girl so slightingly spoken of among her own neighbors because of hea utter height above them, this gir) whom her father had hated with h!a narrow hatred, this girl the personifi cation of womanliness and truth and purity. Dolores turned from the window at his approach, and a sudden sharp sense of everytnmg that had gone, everything that must come in the future, struck her like a knife. She turned to him with a bitter cry. hold ing out her hands as though for help: “He is dead!” she cried, and the watching girl in the doorway felt the hot tears rush to her eyes at sound of the agonizing voice and the agaony on the lifted pallid face. “He is dead, and he does not know I am sorry— he can never know now.” He took her hands in his, and he?4 them close and warm in his strong clasp; his eyes were only full of a great tenderness and love and longing to comfort her; nis voice was tender as a woman’s when he spoke. “I think he does know', Dolores. I believe he does know. ‘To whom much is given much shall be required.’ Therefore, to whom less is given less shall be required. I believe he does know and has forgiven you—and m&." “How can he know?” she cried, and Dora's hand went out to the strong hand near her for strength, watching the lifted icy face before her, never thinking of her eavesdropping, forget ting everything but the agony of the girl. “How can ho know when he is dead? When he died before I could tell him—before he could forgive me? Don't you know that my father h dead?” (To be continued.) The Kaiser and Art. The Kaiser s latest role is that at champion of the painters whose pi® lures have been rejected by the man agement of the annual German art ex hibition. Out of 3,000 pictures offered only 600 have been accepted, and it ia alleged that the selections are due to favoritism and improper influences. It is stated that the modern impression ist school is favored at the expense of the other styles. The painters of the 2,400 rejected pictures laid their grievances before the Emperor, and it appears that their protest has been successful. A high official in the Ministry of Education, Privy Councilor Mueller, who is chiefly responsible for the management of the art exhibition, has quitted his post. It is understood the change is due di rectly to the Emperor's Initiative. It Is probable that next year the Em peror intends to participate personally in the selection of pictures, when the impressionists, whom he abhors, will secure less prominence. She Could Have Her Way. James I.ane Allen tells the story ol an old bachelor living in Kentucky, who, havliag determined to get mar ried. sought the advice of a married friend on this serious step. He spoke of his farm and money and the ma terial advantages of a union with the lady of his choice, but sentiment seemed to have no place in his con sideration. After listening carefully to what he had to say on the subject, the married friend asked: ‘ What if your tastes differed great ly? Suppose, for instance, that she liked Tennyson, and you didu't?" “Well," responded the bachelor, “un der those circumstances, I suppose she could go there."—New York 1 Time*. ( CROW FOR MANY YEARS. Slot Until Fifty Does a Man Stop In creasing His Stature. Kecent statistics have proved that nan's stature increases up to the age >t fifty years. This is a refutation of he former belief, according to which nen stopped growing at twenty-t^fc ?r wenty-three. "Boys ami girls." said a surgeon, ‘vary oddly in the rapidity of their <rowt!i. The fastest growth experi enced in life comes between the ages if one and five. Boys and girls grow ibout equally here. "From five to tea the boys outstrip he girls, but from ten to fifteen the iirls outstrip the boys. At eleven and ourteen the girls are the boys' super! irs in hight, and from ten to fifteen they are the boys' superiors in weight. “But between sixteen and twenty ;he boys forge ahead, taking at that ige a lead which they never again re linquish. The boys cease their per ceptible growth at twenty-three; the girls cease theirs at twenty. “From twenty-three onward to fifty, men, however, continue to grow'—no rbservatlons have been made on worn .^n—though this growth is. of course, slight. They also increase slowly in weight; but from fifty to sixty their weight increases very rapidly. “Male strength increases most markedly from the age of twelve to hat of nineteen; from nineteen to thir ty it increases more slowly. From ‘hirty onward it begins very slowly to decline. “Female strength increases most rapldly from nine to nineteen; then slowly to thirty; and after thirty the decline begins."—Stray Stories. Economize in Reading. A French doctor affirms that tho hu man brain is overtaxed by the pro fessional writers. We have no con tdderation for the poor reader, says the Illustrated London Nows, but force him to labor through involved sen tences, intricate spelling, much repeti tion and very long words. The doc tor suggests that if we must use a long word like "tuberculosis” we should not inflict its appalling length upon tlie reader more than once, but indicate it by the initial letter “t." By this process an article might contain a large number of Initial letters, and the reader would he constantly hark ing back to find what words begin with "p" and "q." Economy of time, says the French reformer, is most essen tial in reading. When you can make your meaning plainer hy u. diagram do not bother the public witli the delica cies of your prose. 1 read a book lately by a professor of literature who turned much of Shakespeare into tri angles and showed that one of his plots was a parallelogram. This was done, no doubt, in the interests of simplification, although the "s“ of the "p" could scarcely have been apparent to a read er who chanced to lie in a hurry. If you do not know what the “s" of the “p" means you had better economize your time by reading this paragraph all over again. Ala*! "Will you let me kins you?” They sat side by side in the gloam ing, quite close to each other, yet not so close but that it might have been possible to be closer. The sun had gone down behind the western hills, and the faint shadow of twilight was beginning to suggest itself In the recesses of the hills. He was patient. He said to himself he would wait. She did not answer, but looked out into the clear sky and the fleecy clouds as they sailed along the hori zon. Of what was she thinking, he wondered, as he sat there. But never mind what It was, he would not hurry her. Ho would wait. The distant cull of the owl was heard, and along the lane In the dis tance came a procession of cows homo from the pasture. For a long time they sat thus, in deep silence, until she turned her eyes o his, wondering, questioning. “Well?" ho asked at last. "Will you?" And she gathered herself up and pre pared to leave. "It is too late—now!” she said.— Smart Set. Dog Had a Purpose. Dantey language is not always ele gant or grammatical, but It sometimes has a force which is unique. Some young men were standing In Fair mount park the other evening admir ing a bull dog belonging to one of their party when a small white dog appeared. The bull dog pounced upon him, and in an instant the air resound ed with the howls of the dog and the voices of the men trying to rescue the smaller animal. Finally the men sue ■ceded in extricating the victim, which immediately flew down the road, the >ther dog in hot pursuit. The crowd stood watching the race with breathless attention, when a coi ned man shouted. "He won’t ketch him! He won't ketch him! Dat udder dog’s got a purpose, he shnah has.” Tine enough, the dog “with a pur I lose" escaped.—Philadelphia Hedge,. The Lost Occasion. Farewell, fair day mid fading light! The day-born here, with westward night. Via Iks I he huge sun now downward sour, ••'a re we II. We twain shall meet no more. Farewell. I watch with bursting sigh My late contemned occasion die. I linger useless In my tent; Farewell, fair day. so foully spent! Farewell, fair day. If any God At all consider this poor clod. He who the fair occasion sent Prepared and placed the Impediment. Let him diviner vengeance take— Give me to sleep, give me to wake Girded and shod, and bid me play The hero ill tho coming day! —Habert Louis Stevenson. Lesson IV.. Oi tober 25—David’s joy over forgiveness.—pgh.m 32. Golden Text—Blessed is he whose trans gression Is forgiven, whose sin Is cov ered.—Psalm 32: 1. First Stanza.—Vs. 1. 2. The Theme. The Blessedness of being Forgiven. The Words Expressing Sin. Trans gression—sin—iniquity, describing sin in different aspects. There are in the Bilile nine terms for sin—debts, miss ing the mark, lawlessness, disobedi ence, transgression, fault (moral aber ration), defeat, impiousuess, dishar mony or discord. For all these kinds of sin we need forgiveness. And there are as many words for forgiveness as for sin—forgive, remit, send away, cover up, blot out, destroy, wash away, cleanse, make them as if they bad never been. "Transgression.” This word in the original means breaking loose from God anil the restraints of his law; hence, rebellion against him. The Words Expressing Forgiveness. "Is forgiven.” Literally, taken away, as a burden (see Ex. 34:7; John 1:29). The load of sin that burdens the con science, like Cain's mark too great for him to bear, is taken away. “Cov ered." Hidden front sight of God and man. blotted out of the book of God's remembrance; as in an account book the name of the debtor is obliterated, and the debt canceled.. If we cover them, there is no blessed ness; but If God cover them, they are bid forver. "When the world forgives, it is at no pains to cover the sin.” lie is tolerated rather than blessed. But God covers the sin, and gives a now chance. “Imputeth not,” Not reckoned against him, as debts are in the cred itor's book, to be collected in due time: removed from the docket of the court, so that the case will never he called up. "In whose spirit there is no guile,” no decltfulness. "The condition of forgiveness on man's part is absolute sincerity.” Second Stanza.—Vs. 3, 4. Vain Ef forts for Peace while the Sin is Con cealed. "When I kept silence." Try ing to hide bis sin; refusing to ac knowledge It. to himself, to others, or to God. "My bones” (the most solid and enduring part of bis body) "waxed” (became increasingly) old. Exhausted, enfeebled, worn out. The secret sin wore him out and made him sick. "Through my roaring all the day long.” The figure is drawn from the loud and unrestrained outcries of one suf fering intolerable and unremitting pain. He was enduring an agony which frtrced from him sobB and groans that he could not stifle. And this was without cessation. There is no pain to be compared to that of a thoroughly awakened conscience.”— Prof. W. H. Green. “Thy hand was heavy upon me." God would not leave him to go on in sin. God's hand was heavy upon him in chastisement in order to bring him into a better mind, as a father chas tises his child in love (Heb. 12:6-11). The consequences of sin are one meas ure of its greatness, and the severity of punishment showed David how abominable his sin was In God's sight. “My moisture is turned into,” etc. He was like a tree or landscape dried up in a drought. These terms express either bodily sickness or the languish ing of his spiritual life. All the fresh ness was gone from his spirit; all of the Joy and delight of living was taken away; his graces faded. Unconfessed, unforgiven sin is a terrible torment, and Rives to the sinner sometimes in this world a foretaste of the ter rors to come. "Sin,” says Prof. Vin cent, "is not covered because we cover it from ourselves. God covers sin only when he frankly uncovers It.” Third Stanza.—V. 5. Peace through Confession and Forgiveness. “ Ac knowledged . . . not hid . . . confess." The three words expressing the completeness and thoroughness of the confession. Nothing was with held. “True confession implies your viewing that fact (of sin) in the same light m which God views it.” “And thou forgavest.” God loves to for give, and lie will forgive as soon as the sinner comes to that state of mind when forgiveness will do good to him, and at least not injure others. The atonement of Christ and the con dition on which forgiveness can be granted—faith in him—are to induce sinners to repent, and to prevent his forgiveness from increasing the sin of the world. The first great, need of each human being is the forgiveness of sins. A religion that cannot assure us of God’s forgiveness is a vain religion. Forgiveness is not merely the tak ing away of the punishment of sin, but it is restoration to the family of God, to his favor, to the enjoyment of his love, as children and heirs of God. Sin unforgiven shuts us away from God; we cannot look him in the face. We cannot feel at home and at peace In the presence of our Father. Forgiveness does not remove all kinds of consequences of sin. But it does remove the sin itself, the love of sin, and the punishment of sin. There were, indeed, certain consequences of David's sin which repentance, no mat ter how deep and sincere, could not remove. Repentance could not ward off the bitter trouble to come from his polyga mous household in the death by the sword of two of his grown-up sons; it could not preserve liathsheba's child alive; it could not bring Uriah back irom the dead; it could not keep some from blaspheming the name of God (2 Bern. 12: If) down to the latest ages. There are some results of sin which even forgiveness does not remove—at least, in this world. Still, the conse-i quences were greatly modified by his repentance. Bin is forgiven for Christ’s sake, because he has by his atonement made it possible for God to be just, and yet justify (forgive) those who believe. The atonement removes the evil which would come upon the in dividual and upon the community if free pardon were offered to all. with out this preparation and condition. Fourth Stanza.--V. 6. David's Ex perience Brings Hope to All. ‘‘For this.” Ou account of this expertenca of David. "Every one that is godly.” “That is the object of God's gracious love, and is filled with pious affection in return"; every good man, whose general desire is to do right, and yet falls into sin, every one who seeks God’s forgiveness. "In a time when thou inayest be found.” Before it is too late, for there is a delay which loads to a time of not finding (Prov. 1:28). The disease may become in curable. There is a "too late" as in the case of the foolish virgins. Not that God's forgiveness falls, but man makes his own heart too hard. “Surely in the floods of great waters.” The trouble, the disaster, the conscious ness of guilt, the punishments for sin come like a sudden and overwhelming mountain torrent. "They shall not come nigh unto him.” That is, the waters shall not reach him, because he is too far ubove them, in some safe shelter. God's forgiving love, shown to us In Jesus Christ, is his safety and defense. Fifth Stanza.—V. 7. One Blessing of the Forgiven—Safety. "Thou art my hiding place.” Where the floods of trouble cannot find him. “An allu sion to those rocky fortresses and crags inaccessible to an enemy, which were sought in times of danger."— Barnes. “Thou shalt preserve me from trouble.” How? By forgive ness, by removing the punishment, by bringing good out of evil, by turning defeats into victories. “Thou shalt compass me about with songs of de* llverance." As he was besieged on every side with troubles, so on every side there would be victories and songs to celebrate them. Wherever there had been a sin, there was a song of forgivness; wherever a temptation, a song of deliverance; wherever an enemy, a song of victory. Sixth Stanza.—Vs. 8, 9. Another Blessing,—Guidance. “I will Instruct thee.” David’s experience Is God’s text. If any go astray it is because they will not listen to God’s instruc tion. “I will guide thee with mine eye.” My look shall show you the way. I will keep watch over you; mine eye will ever be upon you, not to watch for faults, but for guidance. “Be ye not as the horse, or as the mule.” “irrational animals, who are guided by force and not by reason.”— Murphy. Sin is always irrational; to sin is to act without understanding. “Bit and bridle.” Instead of noble, moral influences. God will govern men by reason. If they are willing to be so governed; by force, if they re ject his words. “Lest they come near unto thee.” Better as in R. V.. "else they will not come near unto thee,” will not be subject to your control, in harmony with your purposes. Seventh Stanza.—Vs. 10. 11. An Ex hortation. “Many sorrows shall be to the wicked,” and he cannot escape them or gain the victory over them so long as he remains wicked. Evil will pursue and overtake him. “But he that trusteth In the Lord.” He receives mercy, because faith or trust Implies that he has forsaken and con fessed his sin, hates it, and has come back to his Father an obedient child, led and saved by Jesus Christ. There fore only those who believe can be saved. “Mercy shall compass him about.” Mercy, God’s loving-kindness, is around him on all sides, as the cir cumference of a sphere is about the center, so that, in no direction can harm come to him. “Be glad in the Lord ... ye righteous.” Not those who have never sinned, but those who, having been pardoned, are now loving and serving God. Who shall say that religion makes good people unhappy and dull? peaertn urano Jury indicts. CLEVELAND, O.—The federal grand jury here returned indictraent3 against Michael Gilbo, Percy Laubacb, D. G. Lyon and David G. Armstrong, rubber manufacturers of Akron, who were recently arrested on complaint #f Anthony Comstock and charged with sending contraband goods through the malls. No indictments were found against J. C. Frank and J. T. Diehm, charged with the same of- j fense, they being completely exoner- / tted. j Appeals for Relief Funds. LONDON—The archbishop of Can-i ‘.erbury has issued an appeal urgently representing the necessity for sub scriptions to the Macedonian relief fund. Will Be Settled Peaceably. BERLIN—Count Inoye, the Japan ese minister, says everything in th<f ilspute between Japan and Russia will' be settled amicably.
