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tug LEONIE, THE: TYPEWRITER.
. _‘*I never interfere in any of my father’s
+ + amratters,” she said, coldly: ‘ he is quite right,
-" Tf yp: know the thief, you should be forced
* totellavho itis.” 0. : i
“Too dumb from anguish to realize the’ ex-
_-treme audacity of the girl who could stand
: before her anil so coolly make a speech like
‘that, yet seeing that she had nothing to hope
__, ‘for in that quarter, Leonie turned away with
.y i Weary groan. . .
“<I have nothing more to say,” she ex-
. ¢laimed, dully.. ‘* I pray that you will spare
'.me.fot my father’s sake, Oh, dad, dad! you
tried to save me from this but 1 would not
“+> fet you. -God help you and me!” - .
‘. Regardless of. their presence, or perhaps
. iy forgetful of it, the unhappy girl sunk upon
v the floor, and covering her white face with
i, her hands rocked her body to and fro mis-
* erably.
Twice Leonard Chandler spoke to her, but
she did not hear; then motioning the others
. trom the room, he, too, passed out, and turn-
“ ing the key in the lock upon the outside, he
“3. left her there a prisoner, "ots
”
3
2
wt * CHAPTER VI.
THE house had barely become quiet again
_ i than’a noiseless step descended the stairs, a
* “light hand turned the key in the door of the
library, and Evelyn Chandler once more en-
“tered the presence of her s‘ster, :
_ :Idiave risked my father's displeasure to
: give-you your liberty,” said Miss Chandler,
coldly, “If you are wise, you will leave
-: here at onceand forever. My father isa man
.- Whose justice is not tempered with mercy.
“<a tell you frankly that if he can find-you he
will most certainly punish you as he has
,, threatened to do.” ° ’
_ “You mean that you would allow him to do
that?” Leonie asked, her voice still unsteady
almost to inarticulation,
“What have I to.do withit?” asked Miss
Chandler, with calm scorn. ‘f Iam not one
of the emotional kind to become interested in
criminals,” .
“And is that all that you have to say to
me? . :
“y AIL? What more would you have me
‘ ) fsay ? '
“* At Jeast that you are sorry.”
““Trepeat that I am hot of a sentimental
nature. I willsay, however, that Iam sorry
you forced this story from: me.”
**Not for what.you have done? Oh, my
sister—for you are my sister—listen to me. I
don’t know what that man is to you, but Ibeg
of you, for your own sake, not to do again the
. dreadful thing you have done to-night... Think
of the consequences!” .
_. eA hard, cruel, sneering laugh rippled quiet-
“ly through the elder girl's lips.
‘‘Fancy the daughter of Lena Mauprat
preaching honesty!” she exclaimed, with
heartless sarcasm. ‘‘ My dear, are you anx-
ious to know who that man was who forced
me-to produce that money for him? Well,
since I have seen how perfectly I can trust
you, I don’t mind telling you that heis my
_ father, your mother’s husband, an ex-convict,
a gambler, and presumably a thief. I am
very anxious that his relationship to me
should not be known to my respected adopted
father, who knows nothing whatevér of my
parentage, save that they were r. Iam
expecting tomakea brilliant marriage, thanks
+ to my prospective millions, and I cannot
afford to spoil it with any romantic stories,of
convict fathers and mothers, You are sensi-
- ble enough to understand that, I am quite
sure, and will do nothing to spoil your sister's
chances. Am I not correct ?”
i: The speech was so heartless, so utterl
co]d-blooded, that Leonie, even in her halt.
.. stunned condition, shuddered,
** You have nothirg to fear from nie!” she
answered wearily. ** I don’t seem to realize
just yet what has happened, but as I have
vs been In ignorance of your existence until to-
‘night, can try to forget, if you so wish! Is
‘thera nothing kind that you can say to me,
. ferour———”
d She had meant to say, ‘for our mother’s
-usake,” but the words stuck in her throat and
+4 refused to be uttered,
“Ty Mise Chandler laughed again,
v( Way did not you finish your sentencs?”
. she asked brutally, ‘If you will take my
advice, my adar Leonie, you will leave here
at once. I cannot answer for the result if you
remain until to-morrow,” -
** At least you will say good-bye ?”
‘With all the pleasure in life!”
.Weary, heart-sore, Leonie turned away.
There was nothing that she could say—noth-
ing that she could do, .
Bowed down, feeling as though a century
had been added to her years since the night
before, she crept away, and out to where the
pale streaks of red in a cool gray sky showed
that the morning had broken.
She was without hat or wrap, but did not
seem to realize it as she tottered on, apparent-
ly oblivious of surroundings, even of suffer-
ing! .
‘And.so she reached the house that had been
her happy home! How changed everything
seemed! Slowly, wearily she ascended the
stairs .and entered the room where she and
“dad” had passed so many pleasant hours.
As she opened the door she sdw that the
room was notempty. = -
In a large.chair near the open window God-
frey Cuyler sat, his long white hair slightly
lifted by the breeze, his head resting upon
the back of the chair, his eyes closed in sleep.
She stood above him, gazing silently down
upon him, trying to think while her brain
seemed to be an impenetrable maze, yet
through all the gloom that surrounded her a
single thought struggled through! How white
and wan he looked! Was she about to lose
him in addition to the other terrible trouble
that had come upon her ? .
As the thought came to her, a low groan of
indescribable misery fell from her lips. It
awakened the sleeper. .
His eyes opened, and with a start he
straightened himself in his chair. :
‘You, Leonie!” he gasped. ‘‘ In Heaven’s
name, what has happened ?” ,
She kneeled beside him and laid her lips
upon his hand without answering. :
The act frightened him as perhaps no other
would. He fell back, his face became ashen,
his lips blue. A cold moisture, like the dew
of death, stood thickly upon his brow,
“Leonie,” he said, his voice sounding
strangely thick and guttural, ‘‘ where have
you been for the past week that you could
not tell dad ?” No .
She lifted her white, anguished face and
allowed her eyes to rest upon his,
“T have been with Leonard Chandler!” she
answered dully,
Why he did not die at that moment was a
mystery, but the shock seemed to rather
paralyze than excite him. His lips grewa
shade bluer and trembled, but that was the
only evidence of emotion.
«And you know all?” he asked hoarsely.
‘‘Not all, but, oh, dad, I know I pam the
daughter of a thief, and it is enough, enough.
Dad, dad, why did you do it?”
The misery of the young voice would have
been exquisite torture to him had he not been
deprived of the capacity of feeling. hs
brain seemed to act in a way, yet his emo-
tional organs were sturined He took her by
the shoulders and looked her earnestly in the
eyes,
Oy darling,” he murmured, his voice
scarcely audible, ‘do you think I brought
that shame into your life? Your mother was
my daughter, my dearest! Oh, Leonie,
Leonie, I have tried so hard, to keep this
hideous thing from you, for this—for this!
Child, child, why did you do it?”
“Itis better so, dad, much better! It has
shown me what my life must be, and my—
dreams—were—different. Somehow I feel
better to know that -you are not my father,
that you did not bring this shame upon me!
Oh, dad, why can we not die together and
end it all?” .
A curious expression crept over the white,
still face of the old man, but he made no
coniment, only smoothed down the bright,
beautiful hair with a hand that trembled
peculiarly, . : , :
*:Now that ysu know so much, my little
one, I must tell you all,” he stammered, wear-
my
“ite tried to rise, but thé effort it cost was
beyond his strength. ~
‘“TLook in thedesk there and get me thé
ploture you saw,” he whispered, banding; Ler
a liey.
Mechanically she obeyed, and handed it to
him with the case unopened. He pressed the
spring and revealed the pictured face to her.
“It was your mother,” he said, almost rev-
erently. ..
She took the portrait from his hand and
gazed upon it. For the first time the glazed
eyes filled with tears, but they did not fall.
“It is very like—her,” she said, slowly.
**Oh, dad! what have I done that God should
send a curse like this upon me?’
‘* Hush, dear! You must not question the
wisdom of God. Bear your burden meekly,
and He will help you in the end. Oh, Leonie!
why would not you let me save you ¢”
-“Tcould not, dad. You must not blame
me. What right had IJ, the daughter of a
thief ——” ' ,
“You shall not say that—she was your
mother! Listen to her story, and see if you,
cannot find an excuse for her, even as Tid.
Listen, Leonie! I will make the story as short
as I can.” .
CHAPTER VIL
GopFrey, CUYLER paused,
His face was growing niore gray moment-
arily, his breathing seemed forced and un-
natural, there was a curious, quick throb
about his heart that was ominous, but Leonie
did not observe it in her bewildered state.
She night have noticed that ho was pale, but
she attached no significance to it.
When he could control himself sufficiently,
he began his story. “
**T don’t know how to tell you what Lena
was to mein her childhood,” he said, broken-
ly. ‘Ter mother died when she was a little
child, and “I had only her. Ah, Leonie, I
worshiped her! We were wealthy then, and
there was never a desire of hers that I left un-
gratified. I devoted my life to her—watchi-
ing her grow as a miser does his fortune, She
was my idol, and.God punished me, as He!
promised to do all those who worshiped out- -
side of Himself. She was only eighteen—
young, lovely; olil I can never describe her to
you as she was when she met Ben Mauprat.
She could have married a prince, but she fell
in love avith that scoundrel, and while I
leaded with her upon bended knee to give
him up, she eloped with him as soon as my
back was turned, and the tragedy of her life
began. He was a gambler, a jibertine—there
was nothing under heaven that was low and
vile that he was not. To save him from the
penitentiary I spent money—thousand after
thousand, until [had reduced myself almost
to beggary—and the end came! When he
could get no more money from me he robbed
a bank, was detected, and sentenced to the
penitentiary for ten years.”
There was a long pause for rest, then, with
only an increased pallor in the face, Godfrey
Cuyler continued:
“ At that time I was living in New Orleans,
but that city, being too small for Ben Mau-
prat, he brought his wife to New York. Eve-
yn was then about three years of age, andas
like her in appearance as could be, When Ben
was sent to the penitentiary my poor girl
wrote to me, but the letter never reached me,
That was the cause of all the after suffering.
She thought that I had deserted her, and that
made her reckless, Oh, na, Lena! You
should have known me better, my darling!”
For the first time emotion overcame him,
and bowing his head upon his hand, the old
man sobbed aloud.
A choking sensation followed. He gasped
once or twice for breath, then in a much
more feeble and broken voice, he continued:
“She was penniless, helpless, and had that .
child to support.s Well, Leonie, the result of
it was that Mrs. Chandler, in her charity
rounds, saw the child, fell in love with it, and
convinced by Lena of the perfect respectabil-
ity of the child’s parentage, she adopted it.
She knew nothing of the baby’s father, but
believed him to be dead. How can [ tell you
the rest?”
The white lips trembled.
to moisten them, but his tongue seemed as
dry and parched as the lips. Stillby a mighty
effort he went on: .
He endeavored .
- “Lena went to live with a family of decent \ -
surroundings, though poor.
roontin the house, apd took in sewiag enough
ty support herself; but it was » terripe ox-
She had a little ©