\ Yue \E ae j te Yims Ze SSS SHBOR. VOLUME IV. EDITORIAL OFFICE., ROCK ISLAND, ILL. DECEMBER, 1903. | PUBTINCOLN, NEB. NUMBER 12. ONE CHRISTMAS EVE FLOYD K. ROYCE “Are we near the church, Christie?” “Yes, gran’pa. I can see the light in the high round window.” “T fear you are getting cold, Chris- tie.” “No, gran’pa, my shawl is well over ~my head.” “But your hands felt like ~ ice when you turned my col- LATE “If you are weary, gran’pa, we will turn back.” “My strong limbs are not weary; and I must not be ' selfish. You would hear the sweet singer who will be at St. Paul’s this Christmas eve——” “Not if you would that we again watch by the concert hall.” “My heart turns toward the ‘concert hall, for she might pass that way.” “My mother, gran’pa?” “Why, your mother, Chris- tie?” “Because, gran’pa, you have. for the whole year been watching there.” “A year “tis true; but why think of your mother, child? You have no mother.” “Say not so, gran’pa. I have a Sweet, beautiful mother——” “Better say you had once a mother, but you have no mother now.” “Is she dead, gran’pa?” “Dead to you and to. me, child.” “And it was so many years ago she went away, gran’pa. Why did she go? And why for the last year have you | watched for her by the con- | cert hall?’ “Best you do child——” “T am no longer a_ child, gran’pa, I am taller than your shoulder; terday.” “So you are, Christie; so you are. Have the carriages commenced coming?” “T see two or three, but the snow so fast is falling, more. are not in sight,” “Then turn under the shel- ter of a tree and I will tell you that which I think you, now should know.” “Here is a. tree, gran’pa. We can wait a few minutes, then when the people have entered we may creep inside the basement doors, for Jean, the janitor, is our good friend.” “A true friend to the blind and the fatherless, Christie.” “True and generous, gran’pa.” “You asked of thy mother, child. I will tell you all while we wait. Twenty years ago [ left Sweden for America. Your mother was then just your age. Our first year in America was filled with heartache because amongst stran- gers in a strange land we all the time longed for the old home across the seas so far away. Then I played the violin as a teacher. Your mother also played and far better than I who had been her teacher. She could go higher if only she could have opportunity not know, I was sixteen yes- such as is found in the large city. We came to New York. To the home of a lady where I instructed on the vio- lin her son, a youth fair of face but false of heart, your mother came one day. He saw her, was infatuated and in the end planned an elopement. My little girl believed his wild professions of undying love and left me for him. In a year she returned to her old father broken-hearted, bringing you with her. She found an old blind fid- dler instead of the violin instructor. still see her; gentle, loving, and oh, so} by this man who must have been my kind Ky “But she left this letter, which Jean, the janitor, read for me.” “A letter, gran’pa? You never showed it to me. Where is it, the last letter from my mother?” “All these years is has been under the cloth in the back of the violin box:”” “Oh, gran’pa, give it me quick!” “Not so hasty, child. Youth is too impetuous. Here is the letter. Faded “NOW COME, GRAN’PA, A LADY AWAITS OUR COMING.” A sickness following her flight had left me blind. She only once spoke of the man who had wronged her, because the first mention of his name made me crazy with anger at memory of the wrong he had done my child. To- gether we lived. She played or sang at the museum, and [ remained at home with you. For two years we were happy. Then one day she went out to sing and never returned.” “Go on, gran’pa! She was taken ill?” “Alas, no, my child. She had cruelly deserted you and her old_ blind father——” “Not my mother, gran’pa! She could not be so cruel. Why in my dreams, I ” I ween, and quite tattered by age. “No, it has been carefully preserved. Why, gran’pa! It is not in the hand- writing of my mother such as is in the family Bible.” : “Not the writing of thy mother, child; why I never thought——” “No, it is the sprawling hand of a man who wrote with the left hand like Pastor Ludson e “The man with whom she first went away wrote thus. What does it mean? Quick, child, I am faint with my con- fusion!” ~ “Oh, gran’pa, it means that my mo- ther did not go away of her own will but that she was detained by force, father.” “If by force, why staid she away all these years?” “Did you remain long, gran’pa, to see if she returned to your home?” “Alas, no. Made ill again by her desertion I was sent to the infirmary. Half crazed as I was I insisted that: you be kept by me. At the end of a year, I went forth cured of all except the pain at my heart, to wander with you singing and playing on the streets.” “And you never returned home again?” “While in the infirmary the house and all our goods were destroyed by fire.” _ “But why for the last year have you watched by the con- cert hall, gran’pa? You have not told me all.” “One day when we were playing on the street near the hall, I heard her voice. I be- lieve she is again singing. I have not many years to live and I would know the truth before I die.” “You must not think of death, gran’pa. I need you until I can sing in St. Paul’s for a salary, then you shall find comfort for many years at my fireside; and with Jean, the faithful e “Not as thy husband, child.” “No, not as my husband, but as the true friend of the blind, to live for a more happy old age.” “IT am made almost light- hearted with thy hope, sweet child; but I fear I ean never be fully happy again until T know the fate of thy mother. But it is Christmas eve. Let us to St. Paul’s, where Jean, the janitor, awaits us.” “The carriages are now crowding the entrance, gran’- pa. Let us turn back and ap- proach from the rear. Look out, gran’pa. There is a ear- riage. Now come. It has stopped and a lady who has alighted awaits our coming.” “Take no. alms, Christie.” “But we are poor, gran’pa.” “Aye, but too proud to ac- cept alms; but I suppose we must.” gran’pa. The very poor must accept what the rich would give. Your pleasure, ma’am?” “Here is a gold piece for that poor man.” “Why so generous, lady; we are not mendicants; simply honest street musicians who would accept a penny for our music and our songs.” “Alas, poor man, I do not give because of your music, but in memory of the best man who ever lived —my father, who also was blind eS “Why, gran’pa, did you stumble that you so nearly fell?” “No, child, but that voice is the voice of my lost Alice——” om “And your name, man?” , “Olof Strassman.” “My lost father!” : “Alice, my lost one, returned to me!” * * * * * * *% Faster and faster fell the snow- flakes. Brighter gleamed .the lights from St. Paul as the lost Alice, after she had repeatedly embraced father (Continued on page 4.) “As we have all my life, -