Evening Star Newspaper, September 16, 1923, Page 82

_ Parent Who Hoped the Past Would Be Wipled Out and Son Sent Away to Make Good. INHERITANCE (11 said the old man, who lay dying. “He has sent | me this. In another few hours it would have been too late.” He lay in his heavy canopled bed, in the big room in which he had been born, seventy-two years before. The letter was from his only son, whom ke had thought dead: these twenty years. He had been sent out | of the country in disgrace, to rein- state himself, if he could, by work- ing honestly for his living in a new country, where such men as he, of good birth and weak principle, can show what they are made of, away from the temptations of wealth and etation. It had never been meant that he should stay in Australia longer than a few years, His father had hoped much from the test; he was sure that his son had good in Im. If it succeeded he could come back and take up his inheritance, with everything that had gone be- fore wiped out and forgotten, fit to take his place at the end-of the long | line that had lived honorably and cloanly for many generations. But the test had falled. For three vears there had been cons mands for money, and, money. Then sudden silence. Sir Everard had walted for a year, hoping for the best. Then he had made inquiries. His son had disappeared. The in- quiries were continued, and it was reported that he was dead. Sir Everard had married again; he had three young daughters by his second wife, but no son. The helr to his title was a distant kinsman; but his estates were unentalled, and he could leave them as he liked. And no the end of all things for him, there had come a letter from his son. The test had succeeded after all. He had made a man of himself, though it had taken him twenty years to do it, and his achievement was modified by bitter failure. The letter was a sad one, but 1o the father's heart it was more welcome Bo than if it had-been a report of umph. His son had come sudden- to his senses, pricked on, it might be thought, by the good blood that was In him. He had changed his name and gone onto the land, to begin again from the very beginning, doing the things that #is remotest ancestors had done, when England also had been a new country. He had set himself i the task of paying back. ¥ie wewtd not make himself known agam until he could come home with & clean if it took him years to do it He had toiled and sweated year after year. Some times success had seemed to be within his grasp, but it had alw: eluded him. Under his new name he had become known for ill-luek, in a country where ill-luck does sometimss dog the steps even of the most deserving. But at least he had neves gone under altogether. He had gor » on striving and hoping. For tweney years. Now it was time to give up the struggle. It had only been for an idea. He knew that his welcome home was assured him. He would come empty handed, but purg- ed of his fault. He wanted to see his father, and his old home. He was tired, and no longer young. The struggle of life had been too much for him, gt sheet, * ok kX ADY PREVOST sat by the bedside. She was thirty years younger than her husband—a well-figured | woman, with a placid, rather ex- pressionless face. “My dear,” he said to her kindly,{ reaching for her plump white hand | with his own weak, almost trans- parent one, “this will make a differ- ence to you and the children, I know. But I have never encouraged you to hope for everything, have 1? You will have enough. If you want to Yive here, at Sproule—I don’t know— poor Geoffrey has never married—he might be glad “Please don’t talk about that, Ever- &rd.” she said in her low, level voice. “Whatever you do will be right” Her eyes had been fixed on the fire in the grate. Now, in the shadow of the lomp, where he could not see they roamed the room rest- When he bad talked a little more about his son and about herselt and the other children and she had sooth- ed him with qulet assurances of her sympathy in his satistaction, and her readiness to take the lower place than would have been hers but for the Jetter he held in his hand, he said: “We must not delay. Unlock the upper part of that press and bring me the two papers you will find in tie lefthand drawer.” She took keys from tho place he indicated and went to an old plece of furniture in a corner of the room. it opened to form a table, disclosing tiers of drawers above the arrange- ments designed for writing purposes, She had neven seen thls press opened before, nor knew until now that he Nad kept his will there. But she rocognized the two documents to which he directed her as wills and brought them to him obediently. Un- til his {liness had made him depondent on her, her husband had always treated her with unquestioned au- thority and she would never have thought of asking him questions about anything to do with his af- fairs or his actions. It was with something of a return to hig dictatory manner that he told her to help him to sit up against his pillows and to keep still while he examined the two documents. It aig aot take him long. He with- drew them from their envelopes, glanced over them and put them back suain. Then he asked for a pencil And made a note on one of the eén- velopes. “Put that one back into the drawer and Jock 1t he sald, “snd put that one into the fire.” Sho took them from him and went firet to the fireplace, where she stood twith her back to him, while both of them watohed the folded mass of thick paper curl and flame and black- en, until it was consumed. Then she went to the press, walking with her ©sual dignified, unhurried step. “Now, give me a shest of paper,” Beo sald. “I must write to my dear oy with my own hand-—just & lnea J am too weak for more.” . @he bad besd Writing letters for him post. “Can I write for you?” she asked, coming back to him. “You ought not to tire yourself. But_he said impatiently “that he|eldest. must write himself. “Then I must go and fetch some]tinue. more paper,” she sald. it an> He exclaimed, still more impatient- ly: “Spe if there isn’t some In the |nor~ press,” he sald. She unlocked it again, and brought | ed one of the girls. paper to him, and ,an envelope. They bore a heavy erest and motto. “I haven't used any of it left.” For a time nothing was heard in |likely to make that mistake.” the room but the weak scratching of his pen, while she sat in the shadow ; he?” asked the €ldest girl. and looked Into the fire, or at the dark polished surface of the press, upon which the firelight glinted. He folded up the letter that he had written, secured it in its envelope and | here?” gave It to her to stamp. Then she hélped him to settle himself again, and he lay quiet, hplding her hand [had every chance. For years after he He spoke no more ' went to Australla he was a constant ter | trouble to your father. again, as before. about his son, and did mot tell what he had written to him. 5 Presently the nurse came in, fresh from her rest and her walk. Lady Prevost made as If to rise, but he held her hand. “Stay with me a little longer,” he sald. “Nurse will mot mind another half hour to herself.” Lady Prevost half rose. "I was go- ing out to post the letters,” she eaid. “It is nearly § o'clock. I told the ser- vants that I would go to the post my- selt. 1 want you to siay with me, my | dear,” he said. “Nurse will take the letters down.” : “I will post them,” the nurse said. “It is a lovely nighti.end 1 should like to go out again.’ Husband and wife were left aione together again. They talked for a little, quietly. Then Sir Everard said: “I am very tired, but very happy. I think I could sleep a little now.” ¥ ¥ X % ADY PREVOST and her three daughters were sitting in the morning-room at Sproule Court, busy with needlework. There was to be a sale of work, in aid of a fund for an organ in the little old church, the tower of which could be seen across the flowers of the garden among the trees of the park. The church was an object of pride and care to Lady Prevost. A beautiful window had lately been put in, in memory of Sir Everard, who had been dead nearly four months. It had been the offering of herself and her three daughters. Lady Prevost was dressed in un- relieved biack, which suited her caim, rather pale face. The throe girls, the eldest of whom was nineteen, the youngest fifteen, in white summer frocks, laughed and chatted as they worked. They had missed thelr father very much at first. But the sense of strangeness had passed, and had even given place to one of in- creased freedom. Their mother was more with them than before. Lady Prevost had ministered to the desires of a somewhat exacting husband for twenty years. Now her object seem- ed to be to watch over the happlness of her daughters and to share it with them. It was beginning to dawn upon these young girls that they were for- tunate above the ordinary. They had been old enough to wonder what would happen to them after- their father's death. They 1loved their beautiful ancient home, and it would be a great wrench to leave it. But their mother had told them that they would still live at Sproule, and nothing would be changed there. It had been their first gleam of sun- light after the gloomy days of thelr ioss. And Sproule was'a place that no one could live in without loving it. Built In many succeeding centuries, it stood in the midst of lovely gaf- dens, up to the walls of which swept the undulating spaces of the park. The morning room was a large, bright room, gay with chintzes and flowers. Tho good-looking, middle- aged woman, and the pretty young girls, busy with their light tasks, made a picture of home life that tvas attractive enough. There had been a slight pause in the conversation. Lady Prevost broke it by saying: “I have something that I must tell You—something rather disagreeable. You have heard,” she said in her usual calm level volce, “that your father had a son by his first marriage, who turned ont badly, and went abroad, where he was lost sight of. He was sald to have died in Australia, many years ago. This OD is very good to me*fat a table by the side of the bed. A;morning I reeeived .a letter signed little pile of them lay ready for the| with his name; and whoever wrote it “I have used | gaia, *—Geoftrey, his name was— | where a man came from Australla this paper for land claimed to be heir to a fine estate, years,” he said; restored to his gen- land he was proved to be an im- tler humer. “I didn’t know there was | postor. But 2 much shorter time has —whethey it was he or not—is com- ing here this afterneon.” The three girls stared at her in dis- may. “But mother!” exclaimed the She did net give her time to con- “I knew your brother,” she when he was a young man. 1 shall be avle to tell whether this is he or “Do you think it may not be?” ask- “There was a Case, WADY Years ago, elapsed In this case, and I am not “Will he claim this estate, if it is “No: he can claim nothin’, except the title. Your father could leave Sproule as he liked.” “Shall we see him? Will he stay “He did something disgraceful when he was a young man—after he had Then he dis- appeared entirely, and we know noth- ing of what he has done since—if this is he.” “The girls still looked troubled. “He is our brother,” sald the eldest of them. “If he is what he should be,” said Lady Prevost, “we will make him welcome as your brother. Your dear father would have wished that."” * k% ¥ 1 EOFFREY PREVOST walked nvi and down the long library in un- controllable nervousnes. Very Hittle was altered in the room since he had last seen it, and he had been in no such rooms as this, once so familiar | to him, for many years. i His tace was thin and worn, his tall body gaunt and angular. Work had left its mark on this man, but there was something in bis face, and in his carriage, that still spoke of birth and | breeding. The door opened, and Lady Prevost came into the room in her black gown. Her face was unmoved, and she walked toward him with a steady step, her eyes fixed upon his face. She d1d not ofter to shake hands with him, but looked straight at him for an apprectable time. “Well, are_you satisfied that it is * he asked, with a nervous laugh, She turned away from him and mo- tioned him to a chair, while she took amother. “Yes,” she said, “But I was not at all sure that it would be you.” She waited for him to speak took the seat opposite to her. are not giving me a very welcome, Edith,” he said. “L would rather that you did not call me that” she sald at once. “Whatever there wae betweén us, you broke it, and no one ever knew of it. Yt has been forgotten many years since. He laughed again, with some bit- tern “I didn't behave well to you,” he said. “T didn’t behave well in any way, in those days. Still, you haven't suffered much, have you?" “No,” she said calmly. “You don’t seem to be suffering much now. What exactly has hap- pened—Lady Prevost?’ “What do you mean? You know what has happened. Your father died " She gave him the date. ‘I know that. My letter reached him the day before his death, and he answered it on the same day.” She looked at him steadily. There was no shrinking in her eyes, not a shade of heightened color on her cheeke. She seemed to be searching his eyes for signs of confuslon. “Have you come here to tell me that?" she asked, and the only dif- terence in her voice was in a hint of dawning surprise and indignation. “Do you deny §t?” . “Ot course I deny it. You know that it s not true.” He looked long at her in his turn. “That's it, Is it?” he said slowly. “You deceived my father. I thought you must have dome that, but I wouldn’t be sure until T heard it from your own lips.” ] *Will you kindly tell me exactly what you mean?” she said. “What | I I He “You warm 1. & | “I HAVEN'T USED THIS PAPER FOR YEARS” HE SAID. is the story that you have made up, and why do you expect to impose upon me with it?" Me watched her all the tim have a letter' from my father,” he said, “written the day before his death, in which he acknowledged mine to him, and told me that—mno, I shall not tell you what he told me, It you have done whatever it is that you have done to take my inheritance from me, T shall not put another weapon Into your hands. But what mad folly it is, Edith! Do you really think ‘that you can keep me out of what is mine, in this way? You are treading a very dangerous path.” g Bk HE rose from her chalr and stood by it. “If you have come here with the idea of imposing upon me, she said, “you are going to work a very strange way. I was ready to receive you kindly, for your father's sake, and to do what 1 thought he would wish me to do. But you are still what you were when he seht you away, and have thought out a dishonest plan for dispossessing me and my children of what is mine and theirs, you had better go to my solici- tors. 1 will have nothing furter to say to you myselt.” “Oh, st down,” he said, with a laugh, that was almost goodhumored. “It will be a very bad day for you when I go to your selicitors. Come now, tellsme What it was that yon were ready to do for me—for my father's sake She did not sit down. "You are his only son,” she sald. “Are yeu mar- ried, by the way?” 0, 1 am not married, and not like 1y to be, now.” “You can claim the title, of course. You must settle that with Henry Prevost.” “Thank you. There will be no diffi- culty about that. He is not likely to dispute my claim.” “I should have been prepared to al- low you a thousand pounds a year’ “To allow me! While you keep m il OF IT LEFT.” Sproule, and an income of—what? ”ren thousand a year?" “While I should keep what my hus- | daughters, Tt!few years at most. band left me and his is nothing like ten thousand a year.” “Well, if it weren't for my father's letter—it he had not left a will in .m.“ favor, which seems most mysteri- ously to have disappeared—it would not be an ungenerous offer. Perhaps, though, you would not have made it under those circumstances.” “If you want me to do anything for you et all, you had better give upthat dishonest pretense. I do not now that'I should do as much as that—in the,way that you have como to me." She still stood. Her voice had never ance been raised from $ts tone of cool confidence; her eves had never once flickered, although now they were not without hostility toward him “You are a plucky woman,” he said, “though I think a very foolish one. Supposing, for the sake of a quiet lite, for the sake of my younger sis- ters, and for the sake of sparing you something that you can hardly have gauged the danger of, I were to close with you—on terms! “Then I might StiFdo what T had thought of doing: but I should nbw add a stipulation—that you should live out of England, and undertake never to communicate with me or my daughters.” His tone changed into'one of some anger. “You are talking foolishly,”™ he said. “Now listen to what I have to say. My father left a will in my favor, and you know it. You have “I DIDNT By Archibald Marshall i KNOW THERE WAS ANY all of us. I would be a good brother to my little sisters as long as ¥ live; and my life won't be a2 long one—a. I have had my marching orders, Edith, That is why I gave up the struggie out there and wrote to my father. I wanted to see him again before he died, or I died. I was just too late for that. But I still want to spend the last few years of my 1ife at Sproule, which is mine and not yours, nor even my sisters'—yet. You had better consgnt to my terms. Evéry one would say you had done & generous thing; you would be freed from all the diffjculties you.have brought upon yourself, perhaps in a. moment of irresponsibility. And, ex- cept that I should be in the house, everything would go on exactly as it does now. Come now—how can you hesitate? Give it up. Take me to see my sisters, and let me feel that I have come home to a welcome.” She wavered for the first time; her eyes sought the ground. But only for & moment. “Have you told any one of this claim you proposed to make? she asked coldly. “I have only told a lawyer, under whose advice T should act if you forced me to action. I wouldn't go to the old people until I had seen you. It you writs a letter to the man you told your story to, saying that it is absolutely untrue; if you—" “What are you talking about?” he interrupted her roughly. “Do you consent to my terms or not? I'm about at the end of my patience” The controlled manners of his youth committed some act by which another|22d fallen from him; he was the man will has been substituted, under which you benefit. You knew of my father writing to me and the letter who had fought his way down in the ruck, and spoke and looked like it. She drew herself up and turaed I bave from him proves it. If T fight|from him. I refuse to do anything you, I fight vou for everything; 3 will be convicted on the plainest’ pos- sible evidence—almost certainly to a long term of imprisonment: you will be rulned for life, whatever you may keep, and your young daughters will for you at all” she sald, “and you will please to leave my house.” My Dearcst Boy: “f thank God for your letter, and that it has cuome in time. I am dying and can only sead you my love and have disgrace put upon them that,my full forgiveness. Come home a8 they will never get over. Have you thought of all that?” T listen to you,” she said, “because scon as you can and take my place here. I have left you Sproule and the greater part of my property, My it will be au advantage to me to|Wwife has helped me to effect this just know exactly what wicked deed you [now, H are contemplating.” 1 * X ¥ ¥ EHE gave vent to an exclamation She has been a good wife to and your return must make a differ- ence to her, but she is content.. X trust her andwyour sisters to you, I of impatience, aod went on, ~What. |Should llke them to live here at lever It was you did with my father's SProule With you. I am too weak to will, generously with you, if you have the sense to see it. I don’t want the name of Prevost dragged:-la the dirt; I don't want my Yyoung slsters’ lives spoflt. Come now, Edith, before it is too late! Don’t persist in this mad course of yours, which can only bring you to ruin.” “I wiil allow you a thousand pounds a year,” she sald, “as long as you | he said, “is done, and can not|W¥ite more. | be undone. But I am prepared to offer {you a way of escape. I am dealing “YOUR LOVING FATHER.” * x k% HEN the letter was read in court. it created a decp sensa- tion, and as the story of Sir. Geoffrey Prevost's claim was gradus slly unfolded, there were those who looked at the woman Who was 0ppos- ing it, as she sat, calm and unmoved, by the side of her lawyer, and won« dered how she could have been so mad as to put berself into this poel- live out of England, and do not molest | tion. For it was made olear that me or my daughters in any way.” His tace derkened. “You seem do- termined to ruin yourself,” he seid. “These ars the terms I offer you: You make a clean breast of it to our fam- ily lawyers. That is necessary, but it will never go any farther. she could have avoided it, and have gained hardly less than she was fighting for by doing 0. The case looked black agalnst her. Her own lawyers had to give evi. dence that Sir Everard Prevost had made two wills, one lsaving Sproule “T haven't seen them yet. I wanted|and the bulk of his property to his to see you first and save you from the| son, the other, of a later date, leav- results of your folly if I could You|ing everything to his widow for lite, make over to me what 18 necessary to | with reversion to his duughters. Both enable me to live quietly here at{wiil had been in his own keeping, Sprotle, and I should like you and my | and he had instructed them that sisters to live hers with me. You[he should destrby the Iater one, If would be & great deal better off, as| his son proved to be alive. long &8 I live, than you would have The butler at Sproule Court guve been, and after my death you—and |evidence of taking up the post-bag ire my terms.” ' “They are very impudent ones, and|had been taken from him at the door I refuse them absolutely.” by Lady Prevost, who hed brought He looked at her as if baffled, butfit out to him again after it had seemed to make ome more effort to|been unlocked with one or two let- treat with her reasonably. ters for other members of the house- “Perhaps you think that it would|hold. He had been summoned aguin, with me|half an hour later, and told that her ladystip would take Sir Hverard's 1|letters to the post herself, when the nurse cams iu. This wau unuscal, but not unknown. The nurge gave evidency that Lady. Provost was with ber husband alone the time the afterncon powt in at threg o'clock until -she It returned at a quarter to six. e had written letters for him. Sir Everard bad asked her to stay with him ,a lttle longer, and tho nurse bad taken the letters to the post. ‘When she retumed It was to find her patient worse. He had died on the following morning without haw- ing regained consciousness. An ugly implication peeped out here and there during the long ex- amination of this witness, and the! dootor, and the servants; but it was never preseed. All that it was lovxhb’l to elicit was that If a letter had come for Bir Everard from Australia by that post, Lady Prevost alone could have seen it; if @ letter had been written to Australia, she alone could have known of it. . More Important stifl, the will, under which she had inherited, had been found in the old press in Sir Bverard's bedroom, after a search of some days. She had professed en- tire ignorance of it, but according to her husband's letter, something had been done in the course of the after- noon, when she had been alone with him, in connectien with this will, and | ©could only have been done with her elp. What was it that had been done?, It was plain from Sir Everard's let- ter that he had meant to carry out the intention he hed an_.ounced to his lawyers and destroy the later will. He eould only have done this Wwith her help, which his letter had said that she had given. The infer- ence was as plain that she had de- stroyed the wrong will. At the end of the first day's trial it looked as If in a very short time BSir Geoffrey Prevost would find himself installed at Sproule and his step- mother in prison, after the criminal trial that was bound to follow the civil action. * % % % N the second day Sir Geoftrey went into the witness box. ‘There were murmurs of sympathy in the court. The outlines of his story had been told. He had gone wrong in bis youth, but he had atoned for the ‘wroag by twenty years of hard and honorable work. Now, at the end of it, he was to be swindled out of his inherftance. But, fortunately, his case ‘was strong, and that was unltkely to happen. Interest was not heightened until the time came for his cross-ez- amfnation. ‘Why bad he been sent out of Eng- land, five and twenty yoars before? For forging his father's name to & cheque. Detalls were dragged out and made the most of. But the main fact had always been known; he had atoned for his fault; his father had fully forgiven him. Had he been In trouble for any di honest deed since then? b witness showed hesitation. Counsel waited for his reply. The Judge told him that he need not an- swer the question. But he preferred to @0 so. Yes; he had been convicted to & year's im- prisonment—not under hls own name —on & charge of swindling a hotel- keeper in Australia. It was after that, that he had pulled himself tegether and started afresh, under another name etill, and his record for the last twenty-yoars had béen blameléss. Had he told his father of this con- viction In the letter he was supposed to have written to him? No. Forgery! Imprisonment for frau A double change of name! If the dee fendant to the action was gullty of the crime lald to her charge, the plainti® was nd shining monument of virtue. But what of his life sinée? That, at least, had been upright and honor- able. What was theto to show for it? ‘Witnesses had spéken as to certaln periods, during which it was not d nled that ho had ltved honestly, What had he been dolng during these years and those years not accounted for? He could not always remember, If he did, his word was encorroborated. It had been impossible to bring over witnesses from Australis to answer for every year out of the twenty since he had eeme eut of prison. He loft the witness-box consi@er- ably more damaged in reputation than when he had ontered it. But still, right was right. He was only claim- ing his own. There was his fathers letter to him. What was the answer to that? The answer was that the letter was an impudent forgery, by a known and | admitted forger. The writing was saild to be quite unike Sir Bveratd's, Tes, but he had written it almost on the point of death. The doctor who had attended him in his 1ast illness sald that It was most improbable that at the time the letter was gupposed to have been written, he could have had the strength to write it L L AMNING testimony came from & Bond street stationer. He had supplied the crested paper on which this lotter was written, up to about twenty years befors, after Which sta- tionery supplied to Sproule Court had | always been stamped with an address. Letters written by Lady Prevost on that afternoon were put in-—all of them on paper stamped with as ad- dress. How was It possible that thi one letter should have been wiitten on paper that no one could bs found to say they had received {rom Bproule for many yours past? Where could it bave come from? More damning still wae the evie dence of letters written by Geoftrey Prevost during his early residence in Australla, on this same crested paper ~thoss = unsatiptactory letters de- manding money, which his father had kept. He was proved to have taken & supply of this paper to Australia. witness box, there was already w re- vulsion of feeling. She had nearly become the victim of a hideous mis- take, The fraud had been carried out with devilish ingenuity and haa been alded by accidents almost in- credibly favorable to the perpetrator. But for that fact of the disused paper, which was one of the mistakes that the cleverest criminals some- times make, a great injustice might have been done. It was dreadful to think that this high-born lady, de- fending the just rights of herself and ber Innocent daughters, might have been overwhelmed In the mast shameful ruin. It was yet another lesson, not to depend on the first ap- pearances of things. Lady Prevost was calm and col- lected, and remained so as long as she stood befors the court. The plaintiff had not worn the air of assumed rectitude throughout his ordeal, but had shown nérvoueness, anger, and at times shame-facednese. She told the story of her husband' last hours, not without some emo- tion. Her husband had recelved no letter from his son, and had written no letter. She had known nothing of his will, except that he had told her that Sproule would be left to her, in trust for their doughters. Bhe told of her stepson coming to see her, and trying to get her to give up her trust to him, under threats. She had tried not to show horself frightened, and at one time had thought of giving In to him She had actually offered him a hand- some allowance, but had revolted at being asked to make herself an ac- complice in his fraud. There was no shaking this testi- mony, and it declded the case. A verdict was delivered in faver of the defendant. A prosecutlon for forgery was in- stituted against Sir Geoffrey Prevost, and came on at the next assizes. No fresh evidence was adduced, but his counsel made a strong plea for leni- ency of sentence on account of his state of heaith., He had come with an Incurable fllness. Under favorable circumstances he might have lived for some years. It was unlikely now th he wouid live for many months. He was condemned to seven years' penal servitude. He dled in prison during the fol- lowing summer. The news came to Sproule on the day that the new organ was dedi- cated in the church. Lady Prevost had worked unremittingly for this good object and for others in the parish of which she was the head. The bishop of the diocese had offered to take the service himself. Ho was staying at Sproule Court for the pur- pose, and the house was full of other guests of rank and importance. Lady Prevost had a few minutes alone with her daughters before tie ceremony, and told them of their brother's death. The éldest put her arms round her neck and kissed her. They had sil been very tender to her since the dreadful ordeal she bad gone through. “I can’t pretend to bs sorry.” sald the girl. “But I wish it hadn't hap- pended today, of all days. Lady Prevost received the caress ‘with her usual calmness. “I am not sorry that it has happened today.” she eald. ‘It sesms a sign that our offer- ing will be accepted. Your brother was & very wicked man, and he is best out of the world.” (Ompyright, 1023, Doad, Mead & Co.) HISTORY OF D. C. SCHOOLS (Continiued from Third Page.) marked the beginning of a new era of schoolhouse construction for the nation” Mr. Stuart sald. Jealous of Bast Washington, oiti- 2ens of the northwest section pressed the school board and Mayor Wallach to give them an even more pre- tentious bullditg—Frapklin school, 13th and K streets northwest, which today holds offices of the board of edu- catlon, Supt. of Schools Frank W. Bal- lou and other school officials, When erected, at an expense ox- ceeding $200,000, Franklin school was pronounced to be “unsurpassed In the country.” * o ok % ASHINGTON'S first high school, established in 18376, was the “Advanced Grammar School for Girls.” Miss Georgia Lane was principal. A year later the “Advamoced Grammar School for Hoys” was founded, under the principalship of Edward A. Paul. The two schools, in 1883, merged and moved into the then new Wash- ington High School on O street north« ‘west, near 7th street, now the Colum- bla Junior High School. At first tho high school ocourse was only one year, but a second yoar soon was added, and when the O street bullding was opened the course was lengthenod to three yoars. In 1892, four years of high school work wete required for a diploma. ‘When Washington High School was entered, its enroliment was 412. In Movon years ecnrollment jumped to 1,412 A wing was added to the buliding, but socon that woa over- crowded, 50, In 1800, Eastern, Western and Business High BSchools were created., The O street school took the nmmne Central. MoKinley Manual Training School was opened In 1901. Increas. of students and school buildings in the graded school fleld corresponded with advances made by high schoole and has continued to 4o &0, until now it {s hard to realize that the District of Columbla’s tree of knowledge grew from such & ifttle “acorn.” “But,” Assistant Supt. Stusrt vo- minds us, “4f our curriculom, from kin- dergarten to normal school, soesds all- inclusive and ambitious, note that it has npt yet over attained the broad noope of that ‘permanent institution for the education of youth' which was the dream of Jofferson and his co-workers. Information. But the postmarks on the envelope? They were sald to be very cleverly torged, too, Experts pointed out very small differences bétween them and the letters posted at the same time ay this was sald to have betn ppsted. From London Punch. Conductor (who has been tendered a half fare)—How old is the Mttle girl? Little Girl (beating mother to it)— T'm elaven, and mother will be forty