Thrice Lost, Thrice Won — page 216: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

h he 7 Pom 1 EN” ee gel ET 2 Pray ae Vi Se DS len 2s eee ales i} : D + ae ya ; ry As < *, ' ‘ yo . ae iy, in ne ¢ P j nh vert fe i. . ? 4 » sy + Mikio 4 “ue * Si 4 s a i (al ae 4 os “pe os at de ye ’ - 7” Ave ere ; , 4. poh 4 Me od o’ ¥ at # , ' - « ~/ © at _— «a , = Bi roken and eke is baile. a child, Alwyn Bartram—if her brain is not crazed with misery—if she has not rashly taken her own life—we will find her. Poor little Estella! if wife ever worshipped her husband, she worshipped you, and verily she has her reward!” ns ‘Swift Retribution. 2Ir i. “Tor God’s sake, stop!” the tortuked man passionately. -eried. “I deserve it all, but. I cannot bear'it. Don’t try to pants MG We George’ Waldron arose. “Let us hope for the best,” he gia. “T will act for you, my “poor fellow, until you are ‘able to act for yourself. We will find Estella yet.” He left the room as he spoke. And Alwyn Bartram turned his face to the wall, and was alone with his deathless agony of remorse. In that hour Estella was avenged—in that hour he fought the bitter battle she had been fighting so long— in that hour the old infatuation for Leonie Rutherford died out forever and ever. In the years to come he might meet her daily, hourly, but the fire was dead—the black ashes could never rekindle—the siren’s fatal power was at an end. & And the search began—the search they thought so easy at rst. oS will find her before night, oe George Waldron thought as heeft the house. “She will not commit suicide; but Alwyn deserves his fright.” Night came, but she was not found. Another night and still another—and yet no clew. The week came to an end— still no Estella. Another week—a third—always hopelessly in vain. Detectives were on the track—every daily in the city held pathetic entreaties to “Estella” to return—immense ‘rewards were ofiered—still, still utterly in vain. _ Alwyn Bartram, a month later, left his sick room—the pal- ‘lid shadow of his darkly handsome self—to j join in that fruit- ‘less quest. Earth held nothing half so dear to him now as the hope of finding his lost wife. Now, when it was too ate—the old story, alas!—he knew what he had lost—he saw fhis own mad folly «and cruelty—he saw her sublime self- sacrifice, her devoted love, her patient, womanly martyrdom 80 long endured. What he suffered—his unavailing regret and remorse—was known only to Heaven and himself. The story of the runaway wife was ringing throueh the ity Alon Bartram was the hero of the hour. Every one pitied Estella now—every one found out they had always ait ced her—poor, little, timid -creature! Every one said, ] lou dly, she had been shamefully ill-used.. And one after an- ; ath, & : RB Do ‘am was not to be found. | ber > the - weary weeks went by, and, living or dead, Estella Ecomicboo S (E(@) 3 “Aly wyn wel ies “orca to lag ‘pune and sought ¢ out Helen Mal-