The Argosy — page 38: what you’re looking at

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

Winifred Power. 25 “ He is, I fear, dying,” replied Walter gravely. “Dying?” Mary was startled. If the boy died, Walter would be heir-presumptive to a baronetcy. Her opinion of him rose con- siderably. “TY am afraid there is very little chance for the poor child, but I did not come here to talk of my own affairs,” he said. ‘I want to know, Miss Hatherley, if I can be of any service to you. I have been so shocked to hear, not only of your loss, but of this terrible business of Miss Freake’s. Surely there must be some mistake?” Mary’s heart seemed to stand still. Now was her opportunity ; now or never. She felt that her next words would seal her fate, as a soul with some possibility of redemption or as the basest of liars. There are these unchronicled crises in life that count for more than death or ruin. Mary Hatherley felt herself in the grip of a grim reality. The act of justice which, dressed in fantastic guise, had seemed easy of accomplishment an instant before, now stared. at her with a terrible earnestness out of Mr. Russell’s honest eyes. Never until this moment had she realized her folly, or felt that it was irrevocable. With a sob of impotent anger against herself and every- body, that admirably simulated pain, she bowed her head upon her arms and gave up truth for ever. (To be continued, ) TRORB LEIA LIA~ THE CHRISTMAS ANGELS. Lo, the festival is ready ! wake the bells to merry madness, Hang aloft the shining garlands, lift aloud your voices, while The fingers of a master bid the organ soar to gladness, And roll triumphant peans down the nave and pillared aisle. But in vain we raise the anthem, in vain we twine the holly, Even mirth will pall upon us ere its echoes shall have ceased, For groundless are the revels, and too near akin to folly, If the holy Christmas angels be not bidden to the feast. Do you know them, O my sister? their eyes are full of pity For the suffering and the fallen that around thy pathway throng. Do you hear them, O my brother? through the hubbub of the city, They whisper ‘‘Quenchthine anger, and forgive thecherished wrong !” "Tis no wayward flight of fancy that sweet and unseen faces Are watching every homestead, the greatest and the least ; In the meanest one among them, and in the world’s high places, Let the holy Christmas angels be bidden to the feast. SYDNEY GREY. COMmMicoooks. conn (A)