He Had Pity

Jabez Wilson, whoso 52 years of life had been passed in single blessedness, had little in couimou with the rest of the world. His fan lts were rnauy and his virtnes few. His two redeeming poiuts - cali them virtnes if you wil] - were generosity verging on weakness in individual sases and a love for rausic. Late ono night he carne ont of St. James hall, buttoned his coat up rouud his ueck, dived his hands into his pockets and made for home. On the way he entered a cafo and took a oup of coffee. As he sipped the bevorage his ear, ever on the alert for rnussic, caught the Bonnds of a voico that was at once rich and melodious. Jabez listened attentively for flve minutes, duriiig which time the song continued, with short intervals of eileuce. At length itstoppedaltogether. Jabez asked the waiter attending him to fetch in the persou singing. The waiwr returned in less than a minute ushering in a young man of distiuctly Italian cast of ccuntenance, whom he introduced asLuigi, the bottle washer. "Well, my man, yon have an extremely filie voice. Did yon know that? With due care and rigid training thero ought to be both fame and fortune in it. You would like to besornething better than a bottle -washer all yonr life, eh, my man?" Luigi, in a wondering sort of way, nodded. "That's right - that's right, my man. Here is my card. Come and see me at my house tcinorrow at half past 6, I want to have a serious talk with you. Can you come?" "Yes, sir - that is, no, sir. Not tomorrow. I work till 1 1 every night during the week." ' ' Oh, oh ! Such is the irony of f ate, ' ' muttered Jabez. "Can you come ou Suuday?" "Yes, sir, Iwillcome. " True to his word, Luigi, clotbed in his Sunday garments, found hirnself in Mr. Wilson's drawing room the following Suuday evening: "Luigi, you have a most cbarming voioe. It is at present in what I may term au embryo form. The fouudation is there in all its strentgth, aud a conple of years' carefnl training will place you without a doubt in one of the topmost branches of the vocal tree. "You must make a point of cultivating your voice on every possible occasion, Lnigi. Avoid those articles of food which I shall give you a list of, that your vocal chords may retain the sweetness, strength and fullness that now mark thern. "Your clothes, too, are unsuited to the pupil of a vocal prof essor. You must fit yourself out like a gentleman, Luigi. You must exerci se care andtake a pride in your personal appearance. In short, bc in every respect worthy of your profession. ' ' As Luigi's profession was that of bottle washer at au Italian restaurant, he naturally failed to see how he could well give further evidence of his occupatiou than by the suit in which he appeared before tbis strauge gentleman. And he said so. "Dearme. Of course. I must explain to you, Luigi, what I proposo to do. I am too hasty. First and foremost, do you like music?' "lam an Italian," was the modest reply. "Grand. A most fitting answer. Now we will come to business. Would yo.u like to give up your present menial oconpation and become, first, the pupil of a nausician, and then a rnaster of the art yon will excel in?" "That is beyond my hopes, sir. I: have no money. " Jabea Wilson threw up his hands. "That's all right. I will see to that little matter. Give me the assurance that you will put your whole heart into j the work I havo cut out for you and will do your best. I ask for nothing more. ' ' A few days later Luigi left his 1 tiou and becarne the protege of Mr. ' soi). To sny that Luigi was grateful would be to put the feeling he evinced toward his benefactor in very mild terras. He could find noway of expressing his gratitude beyond making himself as perfect in his art as it becaruj possible for liini to do. "Luigi," said Mr. Wilson one day, "I aiu delighted to teil yon that it is now beyond the capabilities of English musters to teach you further. Itremains fov the inastors of your nativo land to iustill into you that little required to render yon their equal, ïf not their superior. I have decided therefore to take you to Naples, where we will speud the nest year or two. ' ' For the first time since their odd acquaintanoe Luigi iailed to hail an announeement for his benefit with any sigu of pleasure or satisfaction. He looked gloomy and hesitated to speak. "You have always been extremely kind and good to me, Mr. Wilson. I cminot by any possible means express niy gratitude. But the suggestion you : have made, although entirely for my good, filis me with pain. I cannot leave Eugland, because - because I am going to get married. " "The dickens you are!" roared the 'lufuriated bachelor, mad with rage. "This, sir, is the way in which you how your gratitude. You Italian dog, you scoundrel, you"- H stopped short. What an idiot ha was. Luigi was only flesh and blood, and young blood at that. "Luigi," he begau after the silence of the moment, "is this girl of yours a suitable partner to accompany yon on your npwaxd career through life? Yon will stand at tlie head of yoar art, and you vuill move in the highest circles of Enropean society. "She, whatever her post in Iifo now, may be ill fitted to graco the diawing rvuns of the aristocracy or to sit by yovr side in the carriage that draws you to youi mansiou. "You lovo her now ; she iseveiything to you. Time may be, however, when yon may be led to inako odious comparisons between her simplicity and the winning faces of beautiful women." "My kind benefactor, that is impossible. I shall always love Maggie as mnch as I do now. " Jabez Wilson sighed. It was a sad blow to bis vanity and to nis peace of mind. "Think it over, Jad," he began. "When the first paugs of grief at parting are passed, yon will forget about yonr lowly girl in the whirlwiud of yonr farce, and she will soon put yon from her mind. Come to rne tomorrow and let me know what you intend doing. " The next dáy Mr. Wilson received a visit from Maggie. She came in tears to bug his consent, his hoart was touched at the sight of a woman in sorrow, and reviling himself for a cold blooded monster he told her in an outburst of generosity to go and marry Luigi as many times as she liked. After a twelvemouth spent in Italy Luigi bc-came perfect. His first appearauce in public was mado as Gerardo, and as he retreatod behind the curtains that night old Jabez Wilson waited to press his hands and to teil him that his dream was at last realized. Jabez Wilson walked out of his solicitor's office penuiless. The bank of which he was principal shareholder hadfailed, and this, in conjunction with a few minor disasters, had robbed him of every penny he had possessed. He had never in his life done a stroke of work aiid was not even capable of a clerical position. The apartments he hadoccupied were given up. The club was uever again to see liim or hear what had become of him. The fine old winès in his cellar fetched sufficient to pay his long standing rent, with a surplus to keep him in food and lodgings for a few weeks - that was all. From his scanty store he drew a penny every day to search the papers for news of Luigi 's snecess. He could not bring himself towriteto him and to teil him everything. It was pleasant enough to know that the man whoin ho had dragged from obsenrity should at that moment be making Europe víbrate with the 6plendor of his voice. One night as he crouchedover the fire in the dosshouse he frequented reading the paper a short paragraph at the foot of a column caught his eye. "Early yesterday morning the body of a woman was found in the Granó canal at Venice. She is said to be the wife of Signor Luigi, the well known singer, with whom she is supposed to have led a wretched life. There are no marks of violence on the body, and the authorities have passed a verdict of suicide while temporarily insane. " Jabez Wilson's foiecast had been realized only too fully, and the broken down man cried like a child. A week later hestood outsidethe doss house with esactly a penny in his pocket. He stood wondering what he should do, when his musical instincts, which had been crushed and had lain dormant for so long, arose within him. He hutried along the street, entered a shop and purehased a tin whistle with his one remaiuing copper. An hour later and he walked slowly along themiddleof the road, his threadbare coat buttoned up aronnd his neck, an old battered bat pressed tightly down over the straggliug gray hair that blew in the cold wind, and his dry lips pressed against the whistle. He was playing ' ' Home,Sweet Home" - that was all he knew. In frout of a resplendent hotel he stood and played, with one foot on the pavement. A tall, black bearded gentleman, evidently a foreignur, wrapped in a priceless fur coat, came down the steps of the hotel, in company with a beautiful woman, under the fnll glare of the lamp. Instinctively the instrument feil from the lips of the player as he muttered half aloud: "Luigi!" The Italian peered into the pale. 1 pinched, upturned face. "So yon have come to this, eh?" he asked in a whisper, lest his companiou should hear, al; the same time draw ing half a crovni from his pocket, "my unfoi túnate fríend. " He turned abrnptly, half ashamed, when the woman by his side told him to come away from the beggar. "I come, Mirand. " Then, as she took his arm and he handed her into a brougharu, "I have pi ty for these ciaDS. '