Living It Down

"Iul your motlier sond you 00 such an errtnd as tliit to me?" Bernard Reed, a lad abüut sixteen, wliose coarsc, ill-titting garments ill hceortled with tbc frank, erect bcariug, and proad, sensitive face, slirank from the coid, ítem eyes tliut wre dirtcted towaid htm. "No, sir. Slio did not know that I was going to look for work." Mr. Burchard looked keenlyat the l'rank yontiir tare. "I used to know your motlier some years airo; did sho never speak oí me?" 'Not that I rcumuiwei of." A bitter sneer curled tlie tliiu lips. 'How strange! wheo we lued to be such good friends." Bcrnard looked puzzled. evidently coming to the conclusión that this strange man was displeased at his niother's apparent lorgetíulness of tlieir oíd friendshlp. "I remeniber uow, hearing motlier say once as you were rdin by, that she u.-i -il to know yon when you were a poor boy ; that . 1 1 were rich and prosperouj now, and sbe hoped Bappy." "How very kind of her! Yes, I ani rich and prosperous. There has been quite a change in our tarroundlngs since 1 was a poor boyandshe thedaughter of a niillionaire. And so you carne on your own responslbility?" "Yes, sir. I lieard that you wantod a boy in your store of about my age." "I should want one a long time before I employed a son of Albert Keed, thedefaulter." The blood suddenly receeded from the face of the horror-stricken listener, and theu returning, crimsoned the temples. "It is not true!" Not many men could havegazed uninovcd into tliose wild, iniploriug eyes, which Beemed to entreat a lienlal of a charge so terrible; but Mr. Burchard went pitilessly on. "It is true, you will flnd. Albert Keed, your father, was sent to the penitentiary, and but for an act of executive clemency, in the last month of liis life, would have diedtliere. Didn't yon know th?" "No. Nor do I know it now.'' "Go, ask your mothrr, boy; she will tell you that what I say is true." Jiernard liardly knew how hefoutul himsclfout in the stieet and aaiid he bOBV bustling crowd of the great city. lili brain seemed on flre, and his heart, that lately beat so hih, like lead in lus bosom. 1 lis father liad died when he was a mere child ; but words and circurastances rushed upon his mind, to wliich he liad paid little heed at the time, which aroused lean and surspicions that nearly niaddened him. In a poor room, in the poorest part of the city, sat Mrs. Reed, straining lier tired eyes over somefine sewing. Leaning baek in her chair with a long, weaiy sigh, she glanced up at the clock. It was sonsiderably past the time lor Bernard to return from school. What could detain him? Then she remembered what he liad said in the morning when he kissed her goodbye: "Yon are working too hard, motlier; I must find something to do, so as to help you." What a good boy he was. How stnm" how brave and bopefuL With all the rrows and hardstiips which were slowly welghing her down to the rrave, she could not feel that her life was utterlv devoid of sunshine wlüle he was left. As Mrs. Iteed tlius mused, hurried, unsteady footsteps were hear.l ascendin the stair-, so unlike tliose .she w:is expectlna that she rose, a vague feeling of alarm ot her heart, as Bernard entered, and advanced directly toward her. "Motlier, Mr, Uurchard says that my father was- but no, I cannot name it. Father - my father- could not be so bad as that!" Pressing her hand to her side she saiik back in her chair. One glance at his mother's palé face, and Bernard threw himself upon his knees and buried hls face in her lap. Mr-. Reed lald her trembUsg hand upon that bowed head. vMy poor boy !" Bernard lifted liis face, wet with tears, to those tender, conijiassionatc eyet. "He was unjustly aicused, niotlicrV Oh ! surely he was innocent!" Mure tender and pltlful glJBW the voice. "My poor, poor boy !'' A pangof compunction smote Berna rd's heart as he glanced at the palé, sorrowing face that bent over him. "Forgive me, motlier; you have Buffered miich. I know, now, what it is that made your life so sorrowtal. But why did you never tell me this" "It was your father's wish that you should be kept ín ignorance of it u loog ai possihle." A hard, bitter look carne over Bernard's face, such as bis mother liad never seen besore. 'He kncw that I must hcar of it; that t would be cast up at me ; as it has beeu and 11 continue to be as long as I live. It was cruel in him to leave me, bis only son, sueli a heritiifre of shume as this." "Hush, Hrrnard ; you must imt speak of JTOUr fatber thus to me. lie pajd tlie penalty of bis gin, for sin it was; nor would I have you consider it otherwlse. Thoujrh the worlil toon mul coiKlcnin liiin, you bis son, and ] bis wife, must cast 110 reproach upon bis mcmory. He used monev that was not bis - be betrayed the trust reposed In bini. I want you to Me tl; tbing that In' did in all iis blactuHM and moral dcformity. But for bim. the poor sinner, let tbere be no bitter word, no barsb jndginent not flora our lips, my son. No man more truly repented, or tried more earnestly to atone. No woinan ever had a kinder husband. He loved you, Bernard, and the bittemt drop in his bitter rup was tho thooght of the Italn that rested upon your Dame; hUlast injunction to me was to so teacb and train yon tliat you would regard Ui horror the sllghtest approach to the greal error tliui has borne, and still bears, meta bitter fiuit; bis last urayer waithat you mighl m live M to lift the reproach Irom ymir liaiiM and lus. RUing to his feet, Bernard looked sadly upon speaker, froin whuse eyes the tean wure t'.illing lust. "You nave heeded that injunction well, inother, as I can testify. I shall not forget your teaching. But il' all are to judge me as Mr. Burchadr does, what does it avail?1' ¦ 'They will not. You will find few men like htm, Hebears me a personal vru4ge though 1 liever wronjred liim. Xoonecau realty harin you, riernard, but yourself. As tor tliis, wUich so diaoouragea and binders you now you must live it down.'' Tliis was the'last conversation that Bernard had witli hls mother on the subject. The followin-r nlght Mis. Heed was seized il. bemorrhageof the lungs, and before the daw ningof anotherday tlie tired heart, wli ch had borne it.s burdcu so paticntly, was at rest. A few weeks later, Bernard and Mr. Burchard met Bgain. Bernard shrank before those keen, crilical eyes, wliich were quick tonote the change in his look and hearing. "ïou found 111 v wordstruc?" "I found them trne. But to condemn theson for the father's sin is cruel and unjusi, a.s you will some day acknowledge." 'It is the wny of the world, boy. What can yon do, bingle-kamled, agaiust the world P" Between Bernard and the Jeering amile there floated a pule lace, whose eahn, tender eyea looktxJ begeecliinglj Into liis. Jle mMeil hi-5 hand upward, and said : "I can live it down." 1 Afiit yesnrsiater, theM set upon the Judicial bench of ¦ Ñew Bngland city, a judge 80 noted for his learning and iutegrity that his Paine went out through all its lenifth and bicadth. Few would have rMogaiud in thatstately, digllifled man, whoni allclasses deli'hteilto honor, the poor, triendless lad that wc IntrodtlCed to the reader at the comnieuceineiit of our story. And yet so it was. Step bystep, throagh diilieültiesaiid discouragenoente that would Eáve dautated a lesa brave and resolute spirit, Hernurd Reed had slowlv tonght his way upward, antll he stood at the liead of liis protes8ion, aml had won a plaee auiong the nobles of the land. Biest witli theeonipanionshipof a lovinj; wife, wlth hapjiy cliildren clustering about his knees, he had not been less fortúnate in his private thau public lite. He did not forget In bis prosperlty, the trials aml sornnvs of his youth ; aparl'froni the legal lionors he had won, niany liearts biest liiin. Inflexible in the discharge of hte offlcil duflea, never forgeiting, in wcak sympalhy for the eriuiinal, the góod of the coinmuhity. whose faitlilul and honoied servan) be was. no hemt was more quick to leel lor the wenk and errlng, no hand mure ready to lift them tij), if sneli a thiltg wa ponible, to a better and purer Life. One 'iay adge Reed led up tbe Mpa of lus stately mansión a fbrloru-looking boy, who clung Bubbinjar to him. He entered a room where bis wife was sittkig witli her yoangest chlld on her knee. 'My love B terrible tbiiifr happened in court to-day. One of the prisoners ed- the tather of this poor boy- f ren zied with shame and deipair, sljot himself. I used to know the father of tlüs unloitiinate man, who llvei in New Vork, and to whom I shall telegraph. 'ibis little fellow 8 nearly heart-broken, and I leave lilm with you to care tor and comfort asonly a umi lier can." The following day au old man was shown into the Ubrary where Judge Reed was sitting. "I received your telegram, sii-. How ¦hall 1 thank'you tor the kindnes jou have extended to thechild of my poor uat'ortuuate son ?" As Judge Reed looked upon that bowed head- bowed and whltened more by sorrow than time- the loug tide of years rolled back. When lie s))okc, his voice wasalmost as tremulooi as his. "Bv dealini ínorejiistly and with suchlhan you once dealt with me." The old man tunied an inquiring aiul puzZled look to the speaker. "Wc have met before, then?" 'We have met before, Mr. Bmchard. Twenty years ago, a lad of sixteen, I enten, i your omee In t arch of implojmcni. Do you remember what ytm said to me?" That llushed and eonscioiis face was the only answer to thisquery; nor was there any other needed. "Do you reniemher what I said to you at our second and last interview?" There was no verbal response to this eitlier, aodJodgt Keed continued, in a Rentier tone : "God tui bid that I should add a feather's wetght to the sorrow that is yours to-day, or fail to aaorlbe the pratte to'ilim to whom all belonga; hut thankstollisgoodnessand the teaching of one of the best oí mothers.