Beers] ate Ey] Bellefonte, Pa., October 16, 1908. IT IS COMMON. 80 are the stars and the srching skies, So are the smiles in the children's eyes; Common the life-giving breath of the spring ; 80 are the songs which the wild birds sing— Blessed be God, they are common. Common the grass in its glowing green ; So is the water's glistening sheen ; Common the springs of love and mirth; Bo are the holiest gifts of earth. Common the fragrance of rosy June ; 80 is the generous harvest moon, So are the towering mighty hills, So are the twittering, trinkling rills. So unto all are the promises given, 80 unto all is the hope of heaven ; Common the rest from the weary strife; So is the life which is after lifo— Blessed be God, it is common. —[Anon. THE EXECUTORS, Since the announcamwent of his engage- ment to Helen Tiask, Wallace Stiliwell Hamilton, or *"Wallie”” Hamilton as be was affectionately, and almost universally known, had become hetle better than a stranger to his numerous friends in town, Almost without exception, now, the late alsernoon found him on his way from his office to the Grand Central Station, and his recently acquired knowledge of ‘expresses’ and “locals’’ between Rye and Forty-sec- ond Street was worehy of the oldest com- muter. Ou rare occasions he made his mother very happy by dining with her at her home in the country aud going over later to the Trasks, bnt more often he dined aud spent the evening with Miss Trask, and on such occasions Mrs. Hamil ton was rewarded only hy a fleeting glimpse of her son on bis arrival trom town avd s hearty kiss just before be turned in for the night. “Wallie” Hamilton Lad always been accounted a good rou and now he was cheerfully admitted vo be the true sype of | she perfect lover and husband-elect, and | this, in spite of the fact that he and Helen Trask had been neighbors and playfellows as far back as either of them could remem- ber anything. Neglestful as he may have been of his other frienas and acquaintances in town, Hamilton's engagement seemed only tn have brooght him the vearer to his most | intimate friend—Lloyd Druce. The two had grown up together as boys, gone to the same New England preparatory school, graduated at the same university, aod later, pow more like brothers than friends, had returned to New York to work as well as play together. Formerly, when neither of them bad been dining out, they had gen- erally spent their evenings together at their club or more often at the theatre, but now, on the rare occasions when Hamilton re- mained in town, the two men dived guiet- ly at some restaurant and afterward went to Hamilton's apartment, where they filled the cosey sitting room with slowly drifting gray clouds of tobacco smoke and talked a ittle of the days to come and a great deal of those that bad gone. The wedding was hut a week distant, the details had all been arranged, the gilts, for the most part, had heen received and ao knowledged, and for the last time Hamil ton was spending the night in town asa hachelor. He and Druce had dined late, aud now Hamilton was sitting before his desk in the little study, and bis friend was stretched out in a deep leather chair before the open hearth. The two young men had talked bat listle, aod during a long si- lence, Hamilton opened a small drawer of the desk, fumbled among some papers,and took out a silver key ring from whioh there was suspended a single key. From the bunch of keys, which he always carried, he took another key and twisted it on to the silver ring. Then he swung his chair aronnd so that he could see his friend. “Lloyd,” he said, ‘‘the lease of these rooms doesn’t run out until May, and I don’t want to sublet thew. They're no good for Helen aud me, so I think I will give yon these duplicate keys. It might amuse youn to run in here once in a while to borrow a book or—or just for old-times sake, and —"’ Druoe looked up and smiled. “Why, of course, I'd like to, very much.” He held out his hand and Hamilton tossed him the keys. ““The larger one,”’ Hamilton said, ‘‘is for the front door and the little one is for a drawer here in the desk. It’s the lower one on the left—you can tell it because it's the only one that is ever locked.” Druce dangled the deys from his finger and looked up at his friend; interrogative- ly, as if he expected him to go on talkiog, but for a few moments there was silence, while Hamilton sat staring ahead of him, his brow wrinkled and his expression that of a man who was trying to reach a definite decision. ““Lloyd.’” he said at last, ‘‘if anything should bappen to me—oh, I know,” and he threw up his band hy way of protest— ‘‘of course nothing is going to happen—bat I say if anything should happen, I wish you would come bere and let yourself in and open the drawer that is locked and de- stroy anything you find there and—and don’t waste any time about is.” Druce continued to twirl the key riog about his finger and then looked up sud- denly and caught Hamilton's eye. “Oh, Idon’tknow, Wallie,”” he said, “16 doesn’t seem good enough to me. If you've got anything to destroy, why not do it now ? You -"’ ‘You don’t understand,” Hamilton in- terrupted. “1 khow [I don’t ovderstand. But I koow that you, like every other man about to be married, are starting all over again— tarning over a new leaf—not that the old one was damaged, at that. Bat for Heav- en’s sake, if yon've got any closets with skeletons in them, now is the time to clean them ous. At least, that’s what [ think.” Hamilton nodded and slowly rolled the end of his cigar hetween his lips. ““That’s the tronhle, Lloyd. That's what yon shink--that’s pretty much what any one would think. Skeletons in my closets —bah ! | never had any skeletous about me~—I don’t like them, I may have a dec oration or twe locked up, but no skele- “What kind of a decoration 2” “Well, according to my ideas, there are all kinds of decorations. There are deco- rations of honor to the person who wins them as well as to the person who gives them, and there are decorations that reflect honor on the person who wears them and of dishouor on the one who awards them, and vice versa. Sometimes there 18 no tang- ible emblem—just a quarter of an hour— i where I spent my summers, and he was the freshest, most uupopular boy io the vil- lage. He went to Princeton afterward and learned to race on one of those old-time high-wheeled bicycles. When he gradu- ated, he went back to hie native town and entered the mile bioyole race at the Spring Fair and licked the life out of all of his old enemies, He afterwards became mayor of the town and bred the best race horses in she country and married a rich woman. Bat he told me that often when the family had gone to bed he used to get out the dinkey medal he won at the Fair grounds sud sit in front of the fire, and, by looking into she flames, he could see the boys on the other bicycles, with their matted hair and the sweat running down their white cheeks, and he could see the banks of faces of tbe crowd on either side of the track and I knew another man—about the hest cor poration lawyer here in town today—he showed me ouce an old revolver that had been given him as a fee for his first case in the town ous West where he was boro. His clients was a murderer and things looked altogether hopeless, but my friend, the lawyer, wade a wonderful speech, and the jury voted for acquittal. The marderer tad no money, #0 he gave the lawyer the revolver be bad killed she man with. That man’s rich and famous now ; bat when he showed me that old gan, his eyes softened and he handled it as tenderly asif it bad been some living thing that wounded. Whenever he looked as it, he said thas his mind went back to the liste, stuffy, crowded court room out West and the lean,sorrowful looking face of the judge on the bench sitting ull alone and the line of the twelve jurymen standing up, and as the end of the line the moon-faced foreman grasping the rail in fronts of him and saying ‘vos guilty.’ That was his decoration ; but what has is to do with the domestic lile of the present great corporation lawyer? And yet, that was the best moment of hie life, that moment now ?"' abead.” “Aud then,” don’t wean, necessarily, pink-and-white, well-rounded arms elbow, but arms with verves in them— nerves that not only go down to the heart but up to the brain too. Or, suppose a wowan bad never put ber arms about you, but had just written you a» line of three words, ‘I love you,’ and suppose she had no right to write you that line, and the | discovery of it would mean her finish, but in her life,and because she wanted to show you she trusted you. That's another kind of d=*aration—of honor or dishonor. which ever you choose to call it. You can’t for- get it, and I don’t believe it’s human na tare to want to destrov the insignia that went with it, breanse that is always good for ove real thrill.” Hamilton got up and walked over to she fireplace and looked down at his friend. “I tell you, Lloyd, there are a whole lot of different kinds of decorations, and pretty muoh every man has one. Yon can’e al ways see it because it may be at home in his desk, or it may he that there was no em- hlem that went with it ; bat believe me he knows it’s there—banging on his chest— pot very far from his heart either.” Druoe stretched his arms above his head and blew a long cloud of gray smoke to- ward the ceiling. **All right,” he said, “I'll keep the keys, but it’s only because it's you.” Hamilton smiled. ‘“‘It’s only becanse you're you that I gave them to you.” Five days later, and two days before the date set for the marriage, a farmer driviog a vegetable cart to town in the gray light of the early morning, found what there was left of Wallace Stillwell Hamilton aud his racing oar. The accident had taken place near Rye at the bottom of a steep hill, half way between the young man’s own home and thas of the girl he was soon to have mar- ried. Hamilton was known as an occasion ally careless, always feariess driver ; the road had been rather slippery and the ma- chinery of the car was demolished beyond the possibility of finding out the condition of the brakes at the time of the accident— that is, if it bad occurred to any one to look at them, which, asa matter of fact, it probably had not. Druce retoroed to town after the funeral more genuinely depressed than he had ever felt before. Hamilton bad been the hess pars of his life, and how much this friend. ship meant to bim, how great was the void that noone else could fill. had begun to strike home. He wandered aimlessly into the club, but whenever he came near, the men drew long faces, and their words of sympathy only hurt him the mere ; and #0 he went out again and walked slowly along the streets that seemed the least crowded. It was late in February, but the air was warm and damp and there was a heavy mist ; the sidewalks were wet with melting snow, and the streets and gatters ran deep in mad and slush. With no heed as to where he was going, Druce waiked aimlessly on, occasionally nodding back to faces that smiled and nodded to him. The mist turned to a light drizzle and a litsle later the drizzle to rain, and the warm drops blowing against his face brooghs him back to his surroundings. It was quite dark now and the street lamps were lit and the sidewalks crowded with men and women going home from work. Fora few more blocks be jostled along with the orowd, and then seemngan empty hansom pass, he bailed it and gave the driver the address of the apartment house where he lived. It was on his way there thas be re- membered the silver key riog and Hamil- tons last request and bis friend’s injuno- tion not to “waste any time abous it.”’ He found the keys at his rooms and set ous for Hamilton's apartment at once, because he knew thas the servaut of his late friend was almost sore to he away at that bour and on thia visit he wished to be alone and undis- turbed. Asa precaution Druce rang the bell, but as no one answered, he opened the front door and passed on into the sitting room. He awitohed on the electric light aud found thas the shades of the windows that long, perbape—hut it's the quarter of an hour tbat means most in your life. which opened on the street were down and the curtaine drawn. The air was damp and tear them curse him as he crossed the line. | bad been | with dimples at the | she wrote it becanse it was the real thing’ What do you suppose he would trade for | glanced about at the things on the desk he i i “I can’t imagine,” Druce said ; ‘go Helen Trask in a ridiog habit and a broad i Hamilton continued, | of Hamilton's mother ; the old-fashioned “‘there is another kind of decoration. Sap- | silver ink-well and the green leather rack pose a woman —I mean the one woman you ! filled with the familiar note paper. remember when youn are very ill, or when | the broad blotter there lay a pen, just you have been in the open and away from | where Hamilton bad left it, and Druce civilization for a long time. Sappose just | hesitatingly picked it up and then quickly onge «hie had pus her arms about you—I | put it back just as he had found it. | i i of the de«k. j PREVIEWING > STAND re. b fink ‘A Ke 47 eC No } i " 14 ) ol == 7: 7 ly a SY lt : \ " [ ay 24\] [80 - Prom "The Philadelphia Record,” October 5, 1908. A FOUNDERED WEAKLING FLOAT heavy with the odor of stale tohaoco smoke, aud the coal grate was hall filled with gray cinders. It was evident that the room was juss as its late master had left it. He clos- ed the door, and walking very softiy. as if afraid of distarbiog the loneliness of the cheerless room, went over to the desk and sat down hefore is. For a moment he knew so very well—a small photogiaph of round sailor bat, and a larger photograph On The young man seemed to hecome sud- denly conscious of the chill in the air, for the room was very cold, and he at once set about his task. He tried the little drawers of the desk until he had found the one that was locked, and then taking the keys from his pocket, inserted the smaller one in the lock. And, as he did so, he heard the rustle of a portiera opening bebiud him, followed by a low cry, and tarning he saw the mother of his friend and Helen Trask standing in the doorway. Unconsciously he rose to his feet, and at the same moment Mrs. Hamilton recognized him and came toward him. “Oh, Lloyd,” she said, ‘‘I'm so glad it's yon. We had no idea any one would be here.’ Druce put his arm about her, for she had always heen much like a mother to him, and led her to a hig arm-chair at the side “I'm afraid it’s very cold for you,” he said. “I'll try to start a fire.” He turned, and as he did so he saw Helen Trask standing before the desk, her eyes resting on the key ring dangling from the locked drawer. For a moment the girl's face, white and as expressionless as marble against her broad black veil, remained un- moved. Turning toward Droce she io- clined her head very slightly, her colorless lips moved in words of an unheard greet: ing, and then her eyes turned back to the locked drawer. He went over to the fireplace, but there was neither coal nor kindling of any kind. “I'm rorry. Mis. Hamilton,” he said, ““hut I fear a fire is impossible. It’s really very cold. Do you think you ought to stay ?"’ “It’s only for a minate. Helen and I were so terribly lonely out there in the country that we thought we would come to town and spend the night with my sister. And then Helen wauted to come here—we thought the servant might be in, but the caretaker says he has not heen hack since —that is, for several days—and so he opeu- ed the door for us.” Helen sat down in the chair before the desk and sarned her colorless face toward Dince. There was a certain questioning look in her eyes, which seemed to ask, even demund some sort of an explanation. He walked over to the desk, and taking the key from the lock, dropped it into his coat pocket. Then he wens back to his former stand before the fire. ‘Mrs. Hamilton,” he said, ‘‘I feel that I ought to tell you why I am here. Some time ago Wallie told me if anything shounld ever bappen to him that I should come here and look for some papers, in a partic- ular drawer in his desk, and destroy them. I suppose they were some business papers —probably notes from people to whom he had loaved money which he did not wish ever to have collected. You know how Wallie was always doing something for people and pever wanting to have it known 2” The mother smiled at him and nodded her head. ‘Why, of course,’’ she said, “I've no doubt that’s what it was. Wallie was #0 good to every one and he never spoke of his charities even to me.’ Miss Trask was lookingaway from Druce, her elbows resting on the desk and her chin between her palms. ‘‘Did you say, Lloyd,” she asked, ‘‘that it wae long ago that he told youn this ? Before—before Wallie and I were engaged, I mean ?"’ “Oh, yes, long before. or 80 ago. “I can’t understand that,’’ the girl said without locking up, ‘‘becanse this is a new desk; I remember the day he got it; we all Probably a year remember. it was not more than a month or 80 ago ?"’ The older woman looked np questioning- ly at Helen aud shen at Droce. After all, what difference could it make now—her boy wae gone and a few papers more or less, could not matter vei} much. For some moments there was silence aod then it was Druce who spoke. “You're quite right, Helen,” he said. “H. the : I a tL (ova. > were together.” The girl turned and looked at him. came here to supper that night. Don’t you pra made of all production, of the market de- mand and of the time is takes to supply *‘And what are you goiog to do with these pers?’ she asked. “Destroy them—ol course,” he said. “Unopened ?"’ ‘*Naturally—unopened.” For a moment the girl closed her eyes and brushed her forehead with the hack of her gloved hand. “I'm afraid.” she said, ‘‘I don’t quite noderstacd Why should he ask you to dextroy these papers? Why should youn try to deceive me about them !"’ Druce clasped his hands behind his back and looked she girl evenly in the eyes. “I don’s know that they are papers. All I know is that he asked me to destroy something in that drawer. Iam simply trying to carry ont the last request of a friend. I do not believe that the papers, if they are papers, are of any great value to any one except to the man who left them.” “Value I" the girl .repeated. ‘‘Has a name no valae, has a memory no value? Wallie Hamilton gave his life to me—and I gave mine to him—and now all I bave left is that memory. I believed that it was a life without blame, and that there was no seores he held from me, and yet you would destroy that memory? Iam to go back to my grie! with that suspicion al- ways before me® Do yon think that it is fair to throw up this barrier between his memory and my love for him, which is the most real thing in my life? You claim the rights of a friend —1 claim the rights of the life that he gave to me.” ‘*Helen,”’ Druce said, ‘youn are making it very hard for me. I only want to do my duty as I see it.” The girl rose from her seat at the desk, and going over to Mrs. Hamilton, sat at her feet and rested her head against her knee. The older woman gently brushed a loose strand of hair from the girl's eves. **T was his mother,’’ she said, *‘his blood was my blood, and I am his legal executor. He wae, I think, the best son a mother ever bad, and yet 20 mother could know all her son's lite. My child, you are very young in the ways of the world and you are very tired, and you have suffered a great deal— | more, I hope, than you will ever suffer again. [I think you had better les me take you home.” The gir! buried her head in the older woman’e lap and cried softly to herself. Druce turned away, and, resting his hands before him on the shelf over the fire- place, looked down on the cinders in the cold grate. For the first time he saw rest- 10g on the gray coals the obharred remnants of a piece of paper—the fragile, twisted form in ashes of a burned letter—a breath would bave blown it into a thousand flakes. He went over to where the girl knelt and touched her gently on the shoulder. “Very well, Helen,” he said, *'I think it is better that you should bave your way. Youn will probably find that the drawer is empty— be bad no secret from youn. Wallie always loved a joke.” He took the keys from his pocket and ressed them into the girl’s band. Then e bowed to the two women and went out and left them to their empty legacy. When he bad reached the street he stop- ped to look up at she familiar windows. Ou how many nights daring the past years, on his wav home had he glanced up at the same windows to see if the lights were stiil burning. ‘Poor dear old Wallie,”” he said half aloud, still looking up at the dark, forbid- ding honse front. ‘‘Poorold Wallie—I did the best I conld for you. And now that it’s ali over, [ wonder who is the proper exeoutor for a man’s