In the morning, since he does not appear as usual, two men break open the attic door and find him there. "Suicide?" says one. "Starvation, more likely," says the other. "No, here's bread and cheese. Case for the coroner, anyway. Cheerful sort of a den he lived in. Hullo, what's this he's been writing?" One of them reads what the dead man has written, and says: "It's peculiar stuff. I can't just make it out. Look at his hand; he's got an old newspaper in it gripped like a vise." He stoops and forces the old paper from the cold fingers. He examines it from curiosity and dully stumbles upon the truth. "Say, Bill," he says, "here's a funny thing. This old newspaper's got an article in it very near exactly the same as that thing the gent wrote himself." (_Houston Daily Post_, Friday morning, November 29, 1895.) Led Astray There was no happier family in all Houston than the O'Malleys. Mr. O'Malley held a responsible position in one of our large breweries, and was a thrifty citizen and an indulgent husband and father. His son Pat was part owner of a flourishing little grocery, and also played the E-flat horn in the band that discourses sweet music Sunday afternoons in a building on one of our quietest unpaved avenues. The light and hope of the family was the youngest daughter, Kathleen, an ebon-haired girl of 19, with Madonna-like features, and eyes as black as the wings of the crow. They lived in a little rose-embowered cottage near the corner where the street car turns.