Newspaper Page Text
A Little White Rose A Joyful Raster
f
HERE is sorrow in your face. Won't
you come with me to my home, and tell
me about it?”
The speaker, Mrs. Grimes, often did
unconventional things, but even they
who knew her best would have been
surprised could they have seen and
heard her then, her daintily gloved hand
resting on the arm of a plainly dressed
girl, and her eyes smiling into the sad blue ones up
raised for an instant to hers. Though considered
eccentric, the lady was the acknowledged possessor
of a manner charming and magnetic, and quickly
won to herself the confidence and good will of all
with whom she came in contact. She had been
making purchases at the notion countei’ of a leading
dry-goods store of the city in which she lived, and
had lx?en attracted by the sweet, yet despairing
face of a young woman who stood near, and who,
it seemed, was not there for the purpose of buying,
for she took no apparent interest in the pretty
goods about her. Instead, her eyes were downcast,
and she seemed lost in troubled revery until Mrs.
Grimes touched her, and said kindly: 11 There is
sorow in your face. Won’t you come with me to
my home, and tell me about it?”
The girl shrank from the touch, soft as it was,
and shook her head, almost mechanically. But the
lady did not accept the refusal. Taking the maiden’s
hand in her’s, she gave it a sympathetic pressure,
and led her forth with a pretty show of authority,
saying smilingly: “Come with me.”
At the door a carriage awaited her, into which
she assisted her companion, and, getting in herself,
gave the order to be driven home. The girl at her
side seemed scarcely conscious of what was passing,
but sat as silent and immovable as a figure carved
out of stone. She followed passively when Mrs.
Grimes led the way up the steps of her home, and
into the wide hall, awaking to interest only when
they had entered the sitting room, to which a num
ber of potted plants lent their beauty and fra
grance.
One would have known by her expression when
she saw them that she was a lover of flowers. The
look of sadness left her face for a moment, and her
eyes sparkled with delight as she leaned forward
to inhale the sweetness of an early white rose.
“It reminds me of home,” she said, touching
it reverently, and seeming to speak to herself rather
than to her companion. “We had so many of them
there, growing over the trellis by the front gate.
Father always loved them, and they named me Rose
because of them. He sometimes calls me —1 mean
he used to sometimes call me —his little white
Rose. ’ ’
She sighed, and her hostess asked, sympathetically;
“Is he dead now?”
But Rose did not speak. She only shook her head,
as though her heart were too full just then for
words. Seeing which, Mrs. Grimes adroitly changed
the subject.
“I shall have more flowers than usual for Easter
this year,” she said, “though it comes rather early.
"The Limit of the Line.”
(Continued from Page Six.)
long drawn out years of agony and poverty, that
had been his portion, had kept him awake, while
the town clock struck the hours away in mellow
chimes. It was unbelievable, past the comprehen
sion of his reason almost, that he should be lifted
from the grim, drear plane of an eked-out existence
into the bright effulgence of a profession backed
by unlimited capital, with every proper equip
ment furnished him, from the printing press to the
building. The self-elected associate editor of the
Gazette turned from the view of April greenness,
when Brown was ushered in by Manson, and he mo
tioned him to a Morris chair, with a grave smile.
But Brown hesitated, for he saw that the young lady
from Gotham was landing by the other large library
I have had to force some of them, and to them
all I have given the closest attention. Look at the
lily buds; in a few days they will have unfolded,
and be ready to help decorate the church. Nothing
gives me greater pleasure than to see the flowers
I have tended grace the pulpit or chancel at the
Easter tide. They have always seemed to me sweet
songs and sermons of the Resurrection, and I love
to get to church early on Easter morning, before
the congregation has arrived, that 1 may learn of
them. Don’t you?”
The girl raised her eyes from the rose upon which
they had rested, and said softly, with a trustful
look such as children wear, “You are good—so
good! I wish I were.”
“You do not look as if you are very bad,” Mrs.
Grimes responded, smilingly. And, putting an arm
about the young stranger, she led her to the sofa
and sat down beside her. “Now tell me all,” she
urged.
“Oh,” the girl sobbed, “if only I had never left
the dear old home! I have broken the hearts of
my mother and father. I can never let them look
upon my face again.”
“Have they forbidden you to return to them?”
“No,” Rose responded, and then went on bro
kenly: “They think me happy here with him. But
I am miserable, oh, so miserable!”
“Tell me about him,” the elder woman pleaded.
“Is he some one that you love?”
“No, no!” the girl said, proudly. “I do not love
him. He has wronged and deceived me. I did love
him until I learned that it was sin to do so —that
he already had a living wife when he married me.
I learned it only a few days ago, and oh, it seems
months and months have passed since then! ’
At first her eyes flashed with indignation, but they
melted to tenderness as she sobbed: “And to think!
I gave them up for him —gave up my dear mother
and father for him!”
Her new-found friend could not answer, so deeply
touched was she. She could but stoop and kiss the
troubled brow.
“How could you?” Rose asked, looking up quickly
and gratefully. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know,” responded the other, “that whenever
I see a flower bruised and broken, I always have
a wish to place it back amid the conditions that
sustained life. That is often impossible, but here
is a human being —-a fair young flower in life s
morning—whose heart, my own heart tells- me, is
as pure as my white rose yonder. She has been
taken from the garden where she grew, and has been
bruised and broken, but she can be restored to her
old place, where she may grow into a perfect flower
hood, and exhale more sweetness than would have
been possible but for this breaking’ and bruising.
Now go on, my child, with your story.”
And Rose, with trembling lips and downcast eyes,
continued: “It was just before Easter last year
when we met. He had come to Cedarville for a
few weeks, and some friends accompanied him to
choir practice. When the others found he could
window, in a blue Princess dress of many buttons.
1 ■ Introductions are so stiff,” young Ford com
plained, with a swift glance at his cousin, “I don 't
think that I care to be the master of ceremonies at
this one.”
Brown coughed. Miss Ford drummed on the win
dow coolly. Gregg had to be amused, and, before
the blue, impenetrable mystery of his eyes, many a
good actor on the stage of life had blown up. But
Ethel Ford knew the ways of the master of the
game. It was a little habit of his, to nail the con
ventions now and then.
Miss Ford sauntered over to the young million
aire’s window.
“I don’t think your form is good,” she said in a
low tone. “I might blow him a kiss from the tips
of my fingers, you know, and introduce myself some-
The Golden Age for April 8, 1909.
By Margaret Richard.
sing well, and that his voice blended harmoniously
with mine, they persuaded us to sing a duet on the
following Sunday, which was Easter. He came
often to my home to sing with me, and I saw
much of him during his sojourn in the village, and
during several subsequent visits. Though I liked
him so well, mother and father, for some reason
unknown to me, mistrusted him from the first.
Because of this I became somewhat estranged from
them, and felt they had withdrawn the love and
sympathy they had formerly given me.”
“Ah,” the listener interrupted, “you were get
ting out of harmony with your environment! This
is nearly always a step in the wrong direction.”
“We wrote to each other when we were apart,”
the girl continued, “and he told me that he loved
me, and was coming some time to take me to the
city, where we could always be happy together. He
went for me a week ago, and we came away without
letting father and mother know of our plans, for
he said they would object, though they would for
give us after we were married. He brought me
here, and I became his wife. Then he took me to
his rooms, where I expected to be so happy. And
for a while I was, until some one thrust an anony
mous letter under the door, saying I was not legally
his wife; that one who had a lawful right to his
name was at the North, an inmate of an asylum
for the insane. I could not believe it, and I showed
him the letter, begging him to deny it, saying I
knew some one had some evil design against him in
making such an assertion. But it was true, and he
said it need make no difference in our relations —
that she was dead to him, and we loved each other.”
She ceased speaking, and for a few moments the
pitiful sound of her sobbing filled the room, and
then she went on: “I left him immediately, and
ever since I have been trying to get work in the
city, for how can I go back to Cedarville? But I
can get nothing to do; I am not wanted anywhere.”
“Oh, yes, you are! Back in the farm-house from
which you came, loving hearts are longing to hear
from you, and it will be a sad Easter to father and
mother if you do not write to them. And I—yes,
I shall write, too, and tell them where to find you,
for my home must be yours until they come for
you.”
They did come on the first train that left Cedar
ville after the receipt of the letters, or the father
did, rather, for the mother was prostrated by grief.
On the next Sabbath, when Mrs. Grimes sat in
the beautifully decorated church of which she was
a member, her heart was prepared for whatever
lessons of life the flowers might teach. The roses
on the little stand near the altar were an offering
from herself, and were so white as to speak to many
of the blood of the crucified and risen Lamb that
washeth “whiter than the snow.” To her they
were a reminder of the human flower she had been
enabled to remove from a soil rank with poison,
to one needful for its life and growth, making that
a joyful Easter tide to those who loved the girl,
and to whom she was still their pure, beloved “little
white rose.”
what precipitately.”
Ford smiled and took her hand.
“Brown, old man, this is my cunning cousin,
Ethel Ford.” he said with a clear intonation, “the
most charming girl in Gotham.”
“I agree with you, Ford,” said Brown with Sou
thern ease; “I am very glad to know’ her.”
Brown bowed, and it became suddenly evident to
his auditors that a man without money or high po
sition could stand in the native grace and strength
of his own manhood, and challenge the respect of
kings. He might be only a country editor, but
Ethel Ford realized suddenly that a man who res
pects himself is of larger personality than those who
have to fall back upon figures to straighten their
backbones. The editor-in-chief took the chair.
(Continued on Page Nine.)
7
