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Waiting for tlie Dawn.
BY IRENE INGE COLLIER.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
‘Yon must go with us Eloiaeto the St. Charles
where we are stopping. I cannot let yon go out
of our sight, lest we should lose you again,’
Carrie said, clinging to her friend's hand, while
Susie whispered in her ear:
‘Come, I have a present tor you. Something
it will make you happy to see.’
Eloise was obliged to consent. She drove
with them to the hotel. It was midnight, but
none of them could think of sleep. The three
girls and Susie, as much a girl in looks as any,
sat in Carrie’s room grouped around the little
table where stood a slender alabaster vase of
white roses. Carrie and Susie held Eloise’s
hands. Anna sat facing her and looking at her
with grave, sympathizing eyes. Carrie had just
told her the secret of Guy Lawrence’s illness.
He had been wounded nigh to death by the
hand of an assassin, hired they had every reason
to believe by Eugene Bertram to put him out of
the way, partly through jealousy and revenge,
partly to prevent his making public the secret of
his (Bertram's) life. On his way to Mr. Faruam's
to see Carrie as he had promised, he was way
laid and shot, and left for dead. Sam Farnam,
riding into town chanced to find him by the
road-side and had him conveyed home, where
he lay three days before recovering conscious
ness. The bullet meant for his heart, had pass
ed through one of his lungs and for a time his
recovery was doubtful. Many suspicious cir
cumstances pointed to Bertram, and though
there was not proof enough to arrest him, he felt
that public opinion was against him and resolv
ed to quit the country and to take Eloise with
him. He had come to New Orleans intending
to induce ter to go with him to Cuba, where he
had a speculation afloat that he hoped would
add to his already large fortune. He meant to
remain there until the affair of Guy Lawrence
should have blown over. In the meantime, he
iDteadel that no one should know that he left
with Eloise, or should suspect there was any
connection between them. He thought it would
not be hard to induce her to go with him.
Friendless, poor and unhappy, he believed she
would cliDg to him through loneliness and de
spair, if be used his persuasive powers as he
well krew how to do. He feared that in a lit
tle while, she would be traced by her friends,
his periidy exposed and his hold upon her de
stroyed. He bad left secretly for New Orleans,
going first to Mobile where he really had busi
ness, and made bis way to the boarding-house
where he expected to find his recluse.
Greatly to his disappointment and anger, he
found that she was at the opera house, where
she would sing that night before an enthu
siastically expectant audience, who had heard
of her magnificent vocal powers. She could ob
tain an engagement he learned whenever she
pleased. She would be independant of him.
She would escape him; As he looked at her
and listened to her that night, he determined
she should not free herself from his toils. He
would risk everything first. He would slander
her to the manager of the opera; he would break
up her engagement and cause her to leave the
stage in disgust; and despair. Such resolves
had half forced themselves in his mind, and he
had made his way behind the scenes to begin at
once, when he was dismayed at beholding his
victim in the midst of her best friends. He
knew then that his influence over her was over.
He knew his specious mask must now drop,
and he must stand before the world in his true
light—he who bad valued the world's good
opinion above everything except the gratifica
tion of h:= own and secretly indulged
propensities. Had he been abl6 to keep his
passion in check, he would have gone through
life honored as a man of model morality, and
straightforwardness, for he was secretive and
hypocritical enough to have deceived the world
as to his true character. But he had also a
mania for carrying out his own will and procur
ing his own gratification in spite of reason and
prudence.
Now he found himself suddenly on the eve of
exposure, and gnashing his teeth in mad but
impotent rage, he saw his prey drive away with
those friends who believed in her and would
stand by her, expose her wrongs and visit the
severest punishment upon the man who had
injured her. He had contrary to his custom,
entered a drinking and gambling saloon and
was seeking temporary distraction at the card
table, gulpiDg down glass after glass of strong
liquor while Eloise was telling her story of
weakness and wrong to her friends.
‘Carrie’, she was saying ‘I tell you it is too
true that we are a mystery to ourselves. I caa
not account for the strange power that Eugene
Bertram exerted over me. I loved him,or rather
the ideal that I believed to be him, loved
him with all the romantic ardor of a girl of sev
enteen, but it was something else that made
me yeild to his wishes—a fascination, I cannot
account for—a power that paralyzed my will.
He was devoted to me, you remember, in those
old days. My friends, most of them, thought
I was more than fortunate to seenre such a
rich and highly honored admirer; I thought
little of his riches, but his lavish generosity,
his grand siegneur ways, his proud manner,
his splendid horses and the way he was looked
up to made him seem a prince in my eyes. He
seemed born to be obeyed. My heart beat
proudly to know such a man was my lover.
Ne\er was a girl’s-love more persistently and fer
vently sought. Never were vows more ardent.
Heceg'iected no attention he left no word or act
untried to bind me to him with bonds of grat
itude and afficton’
‘And yet,’ interposed Carrie indignantly he
told others he was not in earnest, he was only
amusing himself; he would not think of giving
his proud name to a little Y'ankeeschool inarm.’
‘I can well believe be said this Carrie. His
after conduit proved it; though I trusted him
implicitly then. Ee was my conscience, my God |
almost; and when he urged me to a secret mar
riage because, as he said, his parents wished
•him to form a wealthier connection and would
disinherit him if they knew he had married a
poor girl and one of the ‘Yankee race,’ I listen
ed to him, believed him, thought it would be
disloyal in me to do anything to injure his inter
ests. But still I shrank from the secret mar
riage. He proposed an elopement to the city of
A. the ceremony to be performed there, but to
this I would not give my consent. Not that I
once suspected him of wishing to act dishonor
ably, but my woman's instincts made me object
to an elopement and a marriage in a strange
city.
One day we drove out to hear a sermon at a
country church. On the way he assailed me
with a torrent of persuasions and reproaches.
He called me cruel, he declared he was willing
to sacrifice his wealth, accustomed as he was to
luxury, and bear his father's anger for my sake.
He begged me to accept the sacrifice and marry
him. He would work for me, would try to keep
the yoke of poverty from pressing on me, no
matter how hard it weighed upon him. When
I weald not consent to such a sacrifice, he spoke
of the other alternative—a secret marriage, to
be kept concealed tor some years until he coaid
have an opportunity to make a fortune oat of the
capital his father permitted him to nse; or nntil
his grandfather, who was very old, should die,
when he would be his heir. I listened in silence,
bat bis entreaties and reproaches wrought upon
me. My better j udgement was giving way to his
overpowering will.
He stopped before the gate of an old, solitary
looking house. ‘D) you know who lives here?'
he said. ‘It is Mr. H. a magistrate. You know
him.’
‘Yes,’ I answered ‘I know him slightly—know
that he is a magistrate.’
•I have told him I wished him to marry us,’
Eugene said. ‘He is expecting us at this hour-
I have procured a license from him. Every
thing is ready; there need be no delay; nothing
| is wanting but your consent. My love, my
j dearest you will not be so cruel and unkind as to
let me plead to you in vain. I cannot believe
that you love or trust me if you refuse me this.
Believe that no possible harm can come to you.
I will avert all that. My wife shall be paramount
to all things. I will attend to your happiness
and your good name before anything else.’
‘Holding my hands, leaning over me till his
hot breath touched my cheek, he pleaded in this
way. To cut short the long, sad story, he pre
vailed; we were married. The magistrate eyed
me with a peculiar expression. I thought I saw
a kind of remorseful pity in his look, and he
called Eugene out upon the veranda, and by his
gestures and expressions seemed to be expostu
lating with him. I saw Eugene put an unusu
ally large fee in his hand —quite a roll of bank
bills. Before the sun had set my husband had
induced me to promise him not to betray the
secret of our marriage until he gave me permis
sion. In a year, he thought he could accord me
this permission. It is strange that I did not
stipulate that I might tell my brother. I had
never kept my girlish secrets from him; I had
| always gone to him with my childish troubles
I and youthful cares. This secret, however, had
j to my poor, foolish, romantic heart a sweetness
in being kept. It was a sweetness that 30on
turned into the bitterness of gall. I realized
the humiliation of living a lie before my friends.
I no longer felt free and innocent. Soon, I had
reason to feel yet more deeply the folly I had
committed by a secret marriage. It would soon
be necessary for my honor's sake that the world
should know I was a wife. I told Eugene. I
implored him to disclose the fact of our mar
riage, to release me from the oath of secresy. He
refused to do either. He refused to iet me tell
my brother. He declared I was in bis power;
that I would not be believed, unless my asser
tion that 1 was his wife was borne out by him.
He hinted darkly of an accusation on his part
of insanity or duplicity. I saw alas! too late,
with what a cold, calculating, steel nerved and
iron hearted man I had to deal. I had hope only
in time that sets all things even. I would bide
my time. Following out his wishes, I went
away like a guilty thiDg at night. Yes Carrie,
the night I left your house, I waited with Eu
gene by the roadside until the passing of the
stage coach. The driver was bribed to keep si
lent. I went to Florida, to the secluded place,
Ocean View, that you have seen. There, a few
months afterwards, mv child was born.’
‘Your child? Oh, Eloise, had you a child?
What became of it, where is it ?’
‘Alas, my friend, I do not know. I have im
plored Eugene on my knees to tell me. I have
even forborne to reveal the secret of our marri
age, if he would restore my child to my arms. He
promised to do so, but still puts me off from
time to time. I begin to fear she is dead—my
poor little forsaken child. Ah! I would I had
never abandoned her. I thought then it was
for her good. Eugene made me the most sol
emn promise that he would care for her as for
the apple of his eye, and I went to Europe that
I might perfect my voice, which I hoped would
be a fortune to me and would enable me to re
turn the money obligations I owed to Eugene
Bertram. These obligations weighed upon me
heavily since I knew the perfidy of the man. I
determined to break all connection with him.
I hoped to return to America with mo ley and
farue, to betray his secret. claim mv cbilH om)
trust to my friends to believe me. ir ate decreed
otherwise. I lost my voice soon after a most
flattering appearance on the Italian stage. The
war in America cut off communication between
the Southern States and Europe. I could not
return, even if I had had money to pay my pas
sage. At last the war ended. I had earned a
sum by teaching music. I came back to my na
tive land; found Eugene and demanded that be
would avow our marriage and give me my child.
He has not done either. When I declared my
intention of revealing the secret myself,he laugh
ed sneeringly and declared that proof was out
of my power and no one would believe my as
sertion, unsupported by him. I learned theD,
that the magistrate who had performed the secret
marriage rite, was dead and that the marriage
had never been recorded. Eugene’s money had
doubtless been of service to him here, also; and
by gold, and perhaps promises of political help,
he had won the magistrate to his will. Alas! it
seemed that Fate closed me round on every hand.
Even poor Guy Lawrence must suffer for his
friendship tor me, There, my friend, you have
the outlines of my miserable story. 1 hope, I
pray, you will believe me, however much ap
pearances may be against me.’
‘We do indeed dear Eloise,’ cried Carrie, em
bracing her, while Susie and Anna pressed her
hands and echoed the assurance of Carrie.
‘Thanks, dearest friends, your noble trust
does me good. My own brother could not be
more kind. Indeed, I have feared that he ’
‘Have no fears that he will believe you un
worthy, Eloise,’ interposed Anna. -It will be
the happiest day of your life when he holds you
to his heart.’
‘He will believe me; I have never told him a
falsehood. But Oh ! if I had only the proofs to
back my story.’
Susie’s eyes glistened. She rose and brought
a small cedar cabinet, which she put into Eloise's
hands.
‘I told you I had a present for you, Eloise,
here it is. This queer box and its contents
(which I have never seen) were left to you by
an uncle of mine who died since you went away.
He made Sam and I promise to give it into no
hands but yours. Open it, dear Eloise, that we
may see what it contains. 1 have had my guess
long ago. If it prove correct, it is something
that will make you happy.*
Smiling rather mournfully, Eloise took the
little key that wa3 handed her, and unlocked
the cabinet, saying:
‘I do not remember knowing any uncle of
yours, Susie. 1
‘Yes, you knew him slightly, but was not
aware that he was a relative of mine. He was
my mother‘s brother—an eccentric man, am
bitious to acquire money and power. 1
While Susie spoke, Eloise had fitted the kqy
in the lock of the box and now raised the lid. A
‘I see only old papers, 1 she said.
‘No string of pearls ? ‘Well, look at the pa
pers; they may be a will, turning over a fortune
to your acceptance. 4
Eloise unfolded the yellow document and
glanced at the writing upon it. Her eyes flash
ed; she grew pale and red alternately.
‘It is better than a fortune,* she cried. ‘It is
the certificate of my marriage with Eugene Ber
tram. Oh, thank God !‘
It was indeed. She held in her hand the
proof of the claim that would re-instate her to
an honorable position in the world, would re
store her to her friends, to the brother she had
been separated from so long, would wipe her
clean of the soil of slander and shame. The
magistrate had not been heartless. He had pre
served the certificate of the secret marriage with
the determination that it should find its way
into her possession, that the wrong he had help
ed to do might be righted, as far as was in his
power. It was a joyful hour for Eloise. Her
friends sympathized in her happiness, and wept
and smiled with her, In the midst of their con
gratulations they heard a confnsion in another
part of the great hotel, but paid little attentiou
to it until Sam knocked at the door and entered,
locking pale and agitated.
‘Something has happened !‘ exolaimed Susie.
‘Yes, Eugene Bertram has just been brought
in dangerously wounded. He had an alterca
tion with a man in a gambling saloon—an old
enemy I believe. I saw him and spoke to him.
He motioned me to bend closer and then said:
‘Go and bring E!c»ise Ennis. I must see her !‘
•Eloise, will you see him ? Susie and I will go
with you.’
•Yes, I will go instantly,‘ she answered, and
Carrie whispered:
‘Brother, Eugene is her husband. He has
wronged her, still I know she has some tender
ness left for him.
Sam, drawing her hand gently within his arm,
led the way to the room where Eugene Bertram
lay. There was a crowd around the closed door,
but only one, the surgeon and another gentle
man were within, standing around the bed of
the wounded man. Strange coincidence! he
had been shot in the left side through the lungs
just as he had had Guy Lawrence shot a few
weeks before. But his wound was deeper; the
shot had lodged within and there was internal
hemorrhage. The face of the phj sician told them
there was no hope.
When Bertram saw Eloise beside his bed, he
stretched out his hand to her saying:
‘Eloise, I have wronged yon deeply, I wish
to make all the reparation in iriy power. Here
before these witnesses, I acknowledge you my
lawful wife, married to me nearly eight years
ago by a magistrate of A— county. The mar
riage has been kept secret through my infl fence
— for the furtherance of my own evil purposes.
Eloise, can you forgive me? I have blighted
your life—ruined all its early promise; have
you charity enough in your gentle, long-suffor-
ing nature to say to a dying wretch: “I forgive
you.” ’
She knelt by him and put her lips to his.
‘I forgive you with all my heart, my husband;
may God pardon you as freely as I do.’
He clasped her in his arms, but as he did so
he became ghastly pale, his feature's assumed a
death-like aspect.
The surgeon waved them back and hurriedly
administered a stimulant.
‘He will soon be gone,’ he said, under his
breath to Sam Farnam.
‘My child ! he must tell me of my child,’ ex
claimed Eloise, with clasped hands. He hoard
her and turned his glazing eyes upon her.
‘The child,’ he said, faintly. ‘Oh, Eloise! I
deceived you there. I do not know where the
child is. I put it in a Foundling Asylum here
in this city. I have never asked about it since.
I could not well do so without risking exposure.
I disguised myself and carried the child there.
No questions were asked on either side.’
A Foundling Asylum, where all the children
are unknown waifs, all mingled together, un-
distinguishably as daisies in a field! Her child
was lost to her then forever? A thought flashed
across her mind—a sudden recollection of hav
ing heard that these little ones were numbered
—that a certain figure stood for the name and
identity of each.
She bent close to the dying man:
‘Eugene,’ she said, in a low voice full of sup
pressed emotion, ‘did they give you no number
that might identify the child ?’
‘A number—yes; they gave me a card, that
has been ever since in my pocket-book, in a
little compartment to itself. The pocket-book,
is in the coat thereon the chair.’
It was the coat he had worn when he was
shot. The substantial steel pocket-book was
wet with blood that stained Sam’s fingers as he
opened it—found the small inner compartment
and took from it the card worn, and with the
black letters noon it pearl- Agfaced. tJearli
but not quite, torEioise’s eigei f:yesread upon
it No. 199 -That number represented her child.
It meant hope at least. It might with more
probability mean dispair and death and a little
grave in potter's field, but she clutched it tightly
in her hand and gazed at it, till she was roused
by hearing a ga3p, and then the terrible death
rattle. She sprang to thesideof her husband.
His fingers closed npon tiers in a last convul
sive pressure. The next moment Eugene Ber
tram with all his sins, nad passed from earthly
judgment, and Eloise still clasping the hand
she had held when the marriage vows were
uttered, stood beside him, looking down
through blinding tears at the face of the man
she had once loved so madly.
His body was sent back to Ocean View to be
interred in the old ancestral burial ground.
Eloise did not accompany it. She went to the
Foundling Asylum the day after Eugene's death
aDd presenting the card asked what had became
of number 199. With a beating heart, she
waited while the books of the Establishment
were consulted. It seemed an age before the
answer came.
•Number 199 was adopted by a German Lady
named Meyerhart, living on Poydras St.—
‘Come, let us go there at once,’ Eloise said to
her faithful friend Carrie who accompanied
her.
They drove to Poydras St., found the house
—an old rickety tenement,found the Meyerhart’s
and asked for Number 199. The woman was the
same Eloise remembered seeing at the theatre
with the little child who had sung so well and
to whom she had been so strangely drawn. Mrs.
Meyerhart seemed at first ulwilling to reply
and disposed to be angry that the heads of the
Foundling Establi3inent should have told what
she had kept as a secret—that the child was
adopted by her. She had always called herself
the child’s mother.
‘But the child; can I not see her? I a must see
her !’ interposed Eloise, fearful every moment
that the rough German man would enter and
refuse to let her have admittance to the child.
‘She is sick,' said the woman sullenly. ‘She
can’t see nobody.’
‘I must see her, I am her mother, 1 cri6d Elo
ise, and she suddenly swept past the woman
into the next room, the door of which stood
partly ajar. There on a pallet 1ay the same pale,
graceful child that had won her heart at the
Opera. She lifted her large, iff "k eyes to Elo
ise^ face.
•Y’ou have come, sweet lady. I begged them
to send tor you, I wanted to see you so. ‘
Dawn on her knees by the po.^r pallet dropped
Eloise, and strained the child to her breast.
‘My child !‘ she whispered through her tears
and kisses, ‘you are mine—my child ! I am your
mother.*
The German woman, who had a warm heart of
her own, was melted to tears; and gave her con
sent to Eloise taking her little daughter as soon
as the child was well enough to go. The man
was harder to deal with. He was very loth to
part with Lina, whose gift of a sweet voice and
graceful acting he thought would be a future
fortune to him. Money however, brought him
over; and Eloise had the happiness of taking
her child with her when she left the city three
days afterwards and went with her friends to
their Florida home. The little Lina—now called
Carrie—rapidly regained her health and became
a marvel of rosy, dimpled, dark eyed beauty,
bidding fair to equal the wonderful lovlineas of
her mother.
It was found that Bertram had left a will,
leaving all he possessed in his own right to
Eloise whom he acknowledged as his wile, and
recommended to the kindness of his mother,
his only surviving parent. Not long after his
death, his mother came to Ocean View, sent for
Eloise and her child and insisted on their living
with her at this baiutiful seaside home which
would be too lonely to live at without compan
ionship. The old lady was much impressed by
Eloise's sweet and gentle manners and the win
ning loveliness of her little grandchild, and
Eloise was won by the kindness and touched by
the loneliness and sorrow of the stately old lady
whose proud, fond heart had been deeply
wounded by the loss of her only son, the manner
in which he came to his death and the disclosure
of the marriage he had kept secret so long to the
injury of his innocent wife.
Charles Ennis had hurried to Florida, imme
diately on receiving the telegram Eloise had
sent him from New Orleans. The meeting be
tween brother and sister was full of affection
and tenderness. All was soon explained, under
stood and forgiven, and the oup of Eloise’s
happiness was full.
There was soon a double wedding at the pret
ty home of the Farnam’s. Carrie and Arna
were beautiful brides and Fred Denman and
Charles Ennis looked worthy of the priz98 they
had won. Guy Lawrence was ‘best man,’ look
ing still a little pale from the long illness that
had followed his wound. Meeting Eloise con
stantly at the Farnani’s where he remained un
til he was well, kindly nursed by excellent Mrs.
Farnam, he had grown to love her yet more pas
sionately. But there was a sadness and a cold
sweetness in her beautiful face that kept him
from uttering any word of love in her presence.
She seemed to live only for her child, and it was
long before he found courage to tell her how-
dear she was to him. Then the betrayal of his
feelings was brought about by the little girl who
was devoted to him. He was over-joyed to had
that he was not repulsed; but it was not until
two years after the death of Eugene that ha pos
sessed the treasure he had so long coveted.
Quietly, in one of the grand, mellow-lighted
parlors at Ocean View on an Indian summer
day, Eloise Bertram became the wife of Guy
Lawrence. Only her dear friends, the Farnam’s
were present, a few of Guy’s relatives, her
brother and the mother of Eugene.
‘She is beautiful as ever,’ Sam Farnam whis
pered to his little wife. •With her loveliness
and grace and that marvelous voice of hers, she
might reign as the queenlieet prinia donna of
the operatic world, but she will be happier as
the wife of a good man who adores her, and the
mother of that little fairy, who bids fair to be
her exact image.
(THE END.)
I Forgive Him,
-FOR—
IIE LOYEI) ME OXCE.
BY MAIL)A DCN'CAN.
In the golden mist of this glorious October
day I find myself gazing from my chamber
window, a lone and sad woman, upon whom the
years lie wearily; gone my bright girlhood and
the happy past, never to come back to me.
There are graves in the cemetery upon whose
green turf I have wept for the loved ones; there
are deeper graves in my heart over which no
tombstone gleams, where the tenderest hopes of
my life lie sleeping, but I have grown used to
my loneliness and sorrow and to-day, looking
out upon the landscape bright with its autumn
glories—upon trees whose boughs are touched
with gold and flame, purple asters by the road
side, golden rod nodding in the sunlight, the
wind sad-toned and chilly, bringing a thought
of the coming winter and remembrance of the
dreadful past, ;the awful December night a
year ago, all stands before me.
Five years ago, only five, it seems a century
since I remember the scene; the tiny cottage
» <.qt!ed wnno, tYp bi’-lghmstio »:nd broken steps
leading to the lake side,Lake <Jassadaga,l!ie dear
old lake that lay like a gem in the emeraid val
ley, and upon whose bosom the wateriilies droo p-
ed their loving bells as if jealously to enclose
truant gems of brightness and prevent them re
turning to their source. The cottage windows
were open to the lake side; their muslin cur
tains curled in the evening breeze, letting in a
glimpse of silver moonlight. Over the water
came the sound of distant bells, miDgling not
unpleasantly with the soft washing of the waves
along the fern-ringed shore, the lake quivering
and dimpling into diamond brightness
when the moon’s rays touched it. I had pre
pared the evening meal and had wandered out
to meet my husband and my cousin, Fauline
Graham. All ! how happy I was as I stood in
the shadow, looking and waiting for their com
ing down the avenue where the beech trees part
ed, giving such a lovely view of my lakeside
paradise. I saw tk6m coming; a childish whim
seized me to remain quiet till they were at the
gate; they stopped, however, before they reach
ed me. Never shall I forget the picture they
made. Childhood had passed so shortly since,
the smile and joyousuess still lingered;whiie wo
manhood’s maturer charms swelled the outlines
of Pauline’s graceful form. I can see her now
as I saw her that night; the picture will never
fade; she had withdrawn her arm from his and
was resting against a tree, while her arms gleam
ed out white and beautiful. She was gazing up
at the man beside her with an expression lull ot
tenderness and perfect love; the tall blond with
a beauty that would have been effeminate but
for the eager, restless eyes, weird and changing
as sapphires. The pallor of excitement was in
his face as he spoke.
•Never again!’ he breathed, and caught her
hands in his, his face flashed and brimming
over with emotion,‘my own darling, never again
to part!’
He was holding her hands fist, she made no
effort to release them. Her face was pale and
agitated in the moonlight.
•Oh, if I had never come here ! If I had only
told your wife we had met before !’ she cried, ‘I
should tell her all.’
I heard the passionate answer that broke from
his lips, saw him snatch her to his heart and
rain kisses on her upturned face, then with a
smothered cry she broke from him and ran to
her room, while Merle Lee, my husband, turned
down the village path and was lost to view.
When Pauline passed me her white face turned
so that she saw me there; she did not pause;
that one glance showed her I had seen all. 1
was alone with my great sorrow. Heaven help
me ! Should I follow the man who had tramp
led my life out under his feet? Alas ! there was
no lessening of love toward him, only pity.
And Pauline—this was the return she made for
cast love and kindness. Even in the first mo
ment ot my stupifiad terror I felt no anger, only
pity—and a great_distance between Merle Lee
and myself. I walked slowly up the pretty walk,
as one in a dream. What course could I pursue?
Ah, I would see Pauline—something beside this
awful calmness. I found her kneeling at the
window; she sprang to her feet with a half cry,
and a flush came over her face.
‘Pauline ?’ said I. She made no answer. ‘Is
this my return for my love, my kindness ? Do
you not remember all my oare and love?
She was silent tor a while, then she crossed
the room quickly and caught my wrists, ‘Why!’
she cried in a shrill voice, ‘You will not believe
him as worthless as I am? How thoronghly
wicked I am, Eusebia, I cannot be trnsted, and
to-night revealed all this to you, for I love him
as I never loved before, have always loved
him.’
‘Tell me Pauline—am I mad—has he always
loved you thn3—am I dreaming? Oh, Pauline,
Pauline—’
‘I do not know,’ she wailed, ‘God is my wit
ness, when I rushed away from him it was to
tell you all but there was that iu your face that
shocked me so I could not. I shall leave you
and him.’ Down she sat upon the floor and
covered her face with her hands, ‘God forgive,
God forgive,’ she groaned. I think a lost soul
in the first moment when his eternity of suffer
ing bursts upon him, crouches away from the
light as she did then.
Only one thought was in my mind, my hus
band never loved me! ‘My Merle!’ the cry that
broke from my lips roused her, she uncovered
her face and stood upright. ‘Try to under
stand,’ she said; ‘I see you do not know that we
met and loved long before he ever met you.
Did he not tell you we had met before?’
‘I heard him say that; nothing more, ’ I
gasped.
‘I can’t be more wicked than I am,’ she con
tinued, ‘I love him so dearly that even you do
not seem a barrier. I am mad. I should have
written this to you; I leave you to-night, and
leave you forever. You may kill me! I have
done.’
•No! what is your life to me? I only want the
love I have lost forever. Go your ways.’
I went about my cares and duties with a pre
cision wonderful to see. The gray dawn crept
in at the windows and the still country life be
gan to awaken; the rising sunlight drifted thro’
the vines at my cottage door diffusing a tender
warmth; the delicate ferns shed a perfume on
the morning air, earth was gemmed with dew
and teeming with beauty. What was life to me,
for the world had fallen into chaos, Pauline and
Merle had fled out into the world and sin that
night.
I cannot tell my life; for weeks I had no life.
Tho’ the law made him tree, I was still his. I
went from my cottage home. I would find them
if I trod every inch of ground they had been
over. Only once in the long five years I heard
from them. They were not happy together,
how could it be otherwise with them? They
were in Europe, and finally made their home in
California.
Wearied with my search one year ago, I found
myself resting in a beautiful town in Ohio.
There I had resolved to return to my old home
to die; then I thought of forgiveness. I was
past my youth, and revenge was not so sweet to
me. Vengeance belonged to Him who rules all
things. I could forget the great wrong and lead
them to the eternal gates. Ah, I was nearer
both than I thought. 'Twas well I could not
see into the dreadful future.
Upon the 29th of December, lb—, a cold,
cheerless night that made outgoing an impossi
bility, a long train of passenger cars had
been swept from a bridge, and all lay piled
in awful chaos below in the frozen river bed.
I can give no idea of it to-day. I cannot think
of it without that terrible feeling seizing me, as
it did many others that night. Every bodily
faculty is powerless and the mind only grasps
more vividiy the vision, the icy torpor which
locks the physical frame, the shrieks of the
wounded and dying, the bruised and mangled
bodies, some with faces calm as in sleep, merci
fully struck at the instant into senseless clay,
the mad confusion, the insane rushing to and
fro, the blinding, drifting snow, the stormy win
ter sky bending over all, the weird glare of the
lire against the leafless trees, and above all the
human eyes blind to the angels that passed from
earth to heaveD, only conscious of the dying
and the wreck. I cannot tell how long it lasted,
the dreadful work I dare not dwell upon. The
morning light came to the long night.
I went with the many who visited the scene.
Stunned and overcome with th9 scenes I had
witnessed I turned to go. The men were hur
rying past carrying a man with his face turned
towards me. I bent and looked at the pallid
face from which the wet hair fell in golden
masses. I looked upon the worn, changed face
wilti of y.oaori oti it I.over wora in liff:*. I
motioned the men aside. I sank upon my
knees with a feeling of keen sorrow. My task
was done, for I pressed my quivering lips to the
brow of my husband, Merle Lae, forever freed
from the temptations of his mad heart. Slowly
and sadly they bore him to the building where
lay so many who^e hearts beat on and high a
few hours ago. How came he there? They
were on their way to California from making a
brief visit home. But I was the last to be near
him, for Pauline was among those not found, a
few trinkets were identified as hers, so they had
been parted forever.
I made his grave near our old home where the
waves of the old lake keep singing his requiem
forever. And 1 forget his folly, for I think he
loved me once. Sometimes beside my hearth
stone a dream of flashing, azure eyes beneath
locks of living gold, flits around me, and I feel
the spirit pressure of the once dear hand, and
thank God that he has in time brought us all
peace, but my quiet lips have learned a lesson of
calmness.
When June came in all her summer beauty, I
journeyed westward, and visited the scene of
disaster; ’twas quiet then, the hills were cov
ered with verdure; the valley was studded with
upspringing violets. And I threw dainty
wreaths of woodland flowers into the stream
that ripples so merrily over the ashes of Pauline
Graham.
HUMOR.
If it cost anything to go to church, people who
never go now weuld run around like wild men
for free passes.
Ithaca is too vulgar for anything. The refined
and altogether classic ‘Whoa, Emma!’ has de
generated into ‘Pause, Emily !’ in that slang-
ridden bnrg.
He was from the country, and he came down
town for the first time. As he looked at the
telegraph wires he said: ‘Why do you make
your wire fences so high ?’
‘Full many a rose is born to blush unseen,
and waste its sweetness on the desert air,’ full
many a pound of butter that seems clean, is
but a hiding place for yellow hair,
‘This is an unfeeling world,’ said a mosquito
the other night, as he raised his derrick and
commenced boring for oil on the heel of a South
Wlieeling man.— Wheeling Leader.
’Tis pleasant at the close of day
To play
Croquet.
And if your partner makes a miss,
Why, kiss
The sis.
But if she gives your shin a thwack,
Why, whack
Her back.
‘Beautiful, beautiful siken hair,’ Philip mur
mured fondly, toying lovingly with one of her
nut-brown tresses, ‘soft as the plumage on an
angle’s wing; light as the thistle down that
dances on the snmmer air; the shimmer of sun
set, the glitter of yellow gold, the rich, red
brown of autnmnal forests blend in entrancing
beauty in its—’ And just then it came off in
his hands, and he forgot just what to say next.
There was a moment of profound silence, and
then Aurelia took it from him and went out of
the room with it. When she came back he was
gone. They meet now, bat they meet as strangers
and the eyes that were wont to beam upon each
other with the awakened love light now glare
as though life was an eternal wash day.—Hawk-
Eye.
One often loses sight of his self-respect in the
passage of personal witiciams.