Newspaper Page Text
14
homes of their own, or sleeping beneath
the white drifts of the church yard; it is
a mournful thing to think of the past,
and that they are gone forever. But
there is a more cankering regret than this,
when one who has been cherished, and
beloved, is a wanderer upon the face of
the earth —or if he has ceased to battle
with its temptations, and its pain, you
“know not where they hove lain him!”
It was this thought that had drawn
still deeper lines upon the face of Mrs.
Murray, when the fifth anniversary of
that strange parting came. It found her
still the only inmate of her cottage home,
waiting and watching—sorrowing, but
yet not as one without hope, for she
knew in the strength of her mother’s love,
that she had expiated the error of her
son’s fatal indulgence, and even if she
never saw him on earth again, her prayers
for the reunion of eternity had not been
unregarded. This was the only thing that
could have sustained her through that
weary uncertainty, and sometimes she
was even cheerful, and longed for the
hour which should call her where “Christ
himself doth rule”—and she could un
derstand, even as she now knew, her pe
culiar trials, why thev were all needed.
But to-night she w r as tempted to mur
mering distrust. All day long —the first
day of the New-Year, when the whole
village was rejoicing, she had kept her
hands busily employed to shut out
thought—now the work was laid aside,
and twilight had come with its haunting
reveries, she could no longer say “peace,
be still,” to her troubled heart. How
could she help that yearning weariness of
spirit, when the day and the hour recalled
so many things! Twenty-six years be
fore, she had seen her husband’s happi
ness when their child was given to them,
and had felt the first wild tumult of a
mother’s love ; and that dreary night
when she was once more bereft, made
doubly lonely! for there was little to
look forward to, when she knew only
too well how force of character, and the
development of a higher nature had been
checked by her own blind indulgence of
every wish. Poor woman! No wonder
that a cloud shut out even Heaven from
her, and the trust of many years waver
ed, in the cold doubt of God’s goodness
and mercy. There w'ere others weaker
than she had been, who had never suffer-
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
ed, and were, even now, sitting with their
children, and children’s children about
them, in ease and comfort too, while with
all her industry she had even only the
necessaries of life. Then there was a
dim shadow of a lonely, homeless old
age, passing slowly before her, out of the
cloud and the thick darkness.
She had often been assailed thus before,
and she knew where strength of resist
ance was to be found. So she drew the
light stand closer, and opened the large
family Bible, almost the only thing of
her early home that remained to her, at
a Psalm that had been stained by many
a grieving tear.
“Hide not thy face far from me; put
not thy servant away in anger, —thou
hast been my help ; leave me not, neither
forsake me, O God of my salvation.
“1 had fainted , unless I had believed
to see the goodness of the Lord in the
land of the living.”
But she dwelt longest on the conclu
ding verse: —
“Wait on the Lord ; be of good cour
age, and he shall strengthen thy heart;
wait I say on the Lord”
Her hand still rested on the open vol
ume, and the precious words of consola
tion had lebuked the evil spirit of dis
trust, when the outer door softly opened,
and a young girl entered, as one who is
sure of being a welcome guest. She
threw aside her dark hood and cloak, re
vealing a cheerful, though serious face as
she did so, and stooped down to kiss the
faded cheek of the lonely widow.
“Is it you Lucy, child!” she said,
starting with pleasant surprise. “And
on NewA ear’s night, too, when your
brothers are home, and”—
“So much the more reason for their
sparing me. One is not missed where
there are so many, and I staid to see that
the children were in bed, and the rest did
not need me. Father said so too, wasn’t
that flattering to my dignity, and what
cio you think, he insisted on bringing me
himself, and this whole basket of our
New-Year’s, through the snow. Isn’t he
the best man that ever lived Mrs. Mur
ray.”
“He is indeed, all that any one could
be to those around him. I don’t believe
he lias ever had a selfish thought, or you
either Lucy.”
“Don't include me, please,” said the !
girl, smiling cheerfully, and stooping
to draw the embers together. “I Was |
quite selfish, I assure you, in coming out
to-night. I’ve heard all the boy’s stories
over and over again, you know, and
somehow, we always find something in
teresting to talk abont. There, is not
that- a capital fire,” and she raised her
head, still kneeling by the hearth, and
looked up into Mrs. Murray’s face for ap
probation. The cold winter’s air, and
the glow of the fire together, had given
her a brilliant colour, and stooping had I
unfastened the heavy braids of her hair,
usually so smoothly bound about her
well shaped head. Her smile, too, was
brighter than of late, for her quick eyes
had noticed the traces of tears on her
friend’s face, and she had come to cheer
her.
“Isn’t it pleasant,” she continued gaily.
“See how the light brightens up every
thing; it’s of no use to watch over ashes,
when we can have such a cheerful blaze.
It makes this old room as picturesque as
the rafters, and the bright dres
ses, and your snowy bed. How do you
always manage to keep things so neatly?
Our great noisy house is never in order.
Then you are always a picture yourself
with that white cap and black dress, I
don’t think I should like you in any thing
thing else—and those dear old specta
cles !”
“And you Lucy 1 ?”
She w'as the brightness of the picture
after all, despite the glow’ she had ma
aged to throw over it. She was not con
scious of her loveliness through, or rather
she had ceased to care for it long ago,
and this was another charm of her char
acter.
“I have been thinking Lucy, of him.
A moments pain flitted over the girls
face, but the smile came struggling bac*
again to her tremulous lips, as she said—
“And how good you always were to
him, mother”—she called her so some*
times”—and how patient and trustful ■
yon have been, and that you cannot foil*
to have your reward.” L-
Was it a sob of the wind that shook ■
the casement then? But they did not*
hear it. I
“Ah, Lucy —not always trustful H
have sinned to-night by murmuring?
sing me that hymn we both love so we H’l
and then it will all have passed.’ I
[Jan. 10,