Jasper County Democrat, Volume 3, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 February 1901 — HER LAST VALENTINE [ARTICLE]

HER LAST VALENTINE

They knew she wns dying—the faded little woman in the faded little bedroom. She had clung to life as long as she coaid, hoping for on answer to that wistful prayer In her eyes. Hut the struggle Wm almost over now; the wistful eyes Were growing dim. “See! I’ve got something for ye, Liddyr The little circle of 6pinster relatives and kindly neighbors purted, and food Uncle Silas Peterson came wheezing to the bedside, the snow still clinging to his rough overcoat. lie curried a letter Id his hand—n coarse and dirty envelope addressed in the crude, sprawling penmanship of a man whom ueither life nor education had ripened or refined. “It’s from Orson—Orsou, you kuow,” Uncle Silas added, bending over the Couch and addressing the dying wotnnn with the tender directness ouo uses to Children—and death. “Orson?" A smile flashed over the •ehen face, and the woman lifted a feebls hand for the letter. She kissed it and tucked it under the thin shawl that some loving hand had wrapped over her shoulder*. “Shan’t I open It for ye, Liddy?” asked one of the women. The dying eyes said “No.” “She thinks it's a valentine from her husband,” whispered one of the neighbors. “To-day is Valentine day, you know. Last year I remember her telling me how she wished Orson would send her • valentine—just some little thing to •how her that he loved her the way he did when they were first married.” “Most likely it’s a note sayln’ he'll stay pver night aud see the races on the Ice to-morrow," wns the guarded reply. The dying woman folded her shawl tightly around the precious letter. A look of perfect peace lighted her face. “lie does love me,” she whispered, “just ns he used to!" Uncle Silas turned nway to wipe the mist front his spectacles. There was a little fluttering sigh from the bed. “Llddy” had gone home, When they drew the old shawl from her shoulders, there, tight pressed against her heart by both thin, blue-veined hands, was Orsou’s crumpled, dirty letter. They were scarcely aide to take it away from her slender, clinging fingers. “Shall we open it?” asked Miss Ponnlman. The women looked furtively at one another, their curiosity struggling with their reverence. , “No,” said Miss Daggett, at Inst. “It’s hers sacred. No mutter whnt it snys. She died thinkiu’ it was a valentine. Let’s burn it up, so nobody will ever know.” The ashes of the unread letter fluttered white about the stove for a few minutes, and then whirled up the chimney, as a gust of February wind roared over the house. And the little, worn-out, heart-hungry woman lay smiling, as death had found her.—James lluckbam.