Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 August 1893 — LILY MORRISON’S SECRET. [ARTICLE]

LILY MORRISON’S SECRET.

Boston Globe The slant sunshine that had climbed slowly up the gray stone walls of the cottage was pausing an before it died out into golden twilight. The Widow Morrison began to wonder why her absent boy did not come. A shadow fell on the carpet and a tall, handsome young man entered the room. , - “I do wish, Harry,” began the matron, querulously, “that- you would to be a little more punctual evenings. You know how much I depend on having my tea regularly, ana—why. Hurry. what's the matterr’ “Matter enough,” returned the young man. “Jenkins has made off to Australia.” “Without paying that money?” “Without paying that mony.” “But, Harry, they will never expect you to pay it?” “That’s just what they will expect me to do, mother! O, I wish my hand had been smitten with palsy before I committed such a mad act as to indorse another man’s note.’! “How soon does the note come ; due?” whimpered the old lady. “Next week.” “And can’t you raise the money ??L “By converting everything into ready cash, and by parting with this house —not otherwise.” Mrs. Morrison relapsed into fresh torrents of tears and began to rock to and fro. “You can not be more tenderly attached to the dear old place than I am, mother,” groaned the .young man, in bitterness of spirit. “You knowiiiat I had hoped this month to <see Lily Brooker’s face lighting up the familiar room, and ——” “She won’t marry you now,” said Mrs. Morrison, nodding her cap borders sagely.. “She ain’t calculated for a poor man’s wife, with her French and her guitar and her fine ways!” Lily Brooker was sitting alone the i next day when Morrison's card was i brought in. It would have done his inmost heart good to see the rain of rosy blood that came over her cheeks as she read the name. “I have brought you bad news,' darling,” said the young lover, looking sadly down at the sweet face whose smile spoke “Welcome” so plainly. And then he told her the whole story. “And now, Lily, you know it all,” he said, with a deep, shuddering sigh. “Can you still become a poor man’s wife?” She put both her hands trustingly in his. “What can it possibly matter to me, Harry, whether my husband be rich or poor so long as I hold the wealth of his love? ' “Then you will marry me?” “Yes.”' “My dearest! If I could only have ' taken you home to the little cotage , where I was born! For, next to you, i Lily, I loved that better than any- I thing this world contains!” They were married in spite of old j Mrs. Morrison’s doubts and scruples, j It was no stately apartment where ; Henry Morrison sat two years after ! the simple wedding, but a very cosy i little room, with red curtains and! red fire light tossing bars of ruddy | brightness against the wall. j Hush! The door was creaking on I its hinges with an ominous, grating ; saund. Not Lily. Lily never opened the door like that. He lifted his eyes slowly to encounter a pair of fluttering cap~ritF bons and very bright gold spectacles.

‘'What has become of Lily,” he asked mechanically, “I do not know,” responded the matron, stiffly “She never favors me with much of her “What do you mean?”said Henry, raising himself from his reverie. “Henry,” returned the old lady, in a sepulchral whisper, “did it ever occur to you that this soft-voiced, pretty creature was deceitful?” “Deceitful! nonsense! she is as open as the day.” Mrs. Morrison set her thin lips close together and gave her capstrings an emphatic toss. “Why does she shut herself up three hours every morning with bolted doors?” "Her time is her own, 1 suppose.” “Oh, of course. I knew you would side with her. All I can say is that I dislike these deceitful, silent sort of people. But if you are satisfied—” And the old lady closed her lips resolutely. All that evening Harry Mdrrison pondered over his mother's enigmatical words.

Days went by. One morning lie returnee! from the store to look for some missing paper at an unwonted* ly early hour It was as his mother had said —the door of the room was fastened. He knocked impatiently. “Lily! Lily! It is I. Let me in.’ ’ There was a moment’s silence —a hurried rustling of papers—and then the door was opened. Lily’s face was flushed and there was some hesitation in her manner. He would not notice it, but went straight to his desk for the desired document.. “Why you keep the door locked?” he said, as he passed his wife in going out. ‘ I—l don't know. ” she stammered; ‘1 like to be alone sometimes." It is strange how slight a thing will suffice to disturb the peace of a man’s heart. Heretofore Harry Morrison had been uninterruptedly happy; now he was miserable- Idly w.rtched him wistfully, but she said

nothing; and so the winter passed by. It was a lovely Evening in June when old Mrs. Morrison descended to the room where her children were sitting, wiping her spectacle glasses. “Well,” she began, ‘l’ve finished that book at last, and I declare I’ve nearly cried my—eyes out over Leone's death.” “I do not wonder,” said Harry, good humoredly; “the descriptions are very graphic. You have not yet given your opinion of this fashionable novel, Lily.” “I—think—it is pretty good,” said Lily, who was counting the stitches in her crochet work. “I told you so,” whispered the old lady, nudging her son’s elbow. “Not When the mother-in-law had gone up stairs for the night Lily stole closer to her husband's chair and leaned her cheek on his shoulder. “Harry, shall you oe particularly engaged to-morrow?” “Not particularly—why?” “Would you take me out riding—just for once?” 1 ‘‘ Where do you wish to go?” “You have never taken me out to see the-little brown cottage you loved so dearly. ” He shrank involuntarily.” “I had rather go in some other direction, Lily.” “Ah, but I want to go there. You will take me, dearest?” . “If you insist upon it.” And Lily’s face was like a sunbeam—strange lack of sympathy in her husband’s words. The wild roses were, sprinkling their petals all along the country road as they d rove through its green windings in the next day’s balmy sunshine, and the brown cottage looked marvelously rural in the shadow of the old, old trees. “Would it not be nice if we c mid come heygand live?” said Lily, softly pressing her husband’s arm. His brow contracted with some strong inward pang. “Lily!” he said, reproachfully, “why do you thus tempt me with impossibility?” “No heart at all,” sighed the mother-in-law, very audibly. * “But it is not an impossibility,” said Lily, in glad, incoherent accents. "Oh, Harry, this is our own dear home, now and forever! The lawyer is here with the papers and the title deeds —you will not refuse to take this gift from your own little Lily?” “But. Lily, where did you get the money?” demanded the bewildered husband. “From my book, ‘Leona!’ Now you have both my secrets. You will not scold me, dearest?” He caught her to his heart with a proud, indescribable thrill of newborn happiness—the sweet, slender being who was at once wife and angel! Poor Mrs. Morrison, senior, she had to go through with woman’s severest qj-deal—to own that she had been m the wrong from tieginning to end! But from that dav henceforward she was a model mother-in-law and never once said, “I told you so!”