Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 6, Number 32, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 5 February 1876 — Page 7

W0i.

V-

I-,.

THE MAIL

.j^j «.» .... A PArER FOR THE PEOPLE.,

WHAT ONE TEAR BRO UQHT.

Kf they hail told me a year ago, A* I lay, all love, at my darling'* feet, That cur hearts would beoom* mora ©old than snow,

Arid our eyes never meet when we meet—

IT they had told me the ring you wore (Well chosen. ttie opal's changing hue would be lying crushed at my ft-et on the floor for its crime that it bound mo to you

ifhat your faith WH* faithless,-and false

Bhoukl give scorn for your scorn, and de-

part

d&iould have snkl, Willi a lauKh, th«t tlx* »un f^ou'd l*a dark, the hiitx tottering. and shallow the *»a: One short year through its snows and Its ro*'S has run, if I you »rv wedded, and I om Tree-

»arvP.Ann

«d wrtnlnlv not for warmth. Can know how that deep gentian tint Wings out all the pure tints nf her oxqulfilte skin, and-rontrasta with the doll red of .her jacket? Great W tne l»c»n'eptlon of awQpian, if ahe is beautl as to thfl betomlng.

iTJTTJ..

Ann

w»?Sicft.»ooi

Tf It'only ex-

.loaded to the plain." how much' less plain would thev be! But it never doha, Mary Ann had no time to breathe *t --VM

wrath

Mother ways to'apologire.

acainst ber delaying lover, lor he bold bte*®lly Words are wealt to ¥«ppearo8just as she closed hor lips af*er describe her aflfectloti for that first soliloquy, and, too breathUs« to the little creatur**. It '^hto»e!f to speak, could only uae hi« lip« arm all night, and she layJ'®"

Uo. Suro.M#atb*»r Harry kep' tho pUalios.'* An* I'll hat* all tlie b'ya foilirin' nfttkor to seek for me, an' mebbe she fafcher himself, if do be stayln* he^ over

I'vethe

rTdo be^tavriV he'^ over sweet baby Miiile and eyes, till her inJo If want to rfike saiiable heat overflowed with eager and iuRc Wfcllw wK passionate love. If it fell down in its Ln5vTme.tt*koAan%h™-' .tK-mpU w.lkUj .»* M.ry Ain, dt«r, to-.Jghl II

last shlllln' raked an* scraped aly*ed with terror.

•aa.x's^ srscs?

rifled. Here waa no ductile wooer, bnt a strong, hot-headed man 5 »nd the girl a coquetry failed ber In time of need. She felt how deep was the passion so roughly expressed nay, there was a traitorous respouse within her—she ought to have resented his assumption. 1 oor Marv Ann she rather reWloed In1 it lor while tho world endures tbero will be race of wouien who accept their position ly submissively, but with content, who like

o*halna,~wbo

Bromlsed

W. W. M.

j^AppertMagssine, February}

uPoor Marv Ann**

under

be ordered

in creation not onl "101 the mau they love,

who enjoy

a 1.1 tl ill ttfl

their

even assent in hoar

icartand

lifo'to*'tli© dictate, "And ho Khali role over thee." Their strong minded sisters despite them, but they are quite agreeable wives, and I have observed, rather more apt to be married

»#.v. ,, ,, than tho other kind. And Mary ltlhey had told me your love wan lit, vh»«» «, fAnn,

being

your heart: hor naughty tricks and manners, as a thai yon wonlri change sweetnesstoHcorn, roao is a rose, for all its Uaorns, altera few minutes of teatp and protestation®,

«ij

at heart as much a woman, for a

Dan to meet him at the time

promised Dan to meet him at the time attd place appointed aud then hurried home ju»t in time to escape hue and crv, and answer .jitiipertinent queries, wftli a bunch of cowslips from the meadow to make a cowslip ball for little Davy.

Perhaps tho girl's heart would have foiled in that short week if the very next dav Harrv o'Moro had not ceme over to the farfn, half drunk, and pressed his suit in vehemeut fashion he knew very well that Sir Ulick would set his face straight against such a marriage but ho could have his way before his father knew it, if Mary Ann would mar-

'Deed an' It isn't me'll he h®ro wait- ramer ku«w h, in' foryo much longer,Dan Doyle," said ry him at once and when Sir Ulick Mary Ann Wake, aloud, as she saw the came back from abroad and found such smn begin to sink behind the low hills, a pretty daughter-in law fairly ^stabft was a warm, soft twilightin May, and lished'at Castle O'More, ho would no Mary Ann had stolen away, after the doubt mako up his mind to forgive eovyM wero milked, to tho "far meadow," Harry. So he stormed and pleaded and irhel'tV

an old willow-tree by the raved and swore, till Mary Ann hated

littlo river that'boundert her father's him worse than ever: and old 1 at &rin, a he had promised to meet the lov HI !«he dare not ask to the farm house. Mary Ann was a beautiful creature. N» wurder that Dan Doylo and every other young mau for tnilee about fell in love i^jth hor. Tall, shapely, alert, her tintrammeled figure had tho grace of a Ktatue and tho coloring of—a picture, I wa.4 about to say but no canvas ever iToro those wonderful tints of pure flesh and *»lood. Her low whito forehead the milk and roses of her exquisite cheek, t!-ie moist red lips, that, full and HWeet in repose, yet ported widely over the teeth,white and even as rows of fresh xra the great dark eyes, that were -igate gray in some lights and hyacinth liXpwn' In others, but always dancing Mid overflowing with mirth, mischief, ofr passion the lorn? masses of blueit] ack hair that wero knotted tightly at 8fce bark of a delicate head poised on its fflll white throat, or, unfastened by ehanco or sport, fell fairly to her nnkle$ -*11 these charms made up a "vision of delight" that maddened many a soft Irish heart and hot Irish head and when the vhlon spoke with the spftesfc of raerrr t'fJAoa oni! tho rvLitionf /wvnAfra of voices and the piquant coquetry of fcJr BQK and race, grander and wiser men t^an the "factions" about Ballymoreen tuight have lost their senses and wor Bbipfcd old Pat Bliake's daughter. Moreover, Pa t\vi«&«, well-to-do farmer. He tfljitQWS and a horse, his wife nsade tetter for the Dublin market, and he »d uionev in the Dublin bank. And daughter was the apple of his eye. fefhought her fit to marry the Lordfiieuteiiant's son, and he meant she ahould marry the biggest man in County Kildare anyway, that man beine, in lus oyoa, Harry OrMore,son of Sir Ulick oj^fore, a rongli, drinking, dashing, iwridly handsome young fellow, who uwore like a pirate, betted, raced horses *«d did everything a man ahould not do. But all this went for nothing in Pat Ulako a eves. Harry had made sweet apooohos to Mary Ann, danced with her man}' time, K?nt her posies and fairinus, none of which she looked at twice SiJr, partly out of ingtinctivo repulsion, partly 'causo her father wiehel her to Mkn him, Mary Ann hnvinga liltlc more t'aau t!i9 ordinary pervorseness of icmm\uo natare, and partly because she had i- ('.awning fancy for somebody else, uhe hati»d Harry O'Mwre soundly, and, nflor tho fashion ot' women, foil deep in 4ovo herself with tho last man in the world her f«ther would countenance fVrr IUn Doyle had neither a penny in tho world nor an old family underground. Pi« father had a hut. Sir tTUck's evate, a potato patch, and seven small children belonging to secoud wife, for Dan's mother died In his baby-. fyrod. Nor would it seem to att unprejudiced observer that he was all ca!.•alated to captivate pretty Mary Ann. Vet there she stands under the willow waiting for him, lovely as an Ideal, in #ier dark cotton gown and rad jacket, with di'*op blue shawl thrown over her

Blake, shaking his list in her face, swore he would "bring her to rayson," and batle her make up her mind to marry Mr. O'More by Thursday weok, or bo turned out of iii» house forevor, thereby doing Dan Doylo an unconscious service, for Mary Ann set her red lips together, looked her father in the face with her great eyes in a black blaze, and wont up to her room to get her olothes out ami mend them up in order to run away with Dan. It makes such a difference whether it is a father or a lover who orders us!

So when Tuesday week came, and Marv Ann was »eut into Dublin in the jaunting-car with Cousin Patsey Blake, to buv the wedding bonnet, she not orilv bought it, but was married in it to Dan Doyle, and waved her wedding kerchiei to the horrified Patsey from the car window as the train for Cork Hashed out of the station and before Mary Ann's lose could be reported at home by her oousin, she aud Dan were well otf tho^ coast, as seasick as possible, and quite indifferent to the rage and profanity ot the men they left behind them.

Poor Mary Ann! many a time on that long, stormy voyago she thought qf her mother, and longed for a fresh cup of milk from her dairy, hardly knowing, in her forlorn state of mind and body, whether she most nooded the refreshment for one or the other. But at last •'Anieriky" rose on the horizon, and there was soon firm ground tinder foot, and the usual emigrant experience begau.

It was not long, however, before Dan found work in the country, and an old house to shelter their heads, a mere cabin, in whioh'Marv Ann bloomed like a scarlet and white lily set in a broken mug but she kept it clean, and it was !erown home, which aton?d for much, and by tl)9 next May more homo-like still, lor there was a baby, a round rosy girl and now Mary Ann was utterly happy.

It is doubtful if Dan thought little Movna an unqualified blessing the goo'd fellow was neithvr jealous nor exacting by nature bnt- tin* best of us do not liKfi'to be quite displaced by what tUeo*jj£iaus cail "the expulsive power of a now a flection," and Dan was neglected indeed since baby came. "Sure it isn't an angel, Mary Ann. Ye don't be sayin' prayers to it, do ye?" "'Deed an' she's a little angel itself, Dan Doyle, blessiu's on her!"

Well, Mary Ann, maybe she is, thin but ifshvi.war, I'm thinkin' she'd say, 'Mary Ann Doyle, haven't ye got a husband" at all

Dan, ye big idgit, what would a dacent angel be askin' sich nonsense lor?" "Oh, bekase I'm thinkin' ye forget mo intirelv tneself, Mary Ann an' sure an angel" would be more penethratin' than me.1'

With which Parthian arrow Dan left the house for his work, aud Alary Ann, after st moment's thought, proceeded to dress the baby.

She certalnfv loved Dan moTfl than he or she knew but sho waa one of those women to whom maternity brings the crowning delight of life. Children had always been her passion: tho tie that was hardest to sever when she loft home Was lier affection for her little brother Davy and now She h^d.a child of her own, a baby that was her» "lo have and

"So to Amerik'y an' now whin will we oonld«ieUher eat nor sleep till Moyna ko.oe.tn Dablln, l»r»_ FWthw l«k«

UiAie'H be ready'an' wlilin' to do (or us, .W tho fehlp sails a Tchuesday

be goin' over sayfc wid ye, ya

ota^dhattu.

an' at wan week's notice,

uviipovftr, If I'd go at forty. I wondher veoudu't

n8-

"Oh, it's a great fellv ye sre. to be any lovers song or sacred anthem. She tne here this lu»l? h«mr!" puited »«ver

?eft

it out sisht all d»y,and

stopp.nl continually her work to

'^ieed, thin, dhmp ov mo he .rt. It% Wiitch kindling Intelligence, to prew naltwo itilnnlts be the clock ovr lw»- her hps to its nunded lijnts. its tender vaat In tho steward's house thst I'm

f»ee, Us shining head. She cared for it with *1? the tenderness tfnd assiduity that a little princes* could have required. She asked no greater rapture than to hold it in ber aruia aud sure at its

it was ni^de«th

thls

in- Monniv the weeny thing wid tne intirely," was

wc*k, to- «H

••-J»Lin' Mondsv tho weeny thing wid me intirely," was day beln Monday. .. .. Dan's dry remark wheft another small girl made ber entrance Into this world aiid Mary Ann glared at him like a tigress.

M"ry

Sure it's a modest young mar. y*are! IX, ye think Mary Ann Hlake's a natull

d„ .t «u for

mother? T'm thinkln' 1*11 have to Uke

toto iito Urt5

Falx, thin, i» It a mother the dawaliy littie darllnt '11 be *lb«rf Do jn think I havju't hearUroom fnoufh fcr if nad thlm to day Itsmff Dan

didu't ask me to be marryin' ye to- a do«on If T'had thlm to d^y fikht be the ould Methody par»on at Doyle? .. It isn't house-room ye'd have, anny

Din's free grew white with pOT*ion, way," laughed Dan. lit* Utrht blue eye® fkirly bla*edTfr»r he hut Mary Ann proved true to her 1*1 finmiwrof bin own. l*erhaps an word ns far as the new baby wwl» That would lMi^ wa^ en- it was fair, deiioate, pining, only en*ml Marv nn wonki b*ve deaml It k, lier mow. She ^ved it i«^rf with him^nssv fashion, now a Hiore deeply, more tenderly ftur than «iw fiavT and sat bv trniiiing she had lovetj Moyna, simply because It .pix^ed to every pitiful

A„„, ,h,

tSn I?n Dast n^kyio1 wid W, moih«r heart that broods the weakIIup

ia thiol hands ovy i»olW loved l«rj»one the lens that

*»fary An^|pokc^div*»er lOVd. iastlntt witbleamf eHllsh

Tummi' TTAWB aATpaiiAin EvmniMtr jaggy*

paaaion, aaore of aaorifloe and salt-de*-nlal. Wrft': There are awme very «ood people who would have warned Mary Ann not to lote her child ma "too much"—aa If all the love one ha® fo give were too much to bear the dally »«d bonrly anxiety, labor, pains,and wearinesses tha* children bring aa if love were not the condition of their healthy life and growth aa if, indeed, one could help it.

If Mary Ann ever thought she loved her children too much, it was not while they were with her wt while their clinging arms, their caressing handa, their sweet voices, filled ber heaTt with earth'sIntensest rapture not while they made all the world bright aw# beautiful to her not while she was tt» happiest of women when th-dr dark and5 bright heads lay together In the crib her side all through the night, and s!e heard their soft broathing, or woke in t»he morning to the ripple or baby langhter, or even the moan of baby iin.

No she was never "Poor Mary Ann" so long as she hud her bablos, and food and fire for them, and Dan. If it could have lasted But when Moyna was live and little Mary four years old there tuuno a wet sunitrer. Dan was at work on a railway embankment across a marsh,and da'y after day dug and wheeled in the rain, steaming wet, «r, if a west wind blew, shivering with a chill he took rheumatic fever, and was laid on his bed for six weeks. Poor Mary Ann began to feel the stress of hunger for the first time, not for herself1, but for hor babies, and, with exhaustion and anxiety, the deeper pang I hat the futuro might be near at hand when Dan vou!d leave her for he was very ill.

Like many another woman, and man too, she never knew how she loved him till the thought or his loss came home to hor, and sho almost neglected her children in her eagerness to serve and save ber husband. She worked day and night at the wash tnb, in her intervals of nursing, to ge* food and fuel the neighbors were "all good to Iter, but they were few and far between, and poor themselves the doctor pitied her and petted the children, and the doctor's wife sent them many a pail of milk, but sf" they fretted for care aud food and Mary Ann thought twenty times a day of th© pans of creamy milk in her mother's dairy, the b*g loaves of bread, tho fresh eggs, the curds, the generous tireside, the great turf rick, and the full potato bins of fcer old home, arid how tho children would grow and flourish there. In the midst of all came a letter from home. Her father was dead. Her •nother wrote: "Oh, Marv Ann alanna! sure yer pDor dear father's dead an' gone all at wanst of a suddin, it's appleplexy be had Docthor Donovan sex an', it's tneself don't know how he hare that annyway, for sorra an apple there is on the farrm save an' except wenny little green ones an' he'd bo the fool a' the wurrld to ate them which he didn't at all, only just bein' afther aiin* a good big dinner

up wid him to get'hi-*sh«reoT the dhrop an' it's the wili o' God which sure we'll an .«o all have to come to an' the undhertaker med a good job too. Heaven rest his sowl poor man as niver thought he'd have thim black feathers ©ver his head this dav twel'-month as iver was, which now I "write doer Mary \nn to say he wouldn't hear to me spakin' to vez afore on' now come home you an' Dan and if there's babies which the saints sind ye! fetch 'om all for there's but Jack an' little Davy an' me an'the bit an'sup ready lbr yez an' Dan's grate help on the farm intirely so no more at prisint from yer lovin' mother. MOYNA BLAKE."

And here was Dan. uld not lift hand or foot! But it was an outlook of hope Mary Ann, and she lived on the promise of that letter even more than on her daily bread.. She wrote a long and loving'answer back, painting her babies, as they seemed to nor, a »ir of cherubs in a hovel, and promising as soon as Dan wiw well and they could raise the uionev that they would all como home. But Dan did not get well fa^-t, though the next mail brought over the monev for their passsge, which "the mother" had saved up this long while for them.

The doctor shook his dead daily over Dan. The fever had left him, but not all pain he was stiIf, aching, feeble. But this was not all:: ft swelling appeared on his throat that defied tho doctor's skill and puzzled his knowledge. He wished Dan would go to a hospital in New York and at last, alter much persuasion, Mary Ann resolved to go there with him, to establish hersolf somewhere near by and toko in washing till his cure could be effected, and they could all go "bouse" together.

But the New York doctors shook their heads too. The swelling was a tumor, and in adifllcnlt place perhaps it could be removed, perhaps not at any rate, it must develop further. It might bo six months, it might bo a year, before they cmild operate, and at any r^e the result would fed doubtful. JL«X«

Mary Ann dear/' said I)an, in a weak, pationt voice, when the doctors had told fcim their opinion, "sure I've an idava in m» head. It's long I'm sure to bo "lyin' here, an' It's hard to get work In a big city like this, where ye haven't a frind to spake to an' I'm thinkin' it'* betther for ye to go home wid the child her. an' lave ine till I'll be me own man agiu an' como to you."

Marv Ann threw herself on his bed In a passion of losrs. "Oh. Dan Dan! is it lavin' ye here in tho hospittle all alone wid thim doc-liters. »n' you me own ould man Sure whin I do that same I won't bo Mary Ann Ioyle at all at all!"

But ye'll have tho childher, dear," was his quiet answer. His wire felt as if be bad struck her and she deserved the blow. "Yis, oh, vis, I'll have the oblldher but will 1 nave mo husband Tell me that, Dan Doyle," she sobbed.

Dan smiled. He liked to know at last that his own children had not quite superseded hira in his beautiftil wife's heart. He was a man, if h6 was an Irish laborer and "human natnrV Mr. Wdler remarks, "is a mm thing."

However, he persisted in bis protect, and at last poor Mary Ann reluctantly consented to take ber children over, ana leaving them In her mother's care, come back to Dan till he should be wall. She could not and would not leave him la the hands of hospital corps In a strange country. She must be where she could see to him herself. It cost her a great strangle to leave him at all, but evidently It most be done, lbr the children were already pining in the poor close tonement-hotiso where they had found lodgings, and the sooner she went, the sooner she woald return so «he only waited to eee Dan established In the hospital ward to set off lbr Ireland and once there, delayed but. two short weeks, to see her precious baMc* Mtfoly established in hor mother's eare,

eluding the geese in the rue*"low, play* in* With tbe big house-dog, eating (ItMr All of bread and milk, and recovering every hour their Crcati hmtoN-ev^n little Mary growing rosy in the aoft Irish air and the constant out-or-dours life.

Granny, of course, worshipped the two pretty creature*, and wptnled them Uncle Jack became their

and Davy, now big boy of thirteen alJened that they were well enough for gifls, to be sure, which waa bigh pnsiae for Davy. Bnt how oould poor Mary Ann leave her darlings? Daily her great eyes grew darker and sadder, ber abeertaeas was Atfal, her heart wiai heavy

tat

lead, whenever she dared to

think. Hot the inevitable day came. Ob, mother, it's Javin* the hesrt out o' me breast to lave t&im two. Mother —the saints! be good to ye!—watch the hairs o« their blisaid heads till I be back agin. Ob, it's the light o' me eyes an' roe heart'a bfood I'm lavin' behind, an I can't bear itS Oh, mother, mother, c&n't!" And she seized the children i* her arms and pressed them to her breast with an agony- o# pain and lore tragic to see—alas I how rwere than trateio to feel —thon, covering them with hot kisses and a broken torrent of blessings and prayers, flung tj^nwdMnto the ear, and snatching tho whip-from Jack's hand, lashed the poor old horse into

fren

zied flight along tbr Lublin road, as if she dared not trust IMs sober pace to draw her away with slow tortures, but must make the fatal leap speedily aud bave it over with.

Cver with! Her agony bad but just begun. All througn the long and stormy voyage she pined and thirsted and panted for her children. .Night mocked her with dreams. Soft arms clasped her neck, rosy lips kissed her, a shining head lay on her arm, a dark one on her bosom. She droamed that her loss was a dream, and woke to find It true, with streaming teaifr and dizzy brain*—woke, all alone, to hear the dull dash of threatening waves against the ship's side, the shrieking wind in the cordage, the creaking of rudder and yards, the hoarse cry of the watch, and the knowledge forced upon her that every hour bore her further aw from the delight of ber life.

With but littlo education and few mental resources, poor Marv Ann would have gone crazy, probably, from the mero rolteration of hopeless anguish, had it not been for thoughts of her busband and constant prayers. It is easy to call a religion vnich offers 11s no solace or support idolatry and formalism but how vast are their numbers to whom no other religious expression appeals! The stress of life drove Mary Ann to her prayers, and though she counted them on beads and addressed them to saints and martyrs, yet they lilted her ignorant and wretched soul of and above itself into that "ample ether and diviner air" where the dead rest and the wicked cease from troubling. Sho rested herself in piteons weakness against strength that had suffered and overcome. Who shall say that tho pitiful Father who once parted with His only Son did not minister to ber weakness wjth divinest sympathy, even through hor mistakes, and help the poor soul that in her own sorrow never forgot to pray with all forgiveness for the dead father who had been so hard to herr

After all, who does not pray for the dead? Not, perhaps, tho buried, for it is not they alone who are dead to love, to pity, to "forgiveness, to natural affection, to all the voiees of tender appeal from the past, to all the possibilities of the future—no, truly, we send up agonies of prayer for hopeless subjects, and then sneer at prayer for those who still live in love and loving, in sacred remembrance, in hopeful faith. So Mary Ann told ber beads hourly, dreamed, waked, wept, and droamed again, all through the long, weary voyage, growing thinner and paler all the time. The full red lips settled now into a sad protid curve, while her eyes deepened into a dark and fathomless soi r.w that made the heart ache to behold.

But at last land drew near, and, after vexing delaj's, Mary Ann and her box wero set ashore, and sho made her way to her old lodgings, in order, with keen feminine instinct, to freshen her dress and make herself tidj' before she went to Dan. Hilt she did not go to hiin. The old woman who kept tho house met her at the door with wringing hands and vociferous lamentations.

Oh, is it yerself I see, alanna! Oh, nmrther, itiurther! ov all the black davs, an' me to till it! Oh, ye poor crature, is it to the hospittle ye've been

The parched lips.shaped a hoarse, half-uttered "No." "Small blame to ye, thin an'it's no use if ye wor, for it's two week sin'I seen it in the paper wid mo own eyes, an' vou on sav at tho toirue, an' his name, Christian name an' all, out as bould as maybe in it an' he buried widout the rights, I belavo, at all at all, an' not a bit ov a stone, ayther, I'm teuld, owin' to havin' no frinds appear whin they advertoised him in the paper. An' sure if it wasn't two weeks ould whin I seen it I'd ha' gone meself to the praste. But there now, what can a lone woman do Oh, honey!"

For Mary Ann, growing whiter and whiter through this flow of talk, lay back in ber chair, with livid lips and glassy eyes, stunned in soul and body, totally unable to take in the dreadful fact that vet dinned itself in her ears with slow, dull Iteration. Dan was dead. The old woman trlod all her simple arts to awak^u

iwn ana

J»or„l$, a sense of

the situation. Oh, woman alive, can't ye shed a tear f*r him? an' maybe Him roaatin' in purgatory this blissid uiinuit, glory be to God!* Haven't yc the wan prayer to spake for him, tin' yer ould man an' the enlldher's father?"

A hoarse shriek burst from poor Mary Ann's lips as Mrs. Kiernau named the children. The world reeled all about her. She was alone in chaos. Fatigue, anguish, despair, overtook her. She fell senseless to the floor and the shipfever, which had lurked in bersystem a week or more, and been kept at bay by the eager, determined soul that kept her weak body up to its task, now asserted itself. Six weeks she lay in Mrs. Kieman's house, and then rose from her bed a wreck, her beauty all gone her great eyes dull and dark, with a look of moody despair In them almost fierce in its rapid avoidance ef other looks her bloom replaced by deep lines drawn and sallow her lips pale and set lani teet

HUWW U»R UP BT».

iguidly

opening over the prominent

^th, and drooping at the corners with a listless expression that told of helpless endurance, of crushing agony. For poor Mary Ann know now that Dan bad been dearer to her than her children, after all and she had not even the children! But it Is one blessedness ef poverty that It enlbroes Ubor even in the wildest grief. Mary Ann Had not only no money, bnt she waa deeply in debt to kind Mr* Kiernau, and the only tiling ft»r her to do waa to go out to aervice at once. She tried this ha the eity at place after place, but tho listless apathy that enveloped her, the .dull way in which she-did or half did her *ork, the occasional fits of irritation that sometlmes stung her back to life arid its Deeds when she Man harshly reminded of feel* duties toad* her An unpleasant Hi mate. In tbro^-montb* she came back to Mn. Klernan. i' Jt'a goin' into eounthry, I am, Judy, want a sight of tbc grass, an* ft «ueH o'the black earth. I'm woanrin'ttleself to nothin' wid the rows ov nouses Ivef an'always." "Ob, Marv Ann, li It the gna«*. thin, ye're afther," us It jar-wor a cow? iflvil

a bit help Veil get owt that, I tell ye ti rouble

go to areas too. Have ye poor might do

the throuLle 11 go to araaa done frettha', ye poor Utog, An' mebbe the freah air might dove good but it'e wurrld over,

the heavy heart makef heavy air, all the

Mure.

Ob,

And you gain' where

ye havent a frtnd in the wnrrld to say. a good word to yen? Betther stay wid me Intirely."

Poor Mary Ann turned fiereoly at ber. "Fret, is it? Anr il the veins ov yer beartwasdhry as the roek Itself, an' yer bead a burnin' bebint yer eyes, an' the childher ye had iver an' always In yer arms parted from ye be the wide say, gvowin' out o'y«r sight day afther day, an* the man dead for iver an' iver that kep? the wind o' the wurrld off ye, an' thought ye wor the son a-tfhinin' In the house, I suppose isn't ye that would fret, Judy Klernan Ye'd be laughin* Hke, an' full or joy, would ye?"

whisht, whisht, Mary Ann! don't

betatkin' tise black way ye-are. Sure it's the Lord's will, glory be to God! an' ye can't belph, alanna."

I'm notfaenyin' it's the will o' God sign*on it. I don't like it no »ore for thatf If it wor the will o* *aan, I'd fight it tiil I'd have me Dan bark an' me balbies—oh, me babies

Mary Ann' turned away with a low. tearless cry terrible to hear, and old Judy wiped Her eyes with ber apron.

But Mary Ann went into the country, leaving Judy under strict promise to forward any letters that might come lor her. Here, indeed, the sorrow went too but ber employers had more patience with her :service was scarce, and her knowledge of dairy work stood her in good stead. Hetters came now and then from home,describing tho children as well and happy.. There was enough nobility in Mary Ann's nature to forbid her feeling one' regret lest they should forget her. "Sure it's best for thim," she thought^ with the pure unselfishness of a real mother's love. But the thoughts that vexed ber sad soul were that ner babies were so far away from her she could not watch over their childish illnesses, she could not soothe their sharp child-sorrows-, she could not see their daily growth they would nover, no, n-iver, be her babies again. Had they died, the anguish would bave been mbre brief, if keener at first, for then she woitld have known tbem safe forever. But to endure this separation to' know them still on eartbr and beyond her eager eyes, her hungry lips, her longing arms to dream of them night after night, aud wake f® a passion of tears and desperate longing to feel her heart heat with- sudden madness, and then sink in her breast like lead, whenever she saw two children of their age and size playing in soma-green yard or dancing around a happy mother to hear sweet shrill voices and baby speech that were not voices or speoeh of her own darlings—all this wore on poor Mary Ann like a constant slow fever. Food sickened her, the blood burned in her veins, her head throbbed her feet dragged like lead yet sho did her work, as some ill-jointed machine might bave. slowly and imperfectly, aiid told ber beads half through the lingering nights. Slowly she gathered money to repay Mrs. iviernan and, when that was done, began to hoard again, that she might make a home for her children and brine them over for her mother was old. Jack was soon to be married, there would be fresh interests, other claimants, at the farm and this hope was all that kept poor Mary Ann alive.

Bj'-and-by she drifted into a family where there was one little gfrl about the age of her own Moyna when she parted with her. To a nature less simple, savage, one-ideaed, this child would have been a comfort, for sho was bright and pleasing. But it was very soon observ able that, whatever else Mary Ann did, she grudged the smallest service to Louise. If sho brought her a glass of water, she averted neft face and .=et it down as ungraciously sis wits possible she snapped at the ohikl whenever she entered the kitchen she wever by any chance offered her a kindness or an attention and if she heard her singing or laughing, she flew to some noisy work or made an errand out of doors to avoid tliesounds. At first the child's mother did not notieo Mary Ann'rv abrupt man ner to Louise sho had heard ber sad story partially, and felt dtecply for the poor bereaved woman, so she laid her short-comings to the great grief which possessed her, and bad long patience with her moods and mistakes. Bnt, as time went on, she could not fall to observe tho impatience and' crossness toward her own pet, and toofcn time to remonstrate.

Mary Ann, I don't like to havo you so unkind to I/).uise^ thought by this time you would get fond of hor but you don't seem to like ber at all,and it grieves the little thing. I thought your having children of your own would make you good to ber."

Mary Ann turned) wpon ber mistress much as she did upon Judy Klernan, her voice broken with hoarse passion, her trreat e.ves dark with gloomy fire.,

Sure is that rayson Is it a stone I am, to see tho daw'shy crature waited on an' cuddled an' ki9sed all day in the mother's arms, an' me knowin' mino is bey ant say, wid no mother to spake a kind word"or hush their cryin' the day long, an' ine to love her too! Do ye think the veina o' ine heart '11 run backward? Not till the life '11 be gone out o' me. Is it yours I dhrame about the night long, an** do be sobbin' wid joy to fee thim whin I waken, an' thin ciirso the black night that stares in me face without a sign o' the sweet faces Is it yours that goes maybe hungry an' tbirs'tv for the mother? Don't I see her full an' happy, the house runnln' over wid her things an* allvo wid her nonsinse, an* the voice of her Iver an always in me ears instead o' me own darlints that's maybe lyin' dead at the time all unknownst to me In Ballymoreen churchyard An' do ye think I've a dhrop 6'love for her in me heart? No. not so much as a midge's wing. An* it's the other end o* love I'm gettln moreover. I have the love sore an' deep for thim that wants it. But It's loike smoke In me eyes

aee her da'y

afther dav, whin me heart's blood drainin' dhry for thim I can't see. No, ma'am, It's beat for me to lave /e. I can't, I cant bear it» Maybe Pd ao her a mischief some odd time whin the darkneas hi on me, an' it do be oemin' oftener an' darker." And ahe pat her hand np to ber head with a vague look of confusion and pain that would have told A practiced eye that a darkness was Indeed ooming which would speedily -be the shadow of death if it were not dispersed.

Bat her owfr country's beantlftil proverb, "It's always darkest befr»rO (tawi, did not (kil poor Mary Ann. She left her plaoe the next week, and too* service with an old farmer and bis wife, whoee only child bad died lottg ago unmarried In this si lent, itraitened bo«ehol(Lworking all day and aleefdngat night from pure fatigue, Mary Ann sad naswd. three months, when one calm ortobwr evening" al» took her F*»» as usual ntuf left the house to milk tho «dws. The barn stood across the road from the house, and she stood a minute bv the fence to look at the rising moon that just began, as the sun sank behind the low weatem hills, to show her fair fpildcn ili*l( (tvw those in tho east. Sho

almost always stepped just there to send* oue long yearning look toward •'ould Ireland"—a look that carried prayer and longing swifter than light to hor treasure. To-flight the moonlight streamed' full on her wan face, ana showed ita hollows and Ms-lines, out lent a dewy light to the ttfelancboly duskiness of her eyes, and concealed the sallow tint of brow and check.

Could it be Mary Ann thought aman walking awiftly up the road, with a long wwtftil look at the dark sad woman before him. "Sore I'll thrv her.Mary Ann! Mary Ann Doyle!"

She turned like a paralyzed creature dnll terror filled ber. Was she dreaming? or was she, too, soddenly dead, and whh the dead themselves? Again it called, "Mary Ann. acusbla, don't ye hear?"

Something between a groan and a cry*1 burst Mary Ann's lips she turned to run from ibis spectre, but it was fleeter of foot than she, and in another moment living arms wore about her, and hearty kisses that no ghost could give recalled her to real life and love. She was too happy to doubt after the first certainty. She bad not that complex nature that weighs, recoils, questions. Wrth the simpleness of a child she took evil or good as it caooe, without an attempt to elude, endure, or enjoy. She was i* her place, and if storm or sunshine besieged it, all sbe cuvrhd do was to accept them, hardly or easily, but still without question—which waa the reason why she bad passed this two years mourning for Ifcau, wbeK, if she had herself gone to the hospital, qjbe would havo found that her husband, instead of being dead, was still there. Doyle is not a rare name among the Irish, and there had been* a Daniel Doyle die in the same ward, whose name Mrs. Kiernan had seen i» the paper, and thence jumped to conclusions, for Dan's real name was Denuis. He had lain six months in the New York Hospital, puzzling the docters,. and not at all improving, when a wonderful French physician came to Boston, and Dan's case* being quite unique,, tbe hospital physicians sub*cribed to send him to a Boston hospital (for the benefit of science,) where Dr. Leotard eonld see him, and, if necessary, operate on him.

In Boston lie spent another six months, for the operation which at last relieved him was lingering, of necessity, and he suffered every second day torture of some kind or other, experimental or enrative, for a month, and wai left

in a desperately exhausted condition, yphc most by miracle he got well at alL'"

Then typhoid fever set in, and it was al-

Once able to work, without a dollar in his pocket, clothed by tho charity of hospital visitors, he went to stuch work as he could do to sustain life, and then, as strength came, to get money enough to goto New York and find Mary Ann for he had quite forgotten, if ever he knew, the name and place of the woman where she boarded. But when ho got to New York his inquiries at the hospital gave him a clew he hunted up Mrs. Kiernan, got Mary Ana's address, and here he was, alive and well, and so overjoyed to see his wife that he forgot all he had suffered, and could scarcely tell her all his own story for pity of her woful tale and gladness to find how be had been mourned, after all.

An hour after, as Mary Aun sat in the kitchen, leaning back in an old rocker, weak, pale, and yet breathless from surprise, old Mrs. Jackson came in, with the tears in her eye?, having just seen Dan, who introduced himself.

Poor Mary Ann said she, holding up her hands and her spectacles, and using the phrase that all who knew her had fitted to Mary Ann instinctively as soon as they paw her.

But the woman lifted herself t« answer, a divine jov flooding her weary iHce with roseate light: "Suro don't ye call me poor Mary Ann no more! I'm the richest in Ameriky this blissid day!"

Is it best to go farther? to paint the meeting of Mary Ann with her children when sho crossed tho "say"again "years alter to bring them back," It?*- mother naving died and left them three hhndred pounds, which was a fortune to them

Is it not better to arrest her tale right here? The children were by this ti mo grown out of her memory physically they wero two great girls she had boen robbed of their sweet childish growth, of their budding, which is the fairest time of flowors. A dead child nover ages, but those wo leave for years are sad and stranue when next wo see them they aro lost to us by the saddest of losses tbev are ours no more. The arrested current may fiovv again in its old channel, but the bordering grasses, the mirrored flower.*, the floating lilies, are gone the bed of the brook is dry, arid, stony, and the water itself ife turbid and troubled. "There Are three things that retnrrtT not," and one of them is "lost opportunity." Not any power of time or man. can refold tho* ardent rose's expanded) leaves Into their verdant calyx again it is splendid and noble now It Graves* the eye with color, and breathes an odior of rapture from its sun-smitten breast 5 but it is not a bud.

For we know that something«weot!a' Followed Youth with flying feet. And will never come gain. Poor Mary Ann! —-Ti—• .iti# -.i-'-lV' *, I i-0"

"Cherry Time"

We are now giving to every Ci.UO yvarly NUWRLLMR a choice of the above CISTMBOS. They are catalogued and sold in the are stores al $4.00 per copy but will be given to nil person* whi m*nd us their names as subHcrilwir* enclosing S2.00 the price of the paper for one year. Those pictures are perfect 00pies in every delicate tint and color of magnificent paintings costing hundreds of dollars. All who have any fdeaof or love of art fall in love with them at first sight.

An Extra Chromo Free.

We will send a copy of either of our premium Chromo* to every person sending us the names of three new yearly subscribers with the money, six dollars, also giving the pictures to each of the three subscribers. Almost any one can in this way secure this beautiful work of art without it costing them anything.

Look at the Offer.

To every new yearly subscriber to The Mail, and to each old subscriber who renews, is given a magnificent chromo, usually sold at H, and thepaper, costing$S, making W worth In all, for only te. Tell yonr friends about it! Get the best paper published jLn the State for one year, and an expensivp picture—all sg

I Clergymen"

Om earn a few dollars, and Introduce a (lrst-clsss paper, by can rawing for the Sat orrtay Kvening Mail. Liberal commissions given. The paper and Chromo take on Sight Bend for circular of instructions.

Traveling Men

Bngagci in any business can make their traveling expenses, by putting In an occatonal word forT^e Saturday Evening Mall, where they may stop.

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Lily of the FtoM."

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