Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 13, Number 32, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 3 February 1883 — Page 6

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Hi#

1 E-MAIL

A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

JIM'S KIDS.

BY EUGENE FIEJ.D.

Jim was a fisherman—upon the hill Ov« the beacli lived he an' his wife In a litt house—you eau see it still—

An' their two fair boys upon my life You never seen two likelier kid*. In *piteo' their anrics on' tricks an• noise.

Than them two boys!

Jitn would go out in his boat on the sea— Jtm as the rent on u* flubermen did— And when he come back at night thera oe

Up to his knees in the surf each kid, A beck'nin' and cheerio* to tteherman Jim— He'd near 'em, yeu bet, above the roar

Of the waves on the shore.

But one night Jim came sailin'home, And tiie little kids weren't on the sandJim kinder wondered they hadn't come,

And atremblin' took holt o' his knees and hands, And he learnt the worst up on the hiil

In the little house, an'ne bowed hia head "l'lie fever," they hald.

'Two# an awful time for fisherman Jim, With them darlln'sdyin'afore his eyes— They kept acaliln' an'beck'nin' him,

For they kind oe wondered in mind—their cries Were about the waves fisherman Jim

And the little boat a-sailin' for shoreTill they spoke no more.

Weil fisherman Jim lived on, and on, And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, 'Kut b« never smiled, and his heart seemed gone,

And he never was heard to speak the name Of the kids who were buried there Up on the hill in sight o' the sea,

Under the wilier tree.

One night they camo and told me to haste To ttie house on the Mil, for Jim was sick, And they said 1 hadn't no time to waste,

For his tide was ebbing powerful quick, An' he seemed to be wonu'rin'and crazy like, And a seeln' sights he oughtn't to see—

An' had called for me.

Ami fisherman Jim sez he to me, "It's my last, last cruise—you understand— .I'm a-HHllin' a dark and dreadful sea,

But offon the furthur shore, on the sand, Are the kids, who's a-beck'nln' an' callin' ruy name •Jess as they dtd--nh, mute, you know-

In the long ago."

No, sir he wasn't afraid to die, For all that night lie seemed to see His little bys of the years gone by,

And to hear sweet voices forgot by me A u' Jest ii« the rnornin' sun come up— '-They're holdln' me by my hands!" he cried—

An'so he died.

An Eventful Ride.

BY KVA DHAN.

It was at tho Hartford Railway Station. Why I was there, or where I was going. I don't exactly remember, so much having happened since, and I, at the tirno having no reason to go to one place more than to another.

The express train from New York had ju*t coirioin. She was standing a little aside, just out of the crowd and bustle, looking on, Hcanrting every face as It passed and re-

faneittd,

MSNf'il, mine among others, and, as with more interest than others. Her face WHS very pale, and her eyes "wereanxious, but she looked calm and 8elf-po.s8usseu.

By and by I saw her speak to an elderly woman who stood near. She received, I"fancied, a hurried, not over-courteous auswer, for I saw a Hush rise to her face lis she turned away.

By this timo tho platform was almost clear. Such passengers as were going on lutd departed to refresh themselves others lmd gone to tbeir resting-places. The railway officials began to regard the solitary figure curiously.

Knitting my hat, I ventured to ask if 1 :uld 1MSIn any way of service to her. A shade of perplexity or dlsappoiut-

any way pie

I thus ad-

ment crossed her face when dressed her. Sho answered: **I was to have been met here, but I soo nobody. I am disappointed. I must wait here"

Again lifting my hat, I left her, but only to pace the platform and think .about her.

As the minutes passed by, I thought «lie looked paler and paler." At last, as I approached her nearer than in my other turns, sho camea few steps toward nit'. "Will you be so kind as to advise me?'*

I smiled, and promptly assured her I -would. "Oh, I am so glad she said, quite childishly. Then sho added, "Will you tell mo what to do? I am going to my brother, who is ill in Bangor. Someono •was to have met me at Hartford, and I know nothing about tho route beyond this." "Were vou to go by land?"

Yes my brother forbade me to travel by water." *•'Well, if you wanted to go by land, siutd quickly, you ought have gone iby the New York it New Haven railroad to Boston, thence by Eastern railroad."

She turned so pile that I paused. She looked about for .some resting-place. I gave her my arm. ted hor to the waitingroom, got tier a glass of water and a cup of ooflfee, begging her to di ink the latter.

She obeyed'mo and as soon as she could wjvpak, It was, "Yon will tell me •wluit to do now? My brother is very ill, perhaps dving. Will it be bost to go back to—to the place you spoke of, or, I aut here, to puih on by tbi* route? "Which way Is the quickest?" "Where is your baggage? The train Ktartaf'r Portland in tlve minutes. I*er.vhaps it were better to push on by this route now that you are here."

She rose directly. "I have no baggage but what is In that bag," pointing to one I luH taken from bar when I gave her my arm. "I left home at an hour's notice, in consequence of a tolejrram. Are you going any further l»v this route?" "Yes. "Would you kindly, while you are traveling the next stage, write me down directions?" •Certainly."

The ladies' car lato which I looked was full, so I handed her into another, and got In tnyself and as that small band rested In mine a curiously strong conviction entered In my mind, and rested there.

I aeated myself opposite to her, and having said, We shall have plenty of time to talk it over before we get to "Portland," I feigned to be fully occupied with

rou

to-books and maps, in order to

give her time to recover herself. She did not speak to me she turned her face to the window. I thought she was interested in the fascinatingly romantic sceoea past which we were fly-

and by, a gentle, stealthy movent of srpock--. lifted to her free, assured me she waa

ge

ment of hers, a Tittle hand dipped Into her pocket, and then her handkerchief

Jam always afraid at

a

woman who Is

crying. A man is a brute who can speak harsh word to a

weeping woman, and

1

I took the little, poorly-furnished a "Oh, yes, if you don't get cheated and 'as I am going to Bangor by this route, I will see to that if you will allow me." "You are going to Bangor?" Such light in the eyes, and such a pretty transient flush over the delicate face! "Yes."

Contemplating the graceful little figure before me, I fell into musing as to who she was. From a ticket affixed to her little bag, I discovered that her game was not unfamiliar to me, and -yet the .familiarity of it carried me far back into the past. "Norris!" I kept repeating. I questioned and perplexed myself to no purpose but, by and by, when I bad given up, or imagined I had, thinking about the matter, it all came to me.

Norris was the name of an old drawing master of mine Norris was the name of a young school-fellow of mine Norrts was a name that for two or three years I bad seen iu the National Academy's catalogue as the palnterof pictures which had struck my fancy.

For the sake of the name as much as for the pictures themselves, I had purchased some two or three, wondering if that young artist, Norris, was my young school-fellow Norris.

I now determined that the two should certainly bo one, and that one the brother of my little companion, who must as certainly be the "Sister Mary" of whom he had often talked—a baby girl then, and the object of his almost idolatrous affection.

While she slept, I furbished up my memory as to all matters regarding the two Norris's, father and son and at length I was anxious the tired little sleeper should awake, quite resolved that Will Norris, her brother, was my verv dear friend.

My charge—so I now regarded Mary Norris—moaned in her sleep in a faint, distressful sort of waj'.

I bent towards her. We were stopping at a station. She roused herself. "Could you get me a glass of water she asked. "I am so sorry to give you trouble."

You feel ill—faint I'll be back directly." I sprang out. I brought her a glass of water, into which I had put a little cog-

"CYou needn't be afraid—it's not too strong it will do you good. I'm a sort of a doctor."

She took it with a grateful, confiding look, and drank it. 'You are better now?" I said as I umped into the car. "Oh, yes, thank you. I have been dreaming painfully of Will, my brother."

I have made a very pleasant discovery! while you wero asleep, Miss Norris," I said, pointing to the ticket on her bag. "This is your name "Yes." "It is a well-known name to me. A favorite school-fellow of mine was called Will Norris a tavorite artist of mine, whose works I have greatly admired, is called Will Norris. Now, don't tell me you are not the 'little sister Mary' he used to talk about."

I am only too glad and proud to tell you that I am." "Yon don't ask who I am, or seem surprised at my discovery." "No," she answered, slightly smiling "I knew before." "Knew mel" "Yes Will used to talk to me about you enough to make-me remember the name verv well and while you were walking up and down tho platform at Hartford 1 read your name upon your

a kind one often changes a mild trick-1 tering unction to my^soul ling of the salt waters to deluge, so I face which had inspired he* with confileft her alone. ..... I ^^"what on earth could she have done

She kept her band, and her handkercbiof -J l.——. i«uv tnwanifl the gan to hope lieve I myself did fall asleep for a few moments. By and by, I was roused by the falling of a book from my hand. When I opened my eyes I found my opposite neighbor's fixed upon me with a look of waiting for the opportunity of addressing me. She had left off crying then, but she was looking very wan and

She had her pu^se open iu her hand. "Shall I have money enough?" sho asked me, holding it toward me, when I gave signs of being fully awake.

It was the state of her puree that had finally decided me. She put the purse I returned to ber back in her bag. After that, and when I pretended to be looking in another direction. I saw her small hands folded together, and was confident that ber lips formed the words "Thank God." Somehow I was more touched than I could have told reasons for by this.

Two old ladies and one old gentleman were nodding in another pare of the car. For a long time I did not stir hand or foot or look at my neighbor, hoping that, her mind more at ease, she might catch the infection of their drowsiness. She did. When I did venture to look at her, she was asleep. Her hat lay on her knee her head was leaned back in the angle of the cushions. The light of the car-lamp—it had grown dusk new slanted down from the bright hair, threw a shadow of long lashes on the pale cheek, fell on the pretty, round white throat but it did not look easeful sleep—the mouth retained lines of anxiety and depression.

jlow (lid you come to associate

the baggage with its lightful owner? I did not go near it." ••By instinct, I suppose, partly, and because Will once tried to paint a likeness of you from memory, and you are »U11 euo'ughlike bis pic'ure to have made me notice your face before I noticed the name on the baggage."

When we reached Portland

I

handed

Miss Norris from the car. and felt that she was trembling. "You cannot go until the eight o'clock Htageinthe morning.

room

I

shall secure a

for you at a Lotel, where

I

can rely

upon your being safe and comfortable. I shall engage vour place in the stage toning."

night, and call for you in the morning This as I led her to the cab. "Ho- can I ever thank you for your kindness "It Is nothing. I am a very idle, onoccupied fellow, at anybody's serviceespecially at the service of your brother's stater."

The mistress of one of the Portland hotels was well and favorably known to cue, I committed Miss Norris to ber cam. explaining, in a few words, the object of her Journey.

Then I ordered—and I remember I took great pains with its selection—* little dinner for one, of soup, game, cutlets, sweets, choice fruit, and coffee, to be served as soon as possible to No. 99 and after 1 had done that I went about tnv own business. 1 mot a telegram to Portland to request that my baggage, which I had left unowned there, nhould be taken charge of until farther. I dined at an hotel close to the stage office, looking towards the windows of the house where I had left Miss Norris, and wondered dreamily what would come of this very strange adventure of mine.

I was sorry she bad seen my name, otherwise I^would have laid the flatter-

.. found it

was too late to be worth while going to bed that night, so I watched till morn-

Dfwasather

hotel iretty early, anxious

to settle her account before sheshonld be troubled about it. I ordered breakfast to be taken to her in her room, and sent a penciled message to her, telling her I had arranged everything.

I shall not easily forget the earnestly grateful look she gare me when we met. "Had she been comfortable I asked. "Oh, yes I had thought of everything. I had been most kind," she answered, her eyes x'ull of tears. And then, "where was I going with a ball-alarm in her tone and her face, as she found I did not take my place beside her. "To the balcony above, one sees better there, but this is fitter for a lady."

How long we were upon our route altogether I can not distinctly remember. We had bad weather at one time, cold and rain, snow, wind, and hail

She never complained, though she got so benumbed with cold that she would have fallen but that I caught her in my arm? one evening as I was helping her to alight.

Caught her in my arms! Yes: and before I Knew it had given her a sort of compassionate hug, exclaiming. "You

Eelp

oor, tired, patient child 1" 1 couldn't it. When we reached Bangor, in the full brightness of a suuny morning, she did look travel-worn, fagged, and jaded.

The night before, in a crowded stage, she had slept a great part of the night, her head upon my shoulder—a sleep of uch profound exhaustion as had halfalarmed me. 1 had ventured to put my arm around her, to dVaw her tome, in order to support her better. What a slight, fragile-feeling form it was!

As I held her thus, and she slept this dead sleep, my eyes never closed, and my mind was very Busy.

What would be the end of this jour ney Should her brother be already dead Friendless, moneyless, homeless, alone!

When we stopped once she halfroused she looked confidingly up in my face as I bent down to her. "I am afraid I weary you," she said.—

I can't help it—I am so tired.'' She was half stnpified with fatigue. Almost before she had finished speaking, her head dropped on my shoulder again. I pressed her closer to pie for an answer, that was all. "Your wife, poor young thing, seems quite worn out," said a kindly, half-Quakerish-looking lady sitting opposite.

I had noticed how pleasantly and compassionately she glanced at Mary. I answered simply^ "She its worn out she has traveled a week almost without stopping. She has a brother dying in Bangor." "Poor, poor young thing! But she is happier than many she will meet sorrow with one by her who loves her with more than the love of a brother,"

My conscience was loused none of our other fellow-travellers could hear us. I brielly told her Mary's story, and finished by asking: "Are you going to stay in Bangor?" "Yes,'friend and shall be glad to be of service to the young lady."

You may, perhaps, be of the greatest service." I gave ber my card and she gave me hers, penciling on it her address in Bangor. 'This is your brother's address?" I asked Mary, as we approached Bdugor, reading a card she gave me. "Yes. You are surprised why?" "This is such a miserable quarter." "Oh he is very poor, and always saving—saving to be able to give me a home," she said. "He says I never shall be happy as a governess, nor he to know me oue." "Maiy," I said, taking her hand as we drove through the streets "let me call you so. I am a brother to you, wishing to be to you more than any brother. But I am not going to speak of that now. Are you prepared for a great shock I know that brav9 mind well. I moan if our brother should to very ill—dying— ead

She shuddered. "You have said the word I could not. I have beseu thinking, day after day, that he is dead that is why—" 'Why no oue met you?" 'Yes." 'I fear, poor child, you may be right. You will try to bear up bravely,and you will let me be a brother to you till—"

Now our cab stopped. "This street is enough to have killed him," she said. "Surely it is not here?" "It is here, 1 said, as the cabman opened the door.

I gave the word "Wait!" and lifted her out. Up the dark, chilly, dirty stairs— up and up. At last we reached a door on which the poor fellow's card was nailed. She seemed to gather courage now. She led the way through a small, dark ante-room, in which we paused.

J[ listened I heard a smothered exclamation from her from him a cry so shrill as to be almost a scream. 4 "Marv!"

I walked to the hjtad of the staircase, and waited there perhaps half an hour.— Then she came to me—came close up to me, and laid her hand upon my arm. The expression of the piteous eyes lifted to mine told me there was no hope. With a caressing word,I drew ber to me. She leaned her forehead against my arm a moment then, "Will wants to see you Will wants to thank you!"she said, in a scarcely audible voice.

I followed her into the room, jrf The full light of a small squdrti window was streaming on a low coqeh where my poor young school-fellow lay.

I saw directly that Hfe with him was a question of no more than days, perhaps of only hours. Yet what a beautiful, bright face it was still! What alight streamed from those radiant eyes, as be, without rising—he was past thatstretched both bands toward me!

Mary was crouching by him one hand goon clutched her again the other grasped mine as I sat down by him.

In this strange world how often are simple deeds, that cost nothing to the doer, most richly rewarded I done? What sacrifice bad I made And how they thanked and blessed he with his difficultly spoken, faint words she with ber blessed eyes confirming his praises. A few words explained the case.

TERRE HAUTE SAT0:Ri3AY ETffiSyiNCI- MAIL.

bt ramb-

bad de?

He had rallied after sending the first telegram, and bad thought it needlees that Mary should come. He had not calculated on the possibility of her starting as immediately as she had done and the second message which bid ber not come, bad not reached ber.

A few dkys after—two days since now —he had broken a blood-vessel, and bad been pronounced hope. "If only I bad known of this sooner!" I thought, as I looked at the miserable room, and thought of my idle hundreds %nd thousands.

When, by-and-by Maty was for a brief while absent—* woman, living in

the rooms below, who had been very kind to Will, had taken her away to give her aoiue refreshment—I stammerin gly expressed something of my regret, he answered, "It is better as it ia for I am well con tent." "Is your sweet sister free I asked, "free from any engagement—freehearted

I spoke low and hastily, and felt in all my beic^ how much hung upon his answer. "My little Mary Oh, yes, as far as I know! And she has never had any secrets fromme." "I love her," I responded. "If she can love me, 1 will do what a man can do to make a woman happy as a wife."

He did not immediately answer. He lay with closed eyes bnt felt the tightening pressure of his hand. "I may tell ber by-and-by that I had your good wishes t" "You may tell her,"—the radiant eyes unclosing on me—"that in mv last hours I drank a full cup of happiness, believing that my darling, my 'little Mary, my ewe-lamb, my pet-sister, would be happy among happy women as your wife." "You have not lost your generoushearted enthusiasm for a very unworthy fellow,-' I answered. "Nothing I have heard of my old friend, my protector, my benefactor, has tended to lesson those feelings," he said. "One word of youre in your sister's ear will make me—"

She came in at that moment. I was going to leave them together, but he begged me not to go,and while he spoke, a mortal faintuess surprised him.

It passed, however. He asked to be lifted up. The recumbent position was painful to him. He lay with his head on Mary's shoulder, bright hair mingling with bright hair.

The doctor came and went, and the woman who had nursed him. They both foreboded that the last hour was near.

It was an afternoon not to be forgotten. He said he did not suffer much, and every now and again be talked.

Mary did not shed a tear. She seemed absorbed in him beyond consciousness of self or sorrow. She moistened his lips or wiped bis brow continually, and her eyes seemed to cling to bis.

The sunset entering $he room,touched those two. She was watching him intently. His eyes only half opened, seemed to look at her dreamily, like the eyes of one who doses off to sleep. The light faded, the dusk gathered. We did not stir, believing that he slept.

By-and-by, through the gloom, the

near

hush and the distant noise of the great city. Mary's voice, low and awestruck, leached me, asking for light. I bad*fallen into profound thought. Life, love, death and immortelity, failure, success, the world's vanity—I do not know what I did not think of as I sat motionless in that dusky room.

I procured a lamp. I set it down on the table, where the light fell on those faces. I found that Mary had sunk lower and lower as tho head on ber shoulder grew heavier. A glance told me the truth. He was dead.

She saw it, she knew it. She sank down lower yet, till her bright hair was on the pillow, here beside it. She moaned softly, lying thus cheek to cheek. I heard a few words—"Brother take me—take me with you. I have none but vou." "Then sho lay quite still, half on the couch, half on the floor, face to face with ihe dead.

What did I do? I stood and looked at them. As! stood and looked at them, I went rough one of those experiences that it no use to try and record—that are written on the life of life forever.

By-and-by I found that she waslying in a dead faint. I disentangled them then, and laid her on the floor on as good a couch as I could make of my wrapper and the cushions of an old chair.

I had told her the truth when I told her I was a sort of doctor. That had been the profession I had not loved well enough to follow, after a large fortune left me had made the pursuit of a profession needless. I could treat her as well es another. I did what I could for her, and saw her revive.

My entreaties prevailed on her after a time to leave the room for a few hours, going with the woman to the rooms below but before the night had passed she was back again. "Do not be angry with me. I want to sit and look at him. I won't cry. Soon I shall lose him forever."

Sho took her station by him she begged me to go away somewhere to get rest. I pretended to yield, but found myself too anxious to go beyond the ante-room. She was not in a state to be leit alone.

The dawn brought the horrible and harrowing business of putting away, out of reach, the mortality that has been so dear, that we have clutched so close, and never could keep too near—to my

I talked to her as little as I could, and as gently. Gently! If words could have floated on the air like eider-down, or touched her with gossamer-light touches, they would still have seemed to me too rough to be cast at her then. Still, I was forced to try and ascertain her wishes* "You know what is best—you will do what is right," she answered me, gently "but don't ask me to leave the house while he is in it. Think of the long years that

There she paused—burst into violent weeping. She had not cried before. "Oh, I feel as if my heart was breaking she said, pressing her hands over it.

I clasped her to me I comforted ber as well as I could, reminding her as well as I knew how, of how well things must be with her beloved brother. I spoke, too, of the place where we would lay him to rest, of the country quiet among the roses, the violets.

She lay quiet in my arms, and, by and by, lifted up ber face to listen. To see that sweet, «ad face resting against my breast, to look down upon it, and meet its trustful eyes, filled me with over-mastering emotions. "If you can love me," I said, then, "you need never feel alone or unsheltered, never more while I live. This is no unfit place or time to tell you this, for he knew I loved you, and was glad in knowing it but I do not ask, or expect, or desire any answer—not now."

I hardlv know that she took in the sense of my words sorrow and exhaustion bad drained her life. No tinge of color came to ber cbeek she just listened. "How good yoa are—how good you are!" she said. "What could I have done but for you

4

I aiTEOgcd everything for the be^t far as I knew I tempted ber from the room to go with me to the graveyard beyond the walls, to chooee where be should lie she seldom spoke she said frfterw&rdfr it wan *11 like dreatn, from which she expected at any moment to a

The next dav we buried Mm. When all wis done, we lingered near tbe place. The place was very soothing sad pesoeful, towered over by the great

monumental tomb of some forgotten great one. Tbat was a day to be remembered.

I promised her that the grave should be cared for better than any other iu ths place.

When we went away 1 took her to the care of that motherly, kind, Quakerish lady of the stage, whom I prepared to receive her.

I did not see her again for some days she was tooexnausted, when the reaction from long over-tension set in, to leave ber bed.

I called every day, and always found some gentle-worded, grateful message ready for me but day after day I did not see her.

At last a bright day came when I did. She was more altered, more brokendown looking than I had anticipated. The meeting me agitated her very greatly. Her black dreas, too, increased the delicacy of her look.

Mrs. Emmet stood by

her,

smoothing

her hair and petting "her with loving deeds and words till she was calmer then—good woman !—she left us together.

I had no idea what lay before me. Our interview was a long one. More than once I left her side, and paced the room in despair stood at one or the other of the windows that looked down upon the city, and pondered how I could convince her of my love—that Is to say, of the selfish and interested nature of it.

She met my definite oflter of my hand and heart with the most meekly, numbly firm refusal.

Her gratitude was so full and lowly, her agitation so great, that 11could not be angry fcith her but I was greatly irritated, and turned my irritation against myself—cursed myself that I could find no words strong enough to convince her.

It was just like me, she told me—just like what she had always heard of me.— She would always love me with the most

ger

rateful, reverent love, always reiiaemme in her prayers but be my wife— no!

It was long before I couH get a reason why but at last I tortured it from ber.

She believed that I was sacrificing myself—that I loved her because she was friendless and alone. But she was not fit for me, she told me she had not the accomplishments, the education, the talent, the beauty, theanything that my wife should have. .As for her future, I need not be anxious, she assumed me. Mrs. Emmet bad told her that here, in Bangor, she could procure her a suitable situation.

At last, when I had exhausted every argument, or thought I had, and despaired, at all events, of present suecess, I grew hurt and angry.

I turned from her to a window, and stood looking out. A veil of blackness gathered between me and all I looked on. I was ill with anger, disappointment, and thwarted will. "I don't know how long I had Stood so, but I believe it was along time, when the softest of small hands entered mine, which hung down beside me.

I started and looked around. She was looking up into my face so wistfully, her own face strained with pain and earnestness. "You look so pained, so displeased," she said. "I must seem to you so thoroughly heartless and ungrateful. I can not bear it."

Before I knew what she vas going to do she was kneeling beside me before I could prevent her, her soft fingers were raising mv hands to her softer lips.

I lifted "her up. Holding her by the shoulders I asked her, I am afraid almost fiercely: "Can you tell me that you do not love me "No, I can not. I do love you I love you very dearly."

Her tears began to fall, and she, tottering towards me, shed them on my breast. I held her there fast and firm and never since has she disclaimed the right to be there.

THE OLD MART'S STORI".

Twice a day, morning and night, the feeble steps wended their way to the orchard back of the almshouse. His face was seamed and tracked over by the footsteps of time bis hair was silver white, and when he spoke there was a tremulous tone in bis voice, very saddening to the listener. Three-score and ten, an inmate of a pauper home and yet, no matter how dismal was the weather, that soma bent form would wend its way to the orchard.

We followed him one day late in the autumn. Underneath the naked branches of a gnarled apple tree we found the old man.

His form was bending over a low, humble mound bis lips were vaguely uttering something unintelligible to our, ears his fingers, trembling and shaking, were picking the leaves from among the scant grass. "Friend, why do you come nere every day?"

He turned half startlingly toward us upon his face a look of pafn, and in his eyes an expression or pitiful melancholy. .... "Hush! She's down there!" "Who?" "Here, sit down. I'll tell you the story. Tbey all know it about here— perhaps you don't."

We sat down by the old man, and he told us his sad story. •Many, many years ago, a little stranger, a babe, was sent to bless two people living in a small red farmhouse among tbe trees. The babe grew and thrived and, oh, what a comfort it was to those who watched over its growth to see it daily growing more and more beautiful! We called it Madge—we, its father and mother. Tbe mother, she is lying down there under the withered grass and the father, he's sittipg here, old and sorrowing, with a withered heart. Madge was a favorite among tbe neighbors, and was always the belle of every gathering for miles around. She grew so sweet, so lovely, asd—she was So true and gentle a daughter! But there! I need not tell you of tbat, for it only makes the pain here in my breast sharper. After Madge left school she went with us to a ball in the Town Hall. Madge was the belle, and it made my brain dizzy when I saw bis face, tbe handsome stranger's, bending over tbe a id "He was visiting at a neighbor's bouse for a few weeks, you see and Madge being the beauty of tbe place, be came to see her.. They told me that his father was a rich city merchant and that be was a clever young fellow, who would make his mark. *Twas tbe old story. Madge was innocent, and was carried by tho stranger's city ways and genteel demeanor. He must have turned tbe girl's bod with his false tongue and smooth words. One morning Madge was missing the young stranger, be too was gone. One, two, three years went by, and not a word or a trace did we beer of ber young man's people. If tbey knew anything about Madge, tbey never told us. '•One winter** night, when we sat in tbe old kitchen, ber mother and

sleep

cam# over us, and we both dreamed tbat our Madge waa seated in Iter little

"i~ .V ,' A..

Blft

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chair by the fire. We awoke. Madge, our Madge, had come back! She must have slipped through the doorway while: we slept, for there she sat upon her chair. Oh, bow white her face was! How black her hair looked, all bangingdowu about her neck and shoulders! How hollow her eyes were, and oh, heaven! how pained was he expression which, shone iu them as the tire-light played upon ber features! "And—hush!—it was the cry of a babe —she held a child upon hor lap. It was a pretty little thing, with our Madge's face, but his, the stranger's eyes. We never chided Madge. I took the babe, and ^iadge's mother put our strayed daughter to bed. "She never awoke, for the exposure, illness, and heart-disappointment had done their work. We laid her to rest in the village burying-gronnd and then -went home. The babe grow, aud fiually, one day, he, its father, came and took the child awa/ with him. I didn't ask for an explanation, for we understood it all. She was a mother but not a wife. Things went bad from that time with RS, ana we were sent to the poorhouse. She, Madge's mother,.died then. I wanted her to be laid here where I eould come and visit the spot every day. It does me good, yet it's painful" to sit here and think of days long ago. Perhaps—hush! I hope it won't last long, for I have such sweet dreams at night and by day I sit and dream too for I hear familiar voices come to me from somewhere, and they tell me 'Come.'"

We left bim. His tears were too sacred for eyes to gaze on, his sorrows too deep for strangers' comforting condolence. The next evening, just the shadows begin to fall, they went to look for the old man, and fouudhim sleeping the last sleep.

JtlGHJCS IN HOP FAHMIXG. At tbe present prices, ten acres in Hops will bring moro money than live hundred acres in any other farming and, W there is a consumer or dealer

The World Mill Moves. Notwithstanding Mother Shipton's dire prediction, the world still exists. Thepeoplo will live longer if they use Dr. Bigelow'8 Positive Cure, which subdues and conquers coughs, colds, consumption, whooping cough, and all diseases of the lungs. For proof call at Moffatt it Gulick's drug store and get a bottle free. (1)

"BWHUPAIBA.1

Its wonderful curative power is simply because it purifies and enriches the blood, thus beginning at the foundation, and by building up the system, drives out all disease.

A Lady Cured of Rheumatism.

3

-who thinks the price of Hop Bitter9 high, remember that Hops are $1.25 per lb., and the quantity and ,quality of Hops In Hop Bitters and the price remains the same as formerly. Dou'tbuy or use worthless stuff or imitations because the priee is less.

iulck, complete cure, all annoy lug Kid ney, {ladder and Urinary Diseases. SI. Druggist*.

STRONG FACTS/

A

great many people are asking what particular troubles BROWN'S IRON BITTERS .is good for.

It will curc Heart Disease, Paralysis, Dropsy, Kidney Disease, Consumption, Dyspepsia, Rheumatism, Neuralgia, and all similar diseases.

Baltimore, Mil., May 7,1880. My health was much shattered b» Rheumatism when 1 commenced taking Brown's Iron Bitters, and I Ecarccly had strength eiiough to attend to my daily household duties.

I a

now using the third bottle and I am regaining strength daily, and cheerlully recomnicnd it to all.

I cannot say too much in praise of it. Mrs. MAKY E. BHASHBA«, 173 Prestmanst.

Kidney Disease Cured.

Christiansburg.Va., i88r.

.Suffering from kidney dij»ca*e, from which 1 could get no relief, I tried Brown's Iron Bitters, which cured me completely. A child of mine, recovering from scarlet fever, had 110 appetite and did not seem to te able to eat at all. 1 g'. .-e him Iron 3iuci» with the happietu result*.

Kvut

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Heart Disease.

Vine St., irarriburg, Pa.

Dec. 3, itJ3i.

After trying different physician* and many remedies for palpitation of the heart without receiving any benefit, I was advised to try Browns Iron Bitters. I Have used two bottles and never found anything that gave roe su much relief.

Mrs. JitNNiit Hsss.

For the peculiar troubles to which ladies are subjefl, BROWN'S IRON BITTERS is invaluable. Try it.

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