American Republican and Baltimore daily clipper. [volume] (Baltimore, Md.) 1844-1846, 1845-08-27

| lighted. His frame shook with the violence ol
! his emotion, as that young voice, strong in the
energy Of faith and love, breathed its last pray
er, uniting once more names that had long
been sundered, and asking blessings on BOTH
! Helen's PRAYER was done; her spirit fingered a
while aud then fled forever. At midnight
when the servants vcntured to enter the ROOM
the father still held the fair young head on his
| bosom; but he knew she was dead, and, after he
had laid her tenderly on the pillow, and kissed
! her check, he suffered them to lead him away
/ without murmur
His was a grief Of which the world could
know nothing. None heard him complain,
none saw him weep; and yet there was that in
/ his face, betraying more grief than teas or
words could have expressed. lie did oil that
/ he was asked to do; but it seemed that, # left
! alone, he would have unused on forever, uncon-
scoGs Of all that passed around him. lie did
not see the dead again; but followed her to the
grave, and returned with firm step to his So
/ tary home.
/ A week-two-threc weeks passed away,
and still Mr.. Murray remained in the same stu
por of unspoken grief with which he had seen
his last earthly hope fade from his arms forev
er. File had no friends, and his servants, who
all loved poor Helen, though they pitied him,
dared not speak of comfort. Once the nurse,
who had tended Ellen from her birth, came to
beg he would rouse himself, but when he rails
cd his calm, hopeless eye the words died on her
! lips, and she felt it could be but mockery to
speak common phrases of consolation to one
on whom had fallen the weight OF sorrow
like his.
1t CHANGED one evening, it might be a month
after his chlld's death, as he paced the large
chamber which had been her favorite sitting
{ CAL hos dash JIa
and turned hastily away but returning soon to
the table on which it stood, began to examine
! its contents. The first thing he touched was
paper covered with her own delegate hand
writing He remembered the day she had sat
there, even where he stood now, and he had
observed that she was writing unconsciously
while she conversed with him. Her own name
and his were traced again and again on that
paper, and he pressed it passionately to his lips.
Then he found copy of unfinished verses,
sweet and full of promise, breathing the fresh
purity of her gifted, yet but halt-developed
mind. Then there were some slight sketches
made in the previous summer, and among
them an attempted likeness Of himself. He
recollected the day she babe him sit for his pic
ture, how wit and genius, or what seemed such
to him, flowed from her tongue and lighted her
smile. He could not bear to look at it, but
turned over few papers that remained in the
desk. When he lifted the last, he found be-
meath it a small agate box, the first gift he had
ever offered to his wife, and given by her, as he
now clearly remembered, to Helen, when she
was little child. He opened it, and within
was long rnglet of dark hair. He knew
whose hair it was; his heart grew young again
as he looked upon it, and again his fair wife
and rosy child seemed near to him, as they
were when that ring let was given to Helen by
her young and happy mother. For moment
he forgot what had since happened, and then
he glanced round the solitary room and shud
dered at its dreary silence. They came back
to him the dying words of his only child, and
the solemn promise he had made her, and once
again his life had on object. He would seek
out the wife who had forsaken him, tell her OF
that angels prayer, and speak words of fol-
/ giveness to her before he died
But that momentary excitement passed
away, and left him sunk in stupor yet sadder
| than before. Time passed on, winter gave
place to spring, but the change Of season
brought no gladness to him. His spirit seem
ed forever crushed, and his dull and silent life
/ flowed on like sluggish stream on which sun
shine never fell. Helen died in the early win
ter, it was now late il spring. Edward Muir
ray was alone, musng in the long, dim twi-
light that closed day bright and lovely to all
but him, when step drew near his door, and
in few moments woman, yelled and poorly
clad, stood before him. lie knew her at once;
it was his long lost wife. How many time
before his last grief fell upon him had he
dreamed of meeting again that once beloved
one till hot tears fell fast from his eyes! how
many time had he turned pale and trembled
when he discovered in some stranger resem-
blance to her. There was a time when such
meeting as this would have stirred the deep
passions of MS soul, but now it seemed scarce
ly even to surprise him. His dull gaze was
unaltered as he locked on the face once so
beautiful, but now, alas, how teartulIy chang
ed,
"Go-go, Adea," he said, at last, waving
his hand-"you are too late now; she is dead"
The sound of his voice appeared to re-assure
her, and she answered calmly as he had spoken.
Il know you are desolate, and she is gone,
else had hardly dared to come. could not
have borne to see my child"
'Desolate, Adela, utterly dosolate!" inter-
rupted he; 'you said the truth She was my
only joy: she had never deceived me; no
blight had fallen on her pure heart, though
there were not wanting those who could recall
the mothers sin to cast shame on the daugh-
ter"
The words stung his listener to the soul, but
she replied
"Surely it was little that such as | could IN
jure her!''
"You forget, Adela, all that a mother should
be, and you were not. God help those who
have to blush for mother, as my Helen blush
ed for you"
alt is true, then, that she despised mel And
yet how dearly she loved me once?''
"Those were blessed times, Adela," said
Mr.. Murray, "when Helen was little child,
and we were young, and | believed you loved
me. should have thought the grasp of those
dear arms stronger than chains Of iron to bind
you to your home; those soft lips that called
you; even in Sleep
"Spare me, Edward, in mercy spare mel,