The examiner. [volume] (Louisville, Ky.) 1847-1849, 1849-11-03

Dear Louis, you have been so kind, so good To
NE that cannot leave you without many, many
thanks. Wives do not oilen give thanks LOT
those things which they claim as nght' Dus
wish to do you justice
MY dear wife, faltered Louis, your own love
illness ard goodness | have never hall repaid
You have been 10 me the best and dearest vile
in the world, and why now disturb yourself py
these recollections?'
Louis said the dying woman, with more en-
ergy, do not seek 10 deceive me in death. FOR
years l have known your secret. The story o'
your love all knew save |; and when came 10
learn it, felt deep pity both Tor you ana loI hei
But when in sleep head you murmur, MARY,
and moan in your dreams, on how sick atheart
grewi 1t was long time, LOUIS, before i
brought myself to share divided heart; OUT
when remembered that was the least sufferer
and heard that poor Mary was dying from day 10
day, gave up all bal feelings, and have no re-
oroach on INV tongue or in my thoughts. / have
seen you stand in abstraction many times, when
you knew not any one was near, and gaze To-
ward the path that used TO lead to Abel Martin 5;
and have long known of your moonlight visits
| to an old hickory by brook, near the woods
where you used to meet Mary; but, dear LOUIS,
have felt no hardness of heart, at this, and tor
MANY months | have sent Sarah every day TO
ask after Mary, or to carry her some flowers, OF
some delicate food, though she has never known
| from whence they came. So do not gueye at
having deceived me, for ithas all been well with
me at last
The heart-broken man had no answer TO make
to these loving words, sharper to hiin than the
keenest Ieproof.
| There was low rap at the door, and he rose
from his knees, where he had fallen by his wlfe's
| bedside and opened il. A note was placed IN
his hand. which he read. IL ran thus:
my niece is dying and prays you 10 come tC
her. If you remember the love you once felt iol
her, entIeat you TO come
| ABEL MARrIS.'
A sudden change passed over the young man.
i face and no muTmuIed, 'Oh, Godl my punish
ment is greater than can beaI"
Read whispered his wife. He obeyed, prom
mo, Louis Harden, that you Will gol
'Never, and leave you was the reply.
'Promise' she repeated, tightening her gTasI
upon his hand. There was look in thos'
dImmed eyes he could not refuse. Il will, h
said huskily.
The Lord bless you ami that poor girl!
|, breathed forth the dying woman, and Loun
!. stood alone with his dead.
| Much wondered they who were gathered there
! when they saw him leave the house, and tur
| his face toward the wood; but more would the
have maUelled had they known where his mex
hour was passed. Evening shades were closin
} in when he entered, for the first time IN seve
years, the WIDE old dwelling where so long beior
: should have been his bridal. None save tn
) aged pair knew of his visit He entered tha
? richly furnished chamber where his BRIDE ha
) waited his coming that cruel whlle--and waite
2 in vain.
She lay on low, luxurious couch, that alas
..Ihrouga lUng DAYS Of sadness.
And nights devoid of case"
had failed to bnng 'sleepto her eyes, or slumb'
10 her eyellds.' The dim light was enough
show how wasted and spiritual that poor fran
had become. The stupOr OF death already la
upon her, and Louis was kneeling beside he
ere she was aware of his presence.
LAY me nearer, nearer, she uttered, with dl
ficulty as they lifted her slight form toward Ii
bedside.
She laid her thin white arms around his necl
and a smile, the first for years, spread over he
face. But tears rained from his eyes, andstror
: emotions shook his frame.
DO you remember the brook, and the hsshin
d of the hickory leayesi The dew was on the mOs
J and your flowers, how sweet they weTe!'
Those seven years seemed forgotten ard Lou
! answeIcd: Il saw you bounding through II
woods; your hair was floating back on the win'
q your eyes were so bright, Oh, II was fat
morningl Dear Mary, what have you not endu
! edl'
i At the sound of that voice, low growl arcs
: from dark corner, ard old Wolf slowly cIcl
e toward the bed. He never leaves me now
: SAID the poor child.
will you bury me by the edge OF the wood
there-there where you FIST told me that yc
, loved me! Don't grieve so bitterly. | shoU
j have died the same. Stop lower, Louis, te
me. do you love met?
The voice was so low, that no other ear heal
save one. As II to take last look OF his de-
rnis,ross' face, the old dog laid his paws on II
: edge of the bed, and looked at her rs though
: knew the import Of the scene, then he shTan
: back into his corner.
MANY a low word was murmured there, an
: many a faint caress was gwen by that fee5
child. At last the voice ceased-the white arm
fell back-and once more the young man stor
alone with his dead. Yes, his dead--for a
were gone save him. They could no longer en-
duTe 10 see the desolation they had wrought, an
: had stolen away 10 feed Temorse alone.
The terrible sufferings of that man, who ca
tell9 He went forth from the death chambt
! scarce alive. He sought his own home, so sileT
and drear; and there hid himself from all sym
pathy-all pity. The dead were buried, one i
the ohurch-yard-one in the shadow Of the fores
but for which mourned he mosti For tie youn
wife who had learned her bitter lesson OF sci
control from his teaching, who foIgavo him er
! he asked-or the orphan who had none else {
love, and died when she might no longer Low
him.