The mountain sentinel. [volume] (Ebensburg, Pa.) 1844-1853, 1851-03-20

Cdfieu tOWdiu lne COOr, caugnl my nanQ
as was passing, and drew me into the
narrow passage which led to her room.
Then the poor girl clasped both my hands
in hers, and murmured, softly, '''Fhanks!"
Ii was the first time had heard her voice,
and | entered her apartment. It was
large, low room, with red-tiled floor,
furnished with straw chairs ranged along
the walls. Being lighted by only one
small window, It felt damp and gloomy.
Ursula was right TO seat herself close bY
The easement TO seek little light aGd air.
| understood the reason of her paleness-
il was not that she had lost the freshness
of youth, but that she had never possessed
it. She was bIeached like a flower that
has biossomed in the shade.
In the farthest corner of The room, seat
ed OH arm-chairs. were TWO persons, an
old man and woman. The latter was
knitting without looking at her work-she
was blind. The man was unemployed;
he gazed vacantly at his companion with
out q ray of intelligence in his face; it was
evident that he had overpasscd the ordi-
nary limit of human life, and that now his
body alone existed. Sometimes in ex-
IRENE old age the mind, as though irrita,ed
by lis long captivity, tries to escape from
lis prison, and in It's efforts, breaks the
harmonious chord that links them together.
L ch4les against the shattered walls; it
has not taken flight, but ii feels itself no
longer in place of rest.
These, then, were the inhabitants of the
silent gray house-a blind old woman, an
imbecle old man, and young girl faded
haE,, ha- hv, tFa ! Il
thai surrounded her! Her life had been
blank; each year had borne away some
portion of her youth. her beauty, and her
nope. and leIt her nothing but silence aud
oblivion. [ often returned to visit Ursula,
and one day, while sat next her in the
window she told me the simple story OF
her life.
Il was bora said she, lin this house,
and | have never Quilted il; bat my pa
rents are not natives of this country-they
came here as strangers, without either
friends or relatives. When they married;
they were already advanced in life; for
can not remember them ever Being young
My mother became blind, and his misfor-
tune rendered her melancholy and ausiere,
SO that our house was enveioped in gloom.
make ihe slightest noise; very rarely did
receive caress. Yet my parents loved
ne; they never told me that they did; but
| Judged their hearts by my own, and
felt that loved them. My days were
not always as solitary as they are nov;
had sister"-Her eyes filed with tears.
bat they did not overflow; they were wont
to remain hidden in the depths Of her
heart. After j few moments, she coulin-
ued-''l had an elder sister: like our moth
er, she was grave and silent, but toward
me she was tender and affectionale. We
loved each other dearly, and shared be-
tween Us the cares which our parents re-
qulred. We never enjoyed the pleasure
OF rambling together through the fields, for
one always remained at home; bul which
ever OF us went out, brought flowers 10 the
other, and talked TO her of the sun, and
the trees, and the fresh air. In the even
ings we worked together by the light OF a
lamp; we could nOl converse much, for our
parents used to siumber by our side; but
whenever we looked up we could see
loving smile on each others face; and we
went TO repose in the same room, never
lying down without saying Goodnight!
hope, dear sister, you viii sleep well!'
Was it not trial TO part? Yet do not
murmur: Martha is happy in heaven. /
know not If IL is the want of air aud exer-
else, or the dull monotony of her life,
which caused the commencement of Mar
tha's illness, but | saw her gradually Ian
guish and fade. | alone was disauieled
by II; my mother did not see her, and she
never complained. With much difficulty
| at length prevailed on my sister TO see a
physician. Alas! nothing could be done:
she fingered for time, and then died.
The evening before her death, as | was
seated by her bed, she clasped my hand
between her trembling ones, 'Adieu! nv
poor Ursulai she said: take courage, and
watch well over our father and mother.
They love US, Ursula; they love rs, al
though they do not often say so. Take
care of your health for their sake; you
can not die before them. Adieu! sister:
don't weep for me too much, but pray to
our heavenly Father. We shall meet
again, Ursula! Three days aferward
Martha was borne away in her coffin, and
l remained alone with my parents. When
my mother first heard OF my sisters death
she uttered a loud cry, sprang up. took a
lew hasty steps across the room, and then
fell on the ground. | raised her up. and
led her back 10 her arm chair. Since then