The national era. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1847-1860, 1854-11-02
NO. 400.

hollow, were lying near him; and my father sat
in the corner, making his supper of a piece of
| dry bread. He had come in late he said. as an
excuse for eating at all and he didn't know
as he ought to have had anything till the next
meal. He was making great deal of trouble
| There was no light burning, and as the shad-
owS deepened, my father and myself hitched
into the strip of moonlight which came through
the uncurtaned window, and Martha and the
| silver spoons became quite invisible
In answer to my inquiry. whether she were
not designing to honor our fete by her presence.
she replied that she supposed she must go. on
| MIR. HalStead'S account; but that it was greatly
| against her will. | affected credulity. but /
knew a standing army would not have kept her
away. 1t was one of her peculiarities to pre-
tend a reluctance to going from home, whereas
she lost no Opportunity but her especial en-
joyment was funerals; and in notching shrouds
and tying dead hands and feet together she
| experienced a sort of solemn satiSiaction-the
highest, think, she was capable of enjoying.
May | 60 with YOU mother?" Hettv asked.
showing how bright she had made one of the
rusty knitting-needles. by way Of furthcring her
hopes; but Martha deigned to make no reply;
and the child, with the great tears in her eyes,
| resumed her work III The dark ashes
| There seemed restraining and crushing in
| tuence upon all the inmates of the house; and
after sitting for little while, for the most mart
silent took my departure; and nv father.
sheering aside, and looking at Martha, followed
| me.
| We were sooner alone. than he asked the
| old question: whether | knew ANYTHING of Char
ley; and when | said no, he turned aside. and
counted the sheep in the adjoining field, that |
might not witness the anguish of his counte-
nance. When / left him, told him to be early
| on the ground on the morrow, that he might Sc
| cure good seat. for | proposed to do myself
deal of credit. ] said, too that perhaps ! would
have some good news in a day or two. for
wished to comfort him in some way, and in my
| heart ] thought | should have to tell him about
my marriage.
At the roadside gate | met Timothy. who
was seated on the grass bank in the moonlight
silent and absorbed, as it seemed. AT the click
of the gate latch he started from his reverie.
and with one of his customary droll exclama-
tons, asked me if would not share his sofa.
"What have you been thinking OFF" asked,
of the journey before you?
Yes, said he, smiling, of that journey
which, at one time or another, happeneth unto
us all and as | sat here | was irving to learn
whether | had really made D'y peace, as the
preachers say"
looked at him inquiringly, but, though he
smiled, he was evidently not irrcvcrcut
| Il don't know, don't know" he continued;
but ] am ] am. and that is as circumstan-
ces, curious and complicated combination of
circumstances, have made me but how far the
| circumstances were owing to my own little pc
culiarities. ! can't determine; for whether
| God, in binding nature fast in fate. left free
the human will, has been in my mind a matter
| OF some curious speculation. This is GER
| TAM he said, after a thoughtful pause we
must trust IN ourselves, as well IA in fate. or
| Heaven. You have heard of the old lady who
| when the horses ran away. trusted in the Lord
till the harness broke and then she learned
that strong leather was of slight Importance"
How Glanced your thoughts to get into this
| vcin?" ] asked.
"Why, as limpcd along here" said he, amy
disability suggested the calamity which caused
| 1t, and ! bethought Of good clergyman
who was called to comfort me spiritually on the
occasion, and who asked, thinking my situation
little critical, | suppose. whether | thought
myself fit to die; | told him didn't know Us
| to that, bu; was sure | was not fit To live.
whereupon he groaned most piteously."
but after that, he continued, 81 took my
| fitness for death into more serious considera-
ton, and actually became convicted and con-
vertcd, hopefully at least, and should have been
| n church member but for one little crcum-
stance.
| w nat WIS II!
"Why. the appointed day Of admission chanc-
| cd to he exceeding hot, and the temptation of
an icc-cream saloon caught me away; and. in
a little converse with some boon companions,
] quite forgot my confirmation. Well, perhaps
| 1t is as well, for have sundry pcculiartics, nat
ural or acquired that might clash against can
| Onical authority.
"You are singular compound said; Il
don't quite understand you, think"
"Iou mean TO convey in the Ccntlcst terms
| that | am great sinner: yes, my dear young
friend, the moro | reflect upon it, the more am
| | inclined to believe that such is the pith and
marrow Of your brief discourse All well! il
| is true | have done those things which | ought
not to have done, and have left undone the
| things which should have done: | don't think
| am all evil, but ] am partly 80, | confess
| confess IL in dust and ashes-and may the Lord
have mercy on my soul"
| The exclamation seemed devOut; but, as he
! tried to rise, sudden and severe pain caught
him. "Oh. the DEVIL" he muttcred. "These
| side-sttches, that pen my breath up, will bring
| me to Jordan before long; and suppose, in
mindfumoss Of the harness catastrophe, we
avoid these dcathdistilling dews"
And, whistling some negro melody, he hob
| bed up the path, now pausing to make some
| pious soloquy at the glory of the moon and the
stars, and now calculating oath when the
| side-stitch returned with more than usual vo-
lencc. When separated at the door, | said
| | hoped his proposed Journey would prove ben
| eficial to his health.
IL pray that it may" he answered, for life
| is not worth a curse at this rate and kissing
his hand to me, gaiy, he climbed the stairs
A strange combination of elements made up
that same Timothy.
found Mr.. Richards waiting for nc in the
II, l. -, I IL
| was never coming sat down on his knee
and put my arm about his neck and kissed
him.
"And 80, Mary, you really like me little"
he said, looking archly in my face.
No, not littlc-a great deal more than !
have any words to say; for you know / am but
a poor scholar"
quite learned enough my dear he said
=" but there is another way, swccter than words
to tell ones loyc;" and 80 ] kissed him again
and again.
Presently he added, "And vet another.
stronger and solemner than all, which few per
sons, especially few women, have the courage
or the strength Of will to practice
What is it?' | asked; there is nothing
will not do for you, nothing | will not suffer.
nothing will not brave, this side of death and |
if need were, | would die for you"
You are a darling good girl" he answered, |
sadly, and seeming rather troubled than com
forted by my words.
Why are you sad?"
Nothing; am not sad. We must make
the future bright, in some way"
Make it bright it is bright Look out, love. |
into the night and see; there was never such |
moonlight. j almost wish the morning would |
never come, for it seems to me that with the |
light you will love me less. o, YOU cannot