Litchfield enquirer., 1855-01-11

They proceeded short distance up thu
broad avenue. Stately and imposing front:
of marble and freestone rose majesticaliy OF
either side. They turned the nearest cor
ner-a little way, and entered small ten
ement, low and desolate, where the faln
ray of sunlight that behmes crept in, served
but to reveal the more distinctly the wretch
edness of the cheerless home. 1t was sin
gle room, such as the poor only inhabit, ye'
it was neat-very neat. A small table, a
single chair, and pallet of straw, were the
only furniture. A few leaves of manuscript
and pen, now idle, lay upon the table.
No answer was heard in reply to Mrs.
Scri ptor's knock at the door, and she lifted
the latch timidly and entered. The pool
mans wife lay upon her couch, pale, but
beautiful, and her skin SO transparent and
delicate that you could have seen the life
blood coursing through the deep blue veins
with each pulsation of the heart But all
was still now. The form was chiseled-nol
animate. The husband leaned upon the
bedside. He did not weep, but his eyes
gazed vacantly into those deep blue orbs
that seemed now to stare so wildly at him
so soulless-from beneath the long dark
lashes. He did not notice the intrusion,
but dreamed on.
The rich man and his wife stood intcntly
gazing at the scene The face of the mourn.
er at the bed side was partially averted, bu,
Scriptor was carefully scrutinizing the fea-
lures.
Gracious goodnessr he exclaimed. as
it possible? 1t is he-it isl
'Who, my dear-who is it 2 asked his
wife in establishment.
The man at the bed side moved slightly.
For the first time he seemed conscious OF
the presence Of others. Scriptor placed
his hand gently upon his shoulder and
whispered, 'Harry Erstine!'
The author turned his face toward him,
and faint smile moved the muscles of his
mouth. He shook his head quietly and
murmured, Too late-ioo late -
mo, hope not Here; take this. For
give ma did not know-this morning.
Very sorry--very sorry indeed! He flung
down $50 note, and would have placed it
in the young mans hand. But he pushed
it aside gently, shook his head mournlully,
and pointed to his wife.
Mrs. Scriptor had approached the bed,
anu was loohiiS iISH'iy dt tut stiit iofHi
upon it. She is dead,' she cried. 1t is
indeed too late!
The young man buried his face in his
hands and wept. Scriptor left the $50 note
beside him, and then took his departure
They could not intrude upon the affecting
sorrows of the lone mourner-heart-strick.
en- and desolate. The rich publisher re-
turned to his own comfortable home and
cheerful 6reside, but he sat silent and
thoughtful. His conscience smote him,
that he had not proffered succor before it
was too late.' And the image of that fair
being, cold and dead yet beautiful-and the
mute grief Of the broken hearted husband,
haunted him in his slumbers.
The next day the authors wife was huri-
ed and she now sleeps peacefully in
Greenwood. The hoafse, wintry blasts
which once whistled through the shattered
tenement in which she dwelt, and blew
their chill breath upon her-now nightly
chant their requiem over her tomb, bu, she
heeds i, not. Her sleep is undisturbed; for
she now rests, free from the bitter trials and
cares Of life.
These sad events are, as it were, of but
yesterday.---N. Y. Journal Of Commerce.