Butte record., 1856-01-19
God keep you Philip

years that followed the date of the last
letter.
1t is the afternoon of an August
Sunday in one Of the most quiet and
retired portions Of -- County ,among
the Highlands. The day has
been oppressively warm, and the
air is sultry, giving indications of the
coming of thunder-storms.
The little church of - stood at
the very entrance of the mountain
glen, where the brook after dashing
down rocks for half amile, flows
peacefully out into the meadow lands.
The church stands among the trees
which shade the peaceful groves that
are around it, and which darken the
windows even at midday, so thick and
heavy is their foliage. The building
itself is old. The oak timbers, that
were never covered nor painted,
are somewhat rm-eaten, but very
curious and ancient in appearance,
and the entire aspect of the interior of
the church is that of old times. In
one of the large square pews, around
which are curtains that exclude the
vision of neighbors and even of the
clergyman himself, two ladies, stran-
gers in the village, are sitting with
bowed heads, waiting tie commence
ment of the afternoon service. The
village has been not unfrequently the
resort of invalids from the city, and
one of these ladies is Of this class
The other, her neice, young and
very beautiful woman, in the perfection
of health has accompanied her for the
sake of companionship.
There was a strange fascination to the
younger lady in the voice of the cler-
gyman. TWAS singularly musical in
the ears of any stranger, but to her
there was something more than she
could describe in its power. At the
first sound of his voice she sprang from
her seat and looked toward him. But
the obscurity of coming storm dark
ened the church, and she sought in
vain to recognize his features. 1t was
familiar voice, and yet she could not
place it. The service proceeded, and
She sat in the corner Of the pew and
buried her face in her lands, and
seemed to be sleeping.
But she was not sleeping. There
was tempest in the mind of the proud
and elegant lady sitting in the little
up-country church. with her face hid
den from her companion.
The sermon was on the pomp and
vanity Of the world.
After the service was over the Ia
dies left their pew, and stood few
moments, with their walls drawn over
their faces, while the congregation
passed out.
And then the clergyman came down
the aisle, and as he passed the aisle,
and as he passed the first pew, he open
ed it, and young, slender, but very
beautiful lady took bis arm walked
slowly with him, leaning heavily on
him for support.
They passed the door where the la
dies stood and he bowed politely. The
elder lady returned the bow. The
younger looked steadfastly in the face
of the lady on his arm, and when she
had passed, turned rapidly to her aunt
and said: sask some one Who that la
dy is"
The question was put to a parish
ioner, who replied, wondering that any
one could be so ignorant: at is Mrs.
Winslow, the minister's wife,
"She is ILL.,"
eyes, ma'am-yes-she is dying,
poor lady"
Dying. and with what's
Consumption, ma'am. They have
only been married few weeks. She
is the daughter of Mr.. Green, the
richest man in the county"
SO Mary Pierson learned that Phil
ip Winslow was married. But she
did not learn all that day. The land
lady of the village inn was communi-
cative at the table on Monday morn
ing, and what with her story, and Ma
ry's knowledge of his character, she
learned the true history well enough
to satisfy herself. We who know more
of it can relate it briefly.
He had been the constant visitor at
the house of Mr.. Green, ever welcome,
and especially to Susan, the only child
of the house, a flower of rare grace,
beauty and delicacy. | shall not pause
to relate the growth of her love for
Mr.. Winslow, or its purity and strength
He did not dream Of it till it was too
late. Then he awoke to the startling
fact that his long evenings at the hall,
his brilliant wit, his love of all the
beautiful, his admiration of certain
books, and certain styles Of thought,
his walks and talks, and won the love
Of this fragile child, whose days on