The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1856-10-04
Select nliscllann.
"AllAlOSt Thereof


"IIcigh-ho I'm almost home. do wish
this slow coach would go little faster "
The speaker looked out of the coach window
upon the fields whitening gradually with the
snow storm. The landscape was growing
familiar The brown farm houses, with
their capacious barns, n mile oft from his
fathers dwelling, were the homes OF neigh
bors, as country people estimate nclghbor-
hood. Nothing had changed, and yet ne had
been away from home five years, without
once hearing from the loved ones, to whom
softened and pentcnt he was now fastening.
4 vision came u? before him. He remember
ed gentle, blue.cyed woman. whose smile
was the only sunshine Of his not over-happy
childhood. lie remembered how tendcrly
she had blessed him as she babe him good
;ght. the last time he had ever listened to
her voice. In fancy he stole once more down
the back stairs, and looked into the bed room
where she lay sleeping. ONE more, as on
Mut night he, laid down his little pack. on
the lower stair. and crcpt Ill to the bedside.
He looked at the pale, care worn still delicate
face, and thought of the morrow's waking
lie had never told even her, that he meant
| to run away. and yet lie loved her SO. lie
looked at the marble features of that stern
Puritanical father, that deacon in the church,
that good man. and thought, with flushed
| he had given him. Then. once more, his eyes
without one last kiss. lie bent over her.
and tear fell OH her wasted check She
| started in her sleep, and he turned hurricdly
! away. All was lost if she should awake. for
she would never suffer him to 20 out alone
int, tl,nr RI Il n1
All these memories swept over him, blind
ing his eyes, and shutting out from his vision
the intervening years, as the stage-coach
| dragged slowly onward through the dIifted
snow. lie was almost there. 1t was Thanks
giving: he had not thought of that before
He had loved that day. even in his boyhood.
They would be at supper now: his mother
at the head of the board. little Carrie on her
low stool beside her his own place vacant,
and his father, sitting before the turkey, ready
to forgive him.
lie sprang from the stage, and hurried
,joyfuly to the door. But he paused on the
step and his heart seemed hutteriug up into
his mouth. For the first time, he thought
there might have been changes He pushed
open the door less joyously, and the snow,
which had been piled up outside oft, tu,nbled
into the entry, and the screaming wind rush
cd in and he pushed through the snow and
wind and opened the kitchen door.
The fire burned on the hearth as he had
| fancicd, the asparagus boughs waved over
the looking glass in its cherry frame, and a
| pair of big, winter boots toasted. just as of
old. in front of the bright blaze.-But was
that his father sitting there before the turkey,
so gray, so old Aud why did his maiden
aunt Hannah fill his gentle mothers place !
| Where was Carrie ?-..Father," he faltered,
don't you know me! I'm your truant son
James. come home again to ask your forgive
| ness"
II forgavc you long ago." said an altered
Sorrowful voice, in which James Chamberlin
could never have recognized the terror of his
youth, the voice of his stern father. "May
be, it was for the best, James leastways, she
| thought so, and she loved you always.
| know | was hard master for you, and I've
sometimes thought could die easier if [ could
ask your pardon aforc my time come"
.'Mine!' The word was gaspcd forth with
a choking sob, and good Aunt Hannah, who
! had watched the meeting in silence hitherto,
folded her arms round her favorite nephew.
and drew him to her arms round her breast.
Where is my mother Z" the young man
asked at last, with convulSive shuddcr."
lin the graveyard, yonder," answered the
old man. soemnly. "When she found you
were not coming back, she broke her heart
and died. Don't cry, don't cry so. l can't
cry, and it was more my fault than yours.
Carrie is gone, too-married and gone out
Wcst,-as good as dead, for all we shall ever
See of her here. Thank God. you have come
back to close the old mans eyes"
| 1t was a sad sad story. do not like to
tell it. No signs. no tears, no penitencc, can
bring the life. blood back to the cold lips of
the dead. Mary Chambcrln slept on in her
grave. needless of the wild tears and prayers
which her pcnitcnt son poured out, many a
noontdc and many midnight above it
The old man died and was LAID beside her i'll
his last sleep: and, now. once more, with the
SHOWS of life which has known no summer
resting upon his hair, James Chamberlin
looks forward. not eagerly indeed. but patti
emily, hopefully, murnuring-' | am almost
there, and the home, whittier his dim eyes
! turn is in of country, even Heaven.