The Westerly echo, & Pawcatuck advertiser. [volume] (Westerly, R.I.) 1854-1858, 1856-11-06


by her sid; but its fall did not aron>,
her from the rcverie into which she had
sunk. She did not even observe fo
some moments, the entrance Of ser
want, who stood silently before her. a;
If accustomed to and respecting her
moods
AT last she looked up, and with some
dispeasure, asked what was the cause oi
this intrusion
There is a gentleman in the parlor,
began the servant.
And did not give you express or.
ders, John,' interrupted his mistress
that was not to be at home to any
one this morning ....
So | told him, ma m; but be per.
sisted Oh coming in, and said he would
wait here till YOU were at home
Very well, then, let him wait my
pleasure returned Mrs. Bartoll, and
dismissing the footman by a wave of the
hand, she sank back again upon the di.
van, as if trying to resume the train Of
thought which he had interrupted but
in vain-the charm was broken, and
half pettisbly, she rose at last aud saun-
tiered Into tie drawing rooms.
A gentleman who was seated there,
rose at her entrance, and introducing
himself as Captain Emerson, led for.
ward little girl of some ten years of
age, saying simply, ..
This child, madam, together with
this letter, | promised to deliver to
you in person, must be my apology for
this intrusion npon you, and as | have
but short time to remain in port, dur
ing which | shall be much occupied |
was Obliged to insist on coming in this
morning to wait for your return
Mrs Bartol looked with some sur
prise at the child, but took the letter
mechanically, opened it, and read:
They tell me am dying, dearest
Harriet, and | feel that it is but too
true. Mine has been at best, but a sad
life, and death is to me no unwelcone
visitor But have a child my poor
little motherless Blanca, soon to be- an
orphan alone in the cold pitiless world
--friendless, pennilcss. The thought
that | must leave her thus, alone makes
death bitter, and that lhonght is agony.
| have but one hope, that my appeal to
you will not be in vain.
Once, know you would have grant
ed my request BY the memory of our
childish days by the love you bore me
long ago, coujure you to heed it now
Oh, Harriet, take and cherish my or
phan child, for such she will be when
this reaches you Farewell, and may
God hear your dying prayer, as you hear
that of your dying cousin,
HoRACE EvERETT
The words had evidently been panncd
with difficulty; yet the half.formrd and
nearly illegible characters had strange
power over the worldly woman. They
carried her back to the days of her
childhood, and thousand recollections
Of childish joys and sorrows in which be
had been sharer, rushed over her
mind. With all the happy, innocent
days of her infancy and early youth be
was associated for living in the same
retired village, their mothers, who were
sisters, and even more warmly attacb,d
to each other than il is common forisis.
iers to be, bad spared no pains to cult
Vate and increase the attachment exist
ny between their children. The bow
md girl had rambled over the fields to
,ether, read the same books, studied
lnder the same teachers, gone to church L
nd school hand in hand, aud in fact
lad been almost inseparable but the ,
of their lives, which had flown |
n so peacefully together, bad long since r
'idely div rged, and for years, she Who Z
ad once been his constant companion
ad iardly thought of him She had =
nown indeed that Horace had married r
, Italy whero he bad gone TO pursue b
is studies, for be was an artist, and that
is wife, a lady of high rank, had been d
sinberited by her father 10 conse- I,
uence Of her union with one whom he I,