Butte record., 1856-01-19

"Mary, | wished to see You tonight
before that crowd of fools come up"
''You are complimentary to our
guests
Il havn't time to talk of tnat-
am going away tomorrow, or the next
day, to be gone one, two, three
years. | know not how lon4 | can
not 90 without-without-'
"Without what, Philip!'
"We have been friends very long,
Mary
"Many years.
"Can we ever be more than
friends?'
She looked in his face. 1t was very
dark, but his eyes were fixed on hers.
She knew that. He was close by her.
S e felt his head bend down to hers.
II ; check touched her cheek. 1t had
touched it thousand times before Just
so, but she never before trembled as
she now did. She was silent; his arm
stole slowly around her, and yet she
was silent; he drew her to his side, be
kissed her forehead, her cheek, her
lips, but she did not kiss him OF notice
it at ALL
She was thinking-a flood Of tho't
was pouring through her soul. 1t
might have been one, two, three min
utes, or not so many seconds, while
they sat thus, and then servant 5
step on the stair aroused them, and
they separated.
Neither were satisfied. He knew
her too well to suppose she was con-
scious Of his carcsses, and she, though
she remembered them, was unable to
satisfy herself that she loved him, or
should longer permit them.
He did not 90 the next day. They
rode together as usual, and he renewed
the conversation. She was prepared
for it.
In vain did he argue, and beseech,
and implore. Her mind was fixed
She did not love him, except as the
dear friend of many years. She would
be kind to him, would love him just so
always, but he must not ask for any
thing more.
That evening he wrote to her long
mad letter, full of his love, and ended
all with saying that he could not be
her friend; he must be her husband, or
never see her again on this earth.-
There was no other future for him, and
he left her to pronounce the decree of
their eternal separation.
And it came in the letter from which
| have given the extract.
He was the son of a village clergy
mana poor man, but one of the ex
cellent of earth, and the fast friend of
Colonel Pierson from youth.
The Colonel had never viewed his
intimacy with Mary with any dislike,
and would have been the pleasantest
day of his life, that on which he should
give his daughter to the son of his
friend.
But-be it said without reproaching
her, and let no one form an evil opin-
ion of he1 for it-thcrc was In the
heart of Mary Pierson great ambi-
ton, which she had never confessed to
herself, and none else ever dreamed of.
In her silent hours of thought she was
given to building castles in the air,
such as few maidens build. 1t was
not of wealth and its magnifcence, nor
of any of the ordinary limits of female
desire. But she looked to the power
of queen.
The week after that letter was writ
ten Philip Winslow was on the sea-
Here are extracts from two letters
written a year later.
''Has year produced any change2
1t is vain to conceal the simple truth
from you, Mary, that | am miserably
lonesome without the hope of your love,
and | do not see before me one spot
so bright as the light that shines
through my grave. | have believed
that you loved me. l have convinced
myself that | can not be mistaken. |
have hoped against all your calm as
surances. And now, once more, and
for the last time, | come and ask for
love. Give, give! or | perlshn'
Her reply:
81 said forever, Philip, it must be
so. You are right in believing that |
love you. But | do not love you as
you wish. We can never be more
than friends. Forgive me Philip, if |
sadden you again. You would not let
it rest as it was. 1t must be even SO.
Seek no further to change me-look
for no change in me. have searched
my heart through for you, carefully,
faithfully. l have removed myself out
of myself for the sake of looking at my
soul, and Philip, it must bet must
be. | do not even weep on this page
in writing it, so cold am | In all this.
And when | know that pain is wiring
ing your heart, nv own beats steadily