Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1857-10-16

SiOSCo e gCS, sway ing HttSelI " auu ITO,
muttering now and then, Oh, this pitt
less storm y
Outside, the figure tottered on.
Suddenly there was a cry borne upon
the blast-a wild, wailing, human cry,
rising high above the wind, piercing into
the red house, piercing Moses Grants
firm, stony heart, as he sat before the fire.
A weight seemed TO fall helplessly against
the outside door, and then there was 81
ience.
The mother sprang up and mechani-
cally threw open the door, and the snow
turnbled in, and the rvai1ipg wind rushed
in. What was it lying there, stiff and
helpless, upon the stone step, lifting up,
whittier than the snow, its ghastly human
face f? The old man sprang to his WIFE
side. He had overrated his own stoi-
cism. He shook her arm, almost harsh
ly.
What are you thinking of Mary p
he cried, passionately; have you nc
mothers heart-will you let her die there
before your eyes-our child, Margaret
He caught the PROSTATE figure in hi:
arms-to his breast he carried her into
the warmth, the light, the fathers house
whence she had wandered and then the
cold, iron man wept over her like a help
less child, while<he mother, fully herself
now, worked with wild energy, collecting
and applying gestOratives, chafng the
thin hands and the numb, half-frozer
feet.
/ Her efforts were successful in so far
that the girl, for she was no more thar
eighteen, opened her eyes and came bacE
to life with a gasping shudder. She die
not seem quite restored, however, to tht
/ full use of their faculties. She spoke BY
snatches, in a strange wandering fash
ion.
7 thought was dead" she said, 'Fbu
I'm not. This is home, isn'tit, and there.
father. What do you cry so for, father
You never used to. I never saw you dt
so before. Oh know you are cry
ing about poor Margaret. You thinl
now that she wasn'tso bad, after all. 70,
are glad she has come home
"Margaret," broke in her mother
voice, were you deceived Did yol
think you were married to that man
that Gilbert Trumbull?"
1t was pitiful to see such fierce passion
in one so gentle as Margaret Grant, who
from childhood, had never known
thought save of loving submission to he
parents viii, until that stronger love cam
and compelled her obedience in anOthe
direction. The blood mantled her pal
cheek, and burned there in one roun
red spot. She rose up in the bed an
shrieked out, with her eyes gleamin:
/ her frame trembling,
"You shall not, I say you shall nc
speak his name-you who hate him 81
You shall not drive me into betraving hi
! secret. Turn me out again into th
storm, if you VIII. 1 can die there 3
well as here; but you shall not make n
answer your questions
Hush, darling, darling, darling
nu-mured Mary Grant; the mother-lov
the mother-tcndernes, stronger than if
choking il her voice, thrilling in ht
touch. raining in tears from her eyes
you shall not teIlme if you do not wis
to. Be satisfied. You shall never Z
out into the cold world again-yOu sha
never suffer any more
E And Moses Grant wept on, the Will
j his proud, stony heart melted, for tt
r time, quite into childishness sayir
). nothing, only looking now and then
? the girl whom his anger had driven for
and who had come back to him-ala:
he knew II, now, to die.
That night babe was borne in the r.
4 home in the hollow. She came in Il
!. storm was it a token Of the Il
II, that awaited her? Outside were the sno
the darkness, the pitiless wailing bias
within, only the girl, 50 young, so ia
: even in her ruin, and the two old peopl
!