Bellows Falls times. [volume] (Bellows Falls, Vt.) 1856-1965, 1859-04-22

: feet, as | paced my room that evening
Yes, l. proud, arrogant, defant--at who's,
I feet others had knelt, would have kntl il
the deepest humility of soul to that plain
quiet, unassuming Missionary of the Cross
Ah love worke,h strange things.
7 But il was too late. He never came tC
onr house again. never met him, saw,
on the street, and then he simply bowed tC
me as friend. / did not 90 any more tt
hear him preach. His voice would have
brought that fatal hour to my memory, anC
! would have grown more wretched thar
ever, in my self-abasement. His labor;
soon called him elsewhere, and did moi
see him for three years. / heard of hin
often, though; scme of his sermons, but
more often, beautiful extracts from them
came floating TO me through the newspaper
world.
put my better nature behind me;
again rushed into society, and again became
us acknowledged queen. But society had
no attractions my eyes saw only tinsel
and show, and my ears heard only hollow,
meaningless sounds. There was a great
sorrow in my heart, and it grew npon my
face. The world said, g She is suffering.
She has found her olon. 1t will do her
good"
| was stopping at the Girard House in
Philadelphia. / had arrived there the day
before, and was in my room reading. A
little boy was show N up ly the servant; he
handed me note, which opened and read.
II ran az follows:
! DEAR FALCON:
/ have learned by the arrivals that you
are at the Girard House. l am dying.
VIII you come and see me? My little boy
will show you The way. No. Z.
October 8, 1856.
There was no mistiness about that
/ though there was mistiness in my eyes,
How that simple signature took me back
into the long ago! / was again at the Ev-
ergreen Seminary, up in +" No. z" that
sweet old room, opening out upon the wind
ing brook, the shady walks, and the beauti-
ful vista of scenery.
| My room-mates were with me; the sweet
postess of the green hills of New Hamp-
shire, and the gentle Agnes Byrne, she who
was now waiting by the darkIing river of
death
| ] saw the Nun Agnes" as we called
her, again before me-with her soft, sunny
hair, her dove-like ewes, and her sweet.
classic mouth. We had been more than
common friends. She was so different
from me she passive. and positive she
weak, quiet, yieldirg. child-like; | strong
vivaciouS, bold, uncompromising, verta-
lie woman even then. Our love was a
love of opposites. She looked up 10 me
for hope and strength. | took her under
my protection her iormentorS shrank
away at the sarcasm of my words, at the
fire in my eyes, at tie scorn upon my lips &;
she was wholly unapproachable then. Oh,
how those soft eyes and crimson lips thanked
me Tor it.
Once we all three stood together at the
window in No. z. 1t was calm, starlight
night we were talking of the stars. They
were gems to shine in my ebon hair they
were white hands to beckon on the child of
song they were beads TO string in the ro-
sary of the prayerful Agnes ! Those DIFF
! ferent expressions were our characteristics.
And now the I" Nun Agnes was ahont to
4 90 on before-to tread the beautiful path
way of stars.
laid aside my jewels; put on my
simplest dress parted my hair plainly
over my brow. Was | not going to the
bedside of dying friend | saw myself
in the mirror; thought had never look
ed so beautiful before. All / was taking
some of nv pride with me.
! Her child led the way. He was thinly
clad His mothers hair and eyes were
there. but his lips were not so fine and ex-
pressive. Perhaps suffering had to do with
that We reached the street where she
/ lived narrow court-the wretched
dwelling We went Up the long, winding
s,airs-we were in the room.
50 Nun Agnes" was beautiful still. Her
face was paer, and her CHI eks sunken, but
the same trusting expression was in her
ewes. She was still very much like the
dear, sweet girl of the long ago--like my
room mate in No. Z. She took my hands
/ in hers.
Well, Falcon, have you come ?" she
said.
They had always called me Falcon at
school. ] was so bold, so swooping, and
would rise so high!
Yes, Nun Agnes-and to find you
changed so much.''
" You have changed, too, Corinne."
She was looking at my hair, and my
plain dress.
j am still the proud wilful one--a very
Falcon yet have changed but for the
hour"
"I am half sorry, and half glad, to hear
you say that. Sorry because you have not
changed for eternity, and glad that you so
readily acknowledge your fault. l am dy-
ing, Corinne."
Z" Oh, hope not :"
Her arms were around my neck, and /
was weeping bitterly.
Z" Your hope is different from my hope.
Yes, am going at last-to my Fathers
home, beyond those gates studded with a
thousand stars Will you meet me there 2
Win you lay aside your follies with your
Jewels. and grow lovely in the unspeakabIe
richness of Christ The world is vanity