The weekly Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1861, 1860-06-13

gel on her little couch.
Every morning when Loose Ben came up
to build the fire, that dear little voice would
say, "does you lore God !" and when he had
answered with his stereotyped "yaae," she
would add in precisely the same words as
before, "does you pray to God in the morn
ing :" and again with that stupid, wandering
look, he would say, "ya.as." But there was
a change i0 this semi. barbarian. Gradually
the rough, heavy locks, were trained to fall
back from his low but full face his wood
colored face grew clean, and his great hands
evinced some marks of attention. By some
mysterious process his clothes were mend.
ed, and little by little, Loose Ben seemed to
emerge from his loutish shell into region
Of more thought and freer scope. The no.
tel loungers still jeered him, still called him
all kinds of strange and original names, but
he did not mind them, and had one seen him
going up to his daily duty TO room Sc, a
smile might have been detected lighting up
bis homely face, till it was almost handsome.
And as he entered day after day. came the
same questions about love and prayer.
One Sabbath morning, never to-be.forgot.
ten day, Qor am telling no story OF fiction
dear reader,) the rop came os usual to room
IS, and when the door was opened in walk.
ed Loose Ben, worthy of the name no Ion.
ger. He brought the wood, not in his usual
way but in basket, and wonder of wonders!
he was ttired in a neat grey suit, from head
to foot, and under his left arm he carried q
strow hat, bound with black ribbon
Leisurely he went to the hearthsstone and
leisurely set the kinding and the wood in
their place. Then he turned round to look
for Antoinette. A little voice came from
under the curtains, "Benny, does you love
God? Does you pray in the morning I"
The boy drew his hands before his eyes,
and as Nette made herself visible, he went
towards her and fell on his knees at her feet.
"You dear little angel" he sobbed, taking
her hand and covering it with kisses. "Ev-
cry morning you ask me that, and every
morning lie to you. Yes, lie to you, for
| no love God os you say. Then you ask
me il pray every morning, and lie to you
again, and keep lying to you, because l
didn't know no better, because poor, igno-
rant Dutch boy. But this morning, you
dear little angel, tell you loue God. |
tell you prey to God, yes, l love, pray"
he added, the tears running down his coarse
checks, while Mr.. and Mrs. Hayden stood
looking on full Of astonishment. "You
nude me 60 to God, you little angel you |;
you make me pray to God, and tell you no
lie ary longer. O! when you did ask me
first, knew not what to make of it, and I
think it no harm to say yaas. But when
you ask again, and keep asking, keep
thinking what you mean. 1t seem to me
my heart was very wicked, and | come to
tremble as laid my hand on the latch OF
the door, for knew what you would as k
me, you sweet little angel you. And now
have found God, come to thank you on my
knees that you did ask me-oh! yes, blessed
be God %
Tears choked his utterance Antoinette
scarcely knowing what it oil meant, stood
looking gravely towards him, childish
wonder in her face, until John Hayden
snatched her from the floor and folded her
with many kisses to his bosom.
The scene changes to a handsome dwell
ing in the city. Snow lays on all the
streets, white and glitterng-the naked
trees, the gray caps of the houses, the iron
ralings, oil are robed in the shroud of the
autumn days. All some cold wind, some
snow has entered that house the white
drapery of the windows is unifted children
go in and come out again with sorrowful ia.
ces the passing traveller looks mournfully
up as he wanders by there must be gloom
in that house yes, the white snow of death
lays upon the forehead OF on only child.
She is in her coffin now, with roses above
her pale bosom, and the little silver plate
says, "Antoinette Hayden, aged seven."-
What Is her mission done so soon 3
Does the angel buthe her wings in the light
OF heaven. Even so.
In darkened chamber sat the mother of
this lovely flower, bearing her grief clone
with God. No sigh broke from her bosom,
no tear fell from her eye che looked calm,
she was calm, but resigned os she evidently
was, the stern immobility of her features
told that grief, deeper than could find any
outlet, lay heavy at her heart.
Rising up after her long vigil, she went
noiselessy down stairs towards the room
where her child slept the last, long sleep
AS she was entering, voice struck her ear.
as II some long remembered music had but
now sounded the chord vibrated against her
heart. She paused voice asked for An.
toinette-little Antoinette Hayden, and an.
other voice mournlully murmured the sad
truth.
"Dead !" exclaimed the stranger, "little
angel dead !"
An then came feet along TIE passage
and tall, dark man stood before her.
"You, do not know me, Mrs. Hayden" he
7said, as after moment, striving to possess
bis self.command, he spoke.
II do not, indeed" replied the bereaved
mother, in low tones. .,....
"Ah my dear madam, am he whom