Litchfield enquirer., 1860-02-09

WTlCc HeF iOuS ltCtcF Out Ol tUcSe udyo
 "Don't, Edward, don't It'll break m heart. What shall I do without you t take me to ride, and to tell me funny stories and help me to take care of my fower-beds and what will you do without Mary to love and to tease you, to comb your hair, ant bring your slippers? o, I can't let you go! and she clung to him her sweet face wash ed with tears, and her small figure shaking with sobs.
 He took her up in his arms, and pressed her tightly to his heart, and the sternnes went for moment out of the young man. | face.
 II can't help it. Mary. little sister, tha I love better than anything on the face O the earth, and want you to remember this whether you ever see me again or not. But it won't do to give way now. Father has turned me out of his house once and forev CT" And here his face settled back into it: old sternness once more.
 The little girl stood still, and shivered 70 Edward"
 Then her sweet face suddenly flashed ur through it's tears to him.
 II will go straight to papa, and beg him to take you back" and she would have sprung away from her brother, but he held her back forcibly.
 "Never, Mary, never will I look upon his face again It is useless to intercede now. He has turned me, like dog from his threshold, and cross it now for the last time."
 That stern face and the clenched hand, which he brought down on the door-knob, froze the tears on the chld's face.
 Then the young man turned toward her, and the fierce light went out of his eyes,
 Mary. little sister, goodbye. Don't forget me, and to pray for me every night" He broke down here, and kissing her fore head three or four times, he darted out of the house.
 "But papa, you haven't sent him away, forever, and he will come back some time." And she pressed up her soft wet cheeks to the old mans, and her small fingers futtered amongst his gray sprinkled hair, like flock of new hedged birds.
 Mary, you must never speak to me of him again. Edward has offended me, past forgiveness, and he is no longer a son of mine, or brother of yours. l have dis owned him. And now, remember, 1 must be obeyed."
 The old man held her, his fair young child, in his lap, as he uttered the cruel words, his face still rigid, and his brow knotted with blue veins, but lB hand rested tenderIy on her bright hair, for Mary Reynolds was her fathers idol.
 There was no sound in the great library, but the broken sobs of the little girl
 "Come, daughter, don't j" it was won derful how those stern tones fell into a sweetness that was like a mother's "Pa- pa will be very kind to his little girl and make her very happy, and she must not trouble by grieving so."
 At last the child lifted her head, and her glance fell upon the portrait of lady oppo- site, set in richly carved frame.
 The face was still young, and the sweet ness of the azure eyes, and the futtering smile about the lips, and the soft delicacy of the whole face, would have won your heart to it at once.
 "Papa, am glad now, that she died be- fore can remember her."
 My child, what do you mean 2" with tones full of amazement.
 Because, papa, it would have broken her heart"
 The old man sat down his child, and she went out of the library His stern lips did not culver, nor his iron will fater in it's pur- pose, but there rose up before him a fair pie ture of that young face, above which the grass had been growing for eleven years, as it bent with proud mother-tenderness over a little brown curly head, which she was lift ing up for its fathers kiss. And the baby stretched out it's hands, and crowed triumph antly, as his fingers clutched the mans hair, and this baby was his frst-born child, and he had turned him forever from his doors. Mary had spoken the truth. It was well that her mother was dead, for it would have broken her heart.
 William Reynolds, the banker, was stern resolute man, honorable in his dealings with all men, but sympathetic, pitiful to none. He had married late in life, woman much younger than himself, one who combined rare graces of heart and mind, and who had open ed all the hidden springs of tenderness in this cold. undemonstratye nature. Their son had inherited the warm impulses of his mother, with the infexible will of his father, and after the death of the former gradual arrangement developed itself between the two, and the gentle, healing element of the mother was not there to reconcile those she loved Matters grew worse and worse, un- til, after having graduated at college the young man fatly refused to gratify his fath- CTS darling ambition of succeeding him in business, he having chosen the law for his profession.
 A lone and severe altercation ensued be- twixt the father and son. Harsh, fierce words passed between them, for both were equally determined and angry, and the whole ended in the rich bankers turning his son forever from his threshold.
 "No hoper'
 "None at all, my dear sir I am compel. led to tell you that your child will never be. hold the sunset"
 The proud, stern man turned away, hid his face in his hands, and groaned heavily
 The sunshine fluttered and fitted like the sweet, tremulous dreams of youth, all about the lofty chamber in which that fair child lay dying, smitten suddenly by a fever, which had drunk the springs of her young life, and kindled her pulses with fires that death only