The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1861-11-21
LOST AND FOUND.
A STRNGE STORY.


Portable as had found the storm, eagerl
rushed again intoit with strange perVersity tn
moment my professional duties were over. 1t
fierce dreary, resentful mood was more in har
moDy with my own tempest-tossed spirit thai
the scene of love and joy lett. The sight O
fair young mother, tender, anxious father
recalled too vIvidly the first years of my owl
married life, with their bitter ending Vainl,
| strove to Danish the humilating memories
fraught with shame and sorrow. They were be
yond my control.
Feeling that battling with the elements, un
dergoing any personal Inconvenience, was bet
ter for me than the solitude of my room, tn,
companionship of my own thoughts, l trudgeC
hercely up and down the streaming pavement
seeking to lind in the wailing, bowling winds
the ceaSless patter, II voice from the passions
! that mastered me. At last the storm in some
measure abated the tumult of my feelings sub
sided land in earnest turned my face homeward
thinking Of the sweet face that would watch
for her fathers returning step. while / was
strongly alive to tie discomfort, no less than
the folly, of my situation. As | entered the
crescent shaped street on which stood nv home
an unusual sound arrested me. 1t seemed the
voice of singer but must be mis- taken, all
was again still. No; list
Like dew on the growan lying,
Is the IA o. her fairy feet,
An like winds il the summer signing,
Her voice is low and sweet,
Her voice is low and sweet,
AM she's all the world to me,
An'for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me down and dee"
A short, convulsive sob, which | was now
near enough to hear, told what the tremulous.
unsteady tones had already betrayed the hardly
restrained emotion of the singer The voice
was one Of rare compass and sweetness, vet
neither that nor the peculiar circumstances of
the singer would account for the bewildering
thrill OF the first notes of the familiar old ballad
sent through me. 1t was as if a master-key had
unlocked the chambers of my heart, and sent
gushing through my startled frame passions
and feelings which had slumbered till believed
them dead l fastened on few steps anxious
to see what voice had power thus to move me,
and what fate compelled any woman to brave
that dismal storm There on my own steps the
singer stood-a slight figure dressed in dripping
shabby black, asathe lamp that hung over my
door informed me. Poor creature; | thought ;
the old story-better days, reduced circumstan-
ces, idle, drunken husband, starving children.
Etc had made up my mind to address her the
door opened, and | stood back in the shade to
see what would transpire.
In the door stood my daughter Ada, peering
curiousy out into the darkness, and behind her
stood Miss Forbes, who had been her governess.
and still resided with her When the woman
saw them she stepped hesitatingly forward and
spoke, but in so low tone that could not dis.
tinguish her words.
Come in come and get warm and dried :
you sing so sweetly,' Ada's musical voice urp-
ed, laying her hand on the stra nger's arm hut
the woman shrank from her touch and glided
back IN the shade, while she seemed to be re-
fusing the protfered invitation. Miss Forbes and
Ada consulted moment, and then Ada sprang
lightly up the stairs.
lis this DR.. Morris's house q the singer ask
ed, in that hushed, earnest voice which is so
audible.
Yes, it is. Do you know him p answered
Miss Forbes, startled out of her usual impertur-
able calmness by the eagerness OF her ques-
toner.
A hurried No as Ada reappeared, satisfied
Miss Forbes, and she did not notice how the
woman clutched her hands nervously and groan-
ed.
Ada had a wooden shawl of her own and q
purse in her hand She folded the shawl and
threw it around the slight shoulders, and placed
a piece of money into the now passive hand.
oh dear! such night to be out = shuddered
my decately reared child, shrinking brck from
the cold. The woman still fingered, gazing
eagerly on her, then, ere Ada could prevent,
she took hold of her hand and uttered a fervent.
God bless you my child and guard you from
sin and sorrow Farewell
In moment more she had glided down the
steps, passing me so closely that her DRIPPING
garments brushed yet evidently unconscious
of my presence.
why, how very strange Who can she ne p'
I heard Ada exclaim as she shut in the warmth
and light.
1t was strange. Who indeed could it be p
Why should my name move her? And why
should her voice have so moved me? A horr;
bic suspicion forced itself upon me. I must fol
low her and put it at rest or confirm il. The
| lamp at the corner of the crescent Just revealed
her for moment gliding round the corner
With this clue l pursued, and soon sighted her
Fearful of her suspicion that she was followed
and trying to elude surmisiug the quarter OF
the town she would be likely to occupy tool
short cut through the back streets, and came
out on Princess street just as she Passed. Sht
walked slowly and YEARLY now. l could scare,
without suspicion, keep pace with her, SO
fingered at the engraver's windows, which wer,
still unshuttered. Now passing, now allowine
her to pass, l tried to see her face, but it wa
resolutely turned from the glaring shop win
dows. l could just tell it was a pale, wasted
deicatey outlined face, and | could tell n,
more.
Several times l almost gave up the chase a
! ~ rs - nv SliIu po
OF the figure, would again stir me, and with re
newed earnestness would again follow On
on, on, up George the Fourth's Bridge, (m
scene is in Edinburgh,) down Candlemaker'
FRow, followed slowly that weary shabby look
ing figure. Closely she had gathered the shaw
my daughter had given her around her shoul
ders, yet | could see that she shuddered. Nov
she stopped, and a hoarse, hollow, rackin
cough rung her death knell to my practiced ear
Her days, be she who she may, were numbere
Numbered all the more surely and shortly
knew they must be from this nights exposure
Now she had passed the Grass-market land pau:
ed before bakers shop, which was alread
crowded to the door wit haggard hungry looi
ing men, women and children.
stood at the window, unmindful of the CT
nous look cast from bearded, famine-sharpene
eyes az my unwonted appearance on such
hight IN such place, at such AN hour. / sa
old age, which bore no crown of glory, but dee
wrinkles traced by vice and Indebtedness. to-
tering on staff fierce, besotted hardened IooI
ng men Pinched, sharp eyed, half clad wone