Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1862-12-26

battle for himself and for her and sail
or's life was his coveted calling.
1t seems to me, Henry said the mo-
ther, when with a trembling lip, she
parted from him, as If must still pu:
a light in the little window. shall think
sometimes that hear the sound of your
footsteps, the click of the latch, and your
pleasant voice. o, Henry, Henry, if ]
could but light you over the stormy wa,
ters =
The long voyage was ended f; but an
other voyage was to end before that
The widow Locke was taken ill. Yet,
with unfailing regularity, with feeble step
and trembling hand, nightly, the dear
woman trimmed the little lamp and placed
it in the window. Still, when the bend
ed form could no longer totter about the
cottage, when she lay helpless upon the
bed, and the neighbors came in to take
care of her, she would say, Put the little
lamp in the wndow-my Henry will be
thinking of it,
Night after night, and even until her
eyes grew dim, she would watch the ra-
dance of the Pickering light, only saying
sometimes, Shall live to hear his foot
steps Will that feeble flame still burn
when my life's light has gone out?'
i have longed TO see him. she said
l have prayed earnestly, but have Civ
en- it all up, now. / shall not meet him
in this world
Have you put the light in the window !?
she asked suddenly, few moments after.
1t is growing dark
Alas it was not the light that was
growing dark.
Her hands grew cold. Over he- coun-
tenance came that mysterious shadow that
falls but once on any mortal face.
'Oh ! my boy my boy? she whis-
pered 'tel him'-they bent lower TO
catch her failing words tell him 7 will
put light in the window Of heaven, to
guide his footsteps there
, The thrilling sentence was hardly spo-
= ken, when the shadow dropped from the
, sufferers face, and it smiled in the calm
t majesty of death.
t A funeral followed; humble hearts at
tended the body of one who was loved
t for her sincere goodness all through the
hamlet and on the hill side, in little
graveyard, she was buried.
t Not many days after, a great ship
= came into the port of busy city. Am
a ong all those who stepped from the decks
!. none were more hopeful, more joyous
i than young Henry Locke. He had
: passed through the ordeal of life at sea
r. so far, unscatbed. No blight of immor'
I alty had fallen upon him. He had kept
d himself as spotless as if at every night
p fall his feet had been turned towards the
I door of his mothers cottage. How hi:
heart bounded at the thought of her =
h Strangely enough, he never dreamed she
might be dead. 1t did not occur to hin
e that perhaps her silver locks were lying
e under the lid of the coffin. Oh, no; ht
n only thought of the pleasant light of the
(, window, that her hands had trimmed fol
% him. So he journeyed to his native
% town.
Yonder comes one who trudges on lag
y gingly, farmer in heavy boots and frock
At his whip in his hand. He cheers thi
lazy oxen, but suddenly stops amazed.
= Il see you know me, said the younG
5, sailor, smiling. Well, farmer Brown
'e how is-%
u Know yeu?' why, how tall you are
s. So-'his eyes drop, his mouth trembles-
l. so you've got home
Yes, and glad enough to get bacl
ID again. How is mother
D Your-mother, he says, in low
rs hesitating way, that telegraphs i'll tiding
e. before they are told in words.
r Yes, yes--is she well F? Is she expect
ing me ? OF course she is (; we're late b
y month, full
Your mother, Henry? Well-th
ot old lady'-he plays with bis whip, or ra
a ther strikes it hard on the dusty road
d How can he crush that happy heart T!
= 'There-you need not speak : erie
n the young man, in a voice of sudden an.