Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1865-12-22

lurid redness flashed over the email room
over those two white faccs-ovcr the
innocent beauty Of little girl lying in
profound slumbcr near by.
"Henry, wish it had pleased God to
let me follow you TO the graveyard, rather
than to see you the wreck Of what yon
once were. Better the death Of the
body than the ruin Of the SOUL"
"Well my lady, if that's been your
wish, you needn't have been so long tell.
ing it. I've been willing any time within
the last five years, to leave. and glad Of
the chance. No wife shall say to me
that when went over her threshold for
the last time it would be hnppy hour
for her. l wish you every possible joy
Of your release, madam am now going
out Of your door for the last time"
As he spoke he sprang from the room.
The cold wind strcamed in for brief
second. and put the candlc-light out-the
chamber was buried in darkness.
Not sound came from the woman's
lips, as she sat there, for long time
Tuen, when thought had racked her soul
beyond the power Of silent endurance.
she moaned and sobbed and wepe q if
her very heart would break.
"Mamma." cried o little voice in the
darkness-"are you here. mamma 7 is ths:
you crying ?"
"Hush, my darling-hush-snd sleep.
it is very lato.'
"Has papa como yet? 1waat 70 kiss
him."
o! how that innocent question smots
her heart She had driven one whom her
little child could still love, still caress
with infantine tenderness, from his home.
For moment her pulse almost stopped
with horror. as she remembered the calm,
steady way in which he took leave Of her.
She hurried to strike light. It shone
directly upon the portrait Of hor husband,
as he was on his marriage day; and
claspng her hands, she stood breathless.
scanning those almost faultless lineamente,
Then fearful thought took possession Of
her, 90! l was too hasty," she eried.-
IL have said too much, and may have his
death to answer for
Springing to the entrance, she few
down the stairs, unlatched the door, aud
standing on the stone step. called the
name Of her husband repeatedly.
20! which way could he have gone ?"
she walled, striving to look through the
thick darkness, and feeling the sharp
drops Of iue rain striking against her
face.
Out she sped in the stormy night; ran
breathlcssly, first to one corner. then to
another; but not q sound, savo tho dis
tapt baying of watch dogs, could she hear.
Almost frantic, she few up tho street,
peering into tho dark porches Of the
houses. 1t was nearly midnig ght, and
she met no one on the way.-Recalled to
herself, at last, by tae wet cliugius to the
garments around her limbs, and the chill
tremors that shot through her frame, she
sobbingly took her way homeward and
entered to find her little Mary grieving
aud ceiling for father and mother.
"But why didn't you bring papa? l
want to kiss papa" cried the child.
"My May will never kiss papa again, I
fear" murmured the sorrowful woman,
soothing the child in her arms.
That night Of long intense agony !!
That watching for the morning! When
it camc-that pale. haggard face, that
looked out frem the window, so fearless
SO stony-yet so awfully grief struck!
A violent fever succeeding, prostrated
the mother, and when she arose from the
brink of the grave, they dared not tell
her till months of convalescence had es-
tablished her health again, that two
weeks after Henry Remington left his
home, bloated and dis6gured body, sup.
posed 10 be his, though there were but
few marks Of recognition on the corpse,
was found in the river.
Even then, az she learned the sad
truth, reason almost fed, and from that
hour Helen Remington was . changed
woman. Gathering her household treas.
ures, she sold the pretty tenement that
was her own, a gift from her father, and
bought very small cottage with fow
humble rooms. Thither she moved with
her little daug ghtcr. whose artless prattle
about papa stung her poor heart some.
times almost to madness. Relatives and
friends offered her home, but though
most keenly sensible of their kindness.
she refused them all, She wished no eye
but that of God to DO witness Of h0r
daily grief, and thus chose lifo Of in.
dependence, embittered though it would
ever be by remorse.
Ten years passed by, and yet Helen
Remington lived in her desolate home
with her daughter, mourning and sor-
rowiul woman. bearing about Ter the
consciousness that her passionate words,
her want of Cnrist-like forbearance, had
sent a soul unpreparcd into eternity.
She still dressed in deep mourning, and
those who saw her said that such sorrow
must be genuine, for her dark eye was
sunken and dim, and the hair, though yet
abundant, was mixcd with threads Of
silver.
Ella-now growing into womanhood--
attended the village academy. 1t was o
long distance from her home; but one
day she returned with her face flushed
more than usual, and standing in trent OF
her fathers portrait, she exclaimed.
20! how like it was!''
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