The Wheeling daily register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1864-1878, 1865-07-25

/ grateful and constant so she write:
| him ready answer, not very wellspelled
| perhaps, but CHEEKY and robust, like her
self She is sixteen; he is approach
| ing thirty-a fair contrast He has edu
| cation and air about him; She has no ed
ucation to speak of, but keen apprecla
| ton and ambition. They write each 9th
| er a great many letters-all after the
usual style-first friendship-nryt avow
al-fnally love. This must have been 4
very sad case of love, too, for, as the IT.
tie girl progresses with her onward march
to womanhood, the 1.-the aud huoyant
spirit deepens into sentiment and gradu'
ally becomes intense. She loves her low
er to distraction, and they meet once
more, aud she is his darling litlie Mollie'
At this time Mary Harris must have
| been what the young gentleman call a
| killing little facinater She was just
past seventeen-a tidy waist-a trim
| figure--a swan like neck--a comely face
not too tall, luXuriant hair and ndirefe.
| All the larks around town were half mad
about her. She wore bit of 4 grey
cloak and IA gipsey hat. But she cared
not fig for the whole of them. She was
W. w'apped up in her old bachelor, Us she
called him, and wonld follow him to the
end of the world She said so, Mt least,
and he believed her, aud began to prac-
tice upon her love and trust. But Irish
virtue is an article of stubborn
quality, and often defes the fiercest pas
sion. In this case, at any rate, it did so.
The lover, failing to carry his point,
gradually grew tired of his little Mollie,
after Irritation of five or six years. Men
very often, too often we fear, weary OF
their little Mollies through such long
siege of love, and if they have no mind
to make them their little wives. and are
not able to make them anything else, are
quite ready to tuIn them over. The old
bachelor, now getting into thirties, was
tired; he wanted to marry somebody else;
he did not want to marry his little Mollie,
so he gave her over. Yes he gave her
over, gradually, however, by neglect and
absence, and finally married another
woman, and went to Washington to hold
an Office under the Government
What must have been the feelings OF
this wild little Irish girl, with her warm
heart, her active spirit, her keen senslbll-
tiles, her ardent love, to find herself cast
off, like worn out garment, after tive
years of constancy and devotion Love
is a cruel passion Ii is bittcr-swcct.-
1t has its dark lines at best, and to this
prosecuted, abandoned girl, they must
have been hideously dark for she took to
broOding, and grew wan and pale, and
suffered and was not herself any more
1t was thus she resolved i'll her bitterness
and wrath, in hel misery and inanitIon,
that she would follow him and kill him.
Kill him! yes for had he not killed love
and life in her had he not married an
other woman, and how can you offend
a woman who loves you, more mortaliy
than by marrying some one else
She went to Washington She sought
the department in which.he was EN-.
ployed. 1t was dull, cold January al
ternoon The ejanitor at the door showed
her up flight Of Stone steps and
through the long hall, and pointed out
the very room, unconscious as Govern
meIit ianitor must have been, of her
bloody purpose Just as she reaches the
door she meets her victim coming ont
with friend He sees her, and no
doubt a prophetic light, flashes within
him fer he exclaims, My God" Two re-
ports--sharp ringing pistol shots echoing
and re-ecoing throuhout those vast corri-
doris and colnmns-follow in quick sue
cession, and the false lover lies dead
man upon the gray mating of the floor.
The deed is done The deception of
years is expiated. The revenge ofmonths
of wild and lonely meditation is com
plete. Alas, poor, frail humanity Lit
tie rosebud has done it. Little Mollie is
a murderer. o, roguish eyes of black
0, pink land peachen cheek ., hood,
and wimple, and short trocks and panta-
lettes Never any more peace, never any
more peace, never any more innocence
never any more calm, sweet sleep Boots
it to you, now that he is dead, that he
was the husband of another woman, that
he wronged you and deserted you!
Vows of unheard of and endless devotion
How ye have faded away
So goes the mill A little puff of
smoke. A little scent of powder A few
drops of blood And the little Irish girl
is down stairs sobbing, without shedding
a tear, and crying "My God, why did |
do it," The great Secretary comes, lord
of the nations Treasure. She clings to
him, and kneels before him, and he, too,
asks her why she did it9 She knows no
reason, except that "she loved him so
much' There it is. 1t was not hate,
but love She loved him so much tina
she would rather he were dead than that
another woman should have him. A
woman to the last Who would have
her otherwise!
They took her away to Jail. They
lodged her in dungeon. And there she
has lain ever since. Most of the time
she has been ill, and when she has not
been i'll, she has been depressed, sullen
and silent. They have brought her ont
TO try her for her life, and the courtroom
is crowded daily with eager spectators:
1t is the little Irish girl no longer. All
the bloom has gone. The fire has faded
from the roguish eyes. The cheek is
pallid and sunken. She does not care to
live, but they will not let her die. They
will set her at liberty, and she will live
broken-hearted woman, or perish in a