Dodgeville chronicle. [volume] (Dodgeville, Wis.) 1862-current, 1865-08-31

me now, before you finish it how it is to
be? am [ to have you and-oh won t
think of it even. Lucy, it would be too
dreadful !"
"No, Tom," I answered, "you are to
: have the purse, and the hand that knit
it too"
Poor Tom, he cried then just like a
little child-he, the bravest mar in the
village.
"No fault in him, only leetle too wild,
too fond of gay company but you must
tame him, Lucy, as your mother did me"
That was my old fathers advice on
our wedding day. My heart smote me
dreadfully as I called it to mind that
morning. Had I done my duty? Had
followed the example of my mother.
who never let fall an unkind word?
But Tom would be home to his dinner.
The thought brought me to my feet. I
did my work briskly, and went about
cooking just such dinner as [ knew he
liked The plumb pudding was done to
a perfection; the baby in clean slip,
and myself all smiles to receive him when
the clock struck one. But he didn't
come.
| put up the untasted dinner, and
prepared supper, and lit bright fire in
the little parlor He should have a
pleasant welcome. But he did not come.
Eight, nine, ten o'clock, and put up
the untasted supper, and baby and |
went up to the nursery to wait and watch.
How the little thorn in my heart pierre
ed and ranked Tom had broken his
promise, and my unkindness was the
cause +! Nothing else rang in my ears
through the long hours.
About two o'clock, I heard noise be-
low, and went to the window. There
was man on the porch, could see him
in the dim light.
'sTom, is that you?' [ asked softly,
putting out my head.
eyes; open the door, Lucy; quick,
the police are after me.
My heart sunk. The police after him.
what conld he have done? | ran down
swiftly and unlocked the door, But as
[ did SO, two men, wearing official badg-
es, stepped up on the porch, and one of
them laid his hand on Toms shoulder,
and said,
II arrest you, sir"
For what - I cried.
''For murder ~
The floor seemed sliding from beneath
my feet, but I caught at the door to
steady myself and looked"at Tom. At
that instant the official uncovered his
lantern, and, oh, my God there was
blood on my husbands hands.
A II the rest is blank. When I came
to myself again, | was in bed in my own
room, and kind compassionate faces were
around me. I asked for Tom He was
in prison, awaiting his trial There had
been quarrel at the tavern, whittier
my cruel words had driven Tom; and
Tom had struck his antagonist. The
man wasn't dead though they thought
he was at first-but he was badly hurt
about the head But if he recovered !;
well it would not 60 so hard with Tom
| arose and went to the prison but
they would not admit me. No one was
to see my husband till after the trial
Another day crept by; night: and
then morning came. [ went down to
the door and opened it, with a vague
feeling of expectation which always ac-
companies severe affection, and looked
out. The sun was rising; Gods sun !;
rising grandly and brightly over the black
stone Jail. The frost hung thick and
sparkling over everything, even on the
scrap Of folded paper that lay at my feet.
| stopped and picked it up idly as we
catch at straw or twig, sometimes,
without any motive or power of volition.
The superscription caught my eye; it
was my own name, and my husbands S
handwriting. tore it open and read:
"Deor Lucy-I have broken out of
JAIL and am going-well,n no matter where.
didn't strike Hastings with an inten-
tion to kill him. I was intoxicated, and
it was more his fault than mine; but he
may die, and then at any rate, it is
better for you, Lucy, for me to 60. ]
never was worthy of your love- Now,
you can 60 back to your father, and for
get me. and be happy. You will find
the bonds for what money I have in bank
in the desk /; it is enough to make you
and the child comfortable Forgive and
forget me, Lucy. God bless you-you
and the baby: Tom"
This was the end That was the re-
ward that my cross word had purchased
for me Truly, truly. the wa ges of sin
are death. We shall not need one pang
of corporeal punishment, one spark OF
real fire, to perfect our torment If we are
lost. Conscience is all suficient-re-
morse, that worm that never dies. 1t is
not for me to attempt to talk about what
| suffered in the days that followed that
morning! Words could not express it
save to one that has passed through the
same furnace Of affiiction, could begin to
uudarsf nj ~ Pr& III e.