Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1865-10-28
I asked him where


"She is dead" he answered without
shadow of emotion.
"Howl Where7" I was beginning to
question him but he stopped me,
"Give me something to eat and drink"
he said, II have walked from London, and
want to sleep"
l brought him wha. he wanted He babe
me good night; and as | saw he wished it,
/ left him and went to bed, full of grief, but
even more of wonder than he, who truly
loved his wife if ever man did, could speak
of her, not a month after her death, without
his voice faltering, or his face changing in
the least Tomorrow will solve the ques-
tion, VI said to myself, as, weary with cry
ing, felt sleep coming over me. But to-
morrow did not solve the question. He
told me as before, without emotion, what
he wished me to know, and from that mo-
ment we spoke no more on the subject. In
every respect but tlis he was my own Ste
phen of olG--as kind and as thoughtful as
ever, only altered by rather absent and alb
stracted manner. l thought at first that he
was stunned by his loss, and would realize it
more painfully afterward but months pass
ed on without change. He used Marion's
chair, or things of her work, or sat opposite
to her drawings without seeming to notice
them indeed, it seemed as if she had drop
ped out of his hfc entirely, and left him as
lie was before he knew her The only diff
ference was. that lie, naturally man of
sedentary habits, took Il great deal of exer-
cisc and knew that he kept lautanum in
his bedroom.
At this sine my lover was pressing me to
marry him, and with much difficulty l con-
scnted to tell Stephen about it, though l
had no intention of leaving him. To my
surprise, he seemed pleased. l told him
that would never leave him alone, not for
all the husbands in the world, but he would
not hear me.
~ think it is your duty to marry him,
Margaret" he said; you love him and have
taught him to love you, and You have no
right to sacrifice him to me-"
My first duty is to you Stephen. will
not leave you alone"
Il see that | must explain to you," he
said, after Il pause. When you leave me,
| shall not be alone
"Who will be with you," asked, wonder
ing.
Marion"
started as if l had been shot, for I
thought he must surely be mad but he con-
tinued, quite calmly, and, AS usual, without
emotion
"She died at midday. Till night did
not know what did. felt stunned and
broken and dying myself; but at last, worn
out as ! was with watching and sitting up,
| fell asleep and by Gods mercy she came
to me in my dreams and told me to be COM
fo:ted. The next night she came again, and
from that time to this has never failed me-
Than felt it was my duty to live 4; that if
my life was valuelcss to myself, j: was not
G, 7 I 1orn :
is only freak of my imagination. Perhaps
even produce an illusion by aneifort of my
will; but however that is, it has saved me
from going mad or killing myself. How
does she come Always as she was IN thut
first Summer that we spent here, or in our
early time in Italy always cheerful and
BEAUTIFUL, always alone, always dressed as
she used to dress, talking as she used to
.alk--not an angel, but herself. Sometimes
We 80 ,brc..sa 4 whole day of pleasure:
sometimes she only comes and goes; but no
night has ever yet been without her; and in
deed think that her visits are longer and
dearer as ! draw nearer to her side again. |
sometimes ask myself which Of my two lives
is the real one. | ask myself now ana can
not answer. should think that the other
was if it were not that while ! am in this, |
rccolect the other, and while | am in the
other know nothing beyond. And this is
why my sorrow is not like that of others in
my position. | know that no night will
pass without my seeing her; for my health
is good enough, and lneyer fail to sleep.
Sceplessness is the only earthly evil dread,
now you are provided for. Do not think
me hard to you IN not having told you this
before. 1t is too sacred a thing to be spoken
of without necessity. Now write to your
/ husband that is to be, and tell him to come
here
! did so, and the preparations for my mar
riage began. Stephen was very kind, but
( his thoughts wandered farther and farther
day hy day. | spoke TO doctor, friend
! of his, about him, but it seemed that moth
ing allied him. ! longed, almost to pain, to
ask him more about Marion; but he never
gave me an opportunity. If approached
the subject, he turned the talk in another
direction, and my old habits of submission
to him prevented me from going on. Then
came my wedding, Gay. Stephen gave me
away, and he sat by my side at the breakfast
He seemed to hang over me more tenderly
than ever, as he put ine into the carriage
and took Leave of me.
The last thing did as leaned out of the
carriage window was to tell him to be sure
10 nc my HTSl flSlcr III my utN HOlhc.
mo, Margaret" he said, with sad smile
''say goodbye to me now, my work il
dome"
Scarcely understanding what he said,
badc him goodbye; and it was not until my
husband asked me what it meant, that re
membered his strange look and accent.
then felt hslf-frightened about him; but the
novelty of my first visit abroad made me
forget my fears.
The rest is soon told. The first letter
received from England said that on the very
morning after my marriage he had beer
found dead cold in his bed. He died with
out pain, the doctor said, with his righ
hand clssping his left arm above the wrist
and holding firmly, even in death, circle
of Marion's hair.
CHANGED Her MIND.--The late Professo
Duncan, of st. Andrews University, in Scot
land, was, prior to his appointment to hi
chair, rector to an academy in Forfarshire