The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1866-03-04

good husband to me, Ben, better
than I deserved; but l didn't deceive
you, did I, Ben? I told you ut first
[ couldn't feel for you like I did for
poor John, didn't I, Benz
"*You did, Esther, and I know it,
and I have felt it; but you've been n
good wife to me, you've done your
duty to me, and thank you for it
You see [ never could say much, if I
tclt ever so.
''The curate's wife came in just
then, and Esther's eyes looked bright;
that little gray-eyed woman made
everybody look better for being with
her.
Esther, can I do anything for
you?'
" My boy will want Il mother; be
one to him, will you?'
"'That I will, Esther;' and she
came round to the bedside and kissed
her.
"'Ben, take my hand and hold it
in yours, dear
&c I took her hand and held it till
she died. Just before she died, she
said, God bless you, Ben. I'm sorry
to leave you, dear, but Tn going to
him. I'll tell him you kept your
promise. Be as kind to this boy as
you've been to me, Ben. God bless
you.
'tShe never spoke again, but lay
quite still for an hour or more with
her eyes shut, and 1 only knew she
was dead when her hand felt cold.
"tCome, Ben, says the curate's
wife, you mustn't stay here now it
will do you no good Come, Ben
fEShe took my hand, and I took
hers, and she led me down stairs to
this room and put me in the chair
you're sitting in. She gave her orders
to the servant about getting some-
body to come. l couldn't let go her
hand, it seemed to keep me alive; and
she let it stay there. 1 seemed to
fancy that Esther was not dead when
I held that hand. I don't know how
long she stayed. Esther died at eight;
and they told me afterwards that the
curate had been and seen me holding
his wife's hand, and left her there till
[ fell asleep, about two o clock; so that
six mortal hours did she sit beside me-
1t was the kindest thing ever knew
a woman to do. Some people might
think it foolish L think it saved me
my reason, for felt as if I was out
of mind when I found Esther's hand
get cold.
81 went to the funeral, and we hatl.-
a stone put up; and You ca1 see it in
the church-yard there. We had put
on it:
" Sacred to the memory of Esther
the intended wife Of John Sands, and
wife Of Benjamin Stevens
cit would make no difference to
her whether I put it Oh or not, but 1
always keep my word, you know; can't
feel it right to break it to any but
mad people, when you've made them
a promise to keep them quiet. I don't
know that its right even them
"And the SOM"
go, he's captain of the Clara, now
gone to Melbourne. He was away
when she died. He didn't want to go
to sea; but, as told him, his mothers
story would be-sure to leak out, and
he'd find ashore that he'd have hard
lines on account Of it; SO he went to
sea, and he's been captain this last
three years, and q thoro' good seaman
too"
II see you don't wear your wife's
''No; [ couldn't get it over any of
my fingers, it's so small; but it's no
colder now than it was when she had
it on her finger"
"Well, Ben, yours is a strange
story
perhaps it is; but there's many a
stranger slowed away in some mems
hearts; aye, and many a log that,
overhaulcd, would mako men stare o
little"
perhaps you'll letme look at what
you call your Handbags some day"
ooh, yes. It's no use living if you
don't do some good, and perhaps
somebody might be happier for know
ing what Ben Stevens had seen in
his sixty years voyage
L went through the church yard
home, and looked at the tomb stone,
and felt respect for the old sailor
who goes about with his wife's we'd
ing ring on his heart-not the less
either because his fingers had been
made IN too large by toll for the ring to
MT them. | began to think it possible
'hat n hard hand and a soft heart may