Bradford reporter. [volume] (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, 1867-05-02
"A pleasant. cozy. home-like picture


with the easel in one corner, and the
piano-forte in another with Cyrilla's
work basket on side-table in com.
pany with a meerschaum, big and
brown, aud a tobacco jar after the
antique. A pleasant picture, and
one which Theodore Thornhurst, art
list from the top of his head to the
sole OF his feet, would not fail to note
when he should come stepping lei
surely IN through one of the three
French windows opening ON the lawn
which had just been draped, ready
Tor winter, with curtains of crimson
damask, in giace of the muslin ones
which had shaded them through the
summer months.
Cyrlla read on undisturbed for
about half an hour, at the end of
which time baby began to grow rest
less so she laid down her book, and
began 10 rock the cot with a slow,
gentle motion, and at the same time
to sing, in a minor key, the exquisite
cradle song from The Princess:
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Singing thus, she lifted the child
tenderly out of its cot, kissed it fond
ly, and carried it through the dress
ing room into the chamber beyond,
and there laid it snugly in bed
Presently, she came back, still hum
ming the music of the song under her
breath, and leaving the door of the
dressing room half open behind her,
SO that she might the more readily
hear her darling, shoulk he awake
and cry out. Then she sat down
again in her husbands easy chair,
and went on with her novel But
the undercurrent of her thoughts was
with her husband and presently she
glanced up at the time piece on the
mantel-shelf, only to discover that it
had come to a dead stop some ten
minutes previously, for want Of wind
ing up. She put down her book, and
rose at once to perform the necessa-
ry duty, for the voice of the little
clock sounded like that of friend
in her lonely watching. How the
words of that song haunted her men,
ory:
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea.
She was winding up the time piece
slowly and carefully, and humming
the song to herself, and as she did 80
what woman would not have done
the same ?-she glanced at the refec-
tion of her own pretty face in the
glass over the chimney piece She
saw her blue-eyed face with its set
ting of yellow hair, and the same
moment she saw something else by
no means so pleasant to look upon.
something that for one brief instant
caused every pulse of her being to
stand still in silent horror.
There was some one in the room
beside herself. What she saw in the
glass was the reflection of hand
grasDing the crimson damask cur
tains that draped the French window
opposite tie fireplace. Only hand
but whose hand? 1t was very
small and very white, but unmistak-
ably the hand of a man, and just as
surely not the big brown paw of The
odore Thornhurst.
CyrilIa's eyes dilated as she gazed
the murmur of the song died off her
lips ; hel fingers ceased from turning
the key of the clock; she stood like
one changed to stone. She burst not
turn her head to glance at the dread
reality which she knew was behind
her she kept her gaze fixed steadily
in the glass, watching with sort OF
horrible eagerness for some sign or
token of life in those white, death
like fingers, which looked as if they
belonged to a corpse. Suddenly,
while she was looking like one fasci
mated, there was a slight movement
Of the curtain, the white fingers re-
laxed their grasp, opened, and for
an instant were Withdrawn. Next
moment they were there again,
grasping the curtain as before and
as they reappeared, Cyrilla's heart
thrilled with a fresh terror she felt
by instinct, and not by the action
OF any more positive sense-that,
from amid the dim folds of the cur
tain, two eyes, unseen by her, were
watching her every movement.
The dread inspired by this discov-
ery-for she felt sure that her in
stinct was not playing her false
was almost more than she could bear.
Her senses seemed as though they
were about to desert her dimness
crept over her eyes numbness be-
gan to steal through every limb and
it seemed to her as though the room,
herself, and even that terrible hand,
were all fading into unsuhstai tial
shadows, and that nothing could ev-
er trouble her more when all at once
her fading senses were pierced by a
faint sound--a sound that went
straight to her mothers heart, and in
one brief moment stung all her fad
ing senses into vivid life. 1t was the
voice of her child that she had heard
just as she was about to sink faint
ing to the floor. He had turned over
in his sleep, and had felt for her in
the dark, and had given utteraEce to
low plaintive cry at not finding her
beside him. To feeling of life the
most vivid and intense, that weak
voice had recalled her. "For my
child's sake" she murmured in her
heart, let strength be given me !"
Her hand was steady enough now,
and she went on with the winding up
OF the little clock, winding slowly,