Delaware tribune. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1867-1877, 1867-02-07

said.
And once or twice every summer she
opened the press in the south chamber,
which had once been Nathans room, and
took out all the things that were marked
with the initials M. II. A., summed them,
sighed over them, and folded them carefully
away.
One day letter came to Mrs. Armstrong
with black seal and border of black. Ma
than had lost his wife six months ago, and
would his mother consent to take charge of
his little Lamsie for a while; the only child
he had left, and motherless now. 'sThough
for that matter" said Mrs. Armstrong, 'sshe
is just as well off as she ever was, from
what have heard, one way and another. y
And then she said to Matilda, who always
listened with silent, rapt attention to every
thing concerning Nathan, that, although she
did not want to say any thing against the
dead, il was true that Eunice had never been
IA faithful wife or a devoted mother, and that
she never could like her, over and above,
and the truth, She supposed, was as true now
as il ever was
She had put on her bonnet and gone
straight with the news to her daughter, as
she called Matilda nowadays. "And what
do you say, my dcarr' she asked, when she
had read the letter, word for word, by dint
of spelling and going over again and again
"shall we take the lite thing? though the
dear knows, if we do, for one shall never
call her Lamsie--there is no sense to the
name any how-and shall always call her
plain Eunice, which was her mothers name
before her"
"You must do just as you like, MOTHER
says Matilda; "of course you know it can
be nothing to me-
''Ah but il is something to you, my
dear. You understand that shall have to
look to you a great deal-more especially
about her education and are you sure you
shall be quite willing to take her in your
school!"
"And why not y Matilda answered.
"The innocent child has never harmed me,
and her father never meant to harm me
either
And this was the first time she had her
self spoken his name for twenty years, and
now she avoided calling him Nathan. And
Mrs. Armstrong kissed the cheek that was
burning with that faint, low red that is moi
rose-like, but like the ashes of roses, and
called her thrice over her daughter, and then
her own dear daughter. And directly she
went home with lighter heart than she had
carried with her on her setting out.
The next day she wrote to Nathan that she
would receive the little Eunice, and bring
her up in her own old-fashioned way thu
best she could and she added, quite Incl
dentally, 81 am more willing to take til,
child on account the excellent school her,
in which can place her Immediately" Ant
then she said; ''You will, remember you
old friend, and my friend always, Matilda
Hastings; she it is who teaches the school
have reference to hope you will be salts
| fed
And when the letter was posted she wen
straight to Nathan's room and threw opel
the blinds, and with her own hand cleared
1t of dust and spdcr-webs and then she un
locked the press, and hung the long cherish
cd linen, piece by piece. in the sun, linger
ing with tender fondness on the faded mark
ing wrought in so long ago. So long ago
and yet il seemed but as yesterday.
"This room must not be given up TO the
little Eunice; maybe Nat"-shc began tt
call him Nat again. would come home
sometime, and she would have it all ready
for him. So she lived in her dreams; fol
at what age do women not live in dreams
She lived in dreams, not very clearly definet
even to her own heart, but all about the
coming home of Natty, to live with her,ant
be the prop of her declining years, with somt
shadowy fittings here and there of Matilda
she knew not where nor how,
In due course of time the child came,
bright brunette, with serious wondering
eyes, and straight hair as black as the mid
night
g declare she looks more like you thi
minute than like her mother!" says Mrs
Armstrong, as she led her one day into th,
quiet little parlor where Matilda sat sewing
The ashes of roses in her cheeks colored al
most to roses as she took the little girl OF
her knee and kissed her.
"You will know me after while,' sh,
said, land then l hope you will come t,
like me lttle-a very little"
"No, but love you now," the child re
piled. 81 don't want to wait, for you ar
the lady papa told me must love, aren'
you?"
And she put her soft arm about the necl
that was bending toward her. and drew tn
face close to hers. And perhaps Matilda wa
not sorry to have her face hidden at that mo
ment, and if she had had struggle to tax
her down. She loved the child from til
very first, as indeed who couln have helpe,
doing? She was not one of those ordinar
children that make you necessary to them
she made herself necessary to you; an
when she went out of the room il was lill
the perfume of fine flowers vanishing, or tn
sunshine going out.
''Should you like to go in the garde
now?" Matilda said, after little pause, du
ring which her face had been hidden.
eyes, if you please;" and the child sli
softly from the arms of Matilda. But at he
knees she stopped and hung clinging, wit
her cheek resting there, as though she dis
liked to go away.
"Shall we go now?" says Matilda again.
mo, must not trouble you, papa said
, will go along, or grandma will go wit
me; won't you, dear grandma ?"
And she SHE'D away toward the door, look
ing wistfully back, but not teasing and pull
ing, or making any noise whatever. Direct
ly she came back, while yet the two wome
: were saying what dear little thing she wa,
: holding up her tiny white apron, which sl
had filed with all the flowers she could fine
) Then glancing shyly up, ms if to ask permi'
: sion, she seated herself ON the floor and b,
gan to twine and twist them into long fal
tastic wreaths. When they were complete