Delaware tribune. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1867-1877, 1867-08-01
PAR T II.
CHAPTER III.-C0ntinued.
WAITING FOR NEWS.

WAITING FOR NEWS.
"Poor old Tom! lie was good -natured
chap. He gave me rare good weltlng one
afternoon for meddlling with some wires he'd
set down the . low croft but next day he
brought me whip with whistle in it from
Norminstcr to make up. wish he'd been
let come home to say good-by before he
went out there. What with cholera, and
what with short rations, mother begins to
think its much if ever he comes back"
"Oh, Dick, hope he will. hope he'll
come back so that we shall all be proud of
him." cried Pennie.
The harvest moon waxed over the ripen-
ing cornficds, and waned over the stubble.
The mountainish berries crimsoned, the pur-
pie moors faded into sere, while the allied
armies were wasting at Varna, and all the
world, at home was either grieving for those
already lost, or looking anxiously for what
was next to come. Pennie now often took
her ride round by the Grange, to carry her
aunt the "Times,' and friendly under
standing had grown up between them from
their common ground of interest. Hardly
a morning passed, after the news came that
the armies had landed in the Crimea, which
did not see her turn her horses head towards
Rood, with the paper stuck in the pocket of
her saddle. Itwas n daily something to do,
which seemed to put on the WEAKNESS of her
own waiting. Weather was no hindrance
to her-and the weather in Eskdale that au-
tumn was very wild and wet. Many a time
the shepherds met her on the moor, when the
wind whistlcd so shrill and sharp, and the
rain peltcd so hard and keen, that they were
glad to throw an old sack over their head
and shoulders for protection. Pennie had q
certain pleasure in confronting storm, a
sense of battle and defiance, which braced
and did her good and Mrs. Wynyard, after
several useless remonstrances, let her do as
she pleased.
But there came day at last when Pennie
would fain have foregone her mission to the
Grange-the day that brought the news of
the battle of BalaclLva. Tom had come
scathess out of the battle of the Alma; but
here he fell, one of the band of heroes,
famous to all time, who took part in the
glorious charge of the Light Cavalry Bri-
gade. She read the story; they all read it
at Eastwood, and the long roll of the dead,
wounded, and missing-his name in the first
list, amongst the common men. Bad news
flies swiftly and she thought it might, per-
haps, have come to the family at the Grange
from some other quarter On this plea she
delayed her ride for an hour or two; but
presently her heart misgavo her. She had
thus far been always the bearer of their
earliest intclligence,so she ordered her horse
and went. 1t was adult, drizzling Noyem-
ber day, with sudden mist hanging about
the hills, and white rolling fog marking
the windings of the river in the hollow of
the dale. Between Eastwood and the Abbey
she did not meet a soul, and the moment
she entered the familiar parlor at the Grange
she felt they had not heard.
Mr.. Lister was smoking his after-dinner
pipe; his wife had her basket of linen on
the table, to begin to mend after the last
wash. Joanna and Lucy were sitting close
by the window, busy with their needles al
ready. Dick was not there; he had gone
to Allan Bridge to see about getting some
harness mended, his mother said.
81 wonder did not fall in with him, +" re.
marked Pennie.
"We'd given you up for to-day-it hat
got so late. There's news from the wal
again, is there, niece?'
Pennie stood with her back to the light
the paper in her hand. EYES, aunt there's
been another great battle, and the light cav
airy, that Tom belonged to, made such ,
magnificent charge as was never read of il
history before. have been saying to my
self, as road along, that if Mr. Tindal ha'
fallen in 1t, my pride in his honor woul'
have almost consoled me for the loss Of m.
love-"
, 81 know-our Toms killed." said tn
J mother, in quick, low voice, looking il
her husbands face. He trembled, knocke
. the ash gently out Of his pipe, leant 1t up |
q the chimney and turned his eyes In
quiringly on Pennie.
e at is true, uncle Toms name is in til
, list of the dead-many soldier might env
him such death.
The two girls came forward, listening
wide-eyed, but silent. 1t was very siler
scene. The mother was the first to spea
v again. 1t has been very good of you NIECE
!" I'm sure, 10 come over as you've done, raj
l. or fair, to bring us news, said she 9Th
'ull be your last journey on that errand.-
|. What day was it ?"
+ "The twenty-fifth of October"
II sit was his birthday. He'd be seven-an,
twenty years of age, father; he was III
4, eldest BARN. We said we'd call him Thoma
g if it was lad and we did; but he was q
e ways Tom from the day he began to ru
Al alone. You'll leave us the paper Pennis
Dick will like to read ii at night. Nay, LAS
II not now; l have heard enough-he's dead
IS There was not sob-not tear. He hi
re been so long away. Yet in that strain'
n auietness Pennie somehow felt that the
es was an anguish of regret wringing the father
IN and mothers heart for what was irrevocab
m past. They would not show it to her, pc
d, haps would never show 1t to any human ey
to but the sting of their alienated sons dea
lay not in his loss SO much as in the !
he membrance of the repulse they had Civ
We to his prayer for reconciliation. A
b. now he was gone beyond the reach or t
n need Of 1t. While the world was shout
nd honor on him and his fellows, he was tn
a unforgiven prodigal of whose glory they h
,as no right to be proud. And how proud til
ily would have been of him and of 1t If th
ch had only hidden him go in peace!
yer "Hsrgrove goes out of his way to d.
The mischief, must needs say" was his repl
to "but at all events, miss, you have the co