The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-04-06

you must nave nOtlced their little cottage at
the turning going up the hill to st. Marys.
You may see 1t even now as you pass, but
the roses Mary trained thers are dead and
gone, the little latticed window broken, the
garden weedy and desolate telling its tale of
sorrow like the tombstone T.0
Mary Donovan had lived there for many
years 49, since her boy was quite a child.
She came one morning, so the gossips said
passenger by the coach, somewhere from the
North. Her child was then but four wears
old, and then, as ever after, an object
for the sympathy of the kind of heart.
She took humble lodgings and applied to the
shopkeepers and the neighboring gentry for
employment at her needle, with which she
was wonderfully skilled, they said The pre-
judices which met her at the first, from all
save the kind landlady of the "Stag" soon
gave way before her patient, unbending up-
rightness of character, and the unfathomable
sorrow that weighed her down. for sorrow il
a sacred thing even the voice of scandal
bushes in its presence. Her past history was
her secret. Whether it was one of shame or
of suffering virtue no tongue could tell
Silent as the grave to all impertinent inquiry
meek and humble before her God, and gentle
as gentleness itself with every living Thing
her mystery became respected and She and
her boy beloved.
From that evening when, wet and weary
from her journey, she first awoke the kindly
sympathies of the hostess of the "Stap'E
the same good-natured Mrs. Blaney4for
twelve long years the widow pursued her
peaceful way, earning for herself and for her
child not merely livelihood, but many of the
comforts of dress and food which were looked
upon as luxuries by those around her. and
| never did mother receive more fulness of
| reward in the passionate love of offspring
! than she in that of her all but mindless boy
When he was yet a child, often have
watched him sitting at her feet, as she sat at
the cottage door or window plying her ever
busy needle, listening to the strange stories
| of the fairies and the leprechauns of the
olden times she could tell so well. OF
Heaven and its glories, too, she would some
times speak, to be interrupted by some
| strange remark, suggestive of more than
| human wisdom. Then the startled mother
would fix her eyes upon his face so earnestly,
as if in hope that God at last would shed
| light upon the shadowed mind of her be-
reaved one, to meet always and ever the
| glance of childish alteration, but with it.,
/ alas ! the vacant smile that spoke fOrgetful-
\ ness already of the transitory ray of reason
that moment rested there.
/ Often have l stopped, as passed that way,
| to listen to some quaint old ballad full of the
| melancholy music of her voice, and make my
! friendly inquiries for herself and child, sure
! to find him in his usual resting-place. My
| welcome was warm one always, and my
| grey hairs-for they were grey even then, sil
often mingled with the yellow curls of the
| boy as he clambered up my knee to kiss me
We were warm friends, sir, Mary and for l.
and l only, of all living beings, knew hel
secret and the story of her sorrow; and this
was the way learned it,
One day, soon after her arrival in the town
had just risen from early msss in the chapel
and turned in here upon my morning
| round, when the voice of some one
weeping bitterly and the sad wall of a
child accompanying drew my attention
to corner of the yard and to the kneeling
figure of woman and that of little boy,
seated among the long grass of the grave
| beside her. Mourners were no unfamiliar
sights to me, even at such an early hour, but
the woman's dress bespoke the stranger
and awoke my curiosity. l neared the
grave, and recognized it as that of a
master, who had died two years before.
l knew him well; for many years he
had dwelt amongst us, respected for
himself as for his calling. He had been happy
in the affections of an only child-a daughter
the very picture of her mother, he used to
say, whom he had buried amongst strangers
| In her was centred his every earthly hope
She was his pride, and her pleasure all the
reward he sought in life ladeH with all the
petty vexations of the teacher. She forsook
him and her happy home, and fled to England
| with one whom she had known for a few
weeks only, who had met her at Rostrevor,
where her fathers fond indulgence had sent
her for the season; forsook all for husband
scandal said, a lover-who, whilst enamored
of her beauty scorned her fathers pow
erty. The old man never raised his
head again in the village. Two years
of sorrow, and the grave closed over him.
! made it. The savings of his industrious life
still lay in the hands of the village pastor in
safe-keeping for the lost one should she even
return to claim it, but Mary never claimed it
drew nearer, for my heart told me who the
mOurner was. |, too, had loved the girl, as
who indeed had not |, too, had shared the
sorrow of her honest father, and many time
had yearned to know the fate of the fair-haired
daughter of his affection.
| drew still nearer; my step was noiseless
upon the grass. l leaned upon headstone
near me. spoke the words that pressed fol
utterance, ''Mary, Mary l said, "You come
too late, too late!"
She started from the grave an exclamation
Of terror and surprise broke from her. She
looked me wildly in the face, as if the spirit o.
her injured father stood in shape before her
and recognizing the sad features of that
fathers friend, she sank, sobbing cOnvul
sively, upon the grave again, hiding her pale
face in the long grass which covered it.
raised her kindly in my arms, and sitting
down beside her, her wondering yet gentle
boy between my knees, heard her sad tale o
passion and remOrse. No other ever heard
that story; she asked my silence, and spoke
not.
From that time forward, year after year, the
penitent paid frequent visits to her fathers