The daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1878, 1868-11-18


the people we met in our business.
Year IN anu year ont no female footl
steps lighter or quicker than James
and Hepsibah,s ever wandered up
and down the stairs, Inland ontcf the
rooms of our spacious, old-fashioned
house. We dreamed of the future
still, with the shy tenderness of our
boyhood. We did not at oil realize
that we were growing old, growing
away from the possibilities of youth
and beauty and tenderness. Our life
had been so quiet, so barren of
events, that it seemed short urcon-
scious of the hostages time was leav-
ing with us in the shape Of gray hairs
and wrinkles. ..o
It was a sudden shock, rather than
bitter grief, when our father died.
His heart had been buried, twenty
five years ago, in the grave of our
mother, and, since that time. though
kind and just to all, there had been
no sun to melt for him the ice of
life's long winter. We love him.
There was saddening sense of loss
and absence when we looked at his
vacant chair ct home, or in his count
ing-room, when we saw "Smith Bro
theirs" on the sign, in place of the
honored name which had hung there
for forty years, but there was none
of the anguish of desoiation which
rends the heart when one is taken
whom we loved, who loved us.
cit would not have been right to
marry while father lived" I said to
l.
the library fire. ''It would have
panied him to bring wife home
where mother died. But now"
eyes, I think it is time now, bro
ther Absalom; but of course We must
wait till our year of mourning is
over"
Our eyes met each other, and we
smiled. We made no confession in
words, but the truth came home to
us both that we had lived so long out
of the world, it would be work of
more magnitude than we had real
lied, to go into society and choose
the household angel we both coveted.
And so it went on for another year
the house quietand silent as ever; the
old servants; and "Smith Brothers"
growing old together. Our father
had been dead something over
twelve-month, when there came to us
a letter superscribed in female
hand. It was very unusual event,
and we speculated q little as to its
possible origin before we opened it,
1t proved to be from q lady of whom
we had often heard as our mothers
most intimate friend. This was what
it said:
81 write to you, gentlemen, as
surely Mary Chelmsford may feel
privileged to write to the children of
Margaret Smith. Your mother and
1 loved each other with tenderness
deeper than most sisters know. ALI
that one woman could have done or
ventured for another she would have
done for me, or for her. Since she
died I have seen neither of you. but
[ remember the promise of your boy
hood. You, Absalom, hadj your mo-
theirs smile, and you, Abijah, your
mothers kindly eyes. L will believe
that you both inherit your mothers
tender heart. At any rate, this is my
only hope. Under heaven, I have
nowhere else to turn. I am dying in
a strange place, of slow decline, going
to join my husband. I have no near
friends or kindred to look to-only
you. I am not harassed by any
anxieties for myself. My soul is ct
rest. for I know in whom I have be-
lieved. I have property enough to
make my last days comfortable,
and to leave provision for my only
child, my daughter Margaret, who
was named for your mother. It is in
her behalf that I appeal to you. She
is not much over twenty, for I was
not married till late in life, some
years after your mother died. She
has gentle, loving nature, which,
save at her fathers death, has never
yet been subjected to any of the
harsh discipline of life. It is from
this that I beg you to save her. She
will not suffer from any bodily wants,
but do not let her soul starve. Don't
let her feel herself friendless, lonely
and loveless in life. By this time one
or both of you must surely have
chosen some gentle woman to bless
your home, who will not refuse a mo-
Tiers welcome to Margaret Chelms-
ford. I will not urge my entreaty.
II L