The Fremont weekly journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County, Ohio) 1867-1877, 1869-11-05
FREMONT SANDUSKY COUNTY, OHIO FRIDAY NOVEMBER 1862

within his arms, and his kisses were
warm upon her lips, he felt that any
veil dropped down between his soul and
her soul.
Yet she loved him. have been a
reader of hearts too long to doubt that.
Love like fire, will betray itself. He
had no rivals, not even in their children.
Of these children 1 have told you
nothing. Clyde, the eldest, noble
boy of ten years, bore a most striking
resemblance to his mother. He had
her large soulful eyes, her auburn hair i,
her clear complexion, her pure, white
forehead, with the branching network
of blue upon the temples. Partly for
this reason, perhaps he was his fathers
especial pet Mr.. Randolph loved all
his children; but Clyde, his frst-born,
was his idol. The two were inseperable; !;
they rode together; they walked to-
gether. AT the quarry, at the mill, at
the Office, in the wheat field, or by the
out-brook-whers ever Mr.. Randolph
was, there was Clyde.
Say, squire, have you taken that
young chap into partnership yetP said
old farmer Boyd, with a sly smile, one
day, as he met the two on their way to
the quarry. Seems to me he ought to
know how to run the concern by this
time. l see him follering on after you
or holding on to your hand pretty nigh
every time 1 go by here
Mr.. Randol ph laughed
yes, Clyde and 1 are partners
Aren't we, Clyde?-He does all the
work, and I have all the fun And
the twain went on their way, rejoicing.
Wallace was a dark-eyed, chubby
rogue, several years younger than his
brother, always laughing, and always
in mischief. Ethel was a wee, winsome
darling of three summers-a bewitch-
ing little creature, all bushes, and pref
ty womanly ways. How l loved that
child How l loved all of them, in
fact! The Joy of fatherhood had been
denied me. But, as the months
heightened into years, grew to have a
very fatherly tenderness toward the
children of my friend Dudley Randolph
You can judge, then-for can never
tell you-of the anguish of heart with
which I awoke one day to the conscious
ness two of them, the two youngest
were slipping away from US; slipping
out of our arms, even while, with all
the yearning agony Of love, we we're
striving to retain our hold on them.
They had had the scarlet-fever in its
very mildest form. There had been
scarcely a day during its continuance
when they had been too i'll to call fol
their playtbings; snd it had required
the combined wit and wisdom oi
the household to keep them in bed,
But, as is so often the case, a low typhui
set 10 during apparent convalescence,
and Nature refused to rally. There
was a month of steady, painless decay
"a slow, wasting away Of all the pow
ers Of ife-and then the two little clay
cold statues, mardle-white, were all tha
were left to us of Wally and Ethel.
Mrs. Randolph's suffering was ex
} treme; and yet l could not comprehend
, it. 1t was something quite above snC
beyond the ordinary grief of mother
hood. There was in it tinge of bit
3 terDess and self-reproach that was pas
my understanding. She would sit gaz
f ing at her husband, when he was 70
! the moment absorbed with his book
, or papers, with such a dumb auguisl
: in her eyes-sn anguish that all tn
3 while seemed more for him than fo
D herself Yet, Notwithstanding all this
her sorrow seemed for him rather thai
for herself 1t was all beyond my pow
er to devine.
One eveniDg-the children died il
' January, and this must have been th
next May for remember chat the al
was heavy with the fragrance of purpl
$ litacs, and that a cluster of blue violeti
f and lilies of the valley filled a glas
upon the window-sill-Mr. snd Mrs
! Randolph and myself sat in the pleas
ant library talking, as we often talked
of the deep things of life and death
] By some means we got round at last t.
t the confessional of the Romish Church
[ 1T must be such blessing, such
comfort said Mrs. Randolph, signing
'Who ever established the confessional
understood the deepest needs of the hu
! man soul
Her husband looked at her with as
, constituent.
what an admission, Isabel and vol
the stanchest Protestant in Christen
! dom For myself, I do not agree witt
you. 1 would confess my sins to Goo
, alone"
But, if you had sinned against mar
as well as GodP
Then 1 would confess to the MAJ
whom 1 had injured; not to any
priest, whether of high or low degree.
[ Mrs. Randolph looked off among the
mountains, still flushed with the purple
pomp of sunset, with strange far-away
look in her eyes. At last without
turning them, she said:
1t is the sacred silence of the con-
fessional that so charms me-s silence
that is never broken, it is said. Il
must be such a relief when one has
born some crushing burden, until it
can be borne no longer, to drop it in
silent fold, and so lose it forever
Mr.. Randolph replied, half-impa-
tiently.
Il do not understand these subleties
and refinement, Isabel. To bring the
matter home; supdose that you had
sinned against me or our child, OF
against our friend here, the doctor
how could it be a relief to you, or what
would it avail US, if you should acknow-
ledge that sin under the seal Of coDfes-
sionalP
I sal where I could see Isabel Ran
olph's face. 1t grew white as ashes
in the dusky twilight.
1t would avail nothing to you,' she
said, "but it might avail much to me-.
l can imagine cases where confession
would be a joy among all other joys,
but where duty and self abnegation for
bid it. The punishment of sin may
sometimes be the impossibility of con
fession.'
was studying the woman curiously.
Was she dealing in gHtteriug generali-
| ties or Was she hiding In her own hnsnm