Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1869-12-14

lOOhj 40 vi du dulilldi CiidoCu ny OoSSA
foes. Sometimes they were simply
the eyes of one who was weary OF
some long conflict, or of the bearing
of some heavy burden, and again they
seemed clouded by haunting memo
ries.
She became mystery to mean
embodied riddle. | wondered if Dud-
ley Randolph saw what / saw-that
the shadow of some great grief rose
up between him and the wife of his
bosom-a dark, formless thing, impal-
pable, but real. | wondered, if, when
she lay within his arms, aud his kiss
es 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 it
self He had no rivals, not even in
their children.
OF these children | have told you
nothing. Clyde, the eldest, a noble
boy of ten years, bore most striking
resemblance to his mother He had
her large, soulful eyes, her auburn
hair, 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.. Ran
dolph loved all his children; but
Clyde, his first born, was his idol
The two were inseparable; they rode
together; they walked together. At
the quarry, at the mill, at the office,
in the wheatfeld, or by the trout
brook-wherever Mr.. Randolph was,
there was Clyde.
Say, Squire, have you taken that
young chap into partnership yet?"
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. | see him fol-
lern' on after you or hOldin' on to
your hand pretty nigh every time l go
by here"
Mr.. Randolph laughed.
"Yes, Clyde and | are partners
Aren't we Clyde ?-He does all the
work, and | have all the fun" And
the twain went on their way rejoicing.
Wallace was dark eyed, chubby
rogue. several years younger than his
brother, always laughing, and always
in mischief Ethel was a wee win
some darling of three summers-a be-
witching little creature, all smiles and
bushes, and pretty. womanly ways.
How | loved that child How l loved
all OF them, in fact The JOY of faith
erhood had been denied me. But, as
the months heightened into years, |
grew to have a very fatherly tender
ness toward the children of my friend
Dudley Randolph.
You can Judge, tlen-tor can neY-
er tell you-ot the anguish of heart
with which | awoke one day to the
consciousness that two of them, the
two youngest, were slipping away
from us; slipping out of our arms,
even while, with all the yearning ago
! ny Of love, we were striving to retain
: our hold upon them. They had the
scarlet fever in its very mildest form.
There had been scarcely day during
its continuance when they had been
too i'll to call for their playthings
and it had required the combined wit
and wisdom of the household to keep
them in bed. But. as is often the
case, a low typhus set IN during appar-
ent convalescence, and Nature refus-
ed to rally. There was a month of
steady, painless decay slow, vast
ing away of all the powers of life
and the two little cold statues, mar
bic white, We're all that were left to
o0 VI w u4LS duu GGHSl'
Mrs. Randolphs suffering was ex-
trcme; and yet | could not compre-
hend it. 1t was something quite
above and beyond the ordinary grief
Of motherhood. There was in it a
tinge of bitterness and Self.reproach
) that was past my understanding. She
would sit gazing at her husband. when
? he was for the moment absorbed with
7 his books or papers, with such dumt
anguish In her eyes-an anguish that
all the while seemed more for hin
than for herself. Yet Clyde was left
! to him-Clyde, who had always beer
] to him his nearest and dearest. And
= as for her, her arms were empty; fol
3 she had in a measure given her frs
= born up to the close companionshir
!. of his father, and solaced herself with
4 her younger children. Yet, notwith
G standing all this, her sorrow seemed
for him rather than for herself. 1
2 was all beyond my power to divine.
e One evening-the children died il
! January, and this must have been tn,
k next May, for l remember that th,
|. air was heavy with the fragrance Of
lilacs, and that cluster of blue vic
It lets and lilies-of-the-valley filled
8 glass upon the window sill-Mr. ant
:. Mrs. Randolph and myself sat in thei
e pleasant library talking, as we ofter
|. talked of the deep things of life an,
h death. BY some means we got roun,
at last to the confessional of the Re
= mish Church.
" at must be such blessing, such
l. comfort, said Mrs. Randolph, sighine
n "Whosoever established the confes:
1t lonal understood the deepest needs c
q the human soul"
e Her husband looked at her in a:
l. tonishment.
"What an admission, Isabel an
a you the staunchest Protestant
% Christendom! For myself, | do nc
agree with you. | would confess m
# sins to God alone"
# "But, if you had sinned against ma
4 as well as God"
- "Then | would confess to the ma
d whom had injured; not to any prizes
if whether Of high or low degree"
;. Mrs. Randolph looked off upon th
4 mountains, still flushed with the pul
Il pie pomp of sunset, with a strang,
If far away look in her eyes. At las
4 without turning them, she said: