The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1869-02-16

| WilN1 Slilll IlldJ hC VuiSCuC.
a woman might carry secret to her
grave with her. A man could not hide
| it week. Tke bifde, who had been a
belle, and was not to bear insult calmly,
discovered it in the briefest space of time.
She had intended to be true and tender
wife, but she now took revenge in kind;
to make her husband jealous vas the
task of her wretched life. She flirted as
she had never doue in her girlislf days.
And as there is no danger of going too
far with one who cannot be angling for
husband, married woman can firt when
she pleases
Will cared nothing for his wife, but he
was proud and giew angry. He watched
her wild, jealous eyes; and the unhappy
match ended in quarrel, fierce and wild,
in terrible accusations on both sides, and
i'll separation.
And the world made worse Of the af
fair than it really was-and Will knew
that he was the subject of much cruel
talk, and shrank away from its gaze more
ashamed of that which this darling heir
ess-wife of his had brought upon him,
than he ever could have been of Miselle's
poor grammar, or of her old grand pa
rents, or of anything she could have
brought upon him.
He lived alone, and his wife led a gay
life, apart from him, and was not too
well spoken of; and in his solitude the
poor man thought continually of poor
Miselle, whom he had deserted. Thought
how pure she would have been-how
true to him, and how he would have low
ed her, until his life knew one great long
ing-a wicked longing to be quite free
to love Miselle agitin.
One day the wish was gratiied, and
news came to him that his wife was dead.
1t had been his fault that she had been
wretched, and had made him go, but he
never thought of that. He OILY felt that
he was free. Miselle had not married,
he knew; and now he would win her
again. The world was nothing to him.
He had fed from its tongue and its many
eyes long before. NIiselle should do as
she chose. There should be nothing
which he would not give her leave to do.
The old people might sit at her hearth
and at her board,so that only that hearth
and that board should be also his. And
in holiday attire the widower went down
to Sheepdale.
1t was early summer. The day was
like the one on which he had TOLD his
love to Miselle. A golden bee or two
Zone might have been the very same, J
fluttered around the quiet garden aga n.
The seat where she sat at work was tIere
beneath the vine and there too were the
perfumed ssborders of mignonette. The
house was still, and all the windows were
closed. 1t was often so of summers S
afternoon. The man to whom this
brought back those happy days so near
ly, sat down to wait, and think what he
should say to Miselle. Perhaps she did
not know he had been married. If so,
why tell her? Let the world he had
thought so much of keep his unhappy
secret He would stay here in the sweet
solitude with Misele.
She would be proud at frst-either
cold or angry-but he would WOO so
humbly that she should forgive him in
the end. As one condemned to death
might pray for mercy, he would beseech
Miselle for pity and pardon. And then
yes, then she would let him draw her
to his heart, and touch her brow with his
lips, and call her his Mignonette, his lit
tie darling, once again.
And he had come to this thought when
the door opened, and he arose to greet
Miselle.
But it was not Miselle-only her old
grandmother and common of fea,
ture as ever, but with strange, grief
stricken face. She did not see him, but
went straight to the beds of mignonette,
and began to pluck great handfuls with
her horny hands. Then Will spoke to
her. She looked up.
I'm pickin' EN- for Miselle," she said,
then gave start. II didn't know you
at first, Mr.. Harrin' n'tun," she said. 81
tho't twas the doctor. You're aged. Yes,
these is for Miselle. / used to be hard
on her for lillin' 'em, I'm afraid. But L
wanted her to be steady. If Id know
ed"
Then came sob. William Harring
ton caught the old woman's arm tight.
"What is it? What has happened ?"
he cried.
And she commenced, with dry sobs
and no tears, as old people sometimes
show sorrow:
Il thought you knew Miselle is dead.
You see, she faded when your letters
stopped comm. She wouldn't tell me.
l supposed you quarreled. She got tired
of things, and set q deal by herself
Plenty wanted her-she was pretty. But
she didn't seem to care. Six months
ago she was took down. There was no
hope then, and yesterday she died. Says
she, Ceramic, it's most over; when I'm
gone, put his letters in the grave with
me, and put mignonette in my hair-mig-
nonette,' says she kind O dreamy like
'he liked it. And tell him. says She
for / think he'll come-that / always
loved him. l wouldn't say so now,
says she-'but I'll be gone then And
so she died Young folks will fall out
l never knowed the rights ont. Praps
;, you'd like to see her " ...
And William Harrington followed her,
and saw Miselle, dead, with his letters
upon her bosom and mignonette amongst
her hair. Him the world never saw
again. Until the old people died. saw
that they wanted nothing, and while he
lived, dwelt near Miselles grave. Near
lit, also, his own has grown green fol-
many years; and over both creep soft
beds of mignonette in the summer time
Turing the golden bees from the gardens
with its fragrance. And Sheepdale has
a legend, that in the moonlight two white
forms are sometimes seen there, and that
) they wear the semblance of Misclle and
the lover who broke her heart.
A party of hunters had fearful en-
counter with a full grown American lion
near the Belt Range of mountains il
Montana Territory, one day last month