Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1870-09-28

DIR. Gordon understood, and answered
very kindly, that it might be a month, pos
sibly two.
He stood up then to 60 He knew all
hope was over. He paid his fee, and went
out of the room, and out of the house. 1t
seemed to him things had grown darker
since he went in. He hardly knew how to
find his way to the cars. 1t was two hours
past his dinner time, and he was faint for
lack of food. He got to the station some
how, and waited for the train to start for
Montclair. All the way home he kept
whispering to himself-'one month, posi-
bly, two-as ic it were lesson on the get
ting by heart of which his life depended.
He heard the conductor call out Montclair
at last, and got off the ears mechanically.
His wife stood there, waiting for him. She
had been anxious about him all day:
'Oh, William T. she cried, and then she
saw his face and stopped. There was look
on it of one over whom some awful doom Is
pending white, fixed look that chilled
her. She took his arm, and they walked
on silently through the summer afternoon.
When they reached home, and she had ia
ken off her bonnet, he spoke at las:
Mary, come here, let me look at sou. l
want to learn your face by heart"
She came and knelt by him, while he took
her cheeks between his hands and studied
every lineament.
Are you going away?" she asked, after
a while for his fixed, silent, mysterious
gaze began to torture her.
''Yes, dear, am going going into The
dark
''To die? she asked
Yes; to die to everything that makes
up mans life in this world, he answered
bitterly.
MARY, am going blind. Think what
that means After few more weeks, l
shall never sec you again, or our children,
or the dear, beautiful world where we lived
and loved each other The whole creation
is only an empty sound, forevermore Oh,
God how can bear this ?"
Is there no hope p she asked with Gu
rious calmness. at which she herself was
amazed
None. 1t was my errand to town to-
day to find out. have felt it coming on
for months, but | had hoped against hope,
and now | know. Oh, Mary, to sit in dark
ness until my death day, striving for a sight
of your dear face 1t is too bitter and yet
what am [ SAYING Shall my Father not
choose his own way to bring ME to the light
of heaven? must say, l will say, His
will be done"
Just then the children came romping in
boyish, romping Will shy, merry little
May
Hush, dears," the mother said softly
papa is tired. You had better run out
again"
"No, Mary, let them stay he interpos-
ed, and then he said, so low that his vite's
ears just caught the whisper, Il cannot see
them too much in this little while"
Oh, how the days went on after that
Every day the world looked DINNER to the
minister's darkened eyes. He spent nearly
all the time trying to fix the things he loved
in his memory.
1t was pitiful to see him going round over
each well known, well loved scene, noting
anxiously just how those tree boughs, stood
out against the sky, or that hill climbed to-
ward the sunset He studied every little
flower, every fern the children gathered
for all creation seemed to take for him
new beauty and worth. Most of ali he
,,1 H.. G.,
grew used to the dim, wistful eyes following
her so constar tly; but the children wonder
ed why papa liked so well to keep them in
sight why he did not read or study more
There came a time at last, one Sunday
morning, when the brilliant summer sun
shine dawned for him in vain.
rs it bright day, dear?" he asked,
hearing his wife moving about the room.
Very bright, William"
Open the blinds, please, and let the sun
shine in at the east windows.
Mary Spencer heart stood within her,
but she commanded her voice, and answer.
ed steadily:
They are open, William. The whole
room is full of light.
Mary, | cannot see; the time has come.
| am alone in the darkness"
Not alone, my loyer' she cried in
passion of grief and pity, and tenderness.
Then she went and sat down beside him on
the bcd and drew his head to her bosom,
and comforted him just as she was want to
comfort her children. After time her
tender caresses, her soothing tones seemed
to have healed his bruised, tortured heart.
He lifted up his head and kissed her, his
first from out the darkness in which he
must abide, and then sent her away l
think every soul, standing face to face with
an untried calamity, longs to be for space,
alone with its God.
Three hours after that, the church bell
rang, and as usual, the minister and his
wife walked out of their dwelling, save that
now he leaned on her arm. In that hour
Of seclusion, he had made up his mind what
to do. They walked up familiar ay and
she left him at the foot Of the pulpit stairs,
and went back to her pew in front. He