The daily Panola star. (Sardis, Miss.) 1871-1872, 1871-11-03

whrn we had esfrn and drunk with ihe
good souls We rose and made ready 10 ~
home. The sun hsd set, and The whole
family came ont Of The cabin to see ne OF
and say good night.
"DOn't yOu want my s0u 10 20 with
YOU r. the old woman called after us.
Il was growing dark and chilly under
the trees. and We gradually qalckencd our
pace.
.Those are happy people," said Louise.
I'VE will come some morning and break fast
with them. shan't wel We can put the baby
In one Of the donkey-paLniers, and In the
other large pastry and bottle Of wine.
You are not afraid Of losing your way,
GeorgeYn
"No. dear-no fear Of that
"a pastry and a bottle OF wine-what Is
thatgf
Noihing-the stump of tree"
"'The stump Of tree, the stump of tree.''
she muttered. Don't you hear something
behind us?n
"Itis only the wind In the leaves, or the
breaking of dead branch.n
He is fortunate who. at night, in the heart
Of a forest, feels as calm as at his own fire.
side. You do not treinble, but you feel the
silence. Involuntary you look for eyes
peering out of the darkness, and you try to
define the confused forms appearing and
changing every minute. Something breaks
and sounds beneath your tread If you stop
you hear the distant melancholy. howl OF a
Watchdog, the scream Of an owl, and other
noises, far or near, not so easily explained. :.
A sense of strangeness surrounds you and
weighs you down. If you are alone, you
walk faster; if there are two Of you, you
draw close to your companion. My wife
clung to my arm.
"I.et us turn woodcutters. We could
build pretty little hut, simple, but nice
enough. would have curtains to my win
d0ws, and carpet, and put my piano in one
corner"
She spoke very low, and occasionally
felt her hand tremble on my arm.
+" You would soon get enough of that,
dearest"
cit isn't fair to say so." And in another
minute she went on: "You think | don't
love you, you and our boy. Oh yes, dear,
love you. Yes, yes, YES, The happiness
that comes every day can't be expressed !;
we live on it, so we don't think of it. Like
our daily bread who thinks Of that And
yet it is life itself, isn't it But when you
are thinking of yourself, when you put your
head down and really think, then you say,
am uDgrateful, tor | am happy, and
give no thanks for it. And when we are
alone together and walked arm In arm, now,
at this very moment-not that mean only
this moment--l love you, dear love you.'
She put her head down on my arm and
pressed it earnestly. "Oh," she said, :" If
| were to loose you" She spoke very low,
as If afraid. What had frightened her
the darkness and the forest, or her own
words She went on have often and Of
ten dreamed that | was saying goodbye
toyou. You both cried, and pressed you
so close to my heart that there was only one
of us. 1t was only anightmare, you know,
but don't mind it, tor it showed me that
my life was in your lives, dear. What Is
thing Just In frontof us?"
answered her by taking her in my arms
and folding her to my heart.
We walked on, but it was Impossible to
go on talking. Every now and then she
would stop and say 'fHush. harkl No, it
is nothing.n
At last we saw ahead of us a little light,
now visible, now hidden by tree. 1t was
the lamp set for us in our parlor window.
We crossed the stile and were at home. 1t
was high time for we were wet through.
l brought huge log and when the fire
had blazed up we sat down in the great
chimney-place. The poor girl was shiver-
ing, took off her boots and held her feet to
the fire, screening them with my hands.
"Thanks, dear George, thanks !" she said
leaning on my shoulder, and looking at me
SO tenderly that felt almost ready to cry
What were you saying to me in thai
horrid wood, my darlingT' asked her wher
she was better.
"You are thinking about that? | wa
frightened, that Is all, and when you are
frightened you see ghosts.o
=" We will be woodcutters, sha'n't wey'
And kissing me, with a laugh, she replied,
sit Is bedtime, man of the woods"
/ well remember that walk, for it was our
last. Often and often since, at sunset on a
dark day, have been over the same ground ;
often and often have stopped where she
stood, and stopped and pulled the fern,
seeking to find, poor fool that | am the
traces Ofthe vanished footsteps. And have
often haltedin the clearing under the birches
which rained down on us, and there in the
shadow | have fancied saw the fiutter of
her dress, have thought heard her star
tied note Of fright. And on my way home
at night at every step have found recol-
lection OF her in the distant barking and the
breaking branches, as in the trembling of
her hand on my arm and the kiss which l
gave her.
Once | went into the woodruff. saw it
all as before-the family, the smoky interior,
the little, bench, on which we sat-and
asked for something to drink, that | might
see the glass her lips had touched,
1.-The little lady who makes such good
omelettes, she isn't sick, for sure?" asked
the old woman.
Probably she saw the tears in my eyes, for
she said no more, and came away.
And so 1t is that, except in my heart,
where she lives and is, all that was my dar.
ling grows faint and dark and dim.
1t Is the law Of life, but it is cruel law.
Even my poorchild is learning to forget,
and when Isay to him, most unwillingly,
Baby, dear, do you remember how your
mother did this or that?" he answers yes,
but | see, alas that he, too, is ceasing to
remember.
I