The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1871-03-02

THE LITTLE BEoGAR GIRL.

''Why do you feel any more lonely AL
evening than any other 2" inquired Mrs.
Richardson.
''All day long my heart has been heavy,
and the wind means 50 much like q
grieved child tonight, that il fills my
very soul with sadness. There have
been old memories crowding upon my
brain, and gentle face and form have
seemed 10 be about me. Mother. nine
years ago tonight sister Alice went
away"
Mabel, why do you speak for her
Have not you been forbidden? ! have
fancied all these years that you had for
gotten her." Mrs. Richardson was very
pale as she said this, and turned her head
away that Mabel might not discover her
agitation.
"My dear, dear mother, how gently
have you been deceived in believing that
for one moment l could forget nav gentle
and only sister. Although l was but
eight years of age, how well do romem-
Der the might she came 20 my bedside and
kissed me, and wept as though her heart
would break. She babe me good by,
and her last words to me were, Mabel,
do not forget your miserable sister Alice.
| am going to leave you for long, long
time-perhaps forever She was great
ly agitated, l well knew, although / was
young-nothing but a child-and / wept
until the grey dawn of morning, before
| knew that Alice was wretched. Ere
she went out in the cold and darkness,
she knelt beside me, and prayed long and
feryently. She prayed for my father,
and for you, mother; and when she
breathed your name she buried her face
in the pillow and moaned as sorroC only
can. | well remember how | kissed her
and smoothed her dark brown hair, as
If to quiet the tumult that was raging so
fiercely within her heart When | en-
treated her not to weep, she folded me so
closely to her, said. Darling, innocent
Mabel, through all the long weary years
of the future, do not forget me-do not
let the story Of my weakness turn your
affections from me-loUe me, tore me -
And | promised, child that was, that
her memory with me should be sacred, |
and the vow has been Wen kept; for, |
mother, whatever her fault, or however |
great her shame, she Is my sister, and i
lore her' Tonight the winds moan, as
Alice did nine years ago. The next |
morning after her departure | remember \
you and father were very pale; and when
| asked after her, you both forbade me TO /
speak of her. But, mother, | think you |
only silenced my childish inquiry to save
your grief from my fathers sight. Tell /
me, was it not so? You can not say that
your heart desired it ?"
''You are right, my child You little
know the struggle it cost me, in my effort
to appear cheerful, for my heart was in
deed with Alice. Her gentle voice has
ever haunted me, and in my dreams have
her large sad eyes been looking into
mine, and her arms been twined about
me. No, Mabel, mother can not easily
forget her child. How much have suf-
fered in her long absence, none save God
and myself know. How | have PRAYED
to behold her face again, to fold my arms
about her, to feel that she was indeed
with me, were vain to tell. 1t was no
fault of mine, my child your father had
told her to 90 his word must be obeyed.
| entreated of him not to forsake her,
but of no avail. knew she was going
alone and unprotected out into cold
world--a lCicked ,corld. Oh, how / long
to fold her to my heart, and keep her safe
from all the bitter storms Of life To
keep her from despair, by telling her
loued heI'-that she was not utterly alone
IL the lcorLd! Alice, Alice :" and Mrs
wept tears such as misery
ulone aoeeps.
''Do not weep, dear mother" replied
Mabel, soothingly. "Tell me the story
Of Alice leaving us, and then I'll forget
mo- will cease to speak of her." |
Tomorrow, my child. / can not tell !
you now. Go to your room, it is getting
late. Good night"
That night Mabel slept but little
Her mind was too much filled with 9
thoughts of Alice, and her mothers agi- '
tation. She arose early and seated her
self at her window, and was gazing list ]
essly out into the street, when a little !
ragged girl, about nine years of age,
came under the window, and, looking /
;orrowfully up into her face, said, /
''Please ma'am will you give me a piece !
IF bread? ?"
There was something in the manner of =
he little mendicant that attracted Nlabe's {
notice; whether from the fact that she 7
vas at that moment feeling so wretched
herself, were hard to tell 'Surely that a
title pleading face is not that Of an i'm /
oostor," thought Mabel as she inquired.
"What is your name ?" I
"Mabel Graham" replied the child, t
imidly. }
''Have you any parents !! l
Il have a mother, and she is sick {
She said she was hungry and cold, and
or me to see if / could not get her some !
hing to eat, or she should die. Oh, / =
lont want my mother to die 7" and the b
poor child sobbed aloud. n
"There, there! dry your tears, and j e
sill 90 with you to see your sick mother" ,
The child wiped away her tears, and b
ooked up in surprise. b
"Why, we live in little room not b
UGH nice large house as this" a
THAT makes little difference, darling h
will 20 and see what can do for your
mother You lead the way and / will v
ollow. But wait; are you not hungry"
Eyes, ma'am, some. l haven't had q
lnything to eat since yesterday morning; Il
,ut l would not tell my mother, for she v
would cry, and say she didn't know what q
would become of me after she was gone.' 0
Mabel gave her some food, which the d
hid readily ate, and then proceeded on "
Ter errand of mercy. Mercy, indeed, q
he found upon her arrival. The room d
vas low and small; its only articles of Q
urniture an old cook stove, a rough Ia
lie, and one chair. In one corner Of the C
DOM, upon a straw mattress, lay poor,
maciated woman, in the last stages of /
hat fatal disease, consumption. Upon j.
eeing Mabel, she reached out her hand
nd said feebly: 4
"You have come to see how the bro v