The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1871-07-27

RED her pure presence, 81 o '1e to her
Of another lying i'll in the next
room.
'She's been a lady, ma'am,' she
said, ''but she's come down dread
full I think you'd do her good"
And Helen Chesterfield followed
her into a room, where, upon a bed
lay the wreck Of the loveliest wo=
man on whom Helen's gaze had eyz
er rested-a blonde, with black eyes
whose golden hair swept over her.
pillow upon the floor as she lay
a creature with white hands and
snowy throat, but with s.lost stamp
ed upon her features as though it
had been written there.
She looked at Helen angrily.
"More tractsY' she asked in a
harsh voice. "Take them away,
then. It's too late for them with
me-"
But Helen was not one of those
who satisfy wretchedness with mere
words. What she said or did hard
ly matters.
It was what was most needed. No
pharisaical pride made her shrink
from contact with a fallen sister,
There was food and wine and de-
cent linen in that poor room before
many hours were over; and she did
not even ask the woman's name
It mattered not whom she was to
Helen. She suTered-this was
enough for charity.
So for days and days she minis
tered to this poor creature, who
grew to yearn for her coming; who
prayed her to stay longer when she
came, but who often looked at her
in a strange way, quite unaccoun-
table to Helen; who sometimes be-
gan to speak and paused and said,
'tAnother time, as though she post
ponedsome conference.-the story
of her life, perhaps. Only God
knew what it might be.
So the autumn wore away. Win
ter came and went; and in the
spring the little life in that poor
creatures breast was smouldering
out. Helen knew that she must
die. It seemed right to tell her so
but the task was a woeful one.
She sat besides her thinking Of
this one day, when the poor soul
caught her hand.
81 shall go soon, shan't I?'' she
asked. 81 know it is so. But pro-
mise me that when I have told you
my story you won't leave me-that
you will still be kind to me and not
turn from me. Promise"
"I promise,,' said Helen.
'You are George Chesterfeld's
wife. I know it. You need not
answer. You remember ten years
ago receiving some letters written
to Olivia?'
Remember! That wife's cheek
paIed. She remembered it always.
"Go on" she said hoarsely, bit
terly; her whole woe upon her as
it had never been before. Go on"
81 am Olivia" said the woman.
81 sent those letters myself 1 did
it to make you wretehed, to re-
venge myself upon him. He was
young when he met me. !, amar-
ried woman-though no older than
he-I lured him on; I delighted in
his hopeless IoveLin those letters
i'm his protestations. joyed in
the receipt of that one written on
his wedding day. Pure woman can
not understand now wicked women
rejoice in meshing hearts they do
net care form running young mems
lives for a petty triumph. Lady,
don't turn from me. I've not done
yet"
"Had you not enough?' gasped
the wretched wife. "Could you
not bear to keep it from me2 You
ruined my young life. You killed
me-yes, you killed me as far as
heart went"
"Ahr' cried the woman, cit was
not when he wrote love to me that
I betrayed him. Revenge prompted
me. Six months after his marriage
I Ireeeived this Read it. When
that came, I sentyou the others.
was a fiend; I know it. But per
haps I can undo my work even
now. Read this and see."
Helen seized the faded, dingy en-
velope that the woman drew from
her bosom and hurried with it to
the light. She tore it open, and
looked upon the lines within. This
was what she read, dated six months
after her marriage:
"OLIVIA-Mx FRIENDs-I told
you I would never write again to
you, and I wrote like a fool. told
you that married a woman did
not love, and that I should love you
forever. Being so true a friend as
I believe you are 70 me, you win
rejoice to know that I was quite
mistaken. have forgotten the uns
haDDv Dassion of my youth. as YOU