Marshall County Republican. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1856-1878, 1872-04-11
"Last night, at twilight

Last night, at twilight"
That, then, was the way she had
come to see me; and unable to stand any
longer, | dropped in the chair and
watched her with solemn ewes. Presently
the gentleman again lifted up his head
from the pillow she lay on, and looking
at me, asked:
Are you the new friend she told me
! OF, OF whom she seemed so fond Pr
nodded my head; and presently,
when could speak without crying, told
him OF how our friendship had com
menced; how, while painting her picture
ana seeing her SO often, | had grown to
love her as if she had been my own Il esh
and blood how, the night before, iw.nt-
ing to see her so much, she had com o
me In the twilight, and, sitting on nv
bed, silently put me to sleep with her
little fingers and wise eyes.
He burst into tears as | told him, and
said:
MY darling little angell EVERYTHING
she did was done silently she has never
spoken"
Then he told me how she had, short
time before she died, signed to him to
give her the little picture of the Christ
Child l had painted for her; and after
kissing it, and making him kiss it, she
had died with it in her hand.
He showed me how she told him of
me, by taking her place at the window
and then initiating everything | had
done, ending by kissing her hand. That
she kept for sign for me, and in that
way kept him informed of the progress
of t1.Ia11 dchiYA IL, j
out her seeing me, she would tell him bv
kissing her hand and shaking her head
mournfully.
"She was my only darling" he said,
with a sob pltlful to hear from a man.
" All had on earth to love, and now
she is gone! Since the time she was
born, and her mother, dying, put her in
my arms, have never left her for day.
and now she has left me forever. When
ever / went out, she stood at the window
watching for me when | came back. and
then, cuddling in my arms, never left
me-
His voice broke down, and for few
moments there was no sound in the
room save his low sobs. l wanted to
comfort the poor father mourning for his
lost darling; but | did not know what
comfort to give, for | was too much
grieved myself to give consolation to
another.
Alter while he went on talking to
me about the child, seeming to find more
relief in that than anything else. He
told me how anxiously he had watched
for her first words when she was old
enough to talk, and watched in vain, for
gradually the conviction came upon him
that his little daughter was speechless.
and he loved her if possible more ten
derly than before. She made up in low
ing ways and tender little actions for the
absence of words, and at last he came
not to miss them.
They had lived in the same place since
she was six months old, with her old
nurse, who took care Of both of them.
They had few acquaintance, for the
child seemed to shun strangers, and he
had been satisfied to live with his books
and his darling, for they had been all in
all to each other.
L went back to my room after my long
visit to the poor bereaved father, feeling
that the sunshine had gone out of my
life, for the death Of the little child had
showed me how she was woven into nv
heart. Entering into my room, the first
thing that greeted me was the picture of
her on my easel, and with thrill of Joy
l felt one of. the great blessings of my
art.
The picture was like her, and feeling
its value myself, | knew it would also
be precious to her father; so, unable to
part with it, determined 10 make him
a copy of his darling as she had daily
waited for his return.
IL was some little relief to my sorrow.
painting this picture, and l worked at it
diligently all the time | was not at her
house. 1t rested me to sit by her bed
and watch the calm sleep in which the
little dumb lips had found speech.
L went with her father and the old
nurse when we carried her to her resting
place among the flowers she so much
loved, and then l went back to my pic
ture with little lock of her hair. NV
only outward sign of her.
When IN ew days the painting was
done, | rried it to her father, and
found double qualification in the pleas
ure it gave him. Then, my work in the
old town being over, went back to my
city studio, carrying wi h me, as tokens
Of my child-love, the ring of curly.
sunny hair and the picture. too near to
my heart now to be trusted out of my
own keeping.
have since painted pictures that won
praise IF m men, women and critics,
that the world called fine, but none that
came so entirely from my heart, or that
always continued to touch it so nearly.
as the painting Of the little child found
always watching in the old town, whose
earnest eyes and bright, sweet smile
kept me from knowing that the lips were
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