Elizabeth daily monitor. [volume] (Elizabeth, N.J.) 1868-1880, 1873-11-19
Written for the Daily Monitor.]
FORGIVING AND FORGIVEN.

81 think, in the lives of most women AM
| men,
There's time when all might be smootl
and even,
II only the dead could tell just when
| To come back and be forgiven"
"To come back, and be forgiven,
repeated John Wilson, CHANGING agair
at the book before him "I wondel
why those lines haunt me so persistent
ly? Would we be more willing to for
give an injury, if the perpetrator came
back from the grave to ask forgiveness
Does death really-bah % he added
impatiently, pushing the volume from
him, 1T is we'll enough to read of for
giving ones enemies, but neither death
itself, nor the influences of the spilit
world, can overcome undying hate OF
desire for revenge p
He walked to the window as he fin.
ished his soliloquy, and drawing back
the curtain, gazed out upon the street,
in the gloom of winters evening.
The expression on his face plainly
betrayed the fact that the subject of his
thoughts was by no means agreeable
and when, after few moments deep re-
Election, he seated himself at the table,
and rested his head upon his hand, a
weary sigh, and the contraction OF his
brow, told of mental suffering and dis
tress.
So far as external appearances were
concerned, happiness and comfort should
have ruled in the cheerful library where
my story opens. The bright fire, the
elegance of the furniture, the numerous
little articles necessary to the perfect ar
rangement of favorite room, the heavy
curtains drawn to exclude any glimpse
of the fierce storm without-all formed
a picture of cosy cheerfulness, marred
only by the detected attitude of the m
happy occupant.
Unhappy occupant The term is not
misapplied. John Wilson would have
told you with a short, harsh laugh, that
on the whole face of the earth, there
was not more miserable man than
himself And il very courageous NOR
tai ventured to ask why he was unhap-
Ply, quick look of rage and hatred
would flash across his face, as, with
white, compressed lips, he'd turn silent
ly away, leaving the questioner to pom
der upon the singularity Of his action.
AS he sits there with closed eyes and
bowed head, one cannot fail to notice
the raven curls touched by sorrows
ruthless hand, or the stern yet tender
expression upon his lips, now tightly
pressed together. And when he raises
his head to inquire the cause of n ser
wants intrusion, there's far away, anx-
ious look in the eyes turned so quickly
to the door--seen only in the eyes of a
strong man who has suffered tortures
more terrible than death.
" It's little boy, Sir, who insists up
on seeing you, said the man, in reply
to his look of inquiry He has note
he'll give to none but yourself I''
" Bring him in to me p
A slight skirmish ensued between the
parties in the hall, and tlNn, after few
vigorous pushes, and many instructive
hints, there appeared before John Will
sons astonished gaze, the most ragged,
dirty, scantily clothed little specimen of
the gutter snipe that John Wilson s
eyes ever had rested upon. Abashed
by the bright light, and the appearance
of the room in general, the little Arab
stood in confused silence before the
grave, stern man, who evidently was as
much surprised at his visitor, as the
visitor was afraid of his host.
Bring him nearer the fire, James"
said Mr.. Wilson and as the dignified
factotum gently touched the wet, soiled
sleeve of the little fellows scanty jacket
with the extreme tip of his finger, John
said kindly
"Set here by the fire and get warm,
and then tell me what you want p
He tole me ter go straight fer yer,
and hurry back" shivered the urchin,
his teeth chattering with the cold.
Gle Who ?"
Gentleman Hal. He said ter give
yer this paper, and tell yer We must
come"
As he spoke he drew from som ewhere
about his person soiled scrap of pa.
per, and extended it to Mr.. Wilson.
Then, budding close to the CRATE, he
held out his stiff, half-froze fingers to
the flames. A pitiable object he was,
in that library, and beside the refined,
dignified gentleman, sitting near him.
The hail and sleet of the storm without
yielding to the melting influence of the
fire, ran in miniature rivulets down his
ragged garments. He had pushed the
apology for cap back from his face
disclosing mass of unkempt hair, and
a pair of vicious, black eyes. Looking
at him as he sat quietly in crushing
posture upon the rug, John Wilson
placed the crumpled note on the table