Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1873-08-15

|
mortal youth, and looked forward to the
end.
Stephen had left her with an only child,
born on the day he died. Other children
had come and been laid away hefore but
this girl was last and dearest of all. In her
the father seemed to live and breathe again;
for her the mother lived indeed. She was
pretty thing as she grew into woman
hood Perhaps her mind was not altogeth-
er of the strongest but one would have TO
be fastidious who paused tn think of that
in gazing at the red and white of her face,
the clear blue of her great eyes, the gliding
of her chestnut hair, her sweet and inno-
cent mouth. OF course she had lovers, and
and of course there was favored one-the
least deserving of the whole, but the son of
a family of vastly superior circumstances
| TO her own.
For poor Bessic's circumstances We're
those which belong TO the children of pow
erty the world over. Her mother owned
the little house in which they lived, and
the larger part of which they rented to 9TH
ers; and for they rest they did sewing
nursing, clear-starchiDg, whatever came 10
hand. But needy as they were, Bessie al
ways had on clean print dress, though
she had to rise before day to wash and iron
il; she always had bright ribbon for her
throat she always looked as perfect as 4
rose.
And old Margarers pride and joy lay in
seeing her so. She wore her own brown
gingham till II fell apart, so that Bessie
might have bishops lawn for summer
Sundays. She pretended dire dyspepsas
and lived on crusts, so that Bessie might
keep her blood sweet and rich with the lit
tie milk and meat there was. Long after
Bessie had come home from her moon-lit
stroll with the handsome and worthless
James Faconer, Margaret sat over her
needle or her Italian irons, abridging the
morrow's work, that Bessie's pretty shoul-
ders might be finely clad. Many hard
earned penny she paid to purchase bit Of
trimming for which she had heard the girl
longing. Poor Margaret! she little knew
the crop she sowed, nor recognized the fact
that Bessie was becoming to herself a well
as to her mother the chief person in the
drama; she failed TO see the springing and
rpening sefishncss in the girl, the wilful
spirit. the deadly love of finery, the lack of
reason. She only saw her standing in the
light and looking at her with her fathers
eyes those burning blue eyes that seemed
at once to revel in the bl bllliance of the
world and scorn 1t too-and she felt that
all she could have was not too much for
her.
Still as she glanced from the window
sometimes, and saw her by moonbeam or
star-gleam leaning against the gate post,
with James Falconer across the little wick
ct, as tall and dark and glittering as Luci-
fer. a msgiving would cross Margaret is 10
whether it was possible for young Falcon
er to stoop from his ancient degree and his
fathers place TO marry this clear starcher.
But then the child looked SO bright and ro-
sy and lovely as her mother gazed at her
that she could but fold her hands above
her beating heart and whisper to herself
that all might be for the best, for stranger
things than that have happened.
But the years went slowly wearing by,
each one of them taking degree of Bes-
sizes bloom with il, and Bessie was old
enough TO know better, and still James
Falconer followed her and did not marry
her, and other lovers had fallen away, and
the mother, through some hidden sense,
was half aware that Besses name was
spoken lightly. And one day Falconer
had disa ppeared, leaving a deialcation be-
hind him, and Bessie had gone too.
No search was made for the defaulter a
little of his fathers wealth could repair the
breach in the bank, and for his fathers sake
no suit was entered against him. Indeed,
there we're those who half excused him,
| and laid the blame on the shameless girl
who had alured him, as they said, to his
| ruin. And certainly no search was made
for Bessie. What could one feeble little
old woman do? Nothing in the world.
nothing but pray-pray over seam and
stove by day and night "What am l cry
ing for ?' she would say, dashing away
her tears. "God is on my side, and with
him on my side, am I going TO lose? No
Bessie will come back to me-"
And so fot five years she toiled and mol-
ed, not for herself. but that when Bessie
came home there might be something laid
by to let rest and comfort greet her. And
every night she swept the hearth and
frightened the lamp for her, and every
morning she made the place spotless, think
ing it might hold Bessie before night. And
her eyes longed and her heart ached and
her hands trembled to see her. Her ex-
pectation was always at fever heat. She
hardly knew that her tears wet her pillow
at night, such comfort was there in the
thought that Bessie might come Tomorrow.
Five long, lonesome years If old Mar
garet were sick, there was no one to soothe
her If she were cast down there was no one
to cheer her. But she casped a sure faith
her hope frightened her days; and one
night, as she had fore!elt, Bessie came
home. A weary woman got down from
the stage, and tottered up the yard
and came in, and fell upon the floor, and
in the night her boy was born, and in the
morning consciousness seemed to come
back an instant; for she looked up into hel
half -smiled-Margaret always said ii was q
smile-and died and all without one word
Without word! And If she could but
have spoken-for there was no ring on her
finger.
Five long and lonesome years-and just
for this Poor Margaret had no tears. A
fierce dry anger with fate burned them
away at their source. Now, indeed, She
was wretched. In those five years she saw
she had been happy-happy with her hope
She took the child aud cared for II mechan
icaly; she laid it down between whiles as
she went about her work, and suffered 1t tc
crv If ii would. LET II cry p she said
at is James Falconer's child. Crying II
too good for It," But once, as the little
thing was sobbing, she went 10 II, and saw