The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1873-04-10
Il viii If Ycu Will

The Kay House is apleasant little hotel,
standing halt way up a mountain in New
/ Hampshire.
In the parlor there, one July evening,
I were four peoplc--Mrs ST. John and her
daughter Ely, Miss Emily May, and Mr..
Mil!burn As Ely ST. John went 10 the
piano, these two last Slipped out on the
balcony, and stood listening as Ely sang:
could we forget, could we forget!
Oh that lethe We're running yet
The past should fade like morning dream
In single drop of the holy stream.
An! We know what YOU would say,
But we are too tired to hope or pray;
For, hurt with ceaseieSs jar and fret,
Body and soul cannot forget.
Can they forget, will they forget
When they shall reach the boundary set
When with the final lang and strain
They are parted never to meet again?
Ever to them Sha' rest he given,
SrnseteSS in earth or happy in Heaven
j hat which has been it might lie yet
If we rouid only learn to forget
But the stars Shall cease to rise and set,
And fall from Heaven ere we forget
Ely sang with an intensity and pathos
which borrowed none Of its force from
within, tor she was a good-natured, in
consequent sort OF a girl who had never
{ Hitl L ifpHhit III UtI lllt. ne gIl vi
musiraI expression is often quite indie
pendent OF feeling on experience. Elly's
music hurt Emily cruelty, and stirred and
reused the ol! sorrow which had Just be-
Gan 10 fall asleep for Il while. She had
loved deeply and iondly u man who had
serown tired of her and left her, because
he was greatly her inferior.
Much as she had suffered, rejoiced
when her engagement with Lewis Leigh
ton was broken hai known Lewis from
his earliest childhood. and had always
dsikea him as Il selfish, conceited prig.
The last | heard of him he had turned
Catholic and Joined the Jesuits; and |
only hope he got well snubbed during his
novitiate. Had Miss May married him,
her disappointment would have been un-
speakably greater than it was. AS she
leaned over The balcony while ELY sang,
and looked out into the shadows and star
light, her healt was wrung as with the
first anguish of loss, the sickening sense
OF her own blind intatuation. ''Oh God !"
She said to herself, "when acW the bitter
ness OF this death be past ?" Then she
became conscious that Mr.. Millburn was
speaking to her; but he had more than
half finished what he had to say before
she realized that he had asked her to be
his wife.
He spoke At 4 very unfortunate mo-
ment He and Emily had been very good
friends that summer. They had wander
cd in the woods, ascended Mount Wash
ington, and been to Glen Ellis together.
She had liked him, but she had never
dreamed OF him as lover, and when he
presented himself in that light, she was
shocked and startled, and little pro-
yoked.
"Oh hush !" she said sharply. 1T never
can be-never y
"Do YOU then dislike me so much ?" said
Evert Millburn, trying very hard to speak
quietly.
NO. she said, making an effort to
collect her thoughts. II have liked YOU
you have been good to me but all the
love l had TO give is dead and buried, and
there is no resurrection"
He made no answer; but she felt that
she had hurt him.
Il am very sorry" she faltered; Il
never meant"
81 understand" he said quickly. at is
no ones fault but my own. ''Good night"
And they touched hands and parted.
Evert went up to his own room, where
his friend Dick Bush, was sitting in the
| dark. Dick was L boy of nineteen. He
had been trying to work his way through
college, and had worn himself out in the
effort, and Mr. Millburn had brought him
to the mountains for his vacation. Dick
made hero of Evert, and he had been
mortally Jealous of Emily May.
''Dick," said Mr. Millburn, after 4 lit
tie time, ''We will 60 over to the Glen
Tomorrow"
And then Dick understood the case, and
mentally abused Miss May as ''a cold
hearted tlirt." which epithet she did not in
the least deserve
Evert and Dick went away early in the
morning. Emily heard the stage drive
away, and turned her face to her pillow,
and thought bitterly OF the horrible per-
verseness of things in this world.
She knew that Evert was good, and
manly, and sensible. He was in fair
way TO win reputation at the bar, and, if
not just handsome, was attractive and
gentlemanly.
'There are dozens that would be proud
and happy to accept his love; and nothing
would do but that he must throw it away
on me" thought Emily, impatiently. "But
it's never worth while to pity men very
much. They mostly get over their troubles
very easily, II there is no money lost"
From which it may be inferred that Miss
May was perhaps bit of cynic.
Emily May lived with her mother in
an inland town in New York. She had Il
little property of her own, and, with what
she could earn by her pen, she managed
to dress herself. pay for summers jour
ney now and then, and keep her own
house over her head.
1t was her way to look after her sick
neighbors, poor or not; to visit, now and
then, at the hospital and the county house,
and do what her hand found to do. She
made no fuss, and laid down NO rules, and
was under no ecclesiastical ''direction' in
particular; but am inclined to think she
was as useful, and far more agreeable,
than if she had made herself hideous
in poke bonnet, and committed mental
suicide.
When her holiday was over that sum-
mer, she came home, and settled quietly
down to her work.
She was busy ut her desk, one day in
October, when Il carriage drove rapidly
up the street, and stopped at the door, and
Dick Bush jumped hurriedly out, and rang
the bell. Emily went to the door herself,
upon which Dicks hurry seemed sudden
ly to subside; and when he came into the
parlor. he appeared to find great difficulty
in expressing himself, and Emily greatly
wondering, asked after his friend Mr..
Millburn.
Dicks tongue was loosed.
"Oh, Miss May" he said, with shak-
ing voice, ''Evert is dying"
''Where? How ?" said Emily. startled
and sincerely sorry