Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1873-06-19

AN'5us oiho4 uShSs ouu C'CA uusu uoA
eyes grew dim, she would watch the
radiance Of the Pickering light, only
saying sometimes:
"Shall l live to hear his footsteps !?
Will that feeble flame still burn when
my life's light has gone out?'
"Pray with me- she muttered. that
l may see him before 1 die. Oh, for
this most precious boonI'
In vain all prayer. Slowly, more
slowly. the wheels went round, and
the pulses, like ebbing drops, fell fain-
ter and fewer, until, one calm night in
summer, the waters were scarcely stir
TITO.
She lay quietly, smile upon her
lips, her eyes closed, and her hands
folded.
81 have longed to see him, she said
Il have prayed earnestly; but l have
given it all up now; shall not meet
him in this world"
"Have you put the light in the win
dow?' she asked suddenly, earnestly,
few moments after. "It is growing
dark"
Alas it was not the light that was
growing dark.
Her hands grew cold. Over her
countenance came that mysterious
shadow tnat falls but once on any NOR
tai face,
"Oh, my boy my boy!" she whisp-
cred, "tell him"-they bent lower to
catch the failing words-"that l will
put light in the window Of heaven to
guide his footsteps there"
The thrilling sentence was hardly
spoken when the shadow dropped from
the suffering face, and it smiled in the
calm majesty Of death.
A funeral followed humble hearts
attended the body of one who was
loved for her sincere goodness all
through the hamlet; and on the hill
side, IN little graveyard, she was
buried.
Not many days after, . great ship
came into the port of busy city.
Among all those who stepped from
her decks none were more hopeful,
more joyous, than young Henry Locke
He had passed through the ordeal Of
ship life, so far unscathed. No blight
Of immortality had fallen upon him.
He had kept himself as spotless rs if
at every nightfall his feet had been
turned toward the door Of his mothers
Cottage. How his heart bounded at
the thought of her. Strange enough
be had never dreamed that she might
be dead. 1t did not occur 70 him that
perhaps her silver locks were lying un-
der the lid of the coffin. Oh, no he
only thought of the pleasant light in
the window that her hands had trim
med for him.
Beautifui ana bland was tho day -"
which he travelled again the long ac-
customed road. How pleasant now to
go home with sufficient to provide for
the comfort of that dear mother. She
would never want again. He would take
her To better home, and give her the
luxuries he had once longed TO see in
her possession. That old arm chair
she should have a new one, easy in
motion, elegant in material. The fad
ed shawl that he had seen folded and
refolded year after year ; the old fash
ioned bonnet, with its one band Of
cn,pe these, yes, everything, should
be replaced with newer and better.
The flowers on the road all smiled
as he looked toward them; the very
kline seemed TO him turning their meek
eyes at the sound Of strange footsteps
to know that his heart was glad with
love and anticipation. Hope on,
dreamer Yonder comes one who
trudges on laggingly-a farmer in
heavy boots and frock, his whip in his
hand. He cheers the lazy oxen, but
suddenly stops amazed.
IL see you know me" said the young
sailor, smiling. "Well, Farmer Brown
how is"
"Know ye why how tall ye are
So his eyes drop, his mouth trem-
bles-''ye've got home
"Yes, and glad enough to get home
again. How's my mother:"
"Your-mother-"
He says it in that slow, hesitating
way that telegraphs i'll tidings before
they are told in words.
s.Yes-is she we'll! Is she expect
ing me? Ofcourse she is {; We are late
by a month"
"Your mother, Henry, well-the old
lady"
He plays with his whip, or, rather
strikes it hard on the dusty road. Can
he crush that happy heart.
"There, you need not speak y cried
the young man in voice Of sudden
anguish, and he recoiled almost stag
gering, from the farmers side, and
buried his face in his hands.
"Henry, my poor lad. your mother
is"
Don't don't cried the other, show.
ing now face from which all color
had fled. ''Oh, my mother !! my moth
er r!-she is gone. gone-and l was
coming so happy
For some moments he sObbed as in,
agony. How dreary the world had
grown! Tue flowers had lost fra.
GRANGE, the sun warmth; his heart
seemed dead.
Henry, she left message for you,
said the old farmer, wiping his eyes
with the sleeves Of his frock.
"A message for me" 1t seemed
as il the white lips could hardly speak
"Yes says she-so my dame told
me, and so the minister said-''Tel
Henry I will put light in the window
of heaven to guide his footsteps
there"
"Did she, oh, did she say that? Cox
bless you for telling me! All my long
voyage have thought Of the light il
her little window. l have seemed t.
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