The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1874-12-03

said, in sueering tone at is plain
to be seen you never had child To
ask mother such question
/ felt the sting she meant ] should,
but | answered her again "True, l
have never had Il child. | have never
been Il mother--but"- and I looked
her in the eyes as | spoke, as woman to
woman-"can you ask me for the child
again? d? Where will YOU take her ?
What will you make of her ?" And |
utterly gave way, weeping as | never
wept before. She rose from her seat
now, looked at me intently, for some
minutes, then coming close 10 wbore |
sat, still weeping, she silently took my
hand with both hers, and kneeling,
kissed it, saying, in low, halI-smoth-
cred voice !: /" ] wish | had known you
years ago. Keep her. | give you my
little daughter, and | viii never srouble
You nor her again. 50 help me God "
With these words, she went ont Of my
house, and out of town, and | never
saw nor heard of her again.
When my darling was sixteen years
old, | told her the story of her mother
and her life as far as | knew, aud /
showed her the dover of roses with
which she had come to me; aud have
them still, all pressed and witherea,
and fragrant aud sweet. Oh, that lay
desd with them She listened all
through my tale without II word, and
when | had finished, she threw her
arms around my neck, and sobbed and
kissed me, but she never asked single
question, or spake Of her early life
again to mo. | fancied, though, that
ever after she seemed to love roses, for
she wore them continually III her hair,
at her throat, and in her belt All,
those days Why could not life have
gone on forever in that sweet compan.
ionship?
There came change. Ii was in the
year of the great religious revival. A
strange, new minister then came to our
town, and with his eloquent preaching,
wakened i'll the heAts of the people far
and near sense of THEN sin and un-
wOrthiues9. He was Il man Of rare
ability, rs we'll as of rare attractions,
Under his influence many Of our people
gathered into the church. Among the
number was my darling. She had ever
been of serious turn of mind, and
now with this jealous, ardent young
shepherd to lead her, she Became at
last one of the best beloved lambs OF
his flock. All, yes Glove took up the
glass OF time and turned it in his glow
ing hands, y and | came i'll timo to dis.
cover that, dearly as she loved me, there
was "nearer and dearer one still.
| answered eyes," when at last he
came to ask me for the hand OF her
whose heart he held, bat ! told him
first her story, which he said he knew,
aud "lovcd her all the moro for Oh,
the world looked so bright to me then
Ny darling was to marry at once, and
live with me just the same, and | was
singing a song of thanksgiving down
in my heart day and night.
As the time drew near for the mar
riago, the minister came to me one day
and said il had been tho desire OF his
life to go abroad, and now, with the
kind permission and assistance Of his
congregation, he had decided to do 80
with his bride. 1t startled me to think
| must part with my darling after all,
and ] said | would go too but !
fancied he looked displeased, and think
ing he would doubtless prefer his rose
without thorn, gave mp my objec-
t;,,, 10 ,,r,u IorJ Gbn boI bapu
mine-mino so long-and | must yield
her now They would return in the
fall, he said, and SO could count the
days she would be away from me.
When her trOUSSGaW was being made
she would have nothing but of tho very
plainest, the most necessary, and would
accept no "portion" from me as a
wedding gift.
Il shall take him my dover of
roses,' she would answer my remon-
strances at her persistent refusal.
" You found it enough Will not he ?"
When she stood in her bridal robes
ready for the church, and he came for
her that beautiful juno morning, she
put in his hand her great bunch of
white roses, saying (as she said to me
that molning long ago., 81 bring them
to you. They are my dover = and he
bent down and kissed her. Oh, that
he had fallen dead at her feet
They went abroad. Letters came at
first frequent and gay with little stories
of travel and snatches of happiness run
ming through them then they came
quieter in tome little sad, | fancied
-" homesick for me-" my glad heart
throbbed-and then they ceased to
come at all and the fall came, and
winter, and still my darling did not
come. | did not hear. | wrote and
wrote ; the people shook their heads
and talked, and finally L fell ill,
Close to "the valley of the shadow of
death" / passed, and when | wandered
back into the green pastures again,
there was a sad, gray-haired old woman
looking ont at me from the glass.
It was Christmas eve. / sat over the
Ere, doing and dreaming always OF my
iarling. | saw her, as | had seen her
ast, so bright and beautiful in her
DGltltl ulll blltu DItilOi w pNO
ler rs she came to me that sweet June
long ago, in her little cotton
GOWN, and with the bunch of roses
in her timidgrasp. Then she
again, and lay there at my feet
woman, wan aud pale. put out both
ny hands, and she did not go. Iwhis-
1ered, els it you. my darliog?" and
he phantom whispered back, oh so
,adly: "Yes it is. | come to you
,nce again, but have not even rose
10 bring this time my roses are all
lead !"
/ rubbed my eyes, and still it did not
yanish. And it was she my own
ny darling-my Rosemarie-a faded
'ose, alas all pale and dropping.
Oh the wicked, cruel story learned,
title by little. How the "dower OF
oses" had not been the fortune which
Ter husband had coveted and hoped to
vim through me How her persistent