Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1874-12-16

seemed to lose her hravado, and began in a
husky voice, which grew shrill and sharp as
she went on
Who are you, that calls my child yours2
What right have you TO her You stole her F;
| never gave her up | have searched for
years. | have found her at last She is
mine, and III have herr
| shuddered at her words, but answered
calmly, and my heart seemed to have grown
still, SO faint it throbbed and beat
You ask what right / have to the child
What right have You to the little one YOU
left to the mercics Of a cold. wide world
1ou threw her away saved her She may
be born Of your body, but her soul is minel'
She paced the room now, up and down like
some Gagged thing, then, speaking with We
hemeuce, she cried, passionately.
al swear I'll have my child and I'll
break every door and window in your fine
house 10 get her, and she struck the door
with her clenched hand as she spoke.
Silence" / commanded, looking into her
angry eyes with mine. Listen to me, and
If when have finished what have to say
You can still take her from me. ! will yield
her without word. Yes, continued, as
she looked up from the fringes Of the shawl
she was tearing, and seemed surprised, eyes,
Twill give her up 10 you, though it will break
my heart !" And felt looked the words
uttered.
She grew camer, and | went on earnestly:
For five happy years ! have been a mother
to your little one. | took her poor and
friendleSs and sick, from a home of charity.
She had been rescued, they told me, from the
arms of q drunken, depraved mother, who
threatened TO kill the child if left to her
mercy | have ministered to her comfort
and welfare, physically and mentally, all
these years. She bears my name, and as she
grows to womanhood, will be socially re-
spected as my daughter. At my death, all
possess becomes hers and love her lou
You are her mother Do YOU ask me to
give her back to you?'
She did not speak, but kept on tearing off
the fringcs Of her shawl; then. at last, with
bitter, hard laugh, she said, in a sneering
tone. " IL is plain to be seen you never had a
child To ask a mother such a question"
felt the sting she meant | should. but
answered her again "True, | have never
had a child | have never been a mother
but" and ! looked her in the eyes as
spoke, as woman to woman" can you ask
me for the child again ? Where will you
take her 2 What will you make Of her 2"
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 to where ! sat still weep
ing she silently took my hand in both hers,
and kncelng, kissed it, saying, in low,
half-smothered voice wish | had known
you years ago. Keep her. | give you MY
little daughter, and will never trouble you
nor her again. So help me God
With these words she went out of my
house, aud 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, and showed her the dover
of roses with which she had come to me
and | have them still, all pressed and
withered, and fragrant and sweet. Oh, that
| lay dead with them She listened all
through my tale without a 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 me- fancied, though
that ever after She seemed to love roses, for
she wore them continually in her hair, at
her throat, and in her belt. All, those days
Why could not life have gone on forever in
that sweet companionship
There came a change. 1t was in the year
of the great religious revival \ strange
new minister then came to our toWtl, and
with his eloquent preaching, Weakened in the
hearts of the people far and near a sense Of
their sin and unworthiness. lie was man
of rare ability, as well as of rare attractions
Under his influence many of our people
gathered into the church. Among the num-
Der was my darling. She had ever been Of
a 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 and | came in time to discover
that, dearly as she loved me, there was a
"nearer and dearer one STILL
answered yes when at last he came
to ask me for the hand of her whose heart
he held but | told him first her story, which
he said he knew and " loved her all the more
for" Oh, the world looked so bright to me
then My darling was to marry at once,
and live with me Just the same, and was sing
ing song Of thanksgiving down in my
heart day and night.
As the time drew near for the marriage,
the minister came to me one day and said it
had been the desire of his life to 60 abroad,
and now, with the kind permission and assis-
do SO with his bride. 1t startled me TO think
| must part with my darling after all, and |
said would go too but iancied he looked
dispeased, and thinking he would doubtless
prefer his rose without a thorn, | gave up
my objections 1t was hard She had been
ine-mine 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 rousseau was being made she
would have nothing but of the very plainest,
the most necessary, and would accept no
portion from me as a wedding gift.
shall take him my dover of roses,
she would answer my remonstrances at her
persistent refusal You found it enough
VIII not he -
When she stood in her bridal robes ready
for the church, and he came for her that
beautiful June morning, she put in his hand
her great bunch of white roses, saying (as
she said to me that morning long ago. " |
bring them to you They are my dower;' :
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 running through
them then they came quieter in tone-a
/ little sad, | fancied-" homesick for me, y
my glad heart throbbed then they
ceased 10 come at all and the fall came, and
winter, and still my darling did not come
/ / did not hear. | wrote and wrote the peo-
/ pie shook their heads and talked and finally
/ / fell i'll. Close into "the valley of the
shadow of death passed, and when wan
dered back into the green pastures again,
| there was a sad, ray-haired old woman look.
/ ing out at me from the glass.
ltwas Christmas eve, | sat over the fire
doing and dreaming always Of my darling
| saw her, as had seen her last, so bright
| and beautiful in her bridal robes, aud then
| seemed to see her as she came to me that
sweet June morning long ago, in her little
cotton gown, and with the bunch of roses
trembling in her timid grasp. Then she
changed again, and lay there at my feet q
woman, wan and pale, ! put out both my
hands, and she did not go. | whispered
a." Is it you, my darlingl" and the phantom
whispered back, oh so sadly; "Yes, it is
| come TO you once again, but have not
even rose to bring this time my roses are
all dead !"
rubbed my eyes, and still ii did not van
ish. And it was she my own--my dar
| ling-my Rosemare-a faded rose, alas all
pale and dropping.
Oh ! the wicked, cruel story | learned, lit.
tie by little. How the dover of roses had
not been the fortune which her husband had
coveted and hoped to win through me How
har narsi4iant rpfusals Ia rpepixp "A fnarri a pa