Litchfield enquirer., 1874-03-26

not. MT. St. John had not acknowledged previous acquaintance with Susie to her grandparents, it is true, but he was too high-mindedly honorable to communicate with her surreptitiously (more's the pity for my impatience)
 The fancy structure was complete at last, and only ten days remained to us of our guests society, and four of these, in- clud1ng Sunday, were to be spent, at their request, with our ''Friend." was glad of the arrangement; all of Friday and Sat urday | kept eye and ear and inner sense alert for developments. But none came, and the Sabbath, with it's stiffness, dawn ed. When the church hour came, we all went toward the little maeting-house, sep arating at the door and filing in-the brethren on one side, the sisters on the other. The service was simple to novelty, and l was interested, and amused too, I am afraid, as I intercepted sly glances from masculine row" drab-bonnetward. A demure little Quakeress sat by my side with a cheek like the inner fold of tine pink-lipped sea-shell. An! young Broad br1m, thee had best beware.
 In the afternoon we convened again, and sat silently. An hour passed; the Spirit moved not, and still we sat, with eyes cast down; and then, as by one con- sent, everybody rose up. shook his neigh
 bor's hand, and went out.
 We partook quietly of the simple repast awaiting us, and then went to the parlor.
 Our host and his wife, yet under the spell of the afternoon, sat down side bv side
 folded their hands, and spoke not. We must fain follow their lead, and, without
 book or religious paper to hold our thoughts, we silently disposed ourselves. 1t was time for reflection on ones own past delinquent life; but was busily fore casting my neigbor's hopes and prospects, almost till the twilight's waning; then the moments began to fall heavily like con tlnuous drops of water on my head. could have cried out from sheer nervous ness. 1 glanced up. David and Hannah sat solemn as tombstones, and the color. Tn waves of anguish, was coming and go- Ing Tn Susle's face. could not see the rest without turning, but felt that I had been deprived of the power of motion.
 | do not know that could have endur- ed It moment longer, when Madame's s voice, scarce louder than the airs vibra- tlon, breathed forth melody designed to relieve, while not disturbing us It was Tn half chant, half balead style, and link ed to quaint words descriptive of prodi- gals yearnlng Tn a foreign land for moth CT, home, and friends. Her voice grew louder and fuller as she proceeded, then so touchlngly pathetic, as the wanderer was restored to his fathers arms, that l felt my eyes overflow in the soft silence that followed
 ''There is sweetly cherished in my mem ory many such an evening as this" be- gan MT. St. John, in tones low, clear. and soothing, "and 1 trust their hallowing in- Huence will with me ever abide. Some four years ago, was walking through the surburban streets of my native city. when l overlook man whose apparent i'll health seemed suddenly to enfeeble his steps. I offered my arm for support, and when we reached his house, there was such home like air about it that frankly accepted ms invitation to go in. His wife was there, young woman yet; fair-faced and pleasant spoken, and so evidently alarm ed at her husbands early return, that I remained some time with the hope of comforting her. My chosen walk in life had made me familiar with bodily ail- ments and heart histories. and I found it no unthankful task to offer what of ser vice and sympathy l could to this refined. gentlemanly man, and his sensitive, cllng Ing wife. This was the first of many calls: made ln the beginning for their sakes, and atterward for my own, when found stealing over me something of a sanctity which had never known before. Sunday night found me sometimes there; there was some effort toward entertainment at first, then an apology for silence, when the wife said::--
 '"Thee will please come when thee wish. but thee has learned by my speech that I am of Quaker birth, and 1t seems comedy that these Sabbath hours be spent in qui- ct. If we say naught, thee will know where our thoughts are, and not deem us in-bred"
 ''The husband i'll less than six months fell victim to wasting disease, and I of- ten found myself with the afflicted family. There was a charm to me in that home. Perhaps 1t was the peaceful air; the ten der affection manifest; an interest in the manly boy left fatherless; and more, may be, Ill the young daughters womaniy grace and sweetness; but the holy still ness of their Sabbath evenings must reach down over my life. I was learning les sons of heart-quiet from that dear Qua ker woman which, after all, perhaps, was not experienced by her, for on my return the following year from my summer launt, found her unexpectedly and hope !essly i'll, and in great mental distress. Underneath the pure happiness of her married life there had been, 1t seems, a corrodlng alloy of error and regret She was weak with excitement and fever, but had endeavOred to write some words of gr1et and repentance to those she had loved ln childhood-aye, loved till death"
 Here MT. St. John paused, and drew from hls pocket paper, and Madame nOlselessly left the room and returned with lights. David's broad hat was drawn down over his eyes, and Hannah was lean- ing forward with hands tightly clasped.
 ''I will read some touching extracts" continued Mir. St. John, unfolding the letter.
 "'Thee knows it ali, father and moth- er,' 1t abruptly began, the sin I mean, but not the sorrow that has mingled all through my,'life because of it; and dying, would come to thee for pardon as did before; but 1t is too late. Thee has had trouble and woe with thy children, but have been happy in mine, my boy and girl Gin my husband and my home), if thee, now forg1ving me, would take them. OA' "S~Ch S0AAA OO NO OObOCA 0hOh HUI mother was, and my Robert to be what your Robert was before the sad day he wandered astray I must tell thee again now, as I told thee in the long letters I wrote. Thee returned them unread, l know, but thee will read this. Theeis liv- ing in the old home yet, father and moth CT? Ye cannot both be dead! dared not tell thee then, but Robert came home one night, long after ye so sternly bade him not He crept to my room. and talked there long hours. He had seen his dread ful guilt, and was striving towards re- form; had the promise ofwork in ahealth- fuI town, and was filled with hope that he should come back to be thy pride and stay. I believed him, father and mother, when I saw him kiss thee 'good-by' in thy sleep; but the third day beyond brought him back dead, killed by a cruel mishap, and then, thee knows why; I could not tell thee! Thee will take my boy and girl, to be to thee what we should have been. But loved my Hen ", father, more than thee, as thee in thy young days lovedst thy Hannah more