The Osceola times., 1876-09-02

in one another, till something he say
puts me out Of tune, and leave him il
a tiff, poor fellow. Only, when he is go
ing away, am 80 sorry for him that
can not resist saying, al hope you d,
not think me tod quafrels6mb ~ ,Thel
| look up piteously in his face and cas-
another look Of proud defiance at hi
friend. Soon our little gathering break
up, and l am glad that the evening is a
an end.
Another superb day, just as hot ant
cloudless as yesterday: but in spite o
the beautiful weather, and all the rose,
in the garden, I got up feeling cros
and out Of spirits Am / merely firt
something too light aud frivo1ousf
woman, l think, should be something
better. After all, Col. Gordon wa
right, and when l see Mr.. Hamilton
again will show him firmly but kindly
that he has no reason TO hope. I an
somewhat comiortcd by this resolution
but have no will to read books or IA
pay visits. / have no mother, and
am an only child, 40 my life is rather
solitary. Somehow the day weafs itsell
away, and at six o'clock, punctual ID
the time itself, comes the quick familiar
ring, and hasten to meet my dear old
father after his official duties. over
come him by kisses and complaints.
"Oh, am so glad yod have come
back" l say; al have been horribly
dull and hasn't it been hot?-no cool
corner in the house, and no shade in the
garden"
He returns my kisses affectionately,
but he looks 50 grave that l say, anx.
iously:
:" Is anything the matter, dear?'
"Yes; | have very sudden and bad
news" he answers, taking me into the
dinning-room and stroking my hair with
his dear hands. "Ysung Hamilton Is
dead was found dead this morning Ia
bis bed. 1t appears he was always sub.
iect to heart complaint. ] met Gordon
IN the street, who gave me the sad news.
Poor fellow, he seemed quite broken
down."
am terribly stricken. Dead l say
the word over and over again, yet can
not realize the full meaning Of It. But
when go to bed / turn my face to the
wall, on which one long ray of moonlight
is playing, and sob as If my heart would
break !; and yet know I did not love
him. o, soft melancholy eyes Per-
haps not melancholy now, but glad and
radiant and full Of new triumphant
light. o, poor troubled heart That
has, hope, found rest. But think Of
the little kind things I might have said
and done, and Of al the things said OF
done 20 much better left undone.
Well, the tedious summer days 20 by
We never see Col. Gordon now; he
seems to have given us up; even papa
seems TO wonder at his silence. One ho,
August day we leave noisy, dusty Lon
don behind and take wing for the cont
nent. We have got over the first shocl
of poor Mr.. Hamilton's death, but an
not quite what I was, and / think If Col
Gordon could see me now he would
think me less frivolous. I have hall
hope that we may meet him in our wan.
derings. l look anxiously at all the
hotels into the books of the visitors,
where his name is not registered, and
after two months of mountain and sea
air we come hack to the old London, the
old house, and the old Lille. We have
been home week; to-day papa has got
to his Office occupations again, and to.
day feel terribly sad and cheerless---
sadness which all things around me
tend to deepen the rustic Of dead
leaves on the garden paths, the moan
ings of the wind in the leatless
branches, the cold gray aspect ot
the sky. Is there nothing I should
like to do? l think, as ] wander rest
lessly between the garden and the
house. All yes, there is one thing /
have always intended to do, and why
not to-day? | gather a nosegay Of au.
tumn flowers out of our own garden,
knowing that, If living, that would have
pleased him most, and l set out on my
pilgrimage. They have laid my lover "a
rest at Norwood, in the dim vaults away
under the church. As l walk up be.
tween the long rows of tombs chill rain
begins falling, beating in my face /; but
do not feel frightened or lonely in thi,
capital of the dead, nor do l shrink as
lit by family glimmering taper, fol
low down the winding staircase into the
sad populous region below, though
shiver at the dank air, in which death
seems to become almost palpable. My
guide locking carefully at the names, Ia
per in hand, stops before one. / signify
to him that would be alone for lew
minutes, and he retires. I bend dowr
and read the inscription: "William
Hamilton, born May II. 1851; died june
8, 1873. He giveth his beloved Sleep"
Is it indeed sleep for him, and unmarried
by any dreams3 l think Of how h,
loved me-and that love which / hels
so lightly-and the plenteous tear
come. But here is a step. The custo
dian Of the place coming back, l sup
pose. raise my face hurriedly, AM
meet the dark we'll. known eyes OF colone
Gorden; but they have in them
milder, sweeter look than have eve
seen there before. He takes my hand
in his and holds them, looking long an,
lovingly at the inscription on the coffin
We do not speak word, but we leav
the place together and come out in tn
gray windy light of the fading day. II
draws my arm in his, still holding m
hand, and we walk a little ways in 81
lence. At lenght, he says, very kindly
Thank you for this, Rhoda did no
know you loved him 30 much"
Stop" say, Il am very sorry 70
him, feel 80 grateful that he shoul'
have cared for me but in the way yo'
mean l never loved him. All you sai'
to me that night was right and true, an,
have been better for it."
"No harm has been DONE" he rejoins
"and if he died thinking you loved him
he died happier. But you are not look
ing we'll. Is anything troubling you