The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1876-08-26

Fanny was sitting with me one morning.
1t was rarely that she could permit herself
that recreation; but Frank felt so well that
he had insisted upon her giving herself an
hours release from the tiresomeness of the
sick chamber. She was in unwonted spir-
its, for both he and she dared to hope that
the coming spring would give him a new
lease of life. 1t is blessing that hope can
thus comfort those who are most nearly
concerned, while others whose affection or
whose love of life does not impair their
judgment can see the truth in its naked
certainty.
The daily paper, untouched and sound,
was that morning brought to us by my lit
tie Mercury. Fanny was vastly amused at
the air of triumph with which he an
nounced that he had secured it before any
one else had the opportunity to rifle it of
its fresh news. Ipassed the paper to my
visitor, and requested her to read aloud
any thing which she might think import
ant, while finished my seam.
Surprised at her silence, looked up from
my work, and saw her sitting the picture
of shocked surprise and grief. The paper
had fallen to the floor, and, but for timely
assistance, Fanny would have fallen, too.
Air was admitted to the apartment, and
restoratives were promptly administered.
We placed her on the sofa, and she lay
shivering in silence till tears came to her
relief
| asked no questions, but took up the
paper and looked in vain for the cause of
her distress. could see nothing which
could SO move her. She perceived my per-
plexity, and, reckoning me to her side,
pointed out brief telegram, which stated
that "-- -, notorious gambler
and desperate, was yerterday killed in
street fray" in one of the Southern cities.
| could have guessed the rest, but Fanny
simply said, THAT man was once every
thing in the world to me-" He had dis
carded her, to become a vagabond upon
the earth, and had found his recompense
even in this world.
"You will not tell Frank of this? 'i l
said.
"Certainly not" she answered; and we
said little more of the outcast, nor has his
name ever been mentioned since between
us.
Fanny rose to go. She had forced her
self into ccmposure, and would dismiss, SO
ia Sh ha # ha
in her thoughtful, affec tonate care of the
living.
"Wait," l said, "and rest, after your
excitement. Your brother can spare you
yet little longer, and you must not go
back to him with that grieved look"
81 will try to look cheerful" she said;
"but, oh, it is an awful trial! thought
had ceased to care for him forever. But l
should grieve at such a death even of my
enemy"
He was little else, thought. said: 81
am grieved for you Fanny; but now you
must try and sympathize with me;' and l
read to her another item of intelligence, to
thousands Indifferent, but to many hearts
like mine as full of pleasure as Fanny's
telegram was of grief. My sons vessel
was ordered home. The list of officers was
published, and his dear name was among
them. God willing, in a few months |
should see him once more. l told her how
dear son he was; and, though she forced
herself to listen, yet do believe that all l
said in his praise made her grief the deeper,
for her mind, while | spoke, ran contrast
between his excellence and the worthless
between his manly health and high hopes,
and the crushed life and disappointment of
her only brother.
1t was an eventful day. While we were
talking, there came a hurried messenger
for Fanny. | caught up my shawl and
hood, and went with her. The village
street struck me strangely as we entered it.
In great cities children are born and men
die, and nobody needs either event, except
those who are Immediately concerned
But our little town was all alive with SYM
pathy. Everybody seemed to understand
that the even current of events was dis
turbed, and that the grim messenger who
spares neither palace nor cottage had in
truded into our secluded hamlet Frank
had barely life left to bless his devoted sis
ter and to look his thanks to me, and his
eyes peacefully closed on earth forever
l took her away from that house and
brought her home with me. | told her l
must insist on taking charge of whatever
duties remained. She yielded without a
word, for she felt now that her work of
direction and assistance was over She
was alone' 1t was desolate thought that,
but not without its compensations Fanny
could rest now on whatever charitable
bosom was ready to receive her, for she
felt that her brother was in that blessed
repose which belong to those who fall to
ious and holy hope.
We laid Franks body down among our
other treasures. No, our treasures are in
heaven; it is only the seed for the resur-
TeCtlOu VIC piaCC III lHC cdibH. I1t
had often admired the holy stiffness of the
place where his remains now lie, and had
said more than once that be came here to
find his last resting place.
Fanny began to think of new walks Of
usefulness; but | told her she owed it to
herself to wait until she had recovered
from the long and terrible strain upon her
mind and body. That argument might not
have prevailed with her, so sturdy can a
tender woman be in her purposes; but l
convinced her that she was necessary to
me, and made the compromise with her
that she should spend the summer at least
with us. Her time was divided between
my house and the cottage where her brother
died She said she owed so much to the
kind old woman there that she must re-
main at least her nominal ledger, but had
far the greater share of her company.
One day in June, now three years ago,
Fanny was sitting with me as usual In
rushed my little man, in dreadful dudgeon,