The herald and mail. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 1873-188?, 1876-09-08
fathe after his official duties. 1 over
n,ahim hv kisses and cnmnlaints

H6reGurnS my Kisses aHecCl0natel
but b looks SO grave that l say, an
iouslY:
"Isanvthing the matter, dear?"
YES; have very sudden and bs
newsP he answers, taking me into Il
dinniig-room and stroking my hair wit
his dar hands. =" Ysung Hamilton
dead was found dead this morning
his bet. 1t appears he was always SUI
ject to heart complaint. / met Gordo
in thestreet, who gave me the sad new
Poor iellow, he seemed quite broke
down.
1 am terribly stricken. Dead! 1 sa
the woid over and over again, yet cal
not realize the full meaning of it. BU
when Igo to- bed turn my face to th
wall, OF which one long ray of moonligh
is playing, and sob as if my heart woul
break and yet 1 know l did not low
him. 0, soft melancholy eyes Pei
haps not melancholy now, but glad an
RI diant and full of new triumphan
light. o, poor troubled heartl Tha
has, hope, found rest. But l think c
the little kind things 1 might have sal
and done, and of all the things said O
done so much better left undone.
Well, the tedious summer days so by
We never see Col. Gordon now; h
seems to have given us up; even pap
seems to wonder at his silence. One no
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 l was, and think if Col
Gordon could see me now he woulC
4 l. hnl
! hope that we may meet him in our wan
derings. look anxiously at all tht
hotels into the books of the visitors
where his name is not registered, anC
after two months of mountain and seS
air we come hack to the old London, the
old house, and the old lie. We have
been home week; to-day papa has got
to his Office occupations again, and to
day 1 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 leailess
branches, the cold gray aspect OF
the sky. Is there nothing l 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? l gather a nosegay of au-
tumn flowers out of our own garden,
knowing that, if living, that would have
pleased him most, and / set out on my
pilgrimage. They have laid my lover to
rest at Norwood, in the dim vaults away
under the church. As 1 walk up be-
tween the long rows of tombs a chill rain
begins falling, beating in my face but l
do not feel frightened or lonely in this
capital of the dead, nor do l shrink as,
lit by family glimmering taper, l fol-
low down the winding staircase into the
sad populous region below, though 1
shiver at the dank air, in which death
seems to become almost palpable. My
guide locking carefully at the names, ta-
per in hand, stops before one. l signify
to him that would be alone for a few
minutes, and he retircs. 1 bend down
and read the inscription: William
Hamilton, born May II, 1851 died June
9, 1873. He giveth his beloved Sleep"
Is it indeed sleep for him, and unmarried
by any dreams? l think of how he
loved me-and that love which l held
so lightly-and the plenteous tears
come. But here is a step. The custo
dian of the place coming back, sup
pose. l raise my face hurriedly, and
meet the dark we'll known eyes of colonel
Gorden; but they have in them
milder, sweeter look than I have ever
seen there before. He takes my hands
in his and holds them, looking long and
lovingly at the inscription on the coffin.
We do not speak word, but we leave
the place together and come out in the
gray windy light of the fading day. He
draws my arm in his, still holding my
hand, and we walk little ways in 81
lence. At lenght, he says, very kindly,
70 Thank you for this, RhOda; [ did not
know you loved him so much"
Stop" l say, l am very sorry for
him, feel so grateful that he should
have cared for me; but in the way you
mean l never loved him. All you said
to me that night was right and true, and
[ have been better for it."
"No harm has been done," he rejoins;
e and if he died thinking you loved him,
ne died happier. But you are not look
ing well. Is anything troubling you?"
mo; am not happy and now he
mas gone, 1 have no one who 7 think
really loves me-"
"You are mistaken there" he replies
quietly. Don't you know that | love
you ?"-and then more to himself than
70 meas my life, as my soul. l loved
you, Rhoda, from the first day l saw
you; but then he loved you too, and he
vas so unable to buffet the waves of this
world, if you could have loved him and
made his life happy-well, dear, you
1 have said more than |
meant to say; consider some of it un-
aid only remember, if ever you should
want a lriend, you will know where to
,ome; and" he adds, with rather sad
mile, " 1 will not even in jest ask you
o become my wife"
"Because you consider me so worth
ess ?"
Because will not give you the pain
# saving no."
" Because you will not give me the
oy of saying yes"
"That could not be-" he replies, with
.lmost childish incredulity in his voice:
why, l am fifteen years older than
-ou."
"And if it were twice that, it would
,e nothing" 1 reply, warmly. But |
must you beat all the pride out of me ?''
He turns round now and faces me,
aying his hands upon my shoulders,
While 1 gaze into his eyes so frank and
earless. q Remember" he says, i'll a
olemn voice, "the place from which |
We have just come, remember all that is
t stake, and then tell me if you can say
rom the bottom of your heart-I love
-ou."
My heart does not falter as eche his
asst words, and 1 know that he will never
SIX me that question again-at least for
he want of confirmation. He folds me
n his arms, and, bending down, kisses
ny lips long and passionately; "I came
n here" he says, zone of the weariest |
nen in all Gods earth, and now am
urely the most blessed" We go back |
o London, both happy, both suPremely |
Iappy; and as we drive home through |
he shrieking London streets, shudder |
o think how nearly l had missed the |
.reat peace and happiness of my life.
He had kept his secret maniully; but, |
hank God! it had been known at last, |
nd not too late.