New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1876-12-03

| middle OF EKotc0, you see. COulu LIZ yol
leave me here quietly, and pick M
up as you come back? should like it 81
much"
"Well-I don't know. The tide is GO
ing out, the boy says; there won't be any
trouble of that kind. Are you sure yot
won't be chilled, or lonely?"
'Oh! quite sure"
"Promlse me that if you are, you will
90 to the cottage at the bend and warm
Yourself. or sit on the rocks in the SUM-
Well look for you in one place or the
other. Good-by, my dear"
"Good-by, sir"
"And, O Esther, you must have some
lunch. You'll be starved before we come
back" cried careful Helen.
! So she and Tom and basket made
their way upward, and deposit OF sand
witches and port wine was left in . eonve.
nient crevice within reach.
"Good-by, dear. l hope the sketch
will be lovely" And they were gone--ur
the hillside-Mrs. Gray last, leaning upon
her husbands arm.
"Poor childr' she said, sit makes my
heart ache to see her look so sad. Didn't
YOU notice how she was longing to have
us go, and leave her alone?"
"And the very worst thing for her. She
needs rousing, and all this morbid think
ing does her harm"
The voices died away. Esther caught
the words, and she smiled at them-a Bit
ter, little smile. That was what all of
| them said since her trouble came. She
must be roused-smused-and they had
crowded business and pleasure upon her
| until she sometimes felt that she could
bear it no longer. This was the first time
in many weeks that she had felt really
free, free to be silent, to look sad, to cry
| if she wished. What luxury it was! No
anxious-eyed mother to watch her-these
comparative strangers withdrawn-this
cool, darkling sentence-it was delicious!
There was something in the very nature of
her trial which made it necessary to veil
her grief with reserve. A black
dress she might wear-Faul was
cousin, and some show of mourning
is allowed for second cousinhood,
even, and for intimate friendship,
such as theirs had been. But no one
knew of the unavowed engagement which
bound them since that hurried farewell
letter in which his love found utterance,
and which only reached her after he sailed,
the sailing from which there was to be no
return. No one knew, as they talked COM
passionately of her having had 'dread-
full shock, poor girl-her own cousin, you
know, and such fine young fellow
that her heart was wearing widows weeds
and mourning its dead as the great loss of
life 1t wouldn't bear talking about, SO
she kept silence and tried to wear brave
face.
At first there had been little hope as
rumors came of one boat-load escaping
from the midnight collision; but that was
over now, and the terrible suspense was
past, and every thing had faded into q
sort of fixed acceptance of sorrow.
Left alone, she found with some sur.
prise that she didn't want to cry. All the
morning she had felt that to creep away
somewhere and weep, and weep her heart
out, would be SO good; but tears are con-
trary things. She sat there, dulled into a
calm that was almost content. She was
thinking of the time when Paul had Wis.,
tied the island, and climbed about that
very cave. On the very bookshelf where
she sat, he might perhaps have rested.
She liked to think so. 1t brought him
nearer.
A little later, she put her sketch away,
and crept down to broad ledge, where,
through the arch, the exquisite skyline
was visible. The turf tumbled, and |
chimed like distant bells. She Law as if |
fascinated, her eyes fixed upon the shin
ing horizon. Somewhere far beyond it |
was the spot where the good ship which |
held her all went down. Down where? |
Her imagination ran riot. Cleaving the |
liquid depths to the Utmost sanctuary of |
ocean, she saw the golden sands, the
shadowy green light percolating through |
miles of water-the everlasting repose
which reigned there beyond the reach of
storm, wind or hurricane. She tried to
fix the wandering images, and to think of |
it as haven no less tranquil than the
quiet mounds under which are pillowed
beloved heads on earth. But it would not |
stay. Thoughts of tempest and fury, of
chill piping winds whipping the foam
from the waves, of roar and tumult, and
q heaving wilderness of dark waters.
came over her; and through all the re-
frain Of Jean Ingelow's pathetic strain
mixed and blended
And shall see thee no more no more
Till the sea gives up its dead"
And then she thought, as she had
thought before, how glad she should be
to die! Life didn't seem desirable anv
longer, and it would be blessed to be with
Paul, even at the bottom of the ocean.
And thinking thus, the long eyelashes
dropped more and more heavily, peace fell
upon the brow and lips; she was asleep,
asleep and dreaming a sweet, ioyful
dream.
How long she slept she never knew.
She awoke with sensation of intense
cold. The spell of slumber was so strong
upon her that for moment she did NOT
realize what had taken place. The cave
was half full of water. Her feet and the
hem of her dress were already wet, and
the roar of the waves beneath the hardly
archway told that the tide
had surprised another victim, and al
ready the avenue of escape was barred.
Was this the answer to some unspoken
prayer?
The thought flashed over her. Had she
really prayed for death? Here it was, close
1t hand, and she was conscious of no
,ladness-only an intense instructive de-
sire for life 1t was too dreadful to be
drowned in that hole, and washed away
ike weed. Life was worth living, after
Ill.
Had somebody said, or was she dream
ng, that portion of the cave was left I'M
covered by the water? She could not re-
member, but now she searched about for
ome indication. All, surely this was
,ne,-a cork, a scrap of paper, lodged on
he higher shelf,-fragile things which
lde must inevitably have washed away.
With that instinct of property which sur
ives shipwreck and fire, she collected
Ter drawing materials and other little he. |