The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1876-04-08
you will find pen and paper in the secre-

tary there"
Its the best l can do" he thought
ed much rather have said it, but if
can't do that, I'll have to do the next bes
thing" He wrote down what lie came tc
say to Marcia Stanhope, and sealed it in ar
envelope, upon which he wrote her name.
If you will give it to her." he said, lay.
ing it down upon the table by Mrs. Stan.
hope, "you will be doing me favor. had
rather not tell you what | have written,
though, perhaps, you have right to know.
Marcia may tell you" Then he said good
bye and went away.
81 have a right to know, according to
his own admission" Mrs. Stanhope said,
letter through carefully.
g | think fate is playing into my hands, ~
she said, grimly. 1t will be a long time
before your letter is answered, if | am not
mistaken, Mr. Gresham. She went to the
old clock in the corner, opened it, and
dropped the letter down into its mysterious
depths.
There" she said, shutting the door
upon its secret, "that is disposed of safely,
| think
"The next morning she spoke up sud
denly to Marcia:
Orchard Gresham was here yesterday
to see you. He said he was going away
last night, and didn't know how far he was
going, nor how long he should be gone
lie told me to wish you good bye for him?"
That was all -
Marcia said it shaply, as is the words
cost her q great effort. Her face was very
pale.
Yes, that was ALL answered Mrs Stan
hope.
He never cared for me, I'm sure" Mar
cia whispered to her pillow that night, and
then cried herself to sleep.
1t was a pleasant afternoon in October,
when Mrs. Stanhope died. The sky was full
ofdreamy vagueness-a haze through which
the sunshine filtered goldenly, and made
the hills seem like the hills of some ghostly
land. The leaves of the old chestnut by
the door were dropping softly and with
slow rustic that kept time to the ticking of
the old clock in the corner.
Mrs. Stanhope had been failing slowly
for years. Her life had faded as the day
fades; you scarcely can tell that the light
is going out, but the first you know it is
gone.
1t was so with her. The light was almost
gone out, now. 1t only flickered for mo-
ment, then there would be darkness.
marcia" she said, family.
"Well, MOTHER"
"There is something | want to tell you.
| ought to have told you long ago. Rich
ard Gresham left a letter for you when he
went away | read it, and hid it in the old
clock. 1t is there yet. When am gone,
find it aud read it, but not till then, Mar
cia." She looked up pleadingly into Mar
cia's face.
No, not till then" Marcia promised,
with a strange feeling Of expectancy, re-
greet and anger at heart.
What did that hidden letter have to say?
she wondered.
Perhaps-and then she tried to put all
thought of it out Of her head until the
time came for her to know what Richard
had to say. But she could not do that.
Byand bye Mrs Stanhope said she wanted
to so to sleep.
Marcia arranged her pillows and the
sick woman closed her eyes YEARLY She
slept long and well, for she never woke
again.
The funeral was over. And then came
that awful sense of desolaton which fol-
lows "after the burial
Whoever has passed through this expert
ence Of life can never forget the dreary
loneliness, the solemn silence that is about
the house. The world seems to have stopped
for a little time.
Tick, tick. the old clock kept repeating
that night, and Marcia went to it to solve
the mystery it held She took off the old
door, and removed the curously- carved
front. In the bottom, covered with dust
of fifteen years. she found the letter she
had never known of for SO long. She read
it through with curious blending of pleas
uro to know that Richard had loved her,
and bitter regret for what she had lost
If she had only known then. Now her
life must go on as it had gone so long, but
she should have it to think of that he had
loved her.
She laid her head down against the old
clock, and cried softly.
His love would have been so sweet. 1t
would have made life so pleasant. Butt
was lost. 1t had been lost for fifteen ears.
There was a knock at the door.
She got up, drying her eyes hastily, and
went to admit her visitor hardly conscious
of what she was doing, but acting more
from force of habit than anything else.
a man stood on the threshold.
Marcia he said, and held out his hand.
g You don't know me, l suppose. ] am
Richard Gresham. l came back to-day.
| heard of your mother S death, and | knew
you'd be lonesome, and thought perhaps
you'd be glad to see an old friend, so
made bold to come
"Oh, Richard" she cried, and then
broke down in true woman fashion. 81
wonder who sent you here tonight? l
have just found the letter you wrote and
left for me before you went away. l never
knew there had been one till five days ago.
You can't blame me for not writing, as you
asked me to-"
And then the face of this woman, whose
years We're thirty five, and out of whose
heart you would have supposed all girlish
romance had fled grew suddenly hot with
sweet shame to think of what her words
meant.
Good sent me, I suppose" he said, with
a great gIadness in his face, and he caught
her to his heart and kissed her. 81 was
sure you loved me, Marcia. but TIE letter
looked for never came, and thought your
mother had got you to thinking as she did.
So | cave up hoping for that which took