American citizen. [volume] (Canton, Miss.) 1864-1890, 1876-05-13

deepen, and warded off both shame and
pity. at is rather singular that you
have not intimated such a wish before.
Was il for this you wished to see meP'
do not be angry, Philip" pleaded
the girl. 81 was in the room the day
the day that you and Madeleine were
walking, Philip. was here when you
came home. Neither of you saw me,
for the room was dark. ought to have
spoken, but-but L could not speak.
heard-what you said. I tried to tell
Madeleine then-oh. why could 1 not?
But, Madeleine, you were not quite igg-
norantp" ..- r
There was no answer, nor did any
sound disturb the silence for five long
minutes. They had called her child
in their hearts, and comferted them
selves with thinking that if she felt
grief, it would be but light and easily
forgotten. In simplicity, in truthful
ness, in sweet and trusting confidence,
she seemed indeed child. But not in
the shallow-natured insensibility that
refuses to suffer, or in the elasticity that
rebounds from pain-not in these things,
if this white face might be taken in evil
dence, whose ashen pallor contrasted
so pitifully with its yet round contour,
and more strangely still with the glow
ing red-gold hair, that caught the last
CLEANS of daylight, deepening them in
to sparkles with its own living hue.
Philip buried his face in his hands.
"Cecile, 1 am not worthy to speak to
you," he said at last, brokenly. "You
will not believe whatI am going to say,
and can't blame you. 1t does not ex-
cuse me, either; but, as God is my wit
ness, 1 meant to be faithful to you.
Until that evening, if Madeleine knew
1 loved her, L had not told her SO.
But-but you heard every thing. 1
struggled against it-forgive me, Cecile
and 1 meant to tell you; but how
could 1? can not ask you to pardon
me, but don't blame Madeleine. 1t was
not her fault, nor mine, God knows. I
could not help it,
She held out her hand at this; but
just then the dim forms in the room
SWAN round her, dazzling, agonizing
light struck across her aching eyeballs,
and all the world vanished suddenly, as
one blows out candle, into dark moth.
ingness.
They lifted her up and laid her on the
sofa, Madeleine's hot tears falling on
her head. And they saw her face, as
it had bsen the face of an angel"
Philip bent down and kissed her brow,
his bosom thrilling with strange an-
guish, and oh!-inconsequent heart
with blind regret. =
"It is farewell, !" said he. -
What remains is easily imagined.
There were yet many hours of pain be-
fore the safe calm of sacrifice could be
attained, many supplications for par
don, many fearful assurances of regret
and remorse, before the sacrifce was
made perfect by acceptance.
But the bridal dress was worn at last.
And none who looked at the fair wreath,
adding beauty to the pale full brow be-
meath it, guessed that a sting was hid
den in every white heart of the bios.
SONS, or imagined the troubled memory
lying in the depths of the BRIDES calm,
shining eyes.
Cecile stood beside her sister that
day. There is such glory in self-abne
cation that I dare not say the bride was
the happier of the two. Cecile looked
down the fair path she pictured for her
sister, and saw the passionate-hearted
rose of life, that should have been her
own, yielding its sweets to her, saw her
own sunshine gliding her sisters bright
days, and her own heart-music leading
her along the way that should have been
smoothed for other treading; but the
light on the bridemaid's wistful brow
was crossed by no shadow of regret. I
dare not say the bride was the happier
of the two. She also had visions sweet
eyes made sadder for all their lifetime,
a fair face paled by her doing, q low
voice Slapped of its ringing happiness.
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