The Manitowoc tribune. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1866-1878, 1876-12-14
ALL my heart is heavy laden,

| Hath He marks to lead me to Him,
| If He be my guide
is feet and hands are wound-prints,
| = ID His side.
Is there diadem as monarch
| That His brow adOrnS;
Yes, a crown IN very surety,
But Of thorns.
Miriam Arnold listened in wonder to
the women sobbing about her. They
must be weak to be thus led by fanatics;
she threaded her way to the carriage,
and resolved never to go to such place
again, and yet the next day she was
there, and the next, and the next.
And this was the result sitting there
alone, she seemed to see all her lonely
unloved past by a new light, 81 viii do
something she thought, E'to make
some soul happy before I sleep, and
rung the bell. Tomorrow I Will find
Lillian if she still lives
4 confidential servant answered her
ring. ''Janet," said Mrs. arnold, edo
you know any enc who is in want to-
night 90
"Oh, yes'm, plenty OF people who are
poor as poverty.
s'But I mean some special case of
sickness and want there are plenty Of
people who viii always be poor, no mat
ter what is done for them, but there are
others who are deserving"
''Well, ma'am," said Janet slowly,
''there's little girl-oh, such little
mite. and as pretty as picture, that
stops sometimes to look in the gate at
the dogs playing in the yard she's aw-
full poor, but she never begs 1 gave
her cake, and she eat it as if she was
starved, and one night she was fright
ened, and 1 went home with her-they're
strangers here, and the mother IS sickly-
like, and there's baby
'iAnd the father %
81 didn't see him, ma'am he's a
painter by trade, the woman said," an
swered Janet.
After dinner Mrs, Arnold saw some
necessary food placed in a basket, and,
taking Janet for a guide, she ordered
| her coachman to the obscure street
where those people lived, and was soon
set down at the door Of a tumble-down
| old house fronting on the river. Janet
| led the way in, for it was no common
| spectacle of want and disorder upon
which they looked. Poor and shabby,
even dirty, the room was, but there was
an unmistakable air of refinement over
all, and something more-a tranquil
presence that rendered the scene majes
tic Upon the table, propped up by
pillows, baby was lying, pure and pale
SIS O snow drop, and by its side man
sat, painting its portrait. Soft, faxen
hair curled and twined about the little
thin temples. There was sweet peace
full smile about the delicate lips, but
they were closed, and no sigh of pain
would ever distort them the father was
painting a picture Of his dead child.
Miriam Arnold stood there is if turned
to stone. On bed in the corner wo-
man lay, at times sobbing and moaning.
The other inmate Of the room was q lit
tie girl, s Or 8 years old she leaned
over the artists chair, talking TO him
and asking questions.
'fWas he sure God had taken the baby
to heaven 90 ssWouId it never. be sick,
OF cold, OF hungry?' 'Why couldn't
poor mamma go?'
He answered the questions gently, but
there was a tremor in his voice, and once
he dashed the tears away as he looked
at the pale, sweet beauty of his dead
baby his for such little while longer.
Then, when he lifted his head, some one
was crossing the room swiftly; there was
{; cry from the bed, and Mrs. Arnold
was holding her child to her heart.
never, never to leave it again. They
viii have q happy Thanksgiving, for the
peace which passeth all understanding
is theirs, and I am sure neither the faith
er or mother viii mourn for the baby il
the tender Shepherds care, and they
will be sure to sing the hymn whose
influence brought thom together again.
/