The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1876-01-01

breath-but I didn't heed II. I was des,
perate, and her eyes drove me out into the
world to struggle with Il and win Tor hen
sake-and ! went.
back and forth, and in two weeks from
the day that was discharged from my
clerks6ip / wes engaged BY. the New York
house Of which Mr.. Verderys brothergas
head, at a salary that would keep Edna
ssie Xii winter far enough out Of the reach
| II want ar The need Of aims: 0nly-it
was n desperate mans resources, yeu
rnow sLe must be in New Orleans while
| / was in New York. ~ ......1.
4 winter at the North, they said, would
lii her, and / must not dream Of taking
her away until she was thoroughly well
"SThis was the way 1t happened. They
were so glad to take her back; they had
forgiven" her so entirely and wanted her
10, and they were SO fond Of little Shirley
| ought TO have been willing and glad to
leave them both in such tender care.
was neither; but ] knew itwas my duty to
give her up and I did Il. / kissed her
goodbye at the last and dragged myself
away from her arms, that tried TO hold
me back even then, and the last glimpse
had Of wife or child was little slender
figure at an open window, half buried in
soft white wrappingS, holding up baby,
who laughed and sprang in her arms,
and whose little hand she tried TO wave
to me. -..-...
Then came the lonely winter at the
Nor,h-the silent starvation Of my heart
through nights and days, the longing i'm
patience, hope. It only lasted little
while. l knew Ishould have her in the
spring, in home Of our own, that ! had
planned already.
It was In March when herletters, which
had come faithfully all winter on their
stated days, failed suddenly. A week went
by without message from New Orleans;
and when il came at last IL was written
in another hand. XXX ais -
II was q long letter, but never read 1t
through. only read three lines. That
told me that she was dead, that my baby
was buried in her arms. The yellow f.
yer had broke out in the city and my two
we're among the first to go; her parents
had left New Orleans, and before their
letters reached me would have sailed for
England.
So never saw the little, white-wrap-
ped figure and the laughing baby any
more.
never saw either Of the parents again.
It was better for us all, Mr.. Verdery
had said, that the intercourse should
cease with Edna's and the child's death;
and God knows, ! thought so, too.
So ! lived on in New York alone, and
rose in the firm, Travelled, and made
money; and wandered from city to city, at
last successful in everything that | touch
ed, without a trouble or anxiety in life
only the burden Of my empty heart. l
was 80 years old when my darling died;
| had plenty more years to live, and death
was still long way of. People called
me young man still, after my hair was
very gray, and seemed to have grown old
and tired down to my hearts core. And
the years went by YEARLY; and 1 was As,
and my hair was white.
It was at Eleming's house that I met
Harriet Stanhope. She was cousin Of
his wife's, and an attractive woman-not
girl. The sort OF woman whom
every one calls interesting; clever and
cultivated to the utmost; sweet-natured
and adapted and good, with even more
than a woman's share Of tact.
had not known her very long before
could talk to her of the story that she
knew already, and tell her about the day
when | looked back and saw the little
figure in the windowiiolding up my child
for me to see. ~
Well, you have guessed already, l sup.
pose, at the end OF this beginning. l
never loved Harriet Stanhope-never.
But it came to me slowly at first, and
very reluctantly, and then with great
shock, that this woman cared for me.
And began to think OF her taking-in
mems eyes, Mt least, and to outward
sceming-Edna's empty place.
She was lonely, too, as l was, with no
relatives, no home, and a sorrowful out
look before her. Ineyer could bear the
sight OF a solitary and uncared-for wo-
man, and this woman tonched all my pity
and sympathy. l gave that and my
friendship most freely and sincerely, and
that was all. But began to think that
even without love life might be sweet
ened little, and so said to myself that
| would marry her. &.
l did not resolve hastily. Ihad known
her for two years before Ihad thought OF
it al all, and then 1t was long before the
idea took n definite shape. Twas travel
ing in the West, and one OF the letters
meeting me at large town in Ohio, de-
cided the last doubt that was In mymind.
I read 1t twice and then walked the floor
all night, and lived my life over in MEM
DRY and reached far into the future, to
plan out what II would be-what It must
be if God preserved it-and then / sat
down 10 write to Harriet.
1t was only natural that l should dream
that night Of Edna. She came to me at
dawn, and stood by the bedside with the
child-my son, who bore my name and
was SO like me. And she told me that
she had never died at all, but had been
waiting for me all these years, and God
had kept her young, and the baby was a
baby yet-only he would call ME Gath
err" and the word was ringing in my ears
when awoke.
thought Of her while dressing, and /
went down stairs at last, the letter in my
breast.pocket, sealed and directed 10 Har-
riet, and was dreaming Of woman older
and iairer than she, when into my dream
stole voice and tho sound Of my own
name.
"Is everything ready, Shirley, dear"
l looked up. There were wopeople
at.the little round table nearest mine
n lady quietly dressed-as II for travel
ing-in black without touch OF color,
and a tall, straight, broad-shouldered
STRIPPING, with a young face and eyes like
stars. Tknew they were mother and son
before no answered her.
"All ready; the train starts in an hour.
You've got nothing at all to do Madame
Mere, but TO sit down and read novel
or look out OF the window till call you."
And then they laughed together. She
had a girlish face and yet II was sor'
roWful one. too, Her eyes were brown