The home journal. (Winchester, Tenn.) 1858-188?, 1877-01-18
MISS
RING.

When | tell this story-my one soil
tary ghost stOry-Or when | even think
it0vcr in the silence of my own mind,
| can feel again, lust AZ ! did then, the
cold air strike my face, like Il breath
from II damp vault, blowing straight
from my motionless figure.
II was n woman, and | saw her lust as
plainly As | see at this momentthe words
written by the pen in my hand. |
could tell you every item of dress she
wore, even to the cdging Of lace on the
tight sleeve that reached her elbows, and
the little blue damask figure on her gray
gown. Her face was very pale aad quiet,
and there was no light in her eyes they
were heavy and dark, and the lids were
Redeemed ~ if with crying and waking
but she vas beautiful for all that, beau
tiful as some old, dim picture with astory
in it. There she stood, with her face
and neck cleaning dull-whitc, like old
marble, above the gray gown, and one
lock of her black hair twisted round her
throat, like a soft necklace, and her lit
tie, damp, cold hand lying on mine, and
her lips moved yet, as if she were saying
over agan:
Let me have it,"
"Who are you?" | cried, trembling
and hardly breathing. What do you
want2"
My ring-mine and Rogers. No
other woman can wear my ring. Look
don't you zee the blood on / IL"
Aunt Lucinda's ring! There was no
atuin m ~ whnn aim tnnG 10 ont ~ A.,
old casket but | saw it now in the
moonligbt--a dish of ugly red among
the crusted carvings. | tore it off of my
finger, and flung it away as if it were a
coal Of fire.
"Who are you ?" | cried once more.
And the answer came softly and slow,
like a sigh:
Esther Cullingworth."
! started up at her breathlessly.
Look at mo-" she murmured. "This
is the face that Roger Vane loved nigh
two hundred years ago; this is the hand
that were his %rlng-that sent it back to
him from Salem Jail when he cared no
longer 10 remember how he slipped it on
with kisses. They said I was very fair
to zee in those days. Look at me. Am
comely now?"
She swept back her long hair from her
face, but without displacing the lock
that curled like n snake around her
throat and then M | looked at her, she
broke into a low, wailing cry
al had the fairest face in Salem-old
Chillingworth's daughter? THE grass
withereth, the flower fadeth.' The par.
son used TO tell ne it was but a vain
show, and | laughed him TO scorn. For
in the woods beyond Salem, when | was
picking May flowers, and rustling aside
the downy leaves To find their pink and
white clustered stars, | met Roger Vane.
and he told me a sweeter tale than the
preacher knew. And | let him kiss
my mouth, for he called il most sweet
yea, altogether lovely '-sweeter than
the breath of May flowers. O, the
Salem woods! o, my love, Roger,
Rogeri"
"'No tears, my little Mayaower,"
Roger Vane said softly, as he held me
there within his strong arms" Il have
never seen the drops in those sweet eyes
OF thine before, and | would not have
my last sight Of them 20 marred. It is
only for a little space, sweetheart.
shall come back to steal away my little
Puritan maiden before the first leaves of
autumn has turned red by her fathers
door,
"'Why-why will you go, Roger?' I
cried. IA ] clung round him; and / asked
II only to hear over again what | knew
before quite well; Coy. Winthrop, whose
piood relation he was, had KENT him here,