Burlington weekly free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1866-1928, 1877-05-25

from her feverish lips Only once she re
turned his gances. Then. fixing her sweet
eyes upon his face for an instant, she whis-
pered
I'm ve'wy tied, papa" and ioated away
in that pleasant dream called unconscious.
| ness.
All it was too true. Those little feet made
lifes journey early, indeed, but they had
| grown weary. The little slender arms could
not even clasp her fathers neck. The busy,
happy child-heart beat slower. calmer. 1t
was listening to something grander than
earth ever heard,-and 80 grew still. The
| beautiful blue-veined S dropped YEARLY
| over the hazel eyes. T-e little soul, spell
boand by the splendor and the glory OF
| something that it saw beyond. held its breath
in sheer delight and caught it again, in
what beauty who can tel? The father and
mother are alone. There was only the echo
of deep, sepulchral chuckle dying away i'll
the room-the sound of the scarlet robe
sweeping down the wide staircase outside.
.0h ye hold within your hands
Grains OF the golden sands
How few, yet how they creep
Through your fingers 10 the deep"
By-and-by, in the glad morning light of
another day, Time lifts the curtain upon yet
another picture. 1t is the nursery chamber,
and it is very still and cold. The blinds are
closed in the room. The fire in the CRATE
that had SO often delighted the baby eyes has
gone out Graceys clock on the mantel has
run down. There is not a sunbeam i'll the
rooT. 1t is SO clean and orderly now not a
little garment to be seen not a doll, with
her life blood ofsawdust slowly ebbing away,
upon the carpet not toy anywhere. There
are no more watchers around the cradle bed,
but within it-beneuth n cloud of white lace
and knots of ribbons and flowers, in very
halo of delicious odorS--is a form more eN-
qnisitely fair than the grandest dream of the
sculptor-all that remains of Gracey. One
hand clasps white rose Just opening, the
other dimpled fist rests easily against her
cheek. Her laughing eyes are closed gently,
as If in sleep. and her brown lashes seem
almost trembling to part again, reluctant to
close forever upon ST. much beauty. Her lips
are dewy and sweet, as if Love i'll passing
might have kissed them. But when you
have gazed upon this thing of beauty this
piece of workmanship, fresh from the hand
of tie great artist called Death-you i'll
stinctivcly look about the room for Tracey,
and wonder at her absence. You listen for
her tripping feet in the hall, but they are not
there. You strain your ears to catch II sound
of her bird-like voice in the parlOrs or bed
room, but in vain. That voice is singing
somewhere, but in none of those places.
Your heart calls her to the breakiast-room,
where her high chair is empty and there Is
no dea r presence TO span the distance from
the head to the foot OF the table; but vacancy
answer in those well-remembered
tones. There is not note of childish music
in the house. 1t is so still, so hopelessly sad
and still. The terrible quiet is only broken
by the sound of measured footsteps below
a sound which has been kept up during the |
lIyelong night, a weary, monotonous tramp |
of a soul that cannot rest. After while it |
stops. The library door is opened. pair |
Of heavy feet measure the distance slowly up |
the stairs and along the hall A hand opens |
softly the nursery-door. 1t is the fathers. |
The man is bearing weight that he has |
never borne before, and his shoulders are
bowed. The mass of disheveled hair upon |
his forehead is grayer than it was. The lines
lpon his face are deeper. His eyes are heavy
md bloodshot, and wear an expression of
hopeless misery. He comes to the small, |
ow bed and drops on his knees at its side,
while the agony deepens upon his face.
80 my daughter my little daughter he
,roans, and burning tear drops upon one
If the beautiful marble hands Nevermore
Will those tender lips smile back in answer to
hat name. Neyermore will she lay her win
ome head on his bosom, and tell him how
he loves him. She has gone, but she holds
he strings OF two hearts IN her hands. The
ewol in all the millionaire's riches has van
shed, and the rest are as nothing. The sun
'eam that lighted the great house is extin-
,uished, and the home is pride no longer.
The white flower is wilted. The hand which
leld the boats together is gone
LAURA B. MAEsH.
Shcboygan, Wis, May l.