, 1877-06-01
Aunt Caroline. Love Story.
FOR THE OLDER YOUNG FOLKS.
s. E. N.


$50 you are both to be married, you
dear childrenl cannot think you are
old enough; though Jamie has that dig
nided moustache, and you, Ruth, are
only four years younger than he, 1
know"
Ny sister and laughed heartily, for
was not twenty-four years old, and
Ruth, as she said, only four years my
Junior; and we were both 'engaged?"
Neither event was yet week old, and
we had driven into town to tell aunt
Caroline the news before she should
hear it from strangers. She had seen
us nearly every week of our lives, and
could not realize that we were old
enough to be married.
The dear old lady put her spectacles
up on her forehead, crossed her hands
quietly in her lap, and smiled upon us,
with tears in her eyes. well, you do
seem like children to me, and remem-
. Der the time when your mother came and
told me, here in this very room, that
she was going to be married. All, she
didn't tell me openly, as you have told
it. She told me something, and made
me guess the rest. She was sweet girl
your mother-she seemed like sister
to me.
Here aunt Caroline's eyes took far
away look, and it was so long before
she spoke that we had to recall her to
our presence by question:
You we're married then, auntie ?"
20 yes, dear, had been married two
years, or I could not have known how
happy she was; nor how much happier
she would be; for your mother married
for love, as did, and as hope you are
going to do"
Ruth looked steadily into the garden
and said nothing. And 1 could only
smile in reply to auntie's words and
questioning look. Our love was so newl
Evidently not so completely one with
our life as yet, to be freely spoken Of.
Auntie smiled too-she knew. After
moments pause, she said, with great
emotion:
Children, this carries me back ton
own engagement and marriage; and,
like dream, the years pass before me
again-all those years."
Tell us auntie, tell us all about It'll
An your life; your engagement and mar
riage, and uncle's death--and what fol-
lowed"
She sat so still and looked so changed,
We regretted our careless words; for we
had known something of her history
ever since we could remember, and
knew that she had suffered as it falls to
the lot Of few women to suffer. And 1
believe the philosophy of affection
dawned upon me in full, for the first
time in my life, as sat there and look
ed into her face and recalled what I
knew Of her tenderness and her exaui-
site sympathy with all manner of suffer
ing, and also with all joy.
1t isn't much to tell she said, ''that
is, It isn't much to any one but me; but
II you want to hear it, will tell it to
you. You ought to have anything you
ask tonight. have not even Thought
It all over for years; perhaps 1 never
have. But have lived it.
MedreW our chairs close to hers and
said we would like to hearit, if it would
not cost her too much pain to tell us.
Evidently she was not used to telling
stories, for she thought a long while be-
lore she began, and frequently had to
De urged on by Ruth's, "And then,
auntie." I will tell you her story as she
told It to MS, without any of our inter
ruptions.
You, at least, Jamie, must remem-
Der something of my father. In all
feoohechons Of my youth, he makes a