Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1878-12-27


he began to talk. asking me little ques-
tons until had freely told him all my
history. He tried to make the hours pass
for me TO make me forget what fate
hung on the passing moments while Alice
slept in her crib, breathing heavily with
protruded throat and parted lips. Only
that one little life was at stake little
who had only belonged for
eighteen months to this lower earth OF
uurs-who might die and pass out of
sight without ripple breaking the sur
face OF life in the outside world. Not an
important loss. There are plenty of chill
dren everywhere; almost too many. some
argue. Baby Alce's death would only
break my heart it would he only | who
should awake AT night and reach ont my
arms to draw her to my breast, and hnd
no supple form to answer my embrace
only who should miss Baby murmurs
,ilenced. Baby kisses ceased forever.
W hat matter was il To God in heaven or to
man on earth. if one more innocent happi-
ness were turned to despair
had not heard what DIR. Wilde was
saving in his deliberate. gentle way. He
repeated it now more forcibly; he want
ed me to 90 away; to leave him alone to
meet this enemy who was insidiously Woo
ing my little one from me.
Don't be rebrllious. he whispered in
my ear; don't think but that-lct what
may come-God loves you, God pities
YOU.
Then why does lie rob me of my chill
drcn ?" | cried, starting up. "Oh, DIR.
Wilde, Baby is going to die. Bert was
Just like that
For the next five hours DIR. Wilde
fought bravely with the unseen spectre
contending with him over that little bed,
As for me lost consciousness before the
final change came not bodily conscious
ness. but felt my mind go from me rs if
some one had taken it away and covered
it up in dark place. | was sensible of a
feeling of profound commseration for my
If For twentv-tour hours lay in this
stupor of awful peace. with Il PRESENT.
mcnt of awful trouble upon me- Kind
hands ministered To me. At last a gentle,
vet firm, vital touch rested upon my fore
head 1t oppressed me. drawing me out
of this temporary lapse of memory; yet
Welded to its persuasion. and finally
opened my eyes. saw above mine what
already seemed the most familiar face in
the world.
BABY died. | cried. starting up;
then fell back into the blessed oblivion of
stupor. When ! again awOke light
burned dimly on the table; fire shone
in the CRATE. DIR. Wilde came up To the
bedside and regarded me with a kind
smile.
There you are" said he, cheerily
Now YOU are to swallow this
obeyed him. my eyes fixed on his.
Now" said he, when | had taken a
bowl of broth, you are to drink this med
icine and 90 to sleep
What is it ?'
"Morphine'
clasped his hand. "Give me an over
dose" whispered, eagerly. Nobody
will know. Oh, DIR. Wilde, you are SO
good and kind; let me die Tonight
Don't talk. child. he returned, gently.
II am doing the best can for you; be
sure of that. my poor little girl.
actually thought he was granting my
petition, and smiled up at him with a
sort of triumph at this victory over death
and loss. Then | yielded drowslv to
what believed to be the strong tide of
ebbing life carrying me forth to meet Bert
and Baby in the great beyond.
But did not die. was sharply i'll for
lays; then feebly convalescent: strong
enough, at last, to sit bv the window and
watch the SUM- luminous path across the
sea. DIR. Wilde came every day. was
scarcely obeying his instruc-
ions, and taking perverse pleasure in
persuading him | grew no better. was
. r..tt t,,1 g
mind seemed to be paralyzed. | lived on
the threshold Of thought without attempt |
ng to cross it. and attain full realization
Of my position in the world. Nothing re-
manned of my old life of warm love, hopes.
fears, struggles, save "A memory. After |
a certain degree of tension. vibration is |
over in any chord. My sensibiities had
been too powerfully stimulated not to re-
quire "A rest.
DIR. Wilde understood me with the knowl- |
edge of wise man and great doctor,
and he treated me skilfully. At first he
never spoke of uIy losses after time he |
alluded gently to the great mystery which |
now EMBODIED all that had been given me
to love, and tried to teach me to regard |
death calmly and not with shiverngs and |
of my flesh and blood.
When was little stronger he told me
the news of my Aunt Falconer's death.
She had died in December at Nice. having
heard but week before. through her agent |
in New York, that | was widow. Her |
will had been made before She went aboad. |
everything to me, with end
less restrictions which were to prevent
poor Tom from attaining any hold upon
my very considerable fortune. No danger
If that now, poor Tom.
DIR. Wilde was both executor and trus-
ee. He had been my aunt's most trusted
riend for the four years before she went
o Europe, for the old Falconer place was
out three miles west of Winport He ad-
1ised my removal there, and by May was
settled once more in the familiar manor
house where had spent all my summers
when ! was a child. Miss Dorothy Fal-
,oner, cousin Of my aunt's husband, had
Kept up the place while Mrs Falconer was
N Europe, and at my request she continued
% reside with me- could tell little about
he year which followed cared for
nothing at first in my new life. shrank
rom the old friends who came about me,
or their sympathy stung me constantly
into fresh recollections of my lost but hap
py time
All cared for in those days was to see
Dr Wilde | naadaI him, 81. ,,,,.h I ,,snI