The weekly herald. [volume] (Cleveland, Tenn.) 1876-1888, 1878-01-17

pointed hour OF return. Restless anu
anxious, the lonely wife paced her
room, peering now and then into the
increasing darkness, only to turn again
i'm disappointment to her dcsOlate fire
side and strive to arouse from the depths
of despair into which she was fast sink
ing. A few fruitless efforts were made
to prepare the evening meal, but who
can nerve herself to the performance
of domestic duties when the very blood
IS CONCEALED with the fear that those
for whom she so fondly waits may never
again gladden. her sight.
Weary, at length, with her weary
vigils, Mrs. Clifton, taking her two
children, a little girl of about four sum-
mers, and boy three years younger,
left her house, and passing by the gush-
ing spring, whose dancing waters this
night bad no power to quiet her per-
turbed spirits, she threaded her silent
way to the house of Mr.. Moore, which
stood at short distance from her own
home. The cheerfulness of her friend /,
Mrs. Moore, reassured her, and being
naturally of lively disposition, she
engaged for time in pleasant CONVEX
sation. But minutes heightened into
hours, and yet the darkness and still
ness without remained unbrOken, and
the Angel of Despair, with outspread
piniOns, overshadowed the inmates of
that little cottage. Mrs. Clifton again
paced the room to and fro, in the vain
effort to free herself from its ruthless
grasp. She remembered how often her
husband, when leaving home, some-
times to travel, unarmed, the lonely
paths over the mountains, in reply to
her expressions of anxiety, had said,
"Don't fear for me darling. Remember
that kind Providence overrules all
things, and that nothing happens by
accident;" and, that with strengthened
faith, she would turn again to her house
hold duties, while her lightened heart
would bound joyously in this newborn
trust. But this night her faith faltered,
and with paroXisms Of fear, she shook
and quivered like an aspen, as her mind
reverted to the lonely night vigil
of Mrs. Dancer, whose husband had
recently been killed by the Indians,
only few miles distant. Like faithless
Peter, she felt that she was sinking
beneath the turbulent waters that were
dashing around her, and that none but
Him whose voice had power to still the
tempestuous waves of Galilee, could
now bring comfort; and taking her
Bible, which for years had been her
great source of light and joy, she en-
deavored to derive some word of conso-
lation from its sacred pages. But again,
like Peter, looking at the angry waves
instead of the blessed Savior, she fam
cied her husband mangled corpse,
slain by the hand of the pitiless savage,
and herself lonely widow, far, far
from all she knew and loved-a stranger
in a strange land-hundreds of miles
from anyone in whose veins ran a drop
of kindred blood. She thought of her
little fatherleSs ones, exposed to the
temptations of cold and thoughtless
world, while her gentle form still trem-
bled with excitement. Mrs. Moore,
although troubled herself, used every
means in her power to dispel these
gloomy fears.
But time with weary tread passed on,
the solemn hour of midnight ap-
preached, and still no tidings came from
the absent loved ones. The moon with
gentle beams was penetrating the thick
branches of the trees that tovershadOwed
the gloomy dwelling. Mrs. Clifton had
become little more calm, but was still
restlessly pacing the room, peering out,
ever and anon, into the dim moonlight,
when the rapid approach of horses feet
along the gravelly road was heard.
With fearful apprehensions, she ap-
preached the door and looked out, when
discerning a well-known form, with
one joyful bound, she sprang in the
arms of her husband. Pen fails in the
effort to portray the joyful expression
that sprang into the sorrowiul face, in
this happy transition from the depths
of despair to the blessedness of hope
and love.
Such were, and such we learn from
from recent letters still are, the trials
to which the settlers on the frontier of
the largest and most delightful of our
beloved Southern States, are exposed.
Years have passed, Mrs. Clifton still
lives, surrounded now by tht pictur-
esque and enchanting scenery of the
"Sunny South, "and although time with
delicate pencil is tracing silvery lines
among the folds of her beautiful black
hair, she yet retains vivid remem-
brance of that terrible night in the
little cottage among the mountain fast
nesses of the west.
M-----uzu...--ss.---
A PluClky Cat.