The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1878-11-21

the children from her?
Crouching down by the hearth, she
listened to the wild clamor of the wind
and rain, her husbands empty chair
and the little wicker crib before her
eyes.
"Oh, God!' she prayed, give me
back my husband and my children, and
I'll never murmur again!'
"But only the wild voice of the storm
answered her.
"Hour after hour went by, and at last
the village bells began to clash. It was
midnight!
"Poor Berenice could endure her sus-
pense and agony no longer She arose,
and, throwing mantle over her, left the
cottage, and took the road leading to-
ward the village. The wild winds beat
her back, the rain drenched her, but she
struggled on until the village lights
flashed on her aching eyes.
"Guided by a sort of instinct, she
made her way to the railway station. A
train was just going out, long train,
the glittering carriages filled with busy,
happy people. She looked up at it, as
the shrill whistle blew, and the snorting
engine began to move out, and on the
platform a solitary figure caught her
eye. 1t was her husband.
"She uttered wild cry, but the rush
of the wheels drowned her voice.
"Oh, Frederick, forgive me, and come
back!'
He did not hear; the train dashed
off at lightning speed, and he was gone.
Florice gave little cry, and grandpa
took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
He was gone, grandma proceeded
and Berenice stood alone, as the first
red glow of the Thanksgiving morning
began to dawn in the east. God had
taken her at her world!
"She toiled back to her desolate home
when the train had disappeared; what
else could she do? No one in the sleep
ing village could give her any tidings OF
her children.
Thanksgiving morning dawned, and
the early mail brought her letter from
her husband. It was very brief:
"My dear Berenice see too late what sad
mistake I have made; I should never have mar
! ried you. You are not suited to be poor mans
wife. But loved you SO! and hoped to make
you happy. But my dream has ended; can
not return to you again. lam going God knows
whereof [ succeed in winning wealth. may
return; if not, you will see me no more. In
either case [ leave you Free Berenice Send
the twins to my mother; she will take care of
them, and you will be free of me and them.
81 leave some money subject to your order
I am sorry to tell you that the bank in which
your money-the gift from your mother-was
deposited, failed six months ago. I hoped to
keep it from you until [ could replace the
amount, but all such dreams are over ;.
ssBerenice forget me if you will, and forgive
me that loved you-not wisely, but too well.
%N FREDERICK.
"This was the letter." grandma
went on, (which came to Bere-
nice that Thanksgiving morning.
She read it through with wide,
stony eyes. Send the twins to
my MOTHER she repeated, in a husky
whisper; he bids me send them to his
mother! He has not taken them, then +?
Who has? Oh, merciful Heaven! where
are my children?'
"She asked the question in vain; she
searched in vain through all the weary
weeks and months that followed; not a
sign, not clew, not the faintest trace
could she find to her lost babes. They
had vanished as strangely as if by the
agency of some unearthly power; and
she did not receive line to tell her in
what stranger land their father wan
dered. Poor Berenice, her punishment
had followed swift upon her sin!
Give years went by" continued
grandma, setting her dainty feet upon
the fender, the diamond buckles blaz-
ing in the freight; five dreary, end
less years, and not one word, in all this
time, had Berenice heard of her hus-
band or her children"
ooh, grandma, five years?"
Give years, my dears- long time :;
but she lived through it, hoping and
waiting and watching in vain. She
had returned to her native city; her
mother had died, and Berenice lived
alone with single servant. The wealth
she had SO coveted in her girlhood was
at her command now; her uncle had
died and left her handsome fortune.
What, alas did it avail her? She would
have resigned it all, and toiled for her
daily bread, to buy back one hour of the
vanished days when she had her hus-
band and her babies.
Zone wintry afternoon, as she sat
alone by her fireside, dreaming of the
past, her servant brought up note and
stated that the bearer waited in a car
riage below.
"Berenice tore it open and found a
single line. IF you would hear of your
children, come to me at once
"She went without an instant's DELAY.
through the storm, to a distant part of
the town, and, when she alighted, up the
steps of large, gloomy dwelling.
I'm dimly-ighted room an old man
lay dying. One glance at his rigid face,
and Berenice knew him; he was her
Midas Of old, the lover with whom she
had broken faith SO many years before,
when she chose to marry for love rather
than wealth.