The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1878-08-10

son suddenly paralyzed. 1t lasted but
a second, however, and, gathering up
her wraps, she moved on, placed them
on stand and left the room.
Nobody had seen this little episode,
as my friend was busy with her little,
lame boy, and | was able to compose
my countenance by the time lights came
in.
At the tea-table | was rallied for my
silence and my pallor, but | said moth
ing, and the meal passed off quietly.
Emily did not make her appearance till
after we were through.
Then she quietly washed the dishes,
and took seat at some distance from
us, where she sat knitting.
Emily never presumes upon my
good nature said my friend; ''that is
one of her best points. just look at
her nowl Is she not almost hand
some?n
To me at that moment she looked
really handsome. Light curls shaded
her large, noble brow, her blue eyes
dropped, and the lashes made deep
shadows on her cheeks, while the sad
ness of hereXpression lent an additional
beauty to her face.
Has she any friends?" / asked.
She says not. She is an orphan,
and was adopted when very young by a
woman who was cruel to her. The poor
child has had a hard life, expect, but
she is very happy here, and l am sure 1
should never know how to get along
without her"
Ryr So Al.
storm so long threatened had broken
out. Never had l heard such fearful
gusts of wind. The pleasant wood fire
that had been kindled on the hearth
seemed to culver and quake at every
blast.
Hank! was that knock I heard? I
listened. ltwas repeated.
L went to the door and opened it.
There stood Emily, sorrowful-eyed and
pale as the dead; her hands We're clasped
across her bosom so tightly that the
veins stood swollenly out.
Come in!' | said, mechanically.
"Oh, saw you knew metz she said,
in choked voice.
Yes, could not help remember
ing" was my reply.
THAT dreadful day in the Tombsr'
she half-sobbed; "and yet-though 1
was sullen, and miserable, and wicked
then, if you knew all, | was not so
much to blame. That woman was cruel
to me, hel pless girl, day after day
so cruel that l cannot think of her
without shuddering But she didn't
die, thank God That crime is not on
my soul, though l confess 1 was GRIM
inal in intent; but | was goaded to it,
Then, after a pause, she asked alb
ruptly:
"Have you told her?''
" Not yet" said.
"And you will tell her? Oh, have
mercy upon men and down she went
on her knees. For three years L
have been in this heaven of home.
never knew before what the word
meant She trusts me; everybody
trusts me. | love the little children;
they love me. If you tell her, you
throw me upon the world, which is
cruel at its best to the friendless.
"You saw me that day frenzied by
remorse, unlike myself, goaded almost
into madness; you did not see me aft
erwards when my better self prevailed.
For two years | did try to do my
best. The jailor's wife trusted me, and
for six months after came out | lived
with her But she died, and then [
found it hard.
81 had little money by me, and
had determined to go somewhere in
the country and see if could find a
place, when Mrs. Justin saw me. The
girl who was to have gone with her
failed her, and God sent her to me.
Yes, He sent her, because prayed in
my soul, out of the depth of my an
guish, that He would raise me up q
friend. Oh, if you tell her it would
kill me-she trusts me SOP
My eyes were full of tears. l helped
the girl from her lowly position, and
promised all she asked Since then
years have passed. My friend has lost
her husband and her health, and g our
Emily is still her stay, at times her
support. Do you think / have ever re-
GREETED that in that case kept silence?
Alma, IN YOUTHS Companion.