The weekly Union times. [volume] (Union C.H., South Carolina) 1871-1894, 1879-01-03

waving corn. fields, which ..sparkled and.
glittered like plains of moving gold lin the
deep bright rays Of the setting sun. And,
Gabrielle, sitting here and gazing on them,
or roaming alone amongst thcm, was quite
happy and light-hearted. Even her stern
sisters were thawed aud softened by her.
presence; and think, felt as much love
for her as it was in their nature to feAl for
any one for, indeed, it was impossibteto
resist altogether her cheering influence,
which spread itself over every thing around
her with the warmth of sunshine.
On this evening on which our tale begins,
and for some days previous to it, Gabri.
ellie had been graver and quicter than she
often was. She joined her sisters now in
the common sittiug-room; and, with her
work in her hand, sat down beside them
near the window, but she answered their
few questions about her evening ramblc
with only feigned gaiety, as though she was
occupied with other thoughts, or was too
weary to talk F.; and, presently, as the twi-
light gathered round them, they all sank
into silence. The one window locke across
the road in which tho house stood, to dark
plantation of stunted trees that grew oppo-
site very gloomy place, which, even in
the hottest summer day, had always chill,
wintry feeling, and from which even now>
damp air was rising; and, entering the
open window, was spreading itself through
the room.
"How unlike o summer evening it is in
this room ~ Gabrielle suddenly broke the
silence by exclaiming almost impatiently
Il wish could, even for once, sec a ray
of sunshine in it. l have often wondered
how any one could build house in this sit
uation."
"And do you never imagine that there
are people who care less for sunshine than
you do, Gabrielle ?" Bertha asked, rather
sadly.
Yes, certainly, sister; but still it seems
to me almost like a sin to shut out the beau
tiful heavens sunlight as it has been shut
out in this house. Wiuter and summer it
is always alike. If it was not for my own
bright little room up stairs, think never
should be gay here at ALL"
well, Gabrielle, you need not complain
of the gloomiuess of this room just now"
Miss Vaux said. "At nine o'clock on an
August evening l suppose all rooms look
pretty much alike"
"Oh, sister, no!" Gabrielle cried
Have you never noticed the different kinds
OF twilight? Here. in this house, it is al
ways winter twilight, quite colorless, and
cold and cherries, but in other places,
where the sun has shone, it is warm
and soft, and beautiful even for an hour
or longer, after the sun has quite set. faint
rosy tinge, like warm breath, seems to rest
upon tho air, and to shed such peace and
almost holiness over every thing. That was
the kind of twilight, think Of it SO often,
that there used to be at home. / remember
so very ysry long ago, how used to sit on
the ground at my mothers feet in the sum
mer'creninss, looking out through the open
window ut the dear old garden, where every
thing was SO very still and quiet that it
seemed to NE the very trees must have fal
ensasleep, and how she used to tell US fairy
| stories in the twilight. Sisters, do you re.
member it?"' Gabrielle asked, her voice
trenulous, but not altogether, so it seemed,
with emotion that the recollection had called
up
~ do." Miss Vaux said, in voice clear
and cold, and hard as ice. From Bertha
there camc no answer
~ !" ooo VI VIZ iSW tulHSS rccOllCct
about her." Gabrielle said again, very soft,
ly, "the rest is almost ali indistinct, like a
half forgotten dream. l was only four
years old, you say, Joanna, when she died?''
You know it why do you ask ?" Miss
Vaux said, harshly and quickly.
There was pause. 1t was so dark that
none of their faces could be seen. but QUE
might have told, from the quick nervous
way in which, unconsciously, Gabrielle was
claspins and unclasping her hand, that
there was some struggle going on within
her. At last, very timidy, her voice trem.
bling, though she tried hard to steady it.
she spoke again.
Sisters, do not be angry with me. Of
ten, lately, have wished so very much to
ask you some things about my mother
Oh, let me ask them now Dear sisters, tell
me why it is that you never speak to me,
or almost allow me to speak, of her? Is it
because it grieves you so much to think OF
her death, or is there any other cause
her voice sank 80 low that it was almost a
,whisper-"why her name is never mention.
ed amongst us? I have kept silence about
this for SO long, for knew you lid not
wish to speak OF it; but, oh sisters, tell me
now. Ought | not to know about my own
mother 2"
"Hush J" Miss Vaux said, in voice
stern and harsh. "Gabrielle, you do not
know what YOU are asking. Lot IL he