The Corvallis gazette. [volume] (Corvallis, Or.) 1862-1899, 1879-02-14

hurriedly closing the door behind him, step
ped into the snowy night.
For some hours before Michael Fray was
startled as we have related, by the mysteri-
GUS echo of his brothers song, an old man
and young girl had been making their
way cityward from the southeastern side OF
/ London.
Both walked wearily, as though they had
tramped for long distance; and once or
twice the young girl wiped away tear,
| though she strOve hard to hide it from her
companion, and forced herself to speak with
a cheerfulness in strange contrast with her
sunken cheeks and footsore gait. Every
now and then, in passing through the more
frequented streets, they would pause, and
the old man, who carried violin, would
strike up some old ballad tune with Vi igor
and power of execution which even his
frost-nipped fingers and cold, weary limbs
could not wholly destroy while the girl,
with sweet though very sad voice, accom-
panied him with appropriate words. But
their attempts were miserably unproduc-
tive. In such bitter weather few who could
help it would stay away from their warm
fresides and those whom stern necessity
kept 6ht of doors seemed only bent on dis
patching their several tasks, and to have no
time or thought to expend a couple of
wandering tramps singing by the roadside.
| Still they toiled on, every now and then
making stop at some likely corner, only
too often ordered to "move on by some
stern policeman. AS they drew nearer to
the city and the hours grew later, the pass
ers- by grew fewer and farther between, and
the poor wanderers felt that it was idle even
to seek for charity in those deserted streets
At length the old man stopped and groaned
aloud.
"What is it, grandfather dear? Don't
give up now when we have come so far.
Lean on me-do I'm hardly tired at all,
and dare say we shall do better to-mor-
row."
Tomorrow :" said the old man, bitter
ly, tomorrow it will be too late. 1 don't
mind hunger and I don't mind cold, but the
against it all these years-to come to the
workhouse at last It isn't for myself l
mind-beggars mustn't be choosers and,
l dare say, better men than have slept in
a casual ward but you, my tender little
Lily The thought breaks my heart-it
kills mel" And the old man sobbed
aloud
"Dear grandfather, you are always think
ing of me, and never of yourself! What
name of the thing. I'm sure l don't mind
it one bit" The shudder of horror which
passed over the girls frame gave the lie to
her pious falsehood. "I dare say it is not
so bad and, after all, something may hap
pen to prevent it even now"
What can happen, short Of a miracle, in
these deserted streets ?"
"Well, let us hope for the miracle, then,
dear God has never quito deserted us in
our deepest troubles, and I don't believe
that He will forsake us now"
As she spoke she drew her thin shawl
closely around her, shivering in spite of her
self under the cold blast that seemed to
receive no check from her scanty coverings.
Again the pair crept on, and. passing be-
meath the lofty wall of st. Winifred's church,
stood beneath it for temporary shelter
from the driving wind and snow. While so
standing they caught the sound of the or
gan family pealing within.
! "Noble music" exclaimed the old man,
as the final chords died away "noble mu
sic. and soul in the playing. That man,
whoever he may be, should have a generous
heart"
"Hush, grandfather" said the girl, "he
is beginning to play again.
| Scarcely had the music commenced, how
ever, than the pair glanced at each other in
breathless surprise.
"Lily, darling, do you hear what he is
playingi" said the old man m an excited
whisper.
ga strange coincidence !" the girl replied.
"Strange 1t is more than strange! Lily,
darling, who could play that song?''
The melody came to an end, and all was
silence. There was moments pause, and
then, as if by a common impulse, the old
man drew his bow across the strings, and
the girls sweet voice caroled forth the Sec
ond verse of the song.
Scarcely had they ended, when a door
opened at the foot of the church tower just
beside them, and Michael Fray, bareheaded.
with his scanty locks blown about by the
wind, stood before them. He hurried for
ward, and then stood still, shame-faced, be-
wildered. The song had called up the Wis
ion of gallant young sailor, full of health
time on the day when he sailed on his fatal
voyage. He had hurried forth, forgetting
the years that had passed, full of tender
memories of happy. boyish days, to find,
alas only a couple of wandering beggars
singing for bread.
Il beg your pardon, he said, striving
vainly to master the emotions ''you sang a
song just now which-which--a song which
was favorite of dear friend of mine many
years ago. Will you-will you tell me
where you got it r.
"By the best of titles, sir, the old fd-
dler answered, drawing himself up with a.
touch of artistic pride, 6: l wrote it myself
words and music both"
"Nay sir" said Michael sternly, You
rob the dead. A dearly beloved brother of
mine wrote that song some forty years ago
"WelI, upon my word p said the old fid-
dler, waxing wroth, "then your brother
must have stolen it from me- What might
this precious brothers name be, pray"
{" An honest name, \ name / am proud to
speak" said Michael, firing up in his turn;
I" his name was Richard Fray p
The old street musician staggard as though
he had received blow.
"What !' he exclaimed, peering eagerly
into the others face; then you are nv
brother Michael, for am Richard Fray"
Half an hour later, and the brothers so
long parted, so strangely brought together,
were seated around a roaring fire in Michael
Fray's quaint three-cornered parlor Mi
chaePs stores had been ransacked for warm,
dry clothing forsthe wanderers Drawers
long closed, yielding, when opened, a sweet
scent of lavender, and containing homely
skirts and bodices, kept still in loving mem.
ory of little Nell, gave up their treasures
for Lilly's benefit and Richard Fray's snow
sodden clothes were replaced by Michaei's
choicest coat and softest slippers.
The wanderers had done full Justice to a
plentiful uleal, and Jug of punch now steam
ed on the hob and was laid under frequent
contributions, while Richard Fray told the
story of thirty years wanderings, and the
brothers found how it had come to pass that,
each thinking the other dead, they had iv-
ed their lives, married, and buried their dear
ones-being sometimes but a few miles apart,
and yet as distant as though severed by the
grim divider himself.
u 4