The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1879-08-27

lOIJy.
The ripple in her hair ran TO curl
now. The spectacles gone, disclosed
beautiful eyes fringed with long. soft
lashes. She noticed my look of sur
prise, and smiled as she said:
g have worn caps since l was thirty,
but your wife has persuaded me to leave
them off for a while. Do you, too, think
it an Improvement"
/ hate caps and abominate spectacles. :"
"What a fright must have appeared
in your eyes, then!" she said, sweetly,
which speech necessitated comph-
mentary answer, and made me feel ex-
cessively silly.
Her brother dined there one day. He
was a heavy, handsome, well-read fell
low, apparently young and very clever.
Would you object to my brothers
presence at dinner to-dayP" soon became
a regular form ofrequest.
What could l doP Her brother was
good company, played the piano, violin
and flute with skill, talked well, and al
most before knew it, l was supporting
him as well as his sister.
His conversation entertained me, and
though my better judgment protested
against the encroachment, still Iallowed
it until it was impossible to say no.
Mary occupied herself more and more
with the children, who continued ailing
and nervous. Gradually she withdrew
herself from our circle on the plea of
work for the little ones, and one thing
and another, all of which excuses l al
lowed to convince me. Unconsciously
/ began to look forward to the pleasant
after-work hours.
Miss Campsted read, sang and played
equally well. Always she deferred to
my Judgment. sang my songs, read from
my favOrite authors. Her brother was
equally ready to talk, or to add to the
amusement of the evening.
/ became accustomed to this interest
ing partnership. Sometimes Mary stole
in to sit with us while, and then stole
out again.
! knew she was not my Mary as of
old, but l laid it to her cares. Nor did
/ notice that her eyes grew languid, her
movements slow that she seldom smiled,
that her merry, silvery laugh never rang
out as of yore.
did not dream that she was fast be-
coming prey to insidious disease.
Your wife is not WE'LL" said Miss
Campsted, on one occasion. "She de-
votes herself too constantly to her
nursery cares. l often beg her to let
me assist her, or take her place for u
while, but she will never allow me.
She does not do herself jusCice, do you
thinkP A wife had better forget her
children than neglect nearer ties"
"What do you mean, Miss Camp
stedP" asked, turning toward her.
Something in her manner i'm her
voice-made me angry.
"tMy wife" said !, in cool, measured
tones, forgets nothing-no one; it is
her duty to rememberr'
"Oh, of course! Pray pardon me.
Mrs. Blair is most lovely! Pray-pray
forgive me, and understand me. 1t was
solicitude for her welfare, and anxiety
to relieve her of some of her daily bur-
dens, that made me speak"
She put up her hands, white and
shapely, with an appealing gesture, and
| saw what makes any man fool for the
time-tears on her lashes.
"Why do you talk of offending me?"
| said, half-laughing, half-distressed, 81
thought you spoke of my wife in rather
a thOughtless manner; but, of course,
you cannot comprehend her anxiety
with sickly, nervous children
:" Indeed, 1 meant nothing but for her
good. At least-at least-I sympathized
with your loneliness, and felt so sorry for
your wife" she murmured, confusedly
"Oh, Mary and can take care of each
other, was my reply.
Did the small arrow she had let fly
annoy mep / think it did, on reflection,
but not in the way she intended.
| thought of Mary's increasing pallor,
silence, alteration; surely she was chang
ing, but what had | to do with itp
| never thought to ask what had Miss
Campsted to do with it.
Mary grew worse, The doctor said it
was some disease of the nerves. Miss
Campsted was full of solicitude. She
and her handsome brother were very at
tentive.
When went into the hall Miss Camp
sted contrived to be there to bid me
good-morning. / never thought of her
now as middle-aged. She appeared to
me, gradually, to become an imperti-
nent, forward young person.
One memorable day-shall l ever for
get it'll went up stairs to say some
thing that had escaped my recollection,
after my usual visit to Mary's room.
found my wife weeping Historically,
with all the children grouped about her
and crying in chorus.
For Heavens sake, Mary, what has
happenedP" l cried, frightened almost
out of my wits.
Don't stay, Harry" she gasped; "it
does me no good. | am better alone
Go down-please go down"
But m not going down or out, leav.
ing you in this state,n said throwing
down hat and bundles and trying to take
her in my arms.
But she resisted my tenderness.
! No matter tor me-" she sobbed. 81
shall be better soon out of the way, per,
! haps."
Mary, darling" / said, at my wits
end, =" If You won't let me stay, at leas
let me send Miss Campsted up"
That wOman!n cried my wife, will
hysterical anguish-"no! Do you wan
her to poison me? 1t is bad enough tina
she has ruined my home"
was thunderstruck.
Poison you ruined your home Mis-
Campsted! What do you mean, Mary