The weekly herald. [volume] (Cleveland, Tenn.) 1876-1888, 1879-09-18
MY AUNT'S WILL.

ter Nell and THAT we would accept
the invitation Of our friends and join
their picnic; and Nell had run upstairs
to put the finishing touches to her toilet,
while impatiently awaited her.
Ten minutes afterward there is a crash
and a shrek overhead. Lily up, four
steps at q time, to find Nell lying on the
floor beneath the luins of wardrobe,
which che has somehow managed to pull
over upon herself. The wardrobe is in
such state Of universal smash that it is
very easy TO clear away ihe wreck and
raise Nell in my arms. She opens her
eyes as 1 lay her upon her bed, and
asks, family: what is jtP Has the world
come to an end2'
Not just yet, l reply; but what have
you been doingT
Then her senses come back to her,
and she raises herself upon her right ell
bow. i remember now. The door stuck,
and I was in hurry, and tried to jerk
it open. Then the whole thing seemed
TO jump at me, and was so frightened
that l screamed, and, suppose, tainted.
I'm all right now, though, and there's
nothing to hinder our starting
Look at your dress, is my only reply.
Nell looks, and nearly faints again;
for the lovely dress is soiled and torn
beyond all hope Of restoration.
1T is better for your dress to be torn
than for your bones to be broken, say,
consolingly; but Nell shakes her head in
dubious dissent
Bones will grow together again, but
clothes won't, she says, ruefully. If
you only knew the time and thought I
have spent on that dress, Cyril. Itwas
made out of three old ones, and cost alb
solutely nothing. except time and pains;
yet 1t was fresh, and pretty, and becom-
ing. And my hat matched it precisely
STRAW color and blue, you see; and
Ohl cries Nell, as she catches sight of
herself in the glass.
1T is hopeless sighs Nell; and just
then the whistle sounds, and we realize
that the last chance Of the picnic is over.
THE end Of an unlucky day. says Nell,
as the sun touches the horizon.
1t is not quite the end, though, for the
evening mail is still to come in. II
brings paper for me and letter for
Nell, both Of which bear the same post.
mark. open the paper, while Nell is
still studying the direction Of her letter,
after the manner Of all of us. The first
thing upon which my eye falls is para
graph around which some careful hand
has drawn broad black lines.
Aunt Jane is dead' i exclaim; and
then, as ! look at the date of the paper,
add, Buried too, by this time.
Nell looks up with start.
Aunt janet she cries. And my let
ter is from Fanny Blatchford, who lives
next door to her..
She studies the direction no longer,
but tears the letter hastily open.
Just what we might expect, coming
on this day. she says at last. Say what
you will, Cyril, it is an unlucky day.
More than unlucky il your letter con-
tains the news that I suppose it does,' /
say, gloomily.
How the dim years stretch away be-
fore me as I speak the years that it will
take DIR. CASTOR to build up his prac
tice and the years that il will take
me to build up mine and all the
time the dear little girl, of whom Nell
knows nothing, waiting patiently in the
shadows Of the old New England hills
wrench myself away from such thoughts
with an effort, and listen to what Nell
has to say.
isn't it shame2' she is saying, wher
Acome 10 mvaell. If We never lovst
Aunt Jane, IL was because she nevel
gave us a chance; und il she never carel
anything for us, at least we were he
only living relations. We could hardl.
have expected her TO remember us il
her will, | suppose; but the least sh
could have done, for the credit Of tn
family, was to die without one. The
we should have had IL in the course 0
nature and law. But 10 go and leave
all to this man.
What manT ask, FOR, as / have said