Fayetteville observer. [volume] (Fayetteville, Tenn.) 1850-1966, 1879-04-24

Mde tleIc Jesleruay, ana IHey
are IN great distress. Could
trouble you to go with me?"
81 will do your errand; it il
too stormy for you to venture
out" T"
ooh, it's no errand; l am sor-
ry to trouble anybody"
Mr.. Grey saw what was wan
ted, and saying he would be
back directly, vanished for his
rubber suit.
The rain drove into their faces
and the wind howled through
the dark night like the minister
of a thousand storms-not for q
poor fisherwoman, perhaps, but
for one as good and fair as Edith
Willoughby, he should not have
hesitated moment. When they
came upon the beach the waves
fairly leaped into their faces, and
Edith shiyered, and chung half
terrified to her companion in
spite of herself.
81 believe you had better re-
turn now and leave it to me-" he
said,
mo, we are almost there.
| should never forgive myself if
| did," she answered, catching
her breath as she spoke. 'It is
only you I'm worried about"
81 am glad to be able to help
you," he said. And he spoke
the truth.
Inside the cottage poor Grace
Pooley lay on her hard bed try
ing to breathe on a little longer,
if so'the good God might send
some friend before she died to
care for her poor orphan boy.
When the door opened her
eyes frightened and she raised
up little.
"The Lord bless ye for coming.
/ know he WILL" she said, as
Edith threw off her wet covering
and went toward her.
"This is only one of the board
ers, who came with me-" she
said in reply to the woman's
questioning look. 81 should have
come to-day had l known you
were worse"
She sat down beside the bed,
and Anson Grey watched her as
spoke in a low, tender voice to
the grateful woman. Among
the words which he could dis
tinguish was a promise to see to
Jamie; and when the old woman
who seemed to be nurse came up
to administer something, and III
a half whisper asked Edith to
pray with them he began to
think he was in another world.
And it was another to him truly.
Surely she would never do that.
But she did. Knceling upon the
bare floor, clasping her white
hands, she sent up such a pray
er for help and strength as All
son Grey had never dreamed Of
hearing before.
After that night Anson Grey
knew where his heart was, but
for his life he dared not approach
Edith. She seemed an immeas-
urable distance from such as he,
but he cherished the memory Of
her prayers as one glimpse into
heaven for which he would thank
God all his life.
Edith's mother was a gay wo-
man, and such she meant her
daughter to be, though for her
life she could not keep her from
ferreting out, and helping also,
an innumerable number Of for
lorn, n,poverty-stricken people who
had no earthly claim upon her, as
they went their fashionable
rounds. 1t was mortitying, even
exasperating, but she was pow
erless to prevent it. They were
to be off again soon, Anson
Grey heard; but he would have
missed seeing her had he not ac-
cidentally met her hurrying up
the beach toward their boarding
house on the very day they left.
He could not let her go without
telling her what was in her heart.
'NIay l speak to you a mo-
ment?" he said, abruptly stop
ping her.
Certainly"
AS the word left her lips she
saw what his speaking was GO
ing to be.
"Oh, not that, Mr.. Grey
Somehow he took courage from
the quick paling of her lips.
"Yes, that | love you and want
you for my wife,"
81 am to be married Christ
mas"
He turned and was leaving her,
when something made her speak.
"Mr. Grey"
lie faced her again and she
saw how white he looked.
"IIad / been free you would
not have asked in vain"
For days and weeks afterward,
Anson Grey hugged the memo
ry of her look, as she said those