The daily Cairo bulletin. (Cairo, Ill.) 1878-1???, 1879-10-15


:. ness Of spirit, The memories Of Christina
time, which was Christmas indeed TIL
: face of the fair being he has loved, whom
a he still loves he feels, with all the strength
Of his soul, seems TO look upon him from
every bush that grows about his hut. He
voice seems to call him and cry, "Forgive! 7
. Home and friends seem to pass before hin
9 and say, "'Come back y and Christmas is ne
, Christmas to him there. t}sk 4
. In the bitterness of his thoughts he erie,
aloud, II have lost her, England, home
friends brothcrl Not, him; unworth,
thought-still more unworthy name!"
! His words come back to him in the dred
full stiffness of that place, and seem like
voices hooking his great misery. He cries
aloud in his sorrow and filings himself on
, his couch of skins. There he fights his bat
tie alone, there the happiness Of the past
comes dancing before his eyes. Sleeping
or waking, his fight goes on. Forget he
never can, but he must forgive his brother
and---apd her. In England
again, when the autumn is drawing to a
close, and dead leaves falling tell the clos
ing year.
Into cosey sitting-room of Rutland hall
| the rays Of the October sun are falling red
ly bright. They rest unshadowed upon the
form Of a fair young girl half lying, half
sitting, upon the couch near the deep en-
brasured window, through which she gazes
upon the brightness before her. Her face,
SO sad, so thin and white, is very painful to
see, and the great sad eyes, unnaturally
brilliant, tell too plainly a painful tale.
The thin, white hands move neIvously, and
as if seeking some objection which they
never reach, as if holding out welcome to
one who does not come.
Ida Rutland, for it is she, is changed
indeed. We saw her last that day of
broken hopes, of peace destroyed, of for
sworn faith and broken plighted troth. On
the terrible night when the news of his de-
sertion had come to her, her life had died.
Proud for self, she had gone about hiding
the wound open in her heart; but she had
pined then and she is pining now. Shehad
resisted long, but had to yield at last to the
fever which was burning up her young life.
What had she to live for? she asked herself.
Nothing. But kind friends who penetrated
her secret grief, preached the proverb,
where there's hope" and told her he
would come back. No, she said there was
no hope. He believed her guilty, and for
her the lamp of love was out
And there she sits now in the fading red
sunlight, and glare subdued by the closing
year; and looks out upon the still green life
of earth upon the fresh green lawn before
Nh window enA xtrutnbac cha lnal Il
falling. Yet who shall say what she sees
All that passes before her eyes may be as
nothing to her. Nor is it,
Thoughts, heart and mind are far way.
and the bright death-telling eyes are fixed |
on vacancy.
Beside the couch stands small table, |
and upon il are two articles. One picture
drawn in water cOlors, the other hand
kerchief white and torn at one corner.
Sometime these two objects seem to bear a
great interest to the fair, fragile girl, and
she will turn her head from the window and
'eem to gaze at them. She moves her
land toward the handkerchief and passes
Ter hand over it, as though it were some
hing with life and with nature to be c.
essed. She does it dreamily, unconscious
y, and touches it always at the ragged edge.
What is the story of that rent? Is it that
'he feels how frail and slender are the
threads which hold its parts together? Does
he find there an analogy to her own life
ow, like those threads, rudely torn?
And the picture? Does that bear q histo- :
Y, that it is always before herr Like the
it is her constant companion. =
hut she never looks upon it. 1t is there, |
nd she will not have it moved, but its face '
covered. 1t lies within her reach, yet she I
ever touches it. What is the secret there! r
Only one thing now served to rouse the
Unhappy Ida from the dreamy languor into
Which she had fallen, and in which her life
5 passing quietly away. The sight of her
ather will call up smile to her face, but J
is faint and quickly gone L
And the squire? The once jolly, hale I
quire, how is he2 Changed, sadly changed. :
No more is he seen making his way across !
he fields to the poor laborer's cottage
.ome, to cheer or help the sick man. Even r
he smile with which he seeks to greet his |
laughter comes forced and painfully. !
The great blow has reached him through :
Ter, and as day by day he sees her pine be-
ore him, and fade and droop, a curse rises !
o his lips, good old man at heart though !
le is, against the man who has destroyed !
he life of the one being he had left to love '
md to love him, Only once had that name
,een mentioned between them, and then :
he kissed him to stife the harsh words
which rose upon his tongue, and stopped 9
hem with the mild entreaty
mo; love hi mstill."
Now, from the farther end ofthc room,
ne comes towards her. She does not hear
lin, and she does not look up. In the
shadows of the room she sees a vision of
he man she loves. Her hand goes out with I
he same nervous movement as tito wei.
ONE him, but meets only the handker.
hief; and, as before, her fingers trace their
way along it to its ragged edge. And now {
Ter face is turned from the window and |
ollows the movements OF her hand. Now
or the first time throughout the day the va
ant eyes seem to brighten, the dreamy
ook passes off and she sees the object she t
touching. She grasps it quickly as if