The Worthington advance., 1879-05-08

The rain drove into their faces, and the
wind howled through the dark night like
the minister of q thousand storms-no
poor fisherwoman, perhaps, but to
one as good and fair as Edith Willoughby
he should not =" have hesi-
tated moment. When they came |
upon the beach the waves fairly leaped |
into their faces, Edith shivered and clung |
half terrified to her companion in spite Of !
herself.
II believe you had better return now,
and leave it to me" he said: !
mo, we are almost there. should |
n ever forgive myself if I did," she an
swered, catching her breath as she spoke. !
1T is only you am worried about"
~ am glad to be able to help you,' he !
said. And think be spoke the truth.
inside The cottage poor Grace Pooley
lay on her hard bed trying to breathe on
little longer, if so the good God might
send some good friends before she died,
to care for her orphan boy.
When! the door opened her eyes bright
ened, and she raised up little.
"The Lord bless We for coming. L
know he WILL" she said as Edith threw
off her wet covering and went toward
her.
"This is only one of the boarders who
came with me-" she said in reply to the
womans questioning look. II should
have come to-day had known you were
worse.
She sat down beside the bed, and An
son Grey watched her as she spoke in low,
tender voice to the grateful woman.
Among the words which he could dis
tinguish was promise to see to jamie:
and when the old woman VINO seemed TO
be nurse came up to administer some
thing, and in half whisper asked Edith
to pray with them, he began to think he
was in another world. And it was an
other to him truly. Surely she would
never do that. But she did. Kneeling
upon the bare floor, clssping her white
hands, she sent up such prayer for help
and strength rs Anson 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 immeasurable distance from such as
he, but he cherishes the memories OF her
prayers as the one glimpse into heaven
for which he should thank God all his
life.
, Edith's mother was gay woman, and
| such she meant her daughter to lie,
though for her life she could not keep
> her from ferreting out and helping also.
an innumerable number of forlorn, pow
erty-stricken people who had no earthly
claim upon her, as they went their fash
ionable rounds 1t was mortifying, even
exasperating, but she was powerless to
prevent. They would be off again, soon,
Anson Grey heard; but he would have
! missed seeing had he not accidently me,
! her as she was hurrying up the beach to
ward their boarding house on the very
r day they left. He could not let her gt
c without telling her what was in his heart
"May speak to you a moment?" h,
"Certainly."
As the word left her lips she saw wha
his speaking was going to I've.
# "Oh, not that, Mr.. Grey
= Somehow he took courage from tn
y quick paling of her lips.
It "Yes, that. l love you and want yo'
is for my wife,"
!. II am to be married Christmas.'
It He turned and was leaving her, whe1
e something made her speak.
e. Mr.. Grey.
n He faced her again and she saw no,
Il white and stern his face looked.
e "Had been free you would not hav
?. asked in vain"
It For days and weeks afterward Anso
l. Grey hugged the memory of her look, a
:e she said those blessed words, to his hear
) caring more for that than the love an
r caresses of any other.
" Christmas came, but death came wit
d it, and Edith's lover went his long jour
in ney, leaving his afianced bride and he
ae scheming mother to console ~themselye
8. as best they might.
as In way mysterious to all save Wi
liam Skinner, Edith heard of Anso
ut Grcy's illness, and, as we have seen, wer
a to him and had the courage to becom
of his wife.
II. The people of Burlingame learned I
e, love the gentle mistress of the old stor
" mansion On the hill, and never suffe
ne ing one called for help in vain, as Ion
1e as my lady," as they called her, was mi
n tress there.