Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1879-08-05


gether, and the sight of each other was
better than words.
By-and-by he whispered, 81 know how
lonely you've been since-since that" I"
and then his lips quivered, and the ten
der, truthful eyes were like blue violets
in a summer rain. Il knew it would al
most break your heart. If it could only
have been me"
Oh, most unselfsh soul! How weak
and unworthy | seemed to myself then,
in comparison with him.
By-and-by, with his hand in mine, he
fell asleep. The physician came while he
was sleeping.
II think your coming has done him
good already he said. perhaps we
may save him yet. Woman's care will
do more for him than we can"
Perhaps he would not die | dropped
my face in the pillow and prayed that he
might be spared to me. Perhaps God
heard my prayer, and answered it. |
love to think Of it in that way Per
haps it had been so willcd in the eternal
wisdom that he would have lived if Ihad
not prayed But it pcases me to think
that the prayer was heard and answered.
The next morning there was different
look on Johns face. The doctor nodded
his head in qualification when he made
his visit.
There's no tonic like a familiar face,
Lieut. Earle" ne said 81 begin to
think you're worth a score of dead men"
shall never forget the long summer
days passed there by Johns bedside.
They were full of hopes of tr,stfulness
and peace. could think of Robbie
without feeling that old, hard ache at
heart.
After little while we had the room to
ourselves most of the time. Those who
"werc not sick unto death" were taken
elsewhere. and those to whom the call of
angels came went out into the other world
with the peace of God upon their lips. |
shut down the lids Of more than ono poor
soldiers eyes in the old house, and won
dcrcd where the dear ones were who would
fain have stood where did in those last
sad hours Of life. put Il little flower or
leaf between their palms for mothers
sake, or wife or sisters, and saw them
borne away in the awful pomp and state
which seems to cling to the humblcst
burial.
1--WE will go to Robbies grave some
day" John said almost the last thing
| remember is the vollcy they fired over
it"
He got to calling me sister Ruth in
those long, quiet talks of ours, and from
the first knew that he had given up
wholly, on that summer night when he
said goodbye, the thought of ever calling
me by any dearcr name. He had accept
ed my answer as final. | had thought |
knew my heart then. But | knew it
better now.
1t was a quiet day in October when he
was well enough to walk to Robbie's
grave with me. The air was full of In
dian-summcr glory and vagueness, and
the purple haze, which touched every
thing with drcamincss, made the world
seem Us if it were asleep and had forgot
ten all It's care and trouble
We climbed the hill slowly. We said
but little. | broke off some sprays of
purple aster growing by the path, and
one glowing tuft Of golded-rod, to lay on
Robbics grave
"Shut your eyes, Ruth, John said,
land viii lead you to it.
Here it is, he said presently, and
turned away and left me alone. And |
saw the hillside sloping away, warm and
pleasant in the sun, and heard the wind
whispering plaintiyely in the branches Of
a pine tree over my head, and at my feet,
all white with autumn daiscs, was-Rob-
bie's gravel
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