Iron County register. [volume] (Ironton, Iron County, Mo.) 1867-1965, 1880-11-04

vember he was returning homeward weary
and detected from a walk in the suburbs.
His way led across an Ininclosed outskirt
OF the town which served common to
the poor people Of the neighborhood. 1t
was traversed by q score Of footpaths, and
frequented by goats, and by ducks that dab
bled in the puddles Of rain water collected
in the hollows. Halfway across this open
tract stood what had formerly been an old
fashioned country house, now converted into
was clump of old pine trees, the remnant
OF a. grove which had once flourished in the
sandy soil. There was something in the des-
olation of the place that flattered Putnam's
mood, and he stopped to take it in. The air
was dusk, but embers of an angry sunset
a sound in the pine-tops like the beating Of
surf On distant shore. A flock Of little
winter birds flew suddenly up from the
ground into one of the trees, like flight of
gray leaves whrled up by gust. AS Put.
nam turned to look at them he saw, against
the strip of sunset along the horizon, the
slim figure of a girl walking rapidly toward
the opposite side of the common. His heart
gave great leap, and he started after her
on a run. At corner of the open ground
the figure vanished, nor could Putnam de-
eide into which of two or three small streets
she had turned. He ran down one and up
another, but met no one except few labor
ers coming home from work, and finally
SaNo up the quest. buC LnlS mOmenLaTy
glimpse produced in him new excitement.
he felt sure that he had not been mistaken;
he knew the swift, graceful step, the slight
form bending in the wind. He fancied that
he had even recognized the pOise and shape
OF the little head. He imagined, too, that
he had not been unobserved, and that she
had some reason for avoiding him. For
week or more he haunted the vicinity of the
common, but without result. December
was already drawing to an end when he re-
ceived the following note:
DEAR Mr. PUTNAM: You must forgive me
/ am right-am not?-fn supposing that you
saw and recognized me. 1t was rude in me
not to wait, but had not courage to talk
have seen you before at the cemetery-if you
still walk there-but have been sick and have
not been there for long time. / was only
out for the first time when saw you last Fri
day.. My aunt has sent for me, and am going
South in few days. 1 shall leave directions
gone.
Ipromised to be here when you came back,
and write this to thank you for your kind
interest in me and to explain why go away
without seeing you again. think that know
what you wanted to ask me that day that we
went to the green house, and perhaps under
you the answer which you wished. But 1
have seen so much sorrow, and am of such a
gloomy disposition, that1 am not fit for cheer
full society, and know you would regret your
choice.
shall think very often and very gratefully
OF you, and shall not forget the words on that
little German baby'S grave stone. dby.
IMOGEN PINCKNEY.
Putnam felt stunned and benumbed on
first reading this letter. Then he read it
over mechanically two or three times. The
date was a month old, but the postmark
showed that it had just been mailed. She
must have postponed her departure some
what after writing it, or the person with
whom it had been left had neglected to post
it till now. He felt sudden oppression and
need of air, and taking his hat left the house.
season lay deep on the ground. Anger and
grief divided his heart. "It's too bad! too
badv he murmured, with tears in his eyes;
"she might have given me one chance to
speak. She hasn't been fair to me. What's
the matter with her, anyhow? She has
brooded and brooded till she is downright
acknowledgement" and then, with a revul-
sion OF feeling, my poor darling girl!
Here she has been, sick and alone, sitting
day after day in that cursed graveyard. 1
ought to have stayed. might have known
how it would turn out. Well, it's all over
now, L SUPPOSE ft-..
He had taken, half-unconsciously, the di-
rection of the cemetery, and now found
locked, but he climbed over the wall and wad-
ed through the snow to the spot where he
had sat with her so many summer after
moons. The wicker chair was buried out of
sight in drift. A scarcely visible undula-
ton in the white level marked the position
of the mound, and the headstone had snow
cap. The cedars stood black in the dim
moonlight, and the icy coating of their
boughs ratified like candelabra. He stood a
few moments near the railing, and then tore
the letter into fragments and threw them on
the snow. "There! good-by, good by" he
said, bitterly, as the wind carried them skat-
ing away over the crust.
But what was that? The moon cast a
shadow Of Henry Pinckney's headstone on
the snow, but what was that other and SIM
liar shadow beyond it? Putnam had been
standing edgewise to the slab; he shifted his
position now and saw q second stone and a
second mound side by side with the first.
An awful faintness and trembling seized him
as he approached it and bent his head close
down to the marble. The jagged shadows of
the cedar branches played across the sur
face, but by the uncertain light he could
read the name "Imogen Pinckney,' and
below it the inscription, "Wir hoffen auf
Wiedersehen. "-Henry A. Beers, in Lip
pincott's Magazine.