American citizen. [volume] (Canton, Miss.) 1864-1890, 1880-04-10

would end" she moaned. Then she
demanded quickly of her companions,
the earth, the sky:
"Where has he gomez How shall l
ever find him againp'
Words of consolation and resignation
| fell on deaf ears. The landlady and
the women wept in helpless sympathy,
but May shed no tears. The doctor
alone retained his usual composure.
How often had he witnessed similar
scenes! kilograms were sent and re-
| ceived, friends were fastening to the
aid of the living, and to obtain a last
| glimpse of the dead; all those silent and
professional duties were transpiring
about her, of which she took no heed.
She chung desperately to her post be-
side the bed, and remained there, dry
eyed, wild, launching those reckless re-
proaches at God and man which fire.
| quently mark the passionate ebullitions
of first grief. If there was merciful
Savior, who heals all wounds of the soul,
as the. clergyman said, He had forgot
ten her! If there was God, He had
only robbed her! Why could not an
other have been snatched away by the
angel of death? Then silence would
ensue, dreary. immobile, rigid, the
young watcher sitting with clasped
hands, and her face of the same blue
pallor as the marble face on the pillow
The landlady detained the doctor out
side the door.
''She has not slept or tasted food for
twenty-four hours" she whispered.
'Her brain will turn. The shock was
too great for her, and she has the look
of a madwoman already"
The doctor held letter. An idea
came to him. The letter had just ar
rived by the post, and could not con-
Germ the recent bereavement. He enter
ed the chamber of death, approached
May. and presented the letter, saying,
in natural tones: This letter has lust
come. You will be kind enough to
open it."
Surprised, she raised her head, re-
ceived and mechanically tore open the
envelope. An Easter card was dis
closed. An uprooted plant dropped on
a stone parapet, with rays of sunshine
slanting down in a golden tide, and in
these rays the words were traced,
lam the Resurrection
And the Life.
May read the card, and turned it over
in her hand. The doctor paused be-
hind her; the landlady stood in the
doorway. Then a sound became audi
BILE in the room, tumultuous sobbing,
and the widow fell on her knees. clasp
ing one of the dead hands, and cover
ing it with tears and kisses.
II am the resurrection and the
life," she repeated, TREMENDOUSLY. Oh,
beloved, L shall find you againp'
The Easter card had fallen on the
floor. The doctor raised it, and placed
it on the foot of the bed.
When the winter of another year
brought its SHOWS and clear star-lit
nights. Agnes Clement still wrought in
her studio, the glass-covered piazza
The place was changed. Flowers now
bloomed everywhere, with the differ
ence between the piazza and the con-
servatory that the artist had painted
them. Roses swayed lightly on their
stalks in the sketches on the wall; vio-
lets and daisies were scattered in pro-
fusion over boxes and fans; fairies
peeped from blossoms on ornamented
cards; portrait heads smiled from the
center of dishes garlanded in, ivy and
ferns. A glance into the domain OF
Sister Anne would also have revealed
little additional luxuries and comforts
with the modest salary of
Agnes had learned to love
her task, and dealt tenderly with the
flowers; hence her success. Occasion
ally her attention strayed to a distant
corner consecrated to Beatrice in Para
disc and Ophelia, and at such moments
she sighed.
Opposite, the superb conservatory,
still bloomed in the sunshine, and here
occasionally pale young la
dy in deep mourning, whose grave face
seemed to have forgotten how to smile.
The artist recognized her as the girl
in the pink dress and jewels. and asso-
ciated her garb with the absence of the
brilliant young man. That was all.
Between them was gulf, and thought
did not span it. Had Agnes penetrated
the spacious mansion of her neighbor,
she would have seen in Mays chamber,
placed where her eyes beheld it as the
tirst object in awakening, an Easter
card, framed in ebony, and yelled with
Grape. Sir Arthur Helps has written,
We are all so intertwined that the
same wave beats on every shore. -
Harper's Magazine.