The Russellville Democrat., 1880-09-30

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 afraid of whatever you might say. Re
 proasn, forgiveness, announcement ar
 each alike distasteful to me. I am down
 let me lie i'll the shiny pool into which
 nave fallen" After a long silence Q heart-talk, she slipped diamond rin,
 from her finger, and placing it on mine
 said, Let this be pledge of silence
 now and forever. Ics of no use---be m,
 frlend-my sister, and no more. Nauph on earth can save me-" and she abr,Dt
 ly left the room. Poor, unhappy wo
 man! A woman of rare gifts and bril-
 liant beauty. 'Tis only a chronic pr,Im
 bier that could call her from the forgiy
 ing past to speak harshly of her weak ness
 One morning as I was sitting with tho
 whole front of my room open to the out
 side balcony, she walked in, and sinking into large easy-chair, said, q saw you
 looking at my young negro this morning
 what price would such baby boy bring in your countrv?" Her question sent the warm blood rushing from my
 startled heart to my cheeks. I had just
 been visiting the new mother and baby.
 l had kissed the little "darkeyn and
 called it such tender names as belong to
 sweet infancy; had congratulated the
 mother, quite forgetting the curse of
 slavery. This question came with a
 rude jar, and I said: "In my country
 there is humanity. Aoney would not
 buy the child" True" she calmly re-
 piled, and then added in bitter tones, T
 have lived in your country and remem-
 Der all. 'Twere better if I could forget. There IS homatity there. l couldn't find 1t. found falsehood, compulsion and slavery. My father died when I wasssa little girl, leaving my mother with the care of three children. I sthe oldest. and at six years old washed and dressed my two little sisters. This is one of the few sunbeams in my sealed book. The past is ever sealed book. There is no opening to remodel or interline. I went to the public school. The girls and boys were in the same room. William Eaton was one of the large boys. I was little Clara Henry. He called me his Prim- rose. called him my Lord Maple; he was my protector. He called for me every morning to go to school. He walked home with me every night. He took me to the dancing-schools, to con- certs, and many ride I had Tn his mothers carriage. His mother, like mine, was widow, and William was her only son. Mrs. Eaton had some money, but she had two daughters de- pendent on her, and William had to make his own fortune. At the age of nineteen he left school and decided to go to one of the Southern States, full of hope for brilliant success in business. I was fourteen now-still a schoolgirl. How 1 did miss his gallant attentions Tn those days! How 1 have missed it all through my dreary lifel Can heart wrong ever be righted? Can heartache ever be eased? He lett school two months previous to gong south, and during this time he never forgot his lit tie Primrose in the daily walks to and from school. The last day came. He said-oh, how tenderly and playfully he said, Will my little Primrose be my lit- tie wife sometime?' l replied, My Lord Maple, 1 will Then he led me to messy seat in the grove near by. I was a child, and didn't understand; but he explained his future plans to mellow he was going from home to make for tune, and then coming back for his PrimI ose. 1 sat quiet, scarcely speak ing. he holding my hand and wisely talking all the time. l was solemnly happy in blindfold way. I didn't know what was feeling. Now he said. I'll walk home with you; the dews are beginning to fall, and they have con tinued falling ever since Before leay- ing, he called one evening on my moth. CT, and introduced into our family. Dr. Cutbush, saying, This friend of mine will be your friend, and will do for you hh T ! you to his care.'
 ''Dr. Cutbush was a tall gentleman. of pleasing and commanding presence. He was six years elder than my Lord Maple, and Tn every respect different man. William was full of music and poetry. He was frolicsome and winning in all his ways. He was genial, self-for- getting and impulsive. In a word he was summer sunbeam. Dr. Cutbush was a sensible, prosy man. He was thoughtful and studied in every move- ment. In his atmosphere one always felt overshadowed and awed with tall column of learning; there was dazzling in hls presence, but it was the cold light reflected from a wln- ter sunbeam. Dr. Cutbush became a frequent visitor at our humble home. He loaned us books, and brought us the popular periodicals of the day. When ever there was star lecturer in the city he accompanied my mother and me to a choice seat in the lecture-room. I was still in school, often thinking of William, and always mi ssing his music and poetry, for my life was woven of the same fabric, and craved kindred sympathy. Six months had passed since he asked me to be hIs little wife, He promised to write me two letters week. For two months hls letters came regularly, and I replied to them in my simple, childish way. These letters gave me world of delight--I didn't know why. wa a child then. The letters were full of life, music and poetry. l showed them to my mother, and asked her how long it would take to make a fortune. My mother had my entire confidence, and basely she betrayed it. May the Lord forgive her-I can't. A crushed life hath never a perfect blossom.
 "My mother sad to me one morning, Clara, l think you had better leave school at the end of this term; you are getting to be young lady. In Novem- Der you will be fifteen years old This suggestion pleased me. Since William went away. school had been stupid. the idea of being young lady took with me. l was mature for my years; being a poor widows eldest daughter had made ehildhoods careless days very brief. Now l wore long dresses and crimped hair, and made fashionable calls with my mother and l walked on moonlight evenings with Dr. Cutbush, and was often seen riding in the park ..,sti, him Mx, an,nra T. txau ax,.,ta.l ,s..,