Millheim Journal. [volume] (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, 1880-11-25

In rlchly-furnlshed parlor, It's crimson
curtains closely drawn to shut out the
piercing winter night, before glowing fire,
sat Maurice Greenwood, merchant. Some
what more than fifty years had written their
record of his life; but his hair was thickly
sprinkled with gray, and his face, with its
deep-set hazel eyes and compressed mouth,
seemed like that of one much older.
That face was one where tOiU was grav-
en- ON every feature, SIS with pen of iron
and dismond-point. But some regret, some
lasting shade there was, about brow, and
eyes, and mouth, and Maurice Greenwood
was not happy.
Wealth he had, and every outward
means of happiness, save dear faces, by his
1reside, and tones of home affection.
These he had not; in his palace-like home
he lived alone.
All, there was q shadow on Maurice
Greenwood's hearth and heart; one, too, of
his own making.
His wife slept beneath the green shades
OF the cemetery; and his only daughter, his
beautiful, gentle, true-hearIed Annie, was
no longer at his side. She had kept her
faith with the lover who lacked only gold;
and for this he had banished her from his
home, and tried to Danish her image from
his thoughts. But that he conld not do.
He knew not where Annie was; whether,
even, she were living or not.
Time passed ON, and he became accus-
toned TO his lonely life; yet the regret he
could not Danish, embittered every quiet
hour.
At times, when, as now, he sat alone by
his deserted fireside, the thought of his
daughter grew SO VIVID that she seemed to
stand beside him. The white brow, the
radi ant wavy hair OF golden brown, were
the same; but the blue eyes with q sad,
reproachful look, gazed steadily into bis
own.
Once or twice the illusion had been so
strong that involuntarily he stretched his
arms toward her and called her name, and
his housekeeper, perhaps coming in with
his tea-tray, had found him nearly fainting.
or, as he always answered, ''tired."
'I do declare" sAe said to an intimate
friend, 'if he wouldget his daughter home,
with her husband, and treat her like q IA
thsr, how happy the man might bel
Likely enough, they've little children that
would make the old house alive again, and
it's more like tomb than anything else.
But, dear me, there's no knowing whether
she's alive; wonder if he knows2 never can
ask him; it won't do to mention her name;
just set him against her still more, if that
could be; but / wish knewI To think /
Graded her on my breast, same as | did
him before her, and ! never thought to see
my boy like this; just making himself
wretched for the sake of worrying his own
flesh and blood"
''Ten years to-day, since Miriam left
me, said Maurice Greenwood to himself.
was mild, sunny spring morning,
and opening leaf buds and scent of gar
den vlolets, even in the busy city, brought
glad tidings of that which should be. A
sudden impulse came over him to visit
MIriam'S grave, and he resolved to ride
out to the cemetery that afternoon.
1t was lovely, shaded spot near the
river, and the early flowers were beginning
| to bloom.
Maurice Greenwood stood there alone in
the still glow of sunlight, that wrapped the
''city of the silent" as in Gods great peace;
and In those moments glimpse of high.
er, better life dawned on his soul.
What startled him2 What made the
strong man tren BILE in every nervel For
the moment it seemed to him vision. A
young girl passed with basket of flowers
on her arm.
He had only glimpse of her face, but
the golden brown hair beneath the little
sun-hat, the form, the step and bearing
were Annie's ownl
A great hunger sprang up in his heart
and he could not resist the impulse to follow
her. He did so, silently, not to attract hel
attention. She did not see him approach,
as she sat on the grass twining a wreath Of
the flowers she had brought, and singing 8
low, sweet melody; one that Annie loved,
and often sang.
He drew nearer; near enough to read thu
inscription ON the marble tablet before her
His daughters name was craven there, anC
the man with difficulty repressed cry o.
pain. The young girl turned her head; sh'
saw him, and sprang to her feet.
''Pardon me, young lady," he said Oour
teously, ''for my seeming intrusion. Sh'
who lies here was very dear to me; but
have net seen ner these many years, and
did not know Of this"
His manner, his gray hair, and worn, sa(
face, reassured her, and she remainet
awhile, answering simply and frankly hi
inquiries about her father and home Sh'
was the only child his Annie left, and like
ly soon to be quite alone, for her fathe
was fast failing.
Maurice pondered. What should he do
Could he tell her that he was her grand
father? Would she not fly from him a
from savage beast if she should know tina
he was the father who turned her gentl
mother from his heart and home, and lef
her to die in poverty and paint But sh
must know, or he could make no repara