Clarksville weekly chronicle. (Clarksville, Tenn.) 1873-1890, 1880-04-10

\ nav ONSl4 AidhtAS tilCAl way (tAJ
wards from the southeastern side 0
London. Both walked YEARLY, a.
! though they had trslmped fof Ions
distance; and once or twice thl
young girl wiped away tear
| though she str0ve hard to hide i
| from her companion, and forced
herself to speak with ii cheerfulnes:
in strange contrast with her sunkeT
cheek and foOtsore gait. Every
now and then, in passing through
the more frequented streets, they
would pause; and the man, who
carried the violin, would strike uE
some old ballad tune with a vigol
and power OF execution which even
his frost-nipped fingers and weary
limbs could not wholly DESTROY
while the girl, with a sweet, though
very sad voice, accompanied him
with the appropriate words. But
their attempts were miserably I'M
productive. In such hitter weather
few who could help it would stay
away from their warm firesides
and those whom stern necessity
kept out of doors seemed only bent
on dispatching their several tasks,
and to have no time or thought to
expend on a couple of wandering
tranps singing by the roadside.
Still they toiled on, every now and
then making a fresh pitch at
some likely corner, only too often
ordered to s'move on" by a stern
policeman. AS they drew nearer to
the city and the hour grew later,
the passers-by became fewer and
farther between, and the poor wan
derers felt that it was idle even to
seek for charity in those deserted, /,
silent streets. At last the old man
stopped and groaned aloud.
"What is it, grandfather dear I?
Don't give in now when we have
come so far. Lean on me-do; Pm
hardly tired at all; and | dare say
we shall do better Tomorrow"
"To-morrowr said the old man,
bitterly "to-morroW it will be too
late. I don't mind hunger, and /
don't mind cold; but the shame of
it, the disgrace having strug-
gled against it all these yearS-to
come to the workhouse at last! 1t
isn't for myself [ mind-beggers
mustn't be choosers; and, / dare
say, better men than l have slept
in a casual ward; but you, my ten
der little Lily. The thought breaks
my heart! it kills mev And the
old man sobbed aloud.
"Dear grandfather, you are al
ways thinking of'me, and never of
yourself. What does it matter,
after all? It's only the name of the
thing. Pm sure / don't mind it
one bit" The shudder of horror
which passed over the girls frame
gave the lie to her pious falsehoOd.
+" 1 dare say it is not so very bad; /;
and after all, something may hap
pen to prevent it even now"
"What can happen, short of a
miracle, in these deserted streets ?''
"Well, let us hope for the miracle,
then, dear. God has never quite
deserted us in our deepest troubles,
and | don't believe He will forsake
us now."
AS she spoke she drew her thin
shawl more closely around her,
shivering in spite of herself under
the cold blast, which seemed to re-
ceive no check from her scanty
coverings.
Again the pair crept on, and,
passing beneath the lofty wall of st.
Winifred's church, stood beneath it
for temporary shelter from the
driving wind and snow. While so
standing they caught the faint
sounds of the organ solemnly peal
ing within.
"NOble music" said the old man,
as the final cords died away; "noble
music, and soul in the playing.
That man, whoever he may be,
should have a generous heart"
"Hush, grandfather" said the
girl, she is beginning to play again."
Scarcely had the music COM
menced, however, than the pair
gazed at each other in breathless
surprise.
"Lily, darling, do you hear what
he is playing 2" said the old man in
an excited whisper.
ga strange coincidence" the girl
replied.
''Strange! it is more than strange!
Lily, darling, who could play that
song?"
The melody came to an end, and
all was silence. There was a mo-
ment's pause, and then, as if by
common impulse, the old man drew
his bow across the strings, and the
girls sweet voice carroled forth the
second verse of the song. Scarcely
had they ended, when door opened
at the foot of the church tower just
beside them, and Michael Fray,
bareheaded, with his scanty locks
blown about by the wind, stood be-
fore them. He hurried forward
and then stood still, shamefaced,
beWildered. The song had called
up the vision of a gallant young
sailor, full of life and health, as Mi
ehael had seen his brother for the
last time on the day when he sailed
on his fatal voyage. He had hur-
ried forth, forgetting the years that
had passed, full of tender memo
ries of happy boyish days, to find,
alas! only couple of wandering
beggars singing for bread.
81 beg your PARDON" he said,
striving vainly to master his emo
tions; ''you sang a song just now
which-=a song which was favOrite
of a dear friend of mine many years
ago. Will you-will you tell me
where you got it ?"
"By the best of all titles, sir" the
old fiddler answered with touch
of pride: 81 wrote myself, words
and music both"
"Nay, sir" said Michael sternly,
''you rob the dead. A dearly loved
brother Of mine wrote that song
forty years ago."
"Well, upon my word ~ said the
old fiddler, waxing wroth-''then
your brother must have stolen it
from me! What might the precious
brothers name be, pray ?"
"An honest name, name ] am
proud tospeak, /" said Michael, firing
up i'm his turn "his name was Rich
ard Fray?"
The old street musician staggered
as if he had received blow.
"What 7" he exclaimed, peering
eagerly into the others face; "then
YOU are my brother Michael, for /
am Richard"
Half an hour later and the broth
ers so long parted, SO strangely
brought together, were seated
around a roaring FIRE in Michael
Fray's quaint, three-cornered par
lor. Michael's stores had been ran
sacked for warm, dry clothing for
the wanderers. Drawers long closed
yielded, when opened, sweet
scent of lavender, aud containing
homeIy skirts and bodies, kept still
in loving memory OF little Nell,