Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1880-11-05


though perhaps least amiable traits counter
manded his Impulse, and he said gravely,
Certainly, Twill go at once, but in Justice
to myself must first assure you that didn't
mean to intrude upon you or annoy you In
any way.D
She sank down into her chair and avcrted
her face.
"You say" he continued, "that you are
in trouble, and | beg YOU to believe that re-
spect your aflliction, and that when | spoke
TO you just now 1t was simply to ask pardon
for having hurt your feelings yesterday,
without meaning TO, by my light mention OF
the dead. I've been too near deaths door
myself lately TO joke about it," lie paused,
OUS she remained i silent m going aWay
you excuse me, and that you haven't any
hard feelings toward meW
Yes, oh yes," she answered wearily; 81
have no feelings. Please go away"
Putnam raised his hat respectfully, and
the little gate house he sat down to rest on q
bench before the door. The gatekeeper was
standing on the threshold in his shirt-slceves,
smoking pipe. ga nice day after the rain,
sir" he began,
Yes, 1t is.o
"Have you any folks here, sir"
"No, no one. But come here sometimes
for stroll"
d" Yes, Pye seen you about. Well, it's a
nice, quiet place for walk, but the grounds
amt KEEP up quite the shape they used to
be: there amt so much occasion for it.
Seems as though the buryin' business was
dull, like. pretty much every thing else now
a-days.'
eyes, that's so," replied Putnam alb
sently.
The gatekeepor spat rehectively upon the
center of the doorstep, and resumed:
"There's some that comes here quite regular,
but they mostly have folks here. There's
old Mrs. Lyon comes very steady, and there's
young Miss Pinckney: she's one OF the most
reg'lar."
as that the young lady in gray, with black
eyesW
"That's she."
"Who is she in mourning for?''
"Well, she amt exactly in mourning. l
guess, from what they say, she hain't got
the money for black bunnets and dresses,
poor gal But it's her brother that's buried
here-ast April. He was in the hospital
learning the doctors business when he was
took down."
"Tn the hospital2 Was he from the South,
do you knowp
"Well, that L can't say: like enough he
was"
"Did you say that she is poorp
$50 they was telling me at the funeral. 1t
was mighty poor funeral too-not more'n
couple of hacks. But you can't tell much
from that, with the fashions nowa-days:
some Of the richest folks buries private like.
had ten years back. I've seen fifty kerridges
to onst a-comin' in that gate" waving his
pipe impressively toward that piece Of arch
itecture, "and that was when kerridge- hire
was half again as high as it is now. She must
have spent a goodly sum in green house
fl Iwers, though: fresh boquets most every
day she keeps a-fetchin',"
"Well, good day." said Putnam, starting
off
"Good- day, SIR"
Putnam had himself just completed his
studies at the medical college when attacked
by fever, and he now recalled somewhat
vaguely student Of the name of Pinckney,
and remembered to have heard that he was
a SOutherner. The gatekeeper's story in
creased the interest which he was beginning
to feel in bis new acquaintance, and he re-
solved to follow up his inauspiciOus begin
nings to better issue. He knew that great
delicacy would be needed in making further
approaches, and so decided to keep out of
her sight for time. In the course Of the
next few days he ascertained, by visits to the
cemetery and talks with the keeper, that she
now seldom visited her brothers grave in
the forenoon, although during the first
month after his death she had spent all her
days and some of her nights beside it.
Putnam read the inscription on the tomb
stone, which ran as follows: ''To the
Goth, 1852. Died April 9th, 1S7-;" and
under this the text, ''If thou have borne him
hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."
He noticed with sudden twinge of pity that
the flowers on the grave, though freshly
picked every day, were wild howers-most-
ly the common field varieties, with now and
then a rarer blossom from wood or swamp,
and now and then garden flower. He gath
cred from this that the sisters purse was
running low, and that she spent her morn
ings in collecting flowers outside the city.
He determined that the shrine of her devo-
n1,a
was hot-house on the way from his home
to the cemetery, and he now stopped there
occasionally of morning and bought few
roses to lay upon the mound This contn-
ued for fortnight One morning as he ap-
preached the little grave-lot with his accus-
toned offerings, he looked up and saw the
young girl standing before him. Her eyes
were fixed on the flowers in his hand. He
cOored guiltily and stood still, like a boy
caught robbing an orchard She looked both
surprised and embarrassed, but said at once:
''If you are the gentleman who has been
putting flowers on my brothers. grave, /
thank you for his sake, but"
She paused, and he broke in: 81 ought
To explain, Miss Pinckney, that have bet
ter right than you think, perhaps, to bring
these flowers here; | was n fellow student
with your brother in the medical school"
Her expression changed Immediately.
"Oh, did you know my brother" she asked,
eagerly.
lie felt like a wretched hypocrite as he an
swered, ''Hes, knew him, though not in
timately, exactly. But | took-I take
a very strong interest in him."
Every one loved Henry who knew him."
she said, "but his class have all been grad
uated and gone away, and he made few
friends, because he was so shy. No one
comes near him now but me-"
May come sometimes?
You may come if you wish to visit Hen
hrinu m Of
pensive flowers. | suppose it is selfish in
me, but | can't bear to have any of his
friends do more for him than cam"
81 won't bring any more, of course, If it
troubles you, and thank you very much for
letting me come. Good morning, Miss
Pinckney." He bowed and walked away.
Putnam availed himself dscreetly of the
permission given. He came occasionally Of
an afternoon, and sat for an hour at time.
Usually she said little. Her silence APP
peared to proceed not from reserve, but
from detection. Sometimes she spoke Of her
brother. Putnam learned that he had been
her only near relative. Their parents had
died in her childhood, and she had come
North with her brother when he entered the
medical school. From something that she
once said Putnam inferred that her brother
had owned an annuity which died with him,
and that she had been left with little or
nothing. They had few acquaintances in
the North, almost none in the city. An aunt
in the South had offered her home, and
she was going there in the fall. She looked
forward with dread to the time of her de-
parture.
One day the two were sitting, as usual, in
silence or speaking but rarely. II was a day
in the very core Of summer, and the life of
Nature was at its food. The shadows of the
trees rested so heavy and motiUnless on the
grass that they appeared to sink into it and
weigh it down like palpable substances.
al feel, said Putnam, suddenly, "as
though should live for ever"
" Did you ever doubt it," she asked.
"Oh, mean here-ici basin the body.
l can't conceive of death or of spiritual ex-
istence on such day as this
"There is nothing here to live for,' she
said YEARLY. Presently she added, ''This
hot glare makes me sick; l wish those men
would stop hammering on the bridge.
wish | could die and get away into the
dark. -
81 hope,' he began anxiously, "that
YOU are not feeling sick: you smoke lust now