The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1880-03-17

Il
Geoffry Glare would find me if they
could"
{" II is his child, thenP" l asked, not
with any idle curiosity, but much as
one would frame a question to fill a
pause.
Yes" she said, simply.
We'll, Ihave not word of blame
Tor you. / nearly went crazy myself
in love with him once, and had not God
been very kind to me, l might have
been as badly off as you. We will save
the baby if we can"
/ have pulled her into a chair while
am talking, ard am holding the baby's
chilled feet to the fire, feeling it's feeble
pulse, and noticing how faint and gasp
ing is its breath, and the clammy sweat
on its temples, while Grace is talking
with the zest of man Just out of prison,
and longing to hear the sound of his
voice again.
when people missed me first, had
gone to the New York hospital, where
/ ran away with the baby as soon as
could walk, for fear l should be traced
there; and knowing this house was said
to be haunted, and people were afraid to
come here, | made bed in some pack
ing-boxes behind the lumber, and so
long as my money lasted, used to go
out ut nights in my waterproof and
buy things; but after you came l dared
not leave, and the baby has been grow
ing sick in the damp weather"
l pour her out cup of strong tea, that
is stepping on the range, but she sits
holding it in her hand, untasted, staring
at me with her mild, faded eyes.
"Oh, Amy, | am afraid to ask you,
but how is my motherP-have you seen
herP"
Yes, l saw her last week at prayer
meeting y" and she looks like one who
has been struck with death, " was going
to say, but stopped, seeing Grace was
quivering all over with fear and expec-
fancy. l dared not tell her that her
mother was now sick in bed, and that
out of her life all hope had gone, with
the loss of her only child, or how my
heart had ached for the poor widow, out
of whose faded face even expectancy had
vanished.
Come" said I, 1.-THE baby is warm
now, let us go and lay it in the bed; and
Charlie and are all alone, and you may
rest assured no one shall know of your
being here"
/ carry it to my own pink room as be-
ing the most retired, and it is with Joy /
hear Charles step on the stairs. He
takes in the situation at glance, and,
being a practical druggist, and better
nurse and doctor than our little town
affords, begins instantly to mix some.
medicine for the little sufferer.
He is tenderer than any woman to-
ward anything little or weak, or needing
care; so for two days he does not go to
his Office, but watches with Grace and
me beside the dying child; but what can
mustard-baths and drugs, and careful
has undermined the constitution of so
frail n little blossom? On the third day
the little life goes out TO complete its
being in another world Poor Grace
will not believe that the little child she
has cherished through such awful days
and nights of want and distress is really
dead. She holds it in her arms all
night, and in the morning we dress it in
the dainty lace and linen robe of hap
pier bdby yet to come, who, too, alas !
may never need the pretty finery. And
Charlie digs little grave under the pear
tree, close to the sunny wall, where the
catchfly and sweet allyssum grow so
rank, and lays the little creature tend
erlv under the September leaves and
grasses.
Poor thing, it would have been SO
pretty, had it had proper nourishment,
and air to breathe. with its delicate
features and pretty rings of soft hair.
Grace follows us silently back to the
door, and pausing on the step, laws her
hand upon my arm, looks into my face
beseechingly, saying:
must go to mother now, if you will
DO me one last favor, Amy, and go with
me-"
Charlie hurries off for a downtown
car to his office, and Grace and l walk
down the quiet street toward her
mothers little cottage. None of the
people who meet us recognize in the
slender figure, clad in my new drab
walking suit with my gypsy turban and
long veil, the Grace Woolson of year
ago. | tremble on nearing the house,
for see the windows are open wide,
and two or three are watching by bed
where Grace's mother lies breathing
family and moaning at intervals. see
Grace fly mp the garden-walk and stop,
with clasped hands and bent head on the
threshold, and hear her mothers faint
voice saying to the woman who is fan
ming her:
"Do not trouble yourself about me; ]
shall never be well again, and nothing
can cure me now but a sight of my
daughters face"
see Grace grope forward. hear heI
calling, Mother, mOtherm see those
two poor women in each others arms
and l turn away blinded with tears.
And Grace's mother did not die, bu'
seems entirely happy with her lost dar
ling all to herself again once more, thu
color coming slowly back into he
whitened cheeks, and life getting bacl
into its old grooves. Her return was
nine days wonder to our gossipin,
town; but the little grave under tn
pear trees tells no tales, and though sh
will never be exactly the same pretty
blooming Grace Woolson again, ye
this aftermath of her life is something
TO be thankful for, in its great conten
and peacefulness.-E1nn N. BGyley.
What do you think of my new
shoes, dearP" said she the other even