The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1880-11-13

and detected from walk RI in tSs suh wu]y
LIS way led across an un;nclosed outsxirt
tho 49, Town which served US common to
,, mo poor people Of the neighborhood. 1t
fraona. ateIseu by score of footpaths, and
hl MA by goats, and by ducks that dab
IN tha tne puddles of rain-water collected
tract st honoWs. Halfway across this open
tasb; stoou What had formerly been an old
aasn,Ohed country house, now converted into
% w soos"p-9olling establishment. Around this
""S ciump of old pine trees, the remnant
VI grove which had once flourished in the
o oiuio SOL. There was something in the des-
mood Of the place that flattered Putnam's
was IAN, anu ne stopped to take it in. The air
hnrno oask, put embers of an angry sunset
ou sn', low In the west. A cold wind made
q sound in the pine-tops like the beating of
SUI, vi distant shore. flock of little
,'nd,. Dirds flew suddenly up from the
, rounu INTO one Of the trees, like flight of
Sa%9 ieaves whirled up by gust. As Put
tba surf tarhed TO look at them he saw, against
In, STRIP OF sunset along the horizon, the
s slian o ngure Of girl walking rapidly toward
.ne opposite side OF the common. His heart
saw great leap, and he started after her
on on run. AT corner of the open ground
ln iS ngure vanished, nor could Putnam de-
c IS INTO which of two or three small streets
sue nad turned. He ran down one and up
ers coming home from work, and finally
guve up the quest But this momenta;.y
gIlh . produced in him new excitement.
ne ielt sure that he had not been mistaken:
ne II. knew the swift, graceful step, the slight
i 10 pending in the wind. He fancied that
ne . hau even recognized the poise and shape
0l tne little head. He imagined, too, that
ne had not been unobserved, and that she
nau some reason for avoiding him. For
week or more he haunted the vicinity of the
conehan, but without result. December
was Already drawing to an end when he re-
ceived the following note:
DEAR Mr. PUTNAM: You must forgive me
I lott running away from you the other evening:
am ri2ht--am not?-in surprising that YOU
saw ana recognized me. 1t was rude in me
not 10 wait, but had not courage to talk
Win Win any one just then. Perhaps I should
nave seen you before at the cemetery-if you
stlll walk there-but have been sick and have
not Deen therefor long time. / was only
out Tor the first time when 1 saw you last Fri
DAY. My aunt has sent for me, and am going
South in few days / shall leave directions
to have this posted to you as soon as am
gone.
promised to be here when you came back
and write this to thank YOU for your kind
interest in me 2nd to explain why / 90 AWAY
without seeing you again. / think that know
what you wanted to ask me that day that we
Went TO the green house, and perhaps under
napier circumstances l could have given
you the answer which you wished. But /
have seen so much sorrow, and am of such n
gloomy disposition, thatI am not fit for cheer
ful society, and know YOU would regret vour
choice
l shall think very often and very gratefully
OF you, and shall not forget the words on that
nt1le GERMAN DaDy'S grave stone. Good by.
1MoGEN PINCKNEY.
Putnam felt stunned and benumbed on
first reading this letter. Then he read it
over mechanically two or three times. The
date was month old, but the postmark
showed that it had just been mailed She
must have postponed her departure some
what after writing it, or the person with
whom it had been left had neglected to post
it till now. He felt sudden oppression and
need of air, and taking his hat left the house.
1t was evening, and the first snow of the
season lay deep on the ground. Anger and
grief divided his heart. IT'S too badl too
badH' he murmured, with tears in his ewes;
"she might have given me one chance to
speak. She hasn't been fair to me. What's
the matter with her, anyhow? She has
brooded and brooded till she is downright
melancholy mad" and then, with a revul-
Here she has been, sick and alone, sitting
day after day in that cursed graveyard. |
ought never to have gone to the mountains;
| ought to have stayed. might have known
how it would turn out. Well. it's all over
now, l suppose"
he nau taken, nalI -unconSclOuSly, the di-
rection of the cemetery, and now found
himself at the entrance. The gate was
locked, but he climbed over the wall and wad :
ed through the snow to the spot where he
had sat with her so many summer after
moons. The wicker chair was buried out Of
sight in a drift. A scarcely visible undula-
tion in the white level marked the position
of the mound, and the headstone had snow
cap. The cedars stood black In the dim
moonlight, and the icy coating of their
boughs ratified like candelabra. He stood
few moments near the railing, and then tore
the letter into fragments and threw them on
the snow. "There! good-by, good byw he
said, bitterly, as the wind carried them skat-
ing away over the crust.
But what was that? The moon cast
shadow of Henry Pinckney's headstone on
the snow, but what was that other and SIM
liar shadow beyond it? Putnam had been
standing edgewise to the slab; he shifted his
position now and saw a second stone and a
second mound side by side with the first.
An awful faintness and trembling seized him
as he approached it and bent his head close
down to the marble. The jagged shadows OF
the cedar branches played across the sur
face, but by the uncertain light he could
read the name "ImOgen Pinckney,' and
below it the inscription, "Wir hoffen aut
Wiedersehen. '-HeaYy A. Beers, IN Lip
njucott,S Hnn0 zine