The Benton weekly record. [volume] (Benton, Mont.) 1880-1885, 1880-02-20


let my father help you?''
'What do you mean?'
Mamma asked me month ago If vo
would leave New Orleans and take a posi-
ton in my uncle's house in New York.
never told you, because-she wanted m
to come home, Shirley, and let you g
alone, and | couldn't.'
60 homc." gathered her in closer
the baby i'll her arms, too. stChHd, has
come to that:''
'fNo," she whispered, softly. ssIt neye
will; I'll 60 with you there, or anywher,
else on earth, Shirley" -
''ls it too late to take the offer now?' ]
asked, starting up. ''Why do you ask if ]
will let him help me, Edna? Better that
than taking his aims, God knows-ana I'ye
done thatlong enough. What is this place :
Child, ia beg at the street corners for YOU,
if that WAS all -
''Will you go and see papa?" she cried,
lighting up all over her wasted face. ~
don't know about it, only that mamma
sad there might be an opening for you,
and 1t would be so much better than your
Old place, and papa would use his influ-
ence for you. viii you go, shrley:'
Yes, WILL | said, STOPPING down to
kiss her.
Something was dragging me back all the
withholding me fast to the bedside,
within touch of her little hot hand, and
hearing Of my baby's 8leepy-soft breath
tiJuf didu neEtt 1t. -I-ss~- dss,-srerrc, srI1u
her eyes drove me out into the werld, to
struggle withit and to win for her sake
and I went.
So the end OF it was that letters went
back and forth, and in two weeks from the
day that was discharged of my clerkship
| was engaged by the New York house, of
which Mr.. Vendery's brother was head, at
q salary that would keep Edna safely all
the winter far enough out Of the reach of
want or the need of aims. Only it was a
desperate mans resource, you know; she
must be in New Orleans, while I was in
New York.
II was long before I could show her that
such parting was inevitable. III all the |
years after lad that to renien1ber-that |
she clung to me TO the last, but had to t
put her from me. Ever since our boy was |
born she had been growing weaker and I
her lungs and chest were delicate, even
dangerously 30. A winter at the north,
they said, would kill her, and 1 must not +
dream Of taking her away until she was
thoroughly well again. l must leave her
behind; and since ] could not leave her
alone and sick, she must 60 to her fathers
house.
That was the way it happened. They
were so glad to take her back; they had
forgiven her so entirely and wanted her so,
and they were SO fond Of little Shirley, ]
ought to have been willing and glad to
leave them both iii such tender care. | was
neither; but | knew it was my duty to
give her up, and I did it. I kissed her
goodbye at the last, and dragged myself
away from her arms, that tried to hold me
back even then, and the last glimpse had
Of my wife and child was little, slender
figure at an open window, half buried in
white, soft wrappings, holding up baby
who laughed and sprang i'll her arms, and
whose little hand she tried to wave to me-
Then came the lonely winter at the
north, the silent starvation of my heart
through nights and days, the longing i'm
patience, hope. 1t only lasted little
While. l knew l should have her in the
spring, in Il home Of our own that had
planned already. l chose the very house, j
a little brown cottage on the outskirts of
the city, where my pIru wou1u 1rssrn I.os !
nest. -
II was i'll March when herletters, which
had come faithfully al winter on their
stated days, failed suddenly. A week
went by without message from New
Orleans: and, when ii came at last, it was
written in another hand.
1t was long letter, but | never read it
through | only read three lines, and that
told me she was dead-that my baby was
buried in her arms. The yellow fever had
broken out in the city. and the two were
among the first to go. Her parents had
left New Orleans, and, before their letter
reached me, would have sailed for Eng
land leaving Edna and her child III the
vault among the dead Yerderay's, in a.
crowded city cemetery. f.
SO / never saw the little white-wrapped
figure and the laughing baby any mere.
When there was no one else to share
success and worldly comfort with me, no
bodv's life to be sWeetened by the things
that money could give them, ii came to me
in NV loneliness. had no object IN life
now, no care or occupation that was
pleasant to me; but, because nothing save
hard work and untiring application could
make existence bearable, and dcaden my ;
heart in me, j worked hard, and made
money like other men. But | gave it
away lavisllly, as people said. 1t was like
d sacred duty to my dead, to brighten
other lives with the means that would have
spared theirs.
never saw either other parents again.
II was better for lis all, Mr.. Verderay had
said, that the intercourse should cease with
Edua,s and the child's death, and, God
knows, felt so, too.
So I lived in New York alone, and rose
in fine firm travelled. and made money
and wandered from city to city, at last sue
eessful in. everything that touched, with
out i trouble oraTixiety in life-oniy tile I
burden of my empty heart. was thirty
wears old when ipr darlings died; had
nlentv more vcafs to live, and death was