Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1880-12-14
For the OXFORD DEMOCRAT
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BY MRS. cArHIE JEwETr.
Magazine.

A pallid moon, low hung in starless
sky. Gray patches Of snowy ground,
flecked with fantastic shadows of waving
pines. A cottage old and brown, weird
with the desola,ion of decay. Old rose
bushes, gaunt and untrellised, tapped
with ghos,ly fingers, across the rattllng
window frames. Just in front of one a
candle flu,tered in its socket, and from
a broken window pane a womans face
peered forth, out of the gloom within, to
the deeper gloom without.
4 wan face, and worn, and yet with
al an eager one, wild, miserable, long.
ing face, yet not utterly hopeless. A
sound breaks the stiffness; the woman
leans still further into the night. the
agony of a great suspense whitening her
unquiet face.
The candle goes out in darkness her
son, her only boy, dying alone unaided,
means feebly. once, twice, thrice, and
quivers into CHASTITY silence.
The silence broken by laugh, a
woman's happy laugh, the very essence
of Christmas jollity in its careless mirth ;
the crash of silver bells rung by impatient
horses, dark shadows, dashing through
darkness, taking the Squire and his dead
wife's friend to some Christmas merry
making. BY like flash, and the watch
ing woman made no sign.
In the house there was no fire, no light,
no bread, only herself and her dead.
For twenty years have held my peace /;
shall cry ou, in one night:
After the darkness came daylight, and
it was Christmas morning. peace on
earth, good will to men" sang the angels
eighteen hundred years ago, and the
perfect peace of death had fallen on him
who had lived and suffered.
From the church 10 the churchyard
was a step always taken when any one
from the village went on their last long
Journey. That narrow space before the
desk was equal ground no pride or
shame of birth or station hung to those
who rested there. Alone the mother Of
the dead man had robed her son for
burial. pressing the lids over the eyes
whose meaningless stare had haunted her
through life. She had placed a folded
paper over the quiet breast, where the
still hands would keep it in place. The
shadows of imbecil,y had faded from the
dead face strange new look had settled
over It's frozen calm.
my boy my boy, you are crying
nv secret aloud, but who will hear you,
who would believe
Then they took him away. The little
church was crowded old men and wo-
men, young men and maidens came to
that strange burial. 1t could hardly be
to do reverence TO the unhonored dead,
hardly to bring comfort to the heart OF
the mother. to whom this idiot child had
been for years the badge of an early and
a deathless shame. She had lived among
them, yet set apart. Wrapped in her ST.
lence and her sorrow, she had lived her
lonely life of work and waiting. There
were those among the congregation,
mothers in Israel who remembered her
fresh and fair as their own bright daugh-
tiers. A laughter loving girl, with face
Of light and shade.
Every one had heard old Aunt Sally
tell OF her last dance, how she wore a
gown of white with red roses in her hair
and bosom. How she danced and danced
in her little scarlet slippers, and how even
the Squire's new wife who came in a
satin dress, was nowhere beside her.
at was long ago" Aunt Sally would
say, "long ago, poor creeter. and hel
trouble came soon; the next time we
saw her she was old, old as she is to-
day"
Doubtless there was sympathy for a
mother beIeaved, and for even sin
clouded life among that goodly company
but the overruling, underlying, unex-
pressed motive was curiosity. Through
all these years this womans sin had beer
her secret; she had spoken no word, she
had made no sign; would she bury hel
dead unnamed, or would she at the last
solve the mystery that had balked them
so many years:
A srange haunted look came ovel
her fare as she saw the waiting crowd
but looking neither to the right or left
she crept silent as shadow behind thu
long dark coffin.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" tht
last words were spoken, and the sextor
stood ready to shut the white face from
sight forever.
Then came a moment Of silence, husi
as of expectation, while the woman
stopped for one last glance.
From his cushioned pew. stepped th'
Squire. Those who noticed him say tina
he walked like an old man. Through
the people he passed until he stood besid'
the coffin.
"Mary Moreaux," said he, his voic'
was low, yet almost fierce in its pene
trating intensity, "before you bury you
dead have you no word to say, nothing
m tell all these people here. We IN