The news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1877-1900, 1880-11-23
Heart Shadows.

Heart Shadows.
In rlchly-furnished parlor, Its crimson
curtains closely drawn to shut out the
piercing winter night, before glowing fire,
sat Maurice Greenwood, merchant Some
what more than fifty years had written their
record Of his life; but his hair was thickly
sprinkied with gray, and his\ face, with its
deep set hazel eyes and compressed mouth,
seemed like that of one much older.
That face was one where tOiU was gray
en- on every feature, as with a pen of iron
and diamondapoint. Butsome regret. some
lasting shade there was, about brow, and
eyes, and mouth, and Maurice Greenwood
was not happy. gEr%rs, w.r =
Wealth he had, and every outward
means OF happiness, save dear faces, by his
freside, and tones of home affection.
These he had not; ia his palace-like home
he lived alone. - = TaY :. cast ~.
Ah, there was shadow on Maurice
Greenwood's hearth and heart; one, too, of
his own making. L p -. -. .
His wife slept beneath the green shades
OF the cemetery; and his only daughter, his
beautiful, gentle, true-hearlcd Annie, was
no longer at his side. She had kept her
faith with the lover who lacked only gold:
and for this he had banished her from his
home, and tried to Danish her image from
his thoughts. But that he conld not do.
He knew not where Annie was; whether,
even, she were living or not.
Time passed on, and he became acoue-
toned to his lonely life; yet the regret he
could not Danish, emblttered every quiet
hour.
mn xur1n l,<
his deserted freside, tho thought of his
daughter grew 80 vivid that she seemed to
stand beside him. The white brow, the
the same; but the blue eyes with q sad,
reproachful look, gazed steadily into his
own. -
Once Or twice the illusion had been 30
strong that involuntarily he stretched his
arms toward her and called her name, and
his housekeeper, perhaps coming in with
or, as he always answered, 'tired."
81 do declare" she said to an intimate
friend, 'if he would get his daughter home,
with her husband, and treat. her like "a
ther, how happy tho man might be!
Likely enough, they've little children that
would make the old house alive again, and
it's more like tomb than anything else
But, dear me, there's no knowing whether
she's alive; wonder If he knowsl never can
ask him; it won't do to mention her name;
just set him against her still more, if that
could be; but wish kncwl To think
cradled her on my breast, same as I did
him before her, and.I never thought to SEQ
my boy like this; just making himself
wretched for the sake Of worrying bis own
flesh and blood"
''ren years to-day, since Miriam lett
me-" said Maurice Greenwood to himself.
Twas mild, sunny spring morning,
and opening leaf. buds and scent Of gar.
den vlolets, even In the busy city, brought
glad tidings of that which should be. A
sudden impulse came OVER him to visit
Mlrianl's grave, and he resolved to ride
out to the cemetery that afternoon.
1t was lovely, shaded spot near the
river, and the early flowers were beginning
to bloom.
Maurice Greenwood stood there alone in
the still glow of sunlight, that wrapped the
"city of the silent" as in God'sgreat peace;
and IN those moments glimpse of high
er, better life dawned On his soul.
What startled hint What made the
strong man treu BILE IN every nervef For
the moment 1t seemed to him vision. A
young girl passed with basket of flowers
on her arm.
He had only a'glimpse Of her face, but
the golden brown hair beneath the little
sun-hat, tho form, the stop and bearing
were Annie's ownl t&5 ~ 81
A great hunger sprang up In his heart
and he could not resist the impulse to follow
hor. He did 80, silently, not to attract hel
attention. She dlu not see him approach
as sl,a sat on the grass twining wreath o.
the flowers she had brought, and singing {
low, sweet melody; one that Annie loved
and. often sang. hI@.z ( II
He drew nearer; near enough to read th'
inscription on the marble tablet before her
His daughter'a name was craven there, ant
the man with difficulty repressed cry o
pain. The young girl turned hor head; sh
saw him, and sprang to her feet.
'Pardon me, young lady" he said cour
teously, "for my seeming intrusion. Sh
who lies here was very dear to me; but
have net seen her these munv years, and
did not know Ut this" H
His manner, hisgray hair, and worn, sa'
face, reassured her, and she remaine,
awhile, answering SIMPLY aud frankly hi
inquiries about her father and homo Sh
was the only child his Annie left, and like
ly soon to be quito alone, for her fathe
was fast failing.
Maurice pondered. What should he do
Could he toll her that he was her grand
father Would she not fly from him a
from q savage beast II che should know ths
no was the iather who turned her gentl
mother from his heart and home, and lei
her to die in poverty and paint But sh
must know, or he could make no repairs