Cheyenne transporter. [volume] (Darlington, Indian Terr.) 1879-1886, 1880-10-09

| time spent among the abbey ruins gave
place to sleepless night; and when, on
the following morning, he attempted,
by way of breaking the painful mOnot-
ony of his thoughts, to resume his pic
ture, the result was so unsatisfactory
that he cast the brush from him in de-
spair The three succeeding days were
among the most painful Carew had ev
er spent.
On the fourth, an hour or two after
ne had risen, there came light tap at
his room door. Opening it, he found
himself confronted by Mrs. WOlfe's
frightened face and despairing eyes.
ooh. Mr.. Carew," she walled, ''my
childs DYING The doctor says she may
pass away without waking from the
stupor she is in. Come and see her
once again before she dies"
Carew had never more than con-
fused and misty recollection of the min
utes that followed. He remembered
dimly somewhat large room, airy and
fresh and cool, as BELTS the chamber in
which science and affection contend
with the demon of fever. The exhaust
ed nurse had retired to her own room
to rest; but from the pillows of the bed
there looked forth wasted, strangely
solemn face, more beautiful in its
strange stiffness than it had been in the
serene seriousness of health. The eyes
were closed, it seemed the face of one
dead.
The great grief that already wrapped
bar with itc chaHouc hoI ipnnart oil fn
the mother self restraint and dignity
that in ordinary seasons were foreign
to her nature. She burst into no loud
paroxysm of weeping, nor did the an
guish stamped upon her features find
expression in multiplied complaints.
For the first few minutes that the pair
stood there, all Mrs. Wolfe said was:
There's death in her face, you see, Mr..
Carew. God is taking from me my
daughter.
81 want you to paint her for me-"
she went on presently. "There never
was such face as hers in Furness; and
now she's dying, she's more beautiful
than ever Paint her, Mr.. Carew; give
me picture of her sweet face, that
/ may have something to look on that
will remind me of her, and keep me
from going mad"
Carew, unable to trust his voice, ST.
lently signed assent. He fetched his
scetching materials and fell quietly to
work. Mrs. Wolfe, after watching him
for awhile in silence, felt her grief ris-
ing chokingly in her throat, and went
away to her own room to sob and pray.
The August day stole on, as if the
wind and the very leaves and waters
had all hushed themselves in recognition
of the presence of death. About the
time when the western sky was flushed
with fever of sunset, and shadows
like coffin pals were trailing across
grass and woodland. Carew had laid
down his brush and looked from the
imaged face that had grown beneath
his skillful fingers to that other face
shrouded by curtain and pillow. He
had finished his task.
Mrs. Wolfe had returned to
the bedside of her insensible
daughter and sat now in chair by one
of the windows, lost in sorrowful
thoughts, and motionless as the twi-
light. Carew stepped lightly past her
and bent over the face on the pillow.
Would those sealed lids never unclose
again? Must this stupor, as the physi-
clan had feared, glide insensibly into
an enduring sleep?
"It looks like Sleep" he thought. He
touched the widow gently on the arm.
''See, Mrs. Wolfe, how happy her face
is. This is sleep that God is giving her.
1t can't be death"
His companion rose and the two