Connecticut western news., 1881-02-02

sorely wounded should not make me hate him, and he shall never know, if I can help it, how suffer. He is always kind-oh, God, pity me !-always kind, that must suffice me-"
 And so she met him, with her babe in her arms, as calmly as she parted from him.
 He never saw the great change in her. He never knew that from that hour life lost it's beauty for her, that even the brightness of her love for her babe had faded, because she knew that its father had not loved her. No one knew any thing save that the roundness left her cheek, that her eyes lost half their sweetness, that she never indulged in those moments of reposeful reverie of which she had once been so fond. Work was her refuge, and she dared not pause to think
 People called the Chesterfields Q hap py couple. Women envied her, for he seemed model husband. She locked her skeleton carefully up, and gave no one a peep at 1t.
 Years flew by. Two other babies took the first baby's place. George Chesterfield grew rich. She had helped him to become so by frugality and un- selfishness, and now it Was a pleasure to him to give her the means of doing good among the poor. Helen Chester DRt ing at the door of some wretched tene- ment house than at those of her fash ionable friends. She was happy in do- tug good, happy i'll her children but still the great craving emptiness was at her heart-the burden of her life song was, "He never loved me-" A word of tenderness from a poor laborer to his wife would awaken it, the words of love song, the blush on girls cheek. She had suffered untold agonies for ten bitter years, had awakened in the night to wet her pillow with her tears because of it, and yet had kept her secret, when ore day a woman in the most wretched haunt into which she had ever carried her pure presence spoke to her of another lying ill in the next room.
 "She's been lady, ma'am, she said, but she's come down dreadful. I think you d do her good"
 And Helen Chesterfield followed her into room, where, upon bed, lay the wreck of the loveliest woman on whom Helen's eyes had ever rested-a blonde with black eyes, whose golden hair swept over her pillow down upon the floor as she lay-a creature with white hands and snowy throat, but with Host" stamped upon her features as though it had been written there.
 She looked at Helen angrily. "More facts? ?" she asked, in harsh, ruined voice. "Take them away then. It's too late for them with me-"
 But Helen was not one of those who satisfy starving wretchedness with mere words. What she said or did hardly matters. It was what was most needed. No pharisaical pride made her shrink from contact with fallen sister. There was food and wine and decent linen in that poor room before many hours were over; and she did not even ask the woman's name. It mattered not who she was to Helen. She suffered-this was enough for charity.
 So for days and days she ministered to this poor creature, who grew to yearn for her coming; who prayed her to stay longer when she came, but who often looked at her in strange way, quite unaccountable to Helen; who some times began to speak, and paused and said "Another time," as though she postponed conference.-the story of her life, perhaps. Only God knew what it might be.
 So the autumn wore away. Winter came aud went; and in the spring the little life i'll that poor creatures breast was smouldering out. Helen knew that she must die. It seemed right to tell her so; but the task was woeful one.
 She sat beside her, thinking of this one day, when the poor soul caught her hand.
 "I shall go soon, shan't IF" she asked. , "l know 1t Is so. But promise me that when I have told you my story you won't leave me-that you will still be kind to me, and not turn from me. Promise."
 ''I promise" said Helen.
 ''7ou are George Chestcrfeld's wife I know it. You need not answer. You remember ten years ago receiving some letters written to Olivia ?'
 Remember The wifes cheek paled She remembered it alwess.
 "Go on" she said hoarsely, bitterly ; her whole woe upon her as it had never been before. "Go on"
 "I am Olivia," said the woman. "I sent those letters myself. I did it to make you wretched, to revenge myself upon him He was young when he met me. I, a married woman, though no older than he-I lured him on I de- lighted in his hopeless love-in those letters-in his protestations. I joyed in the receipt of that one written on his wedding night. Pure women cannot understand how wicked women rejoice in meshing hearts they do not care for in ruining young mems lives for petty triumph. Lady, don't turn from mo I've not done yet"
 "Had you not enough?" gasped the wretched wife. "Could you not beal to keep it from me? You ruined my young life. You killed me; yes, yor