Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1881-10-26

in at the window; summer roses in the
garden but no summer came into Miriam
G ey's life.
Spring and summer have gone by. The
DAYS are much alike to her. whether outside
are blossoms or drifting snow, since the mar
row world in which she lives admits of no
change of season that hints at release from
toll. Her taskmaster, after the harvests are
gathered in, and the winter comes buster
ing and wailing over the mountains, sits by
the kitchen fire and allows himself rest from
his labors. But IL Is not 80 with the woman
who shares his fortunes. IL Is work, work
still. Over her shoulder a grim ghoul is
ever looking, and urging her on with his
hollow, pitiless eyes. She wonders, some
times, away down in her heart, unseen and
unheard what there is In the coarse, unsym-
pathetic, half-cruel man whose name she
bears, that could ever have awakened her
love in the morning Of her happy youth.
She loves him yet-not as she loved him
then, for love is a rare exotic and although
it may not die at once, yet, transplanted into
sterile soil and exposed to chilling winds,
one by one it will shed its quivering leaves
and dying blossoms till only the naked,
shivering stalk betukens its existence, which,
on examination, may still prove to hold
little of the elixir Of life in its Surrounded
center. Does he love her 7 lie has not told
her so-not, at least, for twenty years. He
used often, when Lillian was an infant at
her breast, and the long gone echo is still
sweet in her ears. OF course he does,
though; that is understood, as some words
are in well-constructed sentence. But, oh,
what strange, sweet thrill would go
through many wife's breast, though she
ha hapIoon,a and tbpnnh
her companion be plain, and poor, aud un-
refined, If that soft refrain, az love you,"
would again greet her ears from his lips
once so lavish in their protestations of af
| lection
Do men never think Of this Or, think
ing, do they put it from them as sentiment
unworthy maturity and waste of fondness
on the object under consideration?
When the leaves fell that autumn, Lillian
Grey left the old homestead, the happy bride
of man in every respect worthy Of her
love, and well off for this worlds bounty.
Perhaps it was the sweetest drop in Miriam
| Crews cup of existence when she saw her
child thus happily mated, and knew that for
| her hearts darling there were not the bitter
years of drudgery in store that had been her
mothers portion. Such is the love of a
mother. The other children were boys, and
would, at least, never tread in her own
troubled footsteps.
After her daughters marriage, the unmit-
igated burden of the care of the whole house
fell upon Miriam Grey's already shrinking
shoulders. Her husband did not notice that
her step grew each day little slower and
more irresolute; that she stopped little
lower over the wash-board and ironing table |;
or that her nights were often vexed with
pains and aches, that were in themselves the
advance guard of the oncoming forces of
disease and dissolution. But the time came
when the unwelcome truth was forced upon
him, that girl was needed TO assist in the
household cares-an original idea with him,
and one that found expression only when
Miriam Grey was Frustrated on a bed of
sickness, from which it was doubtful if she
would ever rise again.
The slow winter months dragged by, aud
it was not till early spring that she was able
to sit up at the board and take her meals
with the rest of the family. The long fever
bad left her, but in its stead, as an equiva-
lent, remained hacking, wearing cough,
that sounded hollow and terrible in the
bleak spring nights, when she sat up alone
from sheer inability to lie down and share
the untroubled repose of her husband. What
spective, in those midnight watches God
alone knows. Perhaps the thoughts of not
distant day of emancipation were in them
selves compensatory for loss of slumber.
| have only told you one year Of life, the
last, saddest year, in which Miriam Grey
finished her work.
Again it is spring, again the spring sun
shine floods the heavens with translucent
| glory again the sweet airs find their wav
into the kitchen windows at farmer Grey's,
but Miriam Grey is not there at her post.
| A funeral cortege winds up the hillside; the
fresh, green earth opens its arms to another
weary child. There are heard the old IA
milar sounds of weeping and lamentation
from Lillian Grey and her orphaned BROTH
ers, and they go away, and the cburchyard
gate is closed, and the birds resume their
nest-building in the trees that wave over the
grassy mounds. The shackles have fallen
less nights aud days of hurrying toll the
ton, for here " lie giveth his beloved sleep"
And John Grey? He will miss her, of
cause.-the tears that fell from his eyes
have at least the virtue of sincerity, though
they be few in number. 1t is a mysterious
dispensation of Providence-at least, SO
says the minster-and he must submit.
1t does not occur to him that he goaded her
on with the whip and spur of unremitted
toll, till the overweight machinery gave
way, and death, the great emancipation, as
serted his prerogative in terse language. He
does not show that he killed her
| Query-Are the sins of ignorance all to
| be winked at ?