The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1881-11-24
CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER VIII.
This little tragedy, as it appeared t.
me, made great impression on M,
mind. 1t did not make me i'll; tina
would have been absurd. But still i
helped, [ suppose, to depress me gen
orally and enhance the effect of tht
cold that had hung about me so long
and for which the elder ones, taking
counsel together, decided that the de-
sire OF the younger ones should b.
gratifed, and | should be made to %
to Italy for the spring. The girl,
were wild to go, and my long-contin
ued, lingering cold was such gooC
excuse. For my own part, | was
quite unwilling; but what can one
woman, especially when she is theil
mother, do against so many? | had
to give in and go. / went to see Ell
len before we started, and it was
very painful visit She was still keep
ing up with a certain defiance of
everybody. But in the last two
months she had changed wonderfully.
For one thing, she had shrunk into
half her size. She was never any
thing but little woman; but now
she seemed to me no bigger than a
child. And those cheerful, happy
brown eyes, which had so triumphed
over and smiled at all the priyations
of life, looked out from two hollow
caverns, twice as large as they had
ever been before, and with woful
look that broke ones heart. It was
not always that they had this woful
look. When she was conscious of in
spection she played them about with
an artificial activity as if they had
been lanterns, forcing a smile into
them which sometimes looked almost
like sneer; but when she forgot that
any one was looking at her, then both
smile and light went out. and there
was in them woful doubt and ques-
ton which nothing could solve. Had
she been wrong? Had she misjudged
him whom her heart could not forget
or relinquish? Was it likely that she
could give him up lightly even had he
been proved unworthy? And, oh
Heaven! was he proved unworthy, or
had she done him wrong? This was
what Ellen was asking herself, with
out intermission, forever and ever;
and her mother, on her side, watched
Ellen piteously with much the same
question in her eyes. Had she, too,
made a mistake? Was it possible
that she had exacted sacrifice which
she had no right to exact, and in mere
cowardice, and fear of loneliness, and
desire for love and succor on her own
part, spoiled two lives? This ques-
ton, which was almost Identical in
both, made the mother and daughter
like each other; except that
Ellen kept asking her question of the
air, which is so full Of human sighs,
and the sky, whittier so many un-
granted wishes go up, and the dark
ness, in which is no reply-and the
mother asked hers of Ellen, interrogat-
ing her mutely all day long, and Of
every friend of Ellen's who could
throw any light upon the question.
She stole into the room when Ellen
left me for moment, and whispered,
coming close to me, lest the very walls
should hear,-
''How do you think she is looking? +?
She will not say word to me about |
him-not a word. Don't you think
she has been too hasty? Oh! | would |
give everything [ have if she would
only go with you and look for John,
and make it up with him again"
II thought you could not spare
her." | said, with perhaps some cruelty |
in my intention. She wrung her
hands, and looked piteously in my
face.
"You think it is all my fault! |
never thought it would come to this;
[ never thought he would go away.
Oh, if | had only let them marry at
first! | often think if she had been
happy in her own house, coming to
see her father every day, it would have
been more of change for him, more
than having her always.
Oh! if one could only tell what is 60
ing to happen. She might have had
4 nice family by this time, and the
eldest little girl big enough to run in
and play at his feet and amuse her
grandpa. He always was fond of
children. But we'll never see Ellen's
children nowT cried the poor woman.
And you think it is my fault!'
| could not reproach her; her black
cap with the flowers, her little woolen
shawl about her shoulders, grew tragic
as she poured forth her trouble. 1t
was not so dignified as the poets pic
ture, but yet, like him, she
Saw the unborn faces shine
Beside the never-lghted fire;
and with a groan of misery felt her.
self the slayer of those innocents that
had never been. The tragic and the
comic mingled in the vision of that
''eldest little girl" the child who
would have amused her grandpa had
she been permitted to come into be-
ing; but it was all tragic to poor Mrs.
She saw no laugh, no
smile, in the situation anywhere.
CONCLUSION NEXT WEEK.