The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1881-05-07
A STANCE STORY.

illness, and all that is terrifying to a
novice.
| My father was a good man, serving God
after his own simple fashion, seeing Him
heard and loving Him in all his works
have him hold forth on the provident ways
of the beaver: "Why, the little critter'd
starved in the cold season if it hadn't
used its little flat tail for buildin' its
time" | have heard him tell of the carl
| bou. 9 Look at that, too," he would say,
land at the moose. Now, the caribou
| has to travel often a matter of twenty
miles for his dinner, for he's dainty 'un,
and only eats the long gray moss that
| hangs from the trees: SO God gave him
snow shoes, good as an Indian could
make en-, to skim over the ice crusts.
while the big, heavy moose there sinks
right in. His dinner is close to hand. lie
could live for months on an acre lot -
| He would speak of the loon, and its adap-
| tation i'll every way to its watery home,
always ending such talk with: :" All
Gods works are pom honor; there's no
half way with Him.
| was the only one left out of ten
children. My father when mourning
over and missing the others, would never
complain, but only say, They're better
off. Why if we can't trust the children
that don't know what wrong doing is,
and don't know the meaning of sin, then
there amt any chance for us men" And
SO he lived his quiet lifc-his heart beat
ing close to natures heart, and his soul
unconsciously seeking and finding ma
lures God.
My mother must have been beautiful
in her youth. She was l0rcte Gnu
dienne, and her bright French spirits car.
ried her gaily over many hard trial in
her life of frequent deprivations. One
great Swallowing sorrow of her life
was the unaccountable disappearance of
her little year old daughter, her own
image, whom from the first she loved
with peculiar tenderness.
The child had been left alone in her lit
tie birch bark crib for shot half hour,
while mother was busy at the spring, a
woods. |, a little siX-year-old, was off
in the canoe with my father, as treat
for being especially good the day before.
Father and had had splendid time
we always did when we were away to-
gether-and, our canoe full of trout, we
were coming gaily home, toward even
ing, when cold chill fell on our happi-
ness, and my chld's heart felt strange
thrill as | read sudden anxiety in my
fathers face, whose every change | knew.
His quick ear had caught the sound of
mother's voice, and, after while |, too.
could hear Il hopeless moan, dreadful
heart-broken sound. We found m other
kneeling on the floor, her head leaning
on the empty crib, and moaning as one
who could not be comtorted. The baby
was gone. How, OF where, we could not
tell-we never knew. Weeks were spent
in searching for her and, at length, to
save mothers reason, father forced her
to leave the pretty log cabin in the woods
by the lake, where this last sorrow had
come upon her, and we went to Montreal.
There we lived quietly for years during
the winter time. The nuns of the great
convent of the Gray Sisters took charge
of my education. Mother and had neat
little rooms in the French quarter, and
my father went off moose hunting for
weary months: but the summer times We
always spent with him. lie would choose
lovely spots for our summer encamp
cabin deserted after the baby's loss, until
the summer Of my nineteenth year. Then
great desire took possession of my
mother to go once more to the old home.
She had been very delicate that winter,
and my great, rough father denied her
nothing. | shuddered when think of
liltG bCdutllul, ullSlui plnSC Ao"
seems as though our evil fate lowered
about it. All the anguish | ever knew
centres there.
We passed one peaceful month together
disturbed only by distant ruinors Of the
diphtheria, scourge which seemed to be
striding along from village to village,
+1,a than h.,
great lake; but we never thought Of its
touching us, until one miserable night.
hen father came home, languid and
feverished, from one of his numerous ex-
petitions. and we read in his face that
the CHASTITY finger of the seourge had set
its mark upon him. After the second
day of anxiety about father all strength
seemed to d, ,ert my delicate little moth
en- From the first she had despaired
about him. and now | saw that, if fathers
life were taken, should have to part
with them both.
Her life would die with his, for sorrow
FORCES stronger bonds even then joy. and
they have suffered so much together, his
love, always supporting her, that lie had
become life of her life. She could not
exist alone.
struggled hand to hand, and sick at
heart against what felt to be an inexor-
able fate, and on the afternoon of the
eighth day | found myself alone and al
most despairing save for the thought of
the happiness of the two had loved best
in the world.
The sunset came, rs | sat by the lake
side, flooding my desolate world with
heavenly glory, like sign from them to
me of their new found joy.
The stars had come out, before | ven
tured to return to the worse than desert
ed house l could not hope for help from
any neighbor until sought it myself the
next day, and had to look forward to a
night, how horrible did not forsee, or |
could not have endured it. What follows
could scarcely credit myself, if | did
not bear on my hand tangible proof of
it in we'll defined scar; and even now,
| could not bear to write of that nights
experiences, had not my children's laugh
ter and my husbands care long since
banished all unnatural gloom from my
life.
While had been sitting alone on the
lake shore, toward the evening, | had