The Newberry herald. [volume] (Newberry, S.C.) 1865-1884, 1881-01-19

, that afternoon.
it was a lovely, shaded spot
near the river, and the early flow
ers were beginning to bloom.
Maurice Greenwood stood there
alone in the still glow of sunlight,
that wrapped the city Of the
silent as in Gods great peace !;
and in those moments glimpse
Of a higher, better life dawDed on
his soul.
What startled him ? What
made the strong man tremble in
every nerve? For the moment it
seemed to him a vision. A young
girl passed with basket Of flow
ers on her arm.
He had only a glimpse Of her
face, but the golden brown hair
beneath the little sun-hat, the
form, the step and bearing were
Annie's ownl
A great hunger sprang up IN
his heart and ho could not resist
the impulse to follow her. He
did so, silently, not to attract her
attention. She did not see him
approach, as she sat on the grass
twiniDg wreath of the flowers
she had brought, and singing a
low, sweet melody one that An
ME loved, and often sang.
He drew nearer; near enough
TO read the inscription on the
marble tablet before her. His
daughters name was craven
there, and the man with difficulty
repressed a cry of pain. The
young girl turned her head she
saw him, and sprang to her feet.
Pardon me, young lady, he
said courteously, 'for my seeming
intrusion. She who lies here was
very dear to me; but | have not
seen her these many years, and l
did not know of this
His manner, bis gray hair, and
worn, sad face, reassured her, and
she remained awhile, answering
simply and frankly his inquiries
about her father and home. She
was the only child his Annie left,
sod likely soon to be quite alone,
for her father was fast failing.
Maurice pondered. What should
he do? Gould he tell her that
he was ber grandfather? Would
she not fly from him as from q
savage beast if she should know
that he was the father who turn
ed her gentle mother from his
heart and home, and left her to
die in poverty and pain? But
she must know or he could make no
reparation. And his good angel told
him that Annie would forget, in
kindness shown her loved ones,
even at this late hour, the deep
and bitter wrong done herself.
I have a. carriage waiting at
the gate,' he said, at last. 'Will
you allow me to carry you home
| and see your father?'
Bus the revelations made there
are not for mortal pen to describe.
When he left, there was peace
between them.
It was but little time that
the sick man fingered, Maurice
doing all he could for his aid and
| comfort, and he went to his rest,
happy in the assurance that
| Grace Brown should ever hold her
| mothers place in the heart and
| home of the repentant old man.
This promise Maurice sought
earnestly to fulfil, and though his
daughters presence seemed still
| conscious al times the shadow on
his heart grew less, and not all OF
pain. Yet thoughts of the unre,
| turning past, regret, softened
though it were, served in after
years as warning, a beacon, the
reminder his impervious will still
needed.
Five years have passed since
| Grace Brown came to Maurice
Greenwood. Her presence has be-
| come the sunlight of his home
her voice the sweetest music that
meets his ear ; her hand alone
rests on his temples with sooth
ing touch, when sad memories
oppress him and even, as she
comes near, the shadows on the
hearth and heart grow less.
| He sits musing alone this even
ing, and a shade of troubled
thought is on his brow Rarely
does he talk to himself but b.