The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1881-12-08

never cared IOF any glrl Out you, MARY.
IL never could" he repeated, ear
nestly.
And Mary answered, as she had done
before, mo. Sam, don't believe you
ever could"
Sam drew his sleeve quickly across
his eyes. "You--you amt goin' to
leave the old mountain, Mary?"
Never!'' Mary answered, and, as be-
fore, her tone quieted and consoled
him.
After what seemed q long time,
though the tears were still standing in
Sans blue eyes, 81 forgot, Mary" he
said, meekly. II came in to say
you're young yet, and handsome. Mary
and il you had q better chance Il
don't know what what we should
do without you but if you had better
chance -you-you mustn't-you know
Mary
There he paused. Mary did not
smile. but her heart yearned over Sam
as mothers might over a child who
has tried in vain to be good and brave
and unselfish. And Sam went away
comforted.
1t was the third bleak winter since
Sans return to the mountain, and he
meanwhile growing weaker and sillier
with each successive season, but ever
faithful in his inquiries after his PEN
sion at the Bloomington Post office.
The Bloomington boys thought it
rare joke to impress upon his mind
that the only reason why Miss Mary de-
ferred giving him her hand in marriage
was his continued inability to obtain his
pension.
"Jest visit till you get your pension,
SAM" said Ned Hemingway, the store
keeper, delicately limiting on this point,
'.and then see!''
And Sam doubted utterly at first
away down in his heart doubted always;
but as he lent himself more and moro
to the erratic fancy, it fired and con-
sumed his brain.
One night, from the alternate chills
and fevers which shook his frame,
Sam fell asleep. Instead of his lone,
dark room, the road winding from
the mountain to the village rose
before his eyes. That road, usu-
ally so tortuous and long, was
straight and bathed in light. He trav-
ersed it. At the end palace gate.
and at the gate a white winged angel
stood, his pension in her shining hand
Sam gazed. Above those peaceful
wings was Mary's face. She smiled as
had smiled upon hirn long ago. He
woke, and slept no more that night.
With the morning he put on his we'd
ding clothes. No doubt or hesitation
possessed him now. There was ter
rible exultation in his eyes. This time
he did not stop, as was his wont, at
Miss Mary's house. The road down
the mountain-side was tortuous and
long. There was no palace gate at the
end; no pension. Those who watched
Sans face in this last instance OF his
ever-recurring disappointment say that
a look came over it which had never
been there before. He rested on the
counter and drowsed, and almost faint
ed. but he would not drink. This pro-
voked unbounded astonishment. Sans
dying flesh craved the cup with an aw-
full thirst. but Mary's eyes were
stronger, and Mary's eyes seemed to
be upon him, and he would not drink.
cit would choke me, boys" he tried
to say, turning away weakly.
He manifested a desire to make his
will. It was a rare occasion at the
Bloomington grocery.
"It's all to go to Mary" he ex-
claimed, excitedly. ''pension, back pay
and all.' The last flame of the fever
was Pickering and wasting in his eyes.
He rested and dozed again. At noon
he started for home; at four o'clock he
had traversed only half of the lonely
winter road; at the foot of the mount
Amt was sunset-he staggered and
fell down. We shrink from the records
of fates so sad, We need not fear.
One greater than we, and more COM
passionate by far, comforts the death
OF His lambs when they fall in the DESC
late places. The pain in Sans body
eased. Across his mind fitted brief
trouble.
IL wish Mary could know" he said.
"that 1 wouldn't touch it--fOr her
sake.' And later and more solemnly:
al wish Mary could know-that 1
seem-now-to understand. l seem
now-to see-''
An old story tells of the prodigal
who wandered, and who came back to
his fathers house; of the purpose, rum
ming through all the weakness and
sin, of the wonder and suffering of our
human lives to make us hungry,
and to bring us home So, over
Sans wasting face. there crept first
the infinite, unbearable hunger of the
soul, and then the quiet look of one
whom God leads home; and the blue
eyes, piercing now beyond the light of
sun or moon, met unshrinkingly the
shadows of the deepening night, and
unshrinkingly the clear gaze of the
solemn stars.
And Mary knew. When they
brought Sam home to her in his we'd
ding garments, she looked upon his
face, and she knew that the bridegroom
had, indeed, come back, clothed and
joyful, to the bride; the lost spirit to
the strength and beauty of its first es-
tate. And she kissed the dead lips in
that last act of perfect love and conse-
Grafton. and knelt and thanked God.
A few days after Sans death, Ned
Hemingway. entering Mary's house,
either from curiosity or worthier mo-
tives, with a stammered apology, and
the words: 'sOf course it amt o. no
account. but I thought We might like to
keep it," handed Mary the will in
which Sam had devised to her his pen
sion. As he did this, the mirthful
grocer cast down his eyes, and blushed
to the roots of his hair. Mary took the
little parchment, read it quietly, and
just the shadow of a smile played about
the beautiful tenderness of her lips.
Then she turned to the grocer. and un-
consciously transfixed him with her
clear, thoughtful, half inattentive gaze
II think Sam owed you something"
she said.
.'Oh. no. no." stammered the grocer.
That's al right The boys IL see to
that"
II should prefer to have you give me
the BILL" Mary said; and still tranfixed
by that oourteoa sly compelling gaze. the
abashed and reluctant grocer complied.
Mary keeps the will in which Sam
gave her his pension. with lock of hair
that was always golden and boyish, and
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