Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1881-09-30

from the snow. She is very lutte woman
as far as l can judge of her in her recum-
bent position, and [ should think has
reached her allotted threescore years ard
ten.
"Who can she be?" [ repeat, wonder
iDgly. "She does not belong to any of the
| villages hereabouts, or we should know
her face, and cannot imagine what could
] bring a stranger to the moor on such 9
night
AS speak change passes over her face
the eyes ,unclose, and she looks inquiring
ly about her. She tries to speak, but is
evidently too weak. My wife raises hel
and gives her spoonful of nourshment'
while she says soothingIy: Don't try to
speak. You are among friends, and when
you are better you shall tell me all about
yourself Lie still now and try to sleep. P"
The gray head drops back YEARLY on the
pillow. and soon we have the satisfaction
of hearing, by the regular respiration, that
our patient IS asleep.
+ ''You must come 10 bed now, JESSIE l
say. II shall ring for Mary, and she can
sit up the remainder Of the night
But my wife, who IS tender-hearted
soul and born nurse, will not desert her
post, so leave her watching and retire
to my solitary chamber.
When We meet in the morning I find
that the little woman has spoken a few
words, and seems stronger. "COme in
with me now," says my wife, "and let us
try to find out who she isl We find her
propped into reclining posture with pill
lows, and Mary beside her feeding her.
How are you now," asks Jessie, bend
ing over her.
BETTER, much better, thank you, good
lady," she says, in voice which trembles
from age as well as weakness; land very
grateful to you for your goodness
hear at once, by the accent, tha5 she is
English. ''Are you strong enough to tell
me how you got lost on the moor, ard
where you came from, and where you are
going?" continued my wife.
"Ah 1 way going to my lad. my poor
lad, and now doubt whether I shall ever
see him more - says the poor soul, with a
long sigh of WEAKNESS.
"Where is your lad, and how far have
you come?''
''My lad is soldier at Fort George, and
have come all the way from Liverpool to
see him, and give him his old mothers
blessing before he goes to the Indies
And then, brokenly with long pauses of
WEAKNESS, the little old woman tells us her
pitiful story.
Her lad, she tells us, is her only remain
ing child. She had six, and he, the young
est, is the only one who did not die of
want during the Lancashire cotton famine.
He grew up fine, likely boy, the comfort
and pride of his mother heart, and the
stay of her declining years. But a
''strike" threw him out of work, and I'M
able to endure the privation and misery,
in TT of desperation he s'listeu." His
regiment was quartered at Fort George
and he wrote regularly to his mother, his
letters getting more cheerful and hopeful
every day, until suddenly he wrote to say
that his regiment was ordered to India,
and begging her to send him her blessing,
as he had not enough money to carry him
to Liverpool to see her. The aged mother,
widowed and childless, save for this one
remaining boy, felt that she must look on
his face once more before she died. She
begged from few ladies. whose kindness
had kept her from the workhouse, sufficient
money to carry her by train to Glasgow,
and from thence she had made her way,
now on foot, now begging a lift in pass
ing cart or wagon, to within few miles
Of Fort George, when she was caught in
the snow-storm, and. wandering from the
road, would have persisted in the snow but
for Laddle.
My wife is in tears and Mary is sobbng
auoibly as the little old woman concludes
her touching and simple story, and walk
to the window and look out for moment
before 1 ask her what her sons name u.s.
AS | tell her we are but few miles from
Fort George, and that will send over for
him, smile of extreme content illumines
the wlthered face.
His name is John Salter," she says.
He is a tall, handsome lad. They will
know him by that.
I hasten downstairs and write a short
note to Colonel Freeman, whom I know
informing him of the circum-
stances and begging Chat he will allow
John Salter to come over at once, and 1
dispatch my groom in the dog-cart that he
may bring him back without loss of time. |
AS I return to the house after seeing
him start, I meet DR.. Bruce leaving the
house.
"Poor old SOUL" he says, cher troubles
ire yearly over; she is sinking fast. al
most doubt whether she will live till her
son comes"
How she could have accomplished such
l journey at her age, I cannot under
stand" observe.
Nothing is impossible to mother"
answers D1. Bruce: s'but it has killed her,
go in, but I find I cannot settle to my
Usual occupations. My thoughts are with
he aged heroine who is dying up stairs.
md presently yield to the facination that
lraws me back to her presence.
AS DR.. Bruce says, she is sinking fast.
'he lies back on the pillows, her cheeks are
IS asby gray as her hair. She clasps my
vife's hand in hers, but her eyes are wide
pen, and have an eager, expectant look in
hem.
lat what time may we expect them?''
Whispers my wife to me.
''Not before FOUR" answer in the same
one.
"He will be too late l fear,' she says,
:she is getting rapidly weaker