Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1881-01-16
THE WINTER LILY.
y Story of Thanksgiving.
BY ETTIE ROGERS.

Thanksgiving eve!"
A clear, beautiful night, with the
least touch of frost in the delicious air,
and brilliant indigo sky, thickly stud
ded with stars, like sparks Of fame.
In small, neat room on the upper
most floor of six-story tenement, a
pale, gentle young lady stood at the one
window thoughtfully Watching the mo-
ton and glitter in the street below.
On couch on the other side of the
apartment lay a weak-faced, middle
aged woman, evidently Ill, or, what is
worse, thought herself so. And in
truth Mrs Maria CARL was one of those
dependent, clinging, unambitious Great
ures whom the world pities sometimes,
and despises always. She had been
reared in that unenviable grade of So
ciety known as "genteel poverty"-that
peculiar, superficial class whose heads
and hearts are as emptyas their stom-
achs, and whose gilded idleness is poor
ly suggestive of "Solomon's lilies" in
asmuch as neither one nor the other
tolls nor spins. At 20 she had sold her.
self to rich old husband, whose child
less widow she had been for years.
Mrs. CARL, who could not make her
own caps any more than she could earn
them, and who could not tell mort
gage from love letter, woke up one
fatal morning and found herself as poor
as she had been in the days Of her girl
hood. She felt that the only role of life
left her was that of interesting inva-
idiin reduced circumstances" and she
assumed it accordingly.
cit was crushing blow, my dear
Mrs. Grundy, [ assure you, and I shall
never recover from it-never," she was
wont to say, patheticaIly, behind her
handkerchief of worn and ancient lace.
On this Thanksgiving eve she awoke
from prolonged slumbel, and saw her
niece, Linnie, standing, pale and pen
sive, beside the window, blurred by the
delicate frost-tracery of the early night.
"Have you made up your mind yet,
Linnie?" she inquired, fretfully.
"I-I have not, aunty," faltered the
young girl, signing as she turned from
the window and paused before a large
glass vase, in which a magnificent Span
ish lily had just burst into bloom. For
Linnie, those green, rich leaves and the
odor of the creamy flower aroused the
memory of love sweeter than life and
enduring as immortality itself.
1t was on one delicious April morn
ing that Erie Warford brought her the
young bulb with its green leaf-points
just breaking through the sand and
water of the crystal jar, and babe her
tend it carefully in memory of him.
They were not quite so poor then as
they were now. They had pretty
rooms, and she had plenty of work
coloring photographs in a dingy pre-
tension of studio, where she sang all
day long and dreamed happy dreams of
her lover and her future when she
should be his wife.
1t was spring then, and the days were
long and warm, and she was satisfied
with life and all it might bring, despite
the peevish and eternal repinings of
her burdensome relative.
It was winter now, and the days were
0rief and dark, with storm and trouble.
She had no work, and the last penny
Of her earnings was gone. All her
handsome dresses and precious trinkets
were in the pawE-shop. The last coal
was dying out in the CRATE, and the last
crumbs in the cupboard would not have
led "the one sparrow for whom God
careth."
Of Erie Warford she had not heard
since the day on which he had brought
her the souvenir flower. He might be
untrue, or he might be dead, or the
naughty and eccentric old grandfather
might have cajoled him into some love
less, selfish marriage.
"Don't be uneasy about the future
little one," Erie had said at parting
1.-THE old gentleman has never refused
me anything, and he will not oppose
me seriously in such a momentous
matter as marriage. Before this lily
flowers you shall be my wife, and he
will be quite as proud and fond OF you
as he is indulgent to me-"
But that was very long ago; and, as
she thought of the inexplicable absence
and silence of months, big tear like a
diamond dewdrop fell and flashed into
the heart of the blossom.
She had another sutton nova wooer
old and oA and rich and persistent.
"You are sensible young woman,
Miss Linnie," he said one day, and
therefore 1 think not pleased with
pretty speeches. On withered lips
ardent love is burlesque; beside our
aristocracy does not believe in any
emotion whatever. Passion is ignored
by the ton-a marriage of affection is
ridiculous.
Linnie looked at him curiously.