Morris tribune. [volume] (Morris, Minn.) 1880-2000, 1882-11-06

| in all my life no woman has filed the
| place in my heart that you have. have
| given you the purest, truest love of my
manhood, and from the day first
learned what you We're to me | have
had no doubt, done no deed, which the
! love of you has not ennobled; my only
aim has been for your good and to be
worthy of your regard. But dearly as
love you, would even now sacrifice
that love and my dream of happiness to
come rather than enter into SO narrow
and unjust life as marriage tie in
which jealousy has part Do you
think because I love you I can see no
good in others, have no care for others?
No, Rebecca, unless you can cast out
| that demon from your heart and feel
sure l hold you above all other women
We had better break our
| covenant now than start on q road which
| had only misery at the end. Do you not
see am right? Oh! Rebecca, you must
feel in your heart you have wronged
| me, and his voice rang out clear.
II knew he was right and felt as
| though l could .kneel at his feet and beg
his pardon, but my rebe llious pride re-
fused to bend and / let him walk away.
Then he came back, but would not
| speak-and wound my way home over
| the cliffs alone.
"How changed was the landscape of
an hour ago; the crimson specks which
| then hoated in the west had turned into
| huge masses of black angry clouds, that
| fought the east wind as it came up against
| them; the tall salt grass through which I
walked waved and bowed before me
| like moving sea, and knew bad
| storm was brewing, for the gulls
few and circled above my head as
walked and that was sign that never
failed. The thought of the fleet that
was to sail that night fifty years ago this
was a fishing por) came to me as l saw
| Jack Strong coming through the mead
! ows.
""You won't sail tonight, with this
wind coming up? asked.
Ives, my lassie, if we can get afellow
| to take Ned's place. He fell from the
mast yester-night, and broke his arm
The next evening, as l was setting om
| the supper for father, | looked up and
saw the white face of Mary Plymton at
| the window.
For Gods sake, come to the sands as
| fast as you cam she cried; The Saucy
| Sue is aground out on the bar, and AdaiI
| is on herr
| 'She left NE as one demented, and
then in an instant the awful truth flashed
| upon me and | ran out through the
| driving rain and whirling wind never
stopping until reached the group of
anxious women on the cliff, and as /
| could learn nothing from them, made
NY way to. the beach be low where !
saw the men at the boats.
Through the roar of tho storm We
| could hear the signal of distress, and far
| out In the darkness We could see the
| ships light come and go as the waves
rose and fell, dashing themselves in
restless fury against the rocks.
| " No boat can live in waves like these,
and even if we get through the surf,
men, 1t will take We three hours to reach
the bar, and she'll 60 to bits afore that,
heard Ned's father say as the men
| pulled on the ropes. Then they stopped
and looked off into the night, Again the
signal GOES. turn to them. and On my
Bonded knees beg them not to be dis
couraged.
"'Oh! try. try l cry; surely you are
| rot such tainted hearted man. You will
rot let those brave fellows perish out
| there while you stand idly here. I am
| strong and If there are not men enough
| will 60 with you But they did not
heed me. They pushed one of the boats
| out into the toam tive strong men jumped
| in, and for a moment or two she rode
| the sea, and then came wave which
| picked her up in Its great white arms
and tossed her on the sands empty; they
| shook the water from them again, but it
was all in vain-nothing could live in
such q storm. Ned's father was right.
"'Ah, child! what q night that WASH
| land I could see the tears drop off Aunt
Beckie's nose as she wiped her spect-
acles.) 1t was the worst gale we
| had had on our coast in many year.
| All through the weary hours Of the
night the wind reared in wild fury; but
at last the tempest beat out its anger.
At dawn the sun rose in new splendor,
| my bonnie, bonnie lad, lay dead. and l
in my mad jealousy had killed him.
! After we had laid him in his grave,
out on Saunders Point (that beautiful
spot where Frederick has 30 often taken
YOU, laid him away to rest, Mary Plymp-
ton led me home, and for days did she
tenderly nurse me; but when l arose
again, alth ugh i was only twenty, was
the gray haired woman you see now.
| Little by little Mary told me how she
| had promised to marry brave fellow,
whom her iather-a selfish, stern old
| man-hated, because he could not bear
that Mary should be happy while he might
keep her miserable. She told me how
| she had beeen turned from home for
| not giving up her lover, and how Adair
had helped her. She had begged Adair
| to keep it from me for awhile for fear of
| nv fathers hearing, but it was on the
| dav of our last walk he told her he would
keep it no longer, and had taken me
It is fifty years since those days, and |
make it faithful one, and if Adair can
see into my heart he knows l have ex-
plated my fault, and I hope he waits to
welcome me into the new life soon
! shall enter.
THE fire burned low and the clock
| struck as Aunt Beckie took her candle
aud went to bed. walked to the win
dow pressed my face against the panes
| aud tried to see out into the darkness,
but the storm still ragged. Would he
never come? Accidents OF all kinds
passed through my mind as l paced to
and fro. adding wood to the dying fire
looking out through the rain into the
night If he would ouly come, never
again would l let him go until he knew
-nark!-I hear his step upon the path;
fly to the door; his tired voice asks:
"Why, child, what has happened that
| yon are up at this hour?"
ooh, Frederick, you are safe" cry;
land let me whisper it while my courage
lasts" God bless you, my darling"
and was folded in his arms.