Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1882-04-06
IANETs MISTAKE.

For this one day Janet Sydney might
rest and lace her sorrow. She was only
Mrs. Denison's seamstress, whom no
body noticed; the housekeeper was Q
fa- grander parsonage, and Lydia Deni
sons maid completely outshone quie'
little Miss Sydney.
A year ago. in her fathers home, she
had been the center of attraction here
no one spoke to her, except to say,
"Sew this lace in my sleeve" or "Mend
my glove"
No one, did 1 say7 Yes, there was
one person who always showed q kindly
syhpathy for her.
Janet sometimes fancied, though she
banished the thought sternly when ii
would come, if he had met her in her
own home before her fathers death,
that kindly sympathy would have been
something deeper and stronger; but
she was only semstress, and he Mrs.
Denison's only son, SO she was sure that
it was merely chivalrous instinct that
prompted him to treat her as he
did.
Then came the dreadful time of his
illness, when he lay for days at deaths
door, and Janet's sickening anxiety had
no relief in ministration on thesufferer.
She must still perform her dull tasks,
while others cared for him she would
have given her life to save.
At last he died.
Mrs. Denison was crushed with grief /;
Lydia went into chronic state of hys-
terics; the housekeeper moaned and
Iamentsd over the young man she had
known from baby. But Janet Sgd
ney, who loved him-yes, loved him
better than any of them, must show no
signs of grief as she superintendent the
making of the mourning wardrobe,
careful that no hot tear dropped on the
Grape.
During his lifetime she had been
sure of one friend, at least now she
was entirely alone. The only bright
ness for Janet through this sad year
had been when he dropped flower in
her work-basket, or lett some new book
on the machine.
Now, on the day of his funeral, she
could stop her work at last, and think
of all his kind iesa.
Early that morning she had stolen
into the room where he lay to place
some snowdrops on his bosom. No one
would notice her few poor buds in the
wealth Of lilies and roses about him.
Softly, almost fearfully, she pushed
open the door and entered.
He lay in his cofin-her idol-but,
instead of the peaceful expression Janet
had learned to associate with death
since her last lingering look at her IA
ther, Hermann Dsnison's face wore
vague, indefnable air of horror that
filed her with dismay.
For a moment she stood gazing at
him (; then, with sudden burst OF ten
derness, she stopped and passionately
kissed the cold lips, whispering:
"Oh, my dearest, you never guessed
how I loved youp'
The sound of her words frightened
her. With hot blush, she dropped
her flowers and fed to her own room,
to give way to passion of sobs.
The house was very still-so still that
one might fancy Janet's stiHed grief
could be heard from cellar to garret.
Suddenly the silence was broken by
piercing shrieks, followed by smothered
e1clamations, suppressed sobs, hastily
whispered commands, subdued hub
hub very unusual for q house of
grief.
The little mourner needed it not.
Exhausted by the weary days which had
preceded this, she lay on her bed,
brooding over every well-remembered
look and word.
1t was not till late in the afternoon
that any enc thought Of her then she
was aroused by the clatter Of heels and
rustic Of silks that always announced
Lydia Denison's approach.
That little lady rushed into the room
with even more than her usual impetu-
osity, as she exclaimed:
"Oh, Miss Sydney,you actually haven't
heard-he's alive-aliye-don't You
understand dead. but aliveI'
Janet started up with wild cry.
q Who-alive. What-what do you
mean I" she gasped.
"He isn't dead at ALL" cried Miss
Lydia. dropping into chair. "Oh, ]
feel aa if / was dreaming and to think,
after parting with him and nearly dying
Of sorrow, and putting on mourning,
and everything else, and be not dead al
all, and Oh. dear, I suppose
ought to be down on my knees and say
ing my prayers; but I'm so happy I cam
keep still, for it does seem as if it reall,
couldn't be true, and that the doctor
ought to go to States prison, I'm sure
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