The Democratic advocate., 1882-03-04

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his bride, he found bitter disappointment
awaiting him-the bonny bird had flown.
No information concerning her could be
obtained from Mrs. Seldom.
Il know absolutely nothing of her move
ments,' said she, coldly, .'and if l did, |
should decline to aid you in disgracing
yourself and station.
Whereupon bitter words and quarrel
ensued, the end of which was that Paul left
the house and took up his quarters else
where. By so doing he raised fresh bar
rier between himself and his love, for he
took from her all chance of communicating
with him.
"He cannot come to me for he does not
know where | am, she said to herself,
..and if | should send my address to Mrs.
Seldon's house she would surely suppress
it. But | can walk in the neighborhOod
occasionally and meet him as he goes in or
out. We love each other-I am to be his
wife-surely there can be no impropriety
in my trying to meet him.
And she did try-almost as faithfully as
she tried to obtain fresh employment and
as unsuccessfully,
'One afternoon, passing near Mrs. Sell
don's house. ON her return from dlsheart-
ening inquiry after position, she met little
Elsie and her nurse and from them learned
that Paul had paid very brief visit and
gone away again, more than month ago.
.Gone TO be married Missis says, volun-
teered the nurse. Iheard hersay he'd gone
into partnership with some rich old gentle
man, and was to marry his daughter or
niece.
Il don't believe IL wont believe it :
it is a false report, spread for the purpose
Of wounding me she told her aching
heart over and over again, when she was
once more alone; but oh the wound ran
kled deep, and dreadful doubt had been
reused in her mind that poisoned hope and
peace.
~Who knows what she has told him
about me And what must he have
thought when he found that | had left
without a sign or word for him oh Paul
my love. have lost you We shall never
find each other now until it Is too late.
"I'm so glad you've come, cried her
landlady. as she led her in. I've chance
for you, if YOU ike to take it. My daugh-
ter's boy Is 50 sick she can't leave him, and
this very evening she was TO have gone to
her new place. to be old Mrs. Sineair's
hOusekeeper. It's not quite the position
for you know-not quite your proper
station-but thought
Dear Mrs. Gray, | am too poor to
choose my small stock Of money i all
gone, and | am in your debt already. If
You think | can fulfill the duties Of the po-
sition, | shall be- bat too glad to take it,
pride Of station viii not trouble me
'Then go at once, dear. The cab that
was to have taken my daughter Is Al the
door--put your things together and go,
Ii may be that Mrs. Sinclair will think you
too young, but she'll take you for the pres
ent. ut least, until Mrs Davis Can cosae TO
her. You tell her | sent you, and youl
see.
So Edith, feeling like ono in dream,
drove to the address that had been given
her. and asking for Mrs Sinclair, sent
word that her new housekeeper was below.
OF course Mrs. Sinclair concluded that
the tall and lovely but sorrowful looking
girl was Mrs Gray daughter-Mrs. Davis;
moreover, she being exceedingly deaf, Edith
found ii almost impossible TO make her un
dersland the contrary.
'.You are young. TO be a widow, and the
mother Of foar-yesr-old child, said she,
aGiold help us What trouble some peo-
pie have 20 endure, to be sure Well
well, you'll have a comfortable home with
me, if you suit me, my dear, and have no
doubt that YOU will.
MY name Is Merrion. began Edith
somewhat more loudly The old lady pat
up her wrinklea hand, and shook her head
a merry one r said she. mo, No, my
dear, have no fear Of that | live very
quietly, indeed Nomerriment TO jar upon
your feelings here, but quiet and eomforta-
bic enough,
So, then, Edith, weary and faint for hack
of food and sick at heart, resolved to let
the mistake 20 for the present there would
be plenty Of opportunities to rectify it
! afterwards.
As | have taken Mrs Davis's place,
will borrow her name as wen, she thought
"It will only be till the child gets well,
most probably. And my head aches %
bitterly tonight am not able to talk t6
/ her. Mrs, Davis be it then, until to-
morrow, at all events
/ But though man proposes, tbs God dis
poses That proverh, be it ever 20 musty,
is always true and Just az mistakenly, as
Paul said A0nly for a week, darling,
nearly two months ago did Edith tell her
self ''until tomorrow" DOW.
+ For tomorrow" the racking headache
had increased until she was almost blind
with agony. During the first hours of the
morning she crept around the house in a
brave and mute endeavor to understand
and perform her duties, but when noon
came She tainted suddenly. and had to be
carried to her bed
!. Mrs Sinclair was extremely kind.
The poor soul she had deal of trouble
for one so young she said. "She has
worn herself out with worry and fatigue,
suppose, in looking for place. I've sent
I for the doctor, and shall nurse her round
again. As yourself and Mr.. Sinclair are
going to be absent from home awhile,
shall be able to manage quite nicely. | dare
say.
This kind little speech was made to her
husbands partner, who usually made their
house his home. A man some twenty
years Mr.. Sinclair's junior, and the son Of
dear old friend. Whether business wor-
ries or private anxieties engrossed his
thoughts, / cannot tell, but he paid small
attention to the old lady's account Of heI
protege, and merely in politeness asked her
name.
"Nrs, Davis. A young widow-deaI
me, very young-with one child, A really
beautiful creature too; and seems fitted
for a better station. How unfortunate
some people are !"
Her companion looked into her gentle
kind old face
This one is fortunate, rather, | should
think, in having come to you.
And really, it seemed so. Mrs. Sinclair
was Kindness herself to the poor girl, and
tried hard to keep the place for her; but