The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1882-11-23

house; how much a new dress meant
and what wonderful viands Grandmother
always spread before them.
Then she was a girl, coming home
from school, and her brother brought
his classmates home with him-such as
had no near homes, at least-''to spend
Thanksgiving" So she had met her
husband. Her brother was dead long
| since; and now James. A low cry part
| ed her lips, the fire fell into brands,
fickered, grew dull; and she went on
with her review of the past. There was
her wedding-day-that had been on
| Thanksgiving. Her mother she had
never known. Oscar and she were all
the children, and of the three she and
her'father were left then, and he only
lived TO see the next feast, the first of
her ~matronhood celebrated in her own
house.
Since then were not all her Thanks
givings alike? All full of cheer, graft
tude, blessednessp And now
al shall not try to have a Thanksgiv-
ing" she said, dreamily; and, looking
up, saw her husband sitting opposite her
in his own chair, which she had never
moved from its place by the hearth.
Strangely enough, she felt neither sur
prise nor fear, nor did she remember
her loss. 1t was so customary and
natural to see him there that only a full,
sweet sense of peace stole over her.
She seemed to have just come home, and
to be so glad; but he did not smile. He
looked at her with tender gravity, and
very clearly and slowly repeated a
favorite quotation of his:
"Thou seest we are not all alone un-
happy" adding, 50 there are other wild
ows beside you, Nelly.n
Other widows! What did he meanp
She rose to her feet with a start. A brand
fell, blazed up, went out. The chair
opposite hers was empty. The clock on
the shelf struck nine. 1t had marked the
half hour, she remembered, just as the
first brandsfell together. 1t was a dream,
then. She shivered and came back to
life, lit the lamp, fed the dying fire and
returned to her new grief. New because
that face had been so real, her gladness
SO deep. and now it was lost once more,
with a fresh bereavement. But, though
the tears fell hopelessly and fast from
her eyes, and her heart ached anew with
the rebellious anguish of loss, still his
words kept recurring to her. She had
not thought of that before. There were
other widows, no doubt-others sorrow
ing with her sorrow, in kind, if not in
degree. She remembered one whom she
had been to see in her charitable rounds,
and then another, and among her &C
quaintances she recalled one whose hus-
band had, not long since, died abroad,
and another widowed suddenly years
ago, and still another who had married
an old love when he wa smitten with
consumption and nursed him to his
death. She was startled to see how she
had passed by all these sorrows as mere
matters of course, without any real SYM
pathy; and a sense of companionship
stole upon her, as if, suddenly wrecked
on some desert shore, she had met with
beings of her own race after long lonely
weeks of silence and despair.
Then the thought flashed across hel
that all these women must dread the re-
currence of Thanksgiving, just as she
did. Why could she not ask them all to
keep the day with her? 1t would be, al
least, a sympathetic, if a sad festivla.
The idea laid hold upon her. 1t was
the first reaching out of the detached
tendril toward another and a surer sup,
port. She fell asleep, thinking the mat
ter over, and awoke in the morning with
a shamefaced sense of some light an6
interest creeping into her life, hitherto
so sacredly wretched. Then she re
membered her dream-her husband:
sad, grave face. Perhaps she had done
wrong in mourning him SO devotedly
that even her children had been set aside
from their place. Possibly it would
please him better if she carried out hel
plan. The children welcomed her will
more caresses that morning than fol-
many a long day. With childish instinct
they felt she was not so cold or so un.
willing to return their tender way. They
dared to laugh now at the breakfast
table, for she smiled with them. She haC
learned the first letters of the lessor
meant for her, and learned them thor
oughly; the next were to come. Wher
: the early days duties were over, she sa
, down again by the library fire-not tt
dream now, but to plan for action. But
whom should she invite? For she began
to see that Mrs. Broome, who lived il
the fourth story of a tenement hous,
. and earned a precarious living, would
. hardly be a fit companion at dinner TO
+ Mrs. Gray, whose husband, dying il
Florence, had left her more money thar
. she could spend and a house and ground
money could scarcely improve. A tex
from the Bible flashed into her mind, a
texts will on the most convenient or in
a convenient occasions, sometimes to GU
/ aid, sometimes to Jul confusion: "Whel
thou makest a feast, call the poor, tn,
MANNED, the lame, the blind"
r With a thrill in her dumb and dark
t ened soul, she recognized the Master
, call. She was a good woman, at hear
' a sincere Christian; but her love and he
( loss had com between her and her duty
, her hope of Heaven, her living work
With shame and contrition, she saw he
place before God, and recognized he
own deserving, and His hand of Low
and power. 1t was the work of a mo
s ment and had but a moments sway, TO
!, the old anguish came crowding bacl
e and Surged over her once more, like al
: angry wave across a wreck. She mad
: her first effort to master it, however, il
returning to the thought of Thanksgivin!
Day. The matter of her guests wa
, settled for her now, and she felt that i
!, would be easier far for her to feel ant
express sympathy with these sufferer
= than with persons who must observe tn
usages and reticences of higher socia
> spheres. So she drew out the old visit
i ing. list of poor. so long neglected, and il
the afternoon set out on her errand.
/; Charity of any sort is not always cas-,
' OF pleasant to administer. The poor, a
r least in this country, are hedged abou
; with their own self-respect, and a Ger
tain barrier of jealous pride, a feelin!
; that they are just as good as anybod,
else, and will not be condescended to
j A thfc hTro Savpaarr, LoI - oo%o.
' with, besides the individual traits O
3 character. The shyness, the real humil
/. ity. the want of fit clothing, the dread O
being uncouth, and the natural instinc
of refusal to anything proposed by an
r other-that is a marked and almost uni
versal trait of New England character
/ 1t was the work of several days, nue.
WEAKNESS, more patience and man,
promises to insure the attendance of ST
8 poor widows at hertable, who would no
| houn fnoStn1 hut olal1, fn.fol o&&l-.