Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1883-01-24

sent for Antoine, but she did not know him.
With frenzied hands she pushed him from
her, and died raving Of some old lover gone
for soldier, and lying blind and helpless in
some hospital in Ghent.
"And now the blacksmith was marked
man. People cried { A Judgment and his
forge grew silent and deserted. Meanwhile
Eulalie perished day by day, like flower
whitening in the wind. And whether it was
remorse, or time-serving fear, or return Of
love, know not, but in few short weeks
after Therese's death, Antoine wooed her
again TO be his wife, aud she consented"
Thus the priests tale ended, and J., look
ing sorrowfully in his face, sat silent, then
walked homeward, musing on many things.
They were married, but ] went not to the
wedding, and for many days / shouldered
my basket early and wandered TO the deep
est and farthest glens, sometimes throwing
my line idly into the stream, but oftener
sitting on the bank watching the ripples
flow and the rushes wave.
So month went by; and every evening
when returned and laid down my empty
basket, with smile that hid sigh, heard
that poor Eulalie was worse.
"She is dying fast, now," said my house
keeper. "Poor thing she is worn to a
very shadow. 1 saw her yesterday, in the
cemetery, leaning on her husbands arm,
choosing her grave. There were tears on
his, All, he has his share now of grief, as
It is fitting he should have. And hear
they are very poor. People go miles away
to another forge rather than go to him."
"Poor !" said And there rose up in
my throat so strange sob that for mo-
ment no other word would come. Then,
hiding my face in shadow, bade her take
hastily all needful things to her.
"No, stay-not to her. Take them to
her mother, and let her take them to her
daughter"
Then, sitting lonely by my wood fire,
this world, and how strange it was that
foolish dreams-I had clothed in satin
jewels and honored as queen.
A few days farther on, when heard she
would leave her bed no more, there came
upon me a silly longing to see her face
After many thoughts and fghtings with
my wish spoke to her mother on the sub
ject.
al had ever been her FRIEND" l said.
"Might ! see her and say farewell 2"
The mother looked at me with fright
ened eyes.
al cannot tell" she answered. Antoine
has grown so fierce, l dare not ask him.
| Somehow, ever since he knew he must lose
his wife, and she slipped from his grasp
| into deaths he loves her with a stronger,
| fercer love than ever in his passionate
days he has given to another. He is jealous
even of me-"
And the woman went away, weeping bit
terly as she went.
Now, | was bitter indeed. So this
coarse man, who had killed my pretty
flower, was her master in death as in life,
and he denied me even the poor consola-
tion of one last word. What strange tri-
umph was his over the loving heart he had
broken.
The next day with my rod as a pretence,
l climbed great hilltop and sat among
the solitudes of the mountain till faith in
Gods goodness, growing from the peace
and stiffness and beauty of earth, wrung
that drop of bitterness from out my heart.
Vending my way homeward among the
evening shadows, met the priest.
"Come with me-" he said, "Eulalie has
asked for you"
And now l hesitsted.
al fear" l said, ." to go. Perhaps my in
dignation against that man will not hold
itself calmly quiet, even in her presence"
"You will not see him." said the priest.
In another moment was kneeling by hel
couch. And if before saw her face had
longed to say, "could you have loved man
who would have made you lady, and shel
tered you from the rough wind and the colo
wind of poverty and i'll ?" longed no more
to utter such wild and selfish words when
her dying eyes looked gratefully into mine
| oh thapHal hnn 10 tba l. s,J
ness / had done her. All then / sank
down into the depths of humiliation
Kindness She, an angel, Just going to
heaven, thanking me, poor worm on earth
for kindness
What was it? A little food--a little
wine. Great heavens what poor creatures
we are, when we exact gratitude for such
puny gifts as these Gifts bestowed upon
angels; for such, many times and oft, are
the poor and dying, though we know it not
Then she put out her hand to me; but !
looking at her through mist of tears, die
not see her till her slender fingers touched
mine, and drew me down toward her.
"Forgive Antoine" she whispered, and &
deep blush suffused her face. az loved hin
always, | never loved but him
Then | saw that dream of mine, hidden
in my heart, had reached her, know moi
how, and thrown a shade of fear and sorrow
in her soul for me.
"God bless you, Eulalie /" said. 81
forgive him. There is not a shadow oi
anger in my heart against him now."
The next day she died. And in the even
ing, as was going down to the priests
feeling it not good for me to be alone, saw
a lonely man in the cemetery digging 6
grave. | drew near to him. 1t was An
tome, the blacksmith. He was digging tn,
grave for Eulalie, his wife. His face wa'
ghastly white and haggard with many
tears, and his stalwart and strong arm,
raised the earth and cast it aside, whil'
sobs rent his bosom, till, trembling in hi
anguish, he rested on his spade and bowed
his head upon his clasped hands.
Then | stole away and told the prizes
what had seen.
"Yes," he answered. "Antoine has cho
sen this dreadful task as a penance. HI
would dig the grave himself, he said, for tn
heart he had broken"