The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1883-05-10

thought vaguely that 1t was like the noise
he had noticed at Hollis Mills-first
with the doors wide open and then with
them closed. Again he saw Octayia speak
81 can't hear ye," he said, in a dull, slow
way. "Ye needn't whisper, Octavy; there
amt nobody to overhear. Jest say it out
loud"
She did not answer him. She only stood
looking at him oddly. He noticed that the
young lambs had stopped their soft treble
bleating and the frogs had ceased croaking
in the low, green marsh. A strange, dali,
heavy silence had fallen over every.
thing. Octavia's face, with its clear,
pink-and-white tints, moved in a curl.
fore him. Her black hair, the scarlet
shawl, the golden ornament in her ears.
all blended and became tremulous and
baZy.
Was she going mad, that she danced be
When Cyrus opened his eyes, the sun-a
low June un-wa shining redly into the
little chamber of his own house. A woman
not Octavia-sat knitting by the window
an old woman, with a worn, brown face
and thin gray hair screwed into a rigorous
knot, a dismal gown of the material known
as "mourning Calico" and a string of gold
beads about her withered neck. The win
dow ives open, and, just outside, an apple
tree rosy ard white with bloom s~creenedthe
room from the sun. On the high red bureau
were bottles and cups and bowls with
plates set over them. Beside his bed on a
little stand was a glass half full of laven-
der-water, with flies buzzing about it drow-
silly, drawn by the faint sweet odor.
Cyrus looked from these to a familiar
picture in a cherry frame. 1t was called
"The Village Beauty" and represented q
red-cheeked, black-haired maiden in a
tight red gown, feeding from her lips a
yellow bird who perched on her unnaturally
taper finger. Cyrus had bought it of a
| nadd1ar haoarca ha fh0r1phf fhQ Oir1 1pnkdh
like Octavia.
His eyes wandered on languidly and
fell at last upon the patchwork quilt of
yellow "rising suns" upon a green ground
work; and then he came to notice his owl:
hands, large and broad as ever, but now
pale they were n how the great knuckles
stood out! Then he stirred q little and
wondered where Octavia was and why the
apple-tree had bloomed in April, and so
fell aleep, and woke and slept again, and
crept back to life reluctantly, as many a
poor soul has lone before and since. And
in the watches of n long June night, when
the neighbor who nursed him slept in the
other room, when the wind stirred gently
futtered about the candle on the floor,
and the heavy beetles knocked against
the ceiling, there came to Cyrus, tossing on
his bed, a vision of Oct8 via, the woman
that he loved. She sat beside him and held
his hand, or moved about the room and
! W HILL SOl1Uk
spirit, far kinder and more lovely han the
living counterpart had ever been.
And from that night the vision never left
him. Even when be was well n lit the
fire in his forge orce more-when his arm
grew strong, and his hand as skillful as be
fore-he still chung to the idea that Octavis
was his wife, that she lived in the small
house beside the forge, and tended the
flowers in TIE little garden, and watched
the bees in their hives under The apple
Tl.- :. -
him in little ways, but in all that was dom
he saw only the hand of his wife.
At first some upright souls would try Il
convince him that his wife was but tn,
shadowy creation of his own crazed brain
but he only shook his head pityingly
the house?" he woul ask. oval, now
thet's curious. She must "a ben out to tn,
hives, l guess; she's a master-hand a
watchin' the bees. Or mebbe she was il
the forge; she oftentimes comes out Their,
with her k~nittin'-work an sets a spell witt
me. You'll see her next time we come,
guess"
On Sunday one may see him comm,
reverently into church, and standing asid
when the square old-fashioned pew i
reached, to allow his shadowy wife to go il
before him.. He sits at a little distanc
from the head of the pew, and shares hi
hy%Hn-book with a woman invisible to al
eyes but his own.
Nobody laughS at him; even the children
only wonder at him. His madness has
curious method in it. He prattles of hi
wife's gray hair and failing steps. H
knows nothing of the real Octavia, deal
and buried twenty years ago. He live
content and cheerful in a world of his owl
creating. Why grieve for him? and VIII,
pity him? Is he not blessed above his fel
lowsS
And yet the village folks, whose bus,
lives, poor hearts, are heavy with actus
cares and sorrows, sigh as they turn asid
to look at him, and call him "Poor oil
Uncle Cyrus."-EleanOr Putnam, in LIZ
pincott's Magazine.