The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1883-12-15

open WlnuoW. a Dig Dee, ali yellow from
the lily bed, doomed sleepily in and out
again; Mercy's big white cat was summing
herself on the top of the red-brick front
wall, and the chaffinches in the
pear tree, who knew right well that
she was too old and fat for bird-catchiDg,
were only pretending to be in a hutter at
her neighborhood.
felt at odds with the calm sunlit peace
fulness, and Mercy's story, which seemed
to belong to it, left the vague burden on
my spirits heavier.
A calm, prosperous life; mapped out by
ones parents. A wife who loved her hus-
band because he was the first conner. An
existence bounded by the narrow limits of
Fairdale society. A steadily increasing
business and income, of little profit to a
childless pair. Was it worth the pain of
dying-was it worth the pain of living to
have passed through this?
mo midday shade, no clouded sun.
But sacred, high, eternal noon,"
kept ringing in my head-a hymn of my
childhood that always inspired me with
doleful apprehensions respecting my future
enjoyment of Heaven, supposing l did get
there.
SIS that to be our life-here-on earth, 1
mean? We shall be comfortable beyond
belief. Mother can have a big subscrip-
ton at Mudie's, and try every new de-
vice in fancy work that the mind
of man has invented. l shall go
shopping at st, Brides with heavy
purse and light conscience. All our dear
little makeshifts and contrivances are at
an end. Hilda will marry the curate and
reign at the rectory some day, and visit at
the deans and all the county families -"
l dropped an angry tear, and, ashamed of
myself, closed the shutter and left the
room, crossing softly the wide landing and
entering the darkened chamber where the
dead man lay in the stiffness.
/ at hi ,1n1A cAa
repose. t.
"You look strong enough to have made
your life for yourself, not to have accepted
it from the hands of Others" l thought.
Goodbye, goodbye" l laid my hand
gently on the cold forehead. AS l did so,
the worn string of the bracelet gave way
and the beads slid from my wrist into the
coffin. l could not regain them without
disturbing the dead, and, horror-struck, as
at u sacrilege, fled away. Next day was
the funeral.
Hilda and wished to go to see the last
of our kinsman. but we found that the old
world views of Fairdale society were
against the proposition, SO we gave up the
idea.
Everything was done in strict obedience,
to precedent to the qualification of Mercy
and Fairdale's opinion. We watched the
gloomy procession forming, from behind
the closed shutters.
''Look at that woman by the steps, Hilda.
Who can she be-"
Fairdale face. All! there is the coffin with
our wreath of white roses. l do hope the
people here won't think it popish."
"She is sobbing so pitifully! I wonder
if it is anybody he has been kind to-"
There is Sir John Hartley's carriage
yes, and the Crossholme carriage, and
believe the Earl is there himself-how
II fIyinCr naa. ,no1a ba 1acoruaH
all the respect that could be shown him.
Your woman, Dora? Oh, | dare say she
has had some recent loss. She was in
mourning, wasn't she"
"She did not follow them-she went down
the CroSsholme road"
In the afternoon l could bear the closed
house no longer.
"Come to the churchyard, Hilda. Nc one
will see us to be scandalized."
The Mailowdales had a vault undet the
raised chancel of the irregularly built old
church. The entrance was already brirked
up, and on projection of the stOne-work
hung memorial wreath. Hilda looked at
the tawdry white flowers and brilliant
green tin leaves with much disfavor.
II didn't think such horrid thing was
to be bought in Fairdale," she said. at
must have come from st. Bride's-sent as
an advertisement by some of those new
shops-rubbishy thing!"
leave it there, Hilda. 1t may have
been meant in kindness"
Hilda turned homewards.
"Let me stay longer" pleaded. 81 will
just go through the copse as far as the
Crossholme road. | am pining for air and
sunshine"
SO l crossed the churchyard, and fingered
few moments in the golden corn fields be-
You'd. Then over the stile and down the
dry sandy path | plunged into the warm
green shade of the fir trees. 1t was a little
frequented path. | was almost startled to
hear child'S voice crying, and to sea
few PAGES in advance-a tall woman in
black sitting on fallen tree. She rose be-
fore | reached her and moved YEARLY on,
trying to quiet the little child in her arms.
''She is young-she is old-qute old.
Not Fairdale person. She doesn't walk
like a countrywoman. She isn't tramp
from st. Brides" So | thought as | fol-
lowed her. She suddenly sat down again,
as if dead beat, and began to hush the child.
"Hush, hush, Mimi, love. Grannie can't
carry you, if you scream So"
"Grannie!o | said to myself, in amaze.
The little knob of hair behind was grey,
certainly; but she wore fringe, and her
dress was youthfully cut, and trimmed
with a picturesque sort of frilled tippet
about her shoulders.
She looked full at me with her big dark
eyes. obviously attractive eyes, though
Tcu-flllHlSu anu SWOllen. stopped. 1llua
was not at hand to consult as to the pro-
priety of the doing, so / spoke.
"Your baby seems to be troublesome.
Can help you" ne
"She is starving with hunger. Il never
thought | should not be able to buy drop
of milk in this village" she replied
politely Slurring over an adjective uncom-
plimentary to my probable residence. 81
never brought anything with me, thinking
l should be sure to find shops, OF, perhaps,
a farmhouse; and now she must wait till ]
get her to Crossholme."
"To Crosshoime!" | exclaimed. "What
a journey. And you are taking the longest
road"
swell, it's the quietest," said the stran.
ger, with an odd look. The child, who had
been gazing open-mouthed at me, now re.
commenced her planning. She was about
two years old very pretty, with eyes like
Grannie's, looking through tangled rings OF
yellow hair. | knew Fairdale well enough
to believe the woman's statement.
81 know where to get something" | ex.
claimed, with sudden recollection. "Wait
here for ten minutes,p and off started at
a run, back the way | had come. Another
path through the corn-field ended in Hob.
days Farm, and Mrs. Holiday, kind soul
on hearing half my story, pressed me to
help myself to half a gallon from q brim.
ming pail; and then loaded me with q
hunch of seed-calle, a slice of sage-cheese
and a pocketful of rosy apples. Back |
| sped to my new acquaintance.
She was still rocking the crying child
whose mouth we stopped effectually with
n and Mill fret thine. nd than h;.nl-,