The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1883-11-22
SAVED, OR LOST !?
BY LILY NJ. CURRY.


Had he crucified me, l must still have
loved him! l said this over and over
to myself, that awful night, as L ran on
in the darkness and the rain, skimming
heap and hollow alike in my race with
death. 1t cannot hurt me to think of
it now. or to write 1t all down as L sit
waiting for them to come and take me
away to certain safe retreat, of which
they have spoken, where may, by and
by, forget completely the scorching fire
of the lurid eye and the thunder dance
of the monster, which seemed to shake
the world from under my feet forever.
Shrek? l thought was past crying
out.
And yet, L ran onward in the dark
and the rain, hoping and praying aloud
to Heaven TO give me strength and
speed and bring me there in time-in
time to rescue the innocent; in time to
snatch his soul from the clutch of the
demon, Murder!
l felt, as l ran, the sudden conviction
that had long known him unworthy;
that my father had rightly warned me
my patient, ow-iudging father.
Still, granting this knowledge, there
had been no hour past, there would be
no hour future, when L could renounce
him.
had felt tenderness for him-for
Claude-from the beginning, when he
had come to us, wanderer, and father
had more than willingly accepted his
offer to work for home--just to work
a little in the greenhouse. For this
was fathers occupation, to keep
nursery and winter garden, just up
from the village whence he forwarded
all to the city, five-hour's journey.
Claude was truly welcome. He had
a bright glance, and always could think
of merry story, laughing himself in
wholesome, boyish fashion, and leading
us also to laugh He said he was anx-
ious to settle down and to tramp the
country no longer. If his mother had
lived, he said, his own mother-if his
father had not married young woman
who hated her husbands son, it would
never have been thus.
When he said this / went away quick
ly out of the room. My eyes were blind
with sympathy, though my father had
not taken a second wife.
In this way Claude had come to us
young, perhaps 20 (and / was ~;
comely, cheerful when he had rested
and supped-cheerful, with snatches of
song or whistled tune, and tales of the
city, whittier we never went. Not
stranger-like, but as son and brother,
who had come home.
L would not have him go for anything
anything on earth, L said, as 1 fell
asleep that night. He had brought
sunshine and music to our poor abode.
He must remain; he should and would
All you would not smile if you
knew the dull, dead life / led-the
stagnant village below, the barren hills
above and about, with little to do but
read my few old books or fathers week
ly paper, and listen longingly to the
shrek and hum of the railroad trains
that passed on the farther side of the
town-passed and repassed on high
trestle-work, or along narrow cuts, with
foot's space between the rail and the
edge of the embankment, with gulleys
and ravines just below. Night after
night, to the West and the East; day
after day, to the East and the West
so went the through express, stopping
only on signal at the village station.
II was early in the spring when
Claude had come to us, and now
the summer had gone. Father had
been busy, as usual, freezing his
roses at the "dog-days" with ice, pur-
posely stored the winter previous, that
they might bloom again for the holt
days-those luscious roses, crimson
and golden, for which the city dealers
paid us so little!
And /! 1 had been happy! Happy
with wild throbbings of my heart and
wakeful hours at night Not happy
constantly, for there was that which
counterbalanced JOY. Claude had failed
to help with the work, as he had prom
ised, and father was sorely disappoint-
ed. Yes, it had come to be the excep-
zion when Claude went into the green
house instead of sauntering off to the
village and there remaining all day.
By-and-by, he spent only the nights at
home; still, father was very patient.
Perhaps he, too, had grown to love the
boy, and felt something of the heart
ache that L knew at the hour when
Claude, on finishing his breakfast,
would glance about for his cap.
Were L to live thousand years /
should never forget that slow pang as
he rose from the table each morning
and went; or the longing, the anxiety
for the well-known step at night when
tea awaited him. For many days /
rose an hour caller than usual and
worked at what father must surely see,
and fancy Claude had done. 1 hoped
thus to keep father patient and salts
fed.
But the autumn was advancing, and