Savannah morning news. [volume] (Savannah) 1868-1887, 1884-03-16

sob! yes; grandmother says she feels
very anxious about her, and when called
/ Mr.. Beltham's attention to her looks ne
/ said: SHE does look badly and feels bad
/ ly, Pve no doubt. / have known for
/ year that Annie was not strong. L called
/ your fathers attention TO the fact, but he
/ saw, he said. no cause for anxiety, and, in
f deed. she seemed better after that Then
/ 1 asked him if she had not better have
medical attention, and he said that he
/ had studied medicine for years himself,
! and he thought he understood her case,
! but that as soon as spring opened he would
! take her to the seaside. He thinks she
needs a change more than anything else.v
lis he good to poor Annie p asks Mrs.
Fearne.
Yes, ma'am; he is entirely gentle and
kind, talks to her as if she were a sick
baby. and seems anxious to demonstrate
his affection in every possible wav. she
thinks he is perfectly devoted to her. but
he takes her condition too cOolly to suit
me. even heard grandmother talking to
him about his wife, and urging him to
send for my fathers old physician; but
he only turned his newspaper about in a
bored sort OF way and said: My wife is
very delicate, has been many months. |
am treating her case; l cannot have
physician who knows less abOut her than
l do put her on course of treatment
which would only harm her. Grand
mother told him people would say he was
neglecting her, and he said he would call
Annie and ask her what she thought of it.
She came and vowed she would not allow
a physician sent fOr-that her husband
knew more than all of them put together
that he was curing her, etc, ETC., etc.
Poor mamma. She has such faith in Mr..
Beltham, and such confidence in his uni
YerSal knowledge that she would die to il
| lustTate it."
4 regret to hear of your mammals del
icate health. She seems always such a
pretty, child-like creature that anyone
must deprecate her suffeungs. / shall
call to see her husband Tomorrow" said
"What do you want to see him for?p
asks Charlie.
He has some sort of legal control of
piece 0fprOpeTty which belongs to me, and
l am going to release him from such re-
spOnsiblity."
The first half of this speech mystified
the girl, but she understood it at last, and
springing up she said with flashing, mis-
chieVOuS eyes:
81 am piece OfprOperty, am 1? Goods
and chattels: l think l will 90 home.
Good night, uncle Henry
AT this moment the door bell rang. and
the pOstman brought a letter to Dr.
/ Fearne, which he insisted on Charities re-
/ naming to hear. EscOtte had already got
/ ten his nat, nothing 10th to have a star
/ lighted walk with his pretty tiance, but to
! humor his fathers within he seated Char
lie again on the sofa for a moment. DR..
] Fearne had received letter from lady
| evidently, and he deliberately read it
| through before he spoke. Then, instead
/ of gratifying anybOdy's curiosity, he
/ folded the letter and said:
'Mary, Joyce Lane was a sweet girl;
she has been dead many years, hasn't
she?'
'Why, doctor, yes. She was sweet, and
pretty and good, and she has been dead
many-oh. how many years! but what set
you to thinking of her tO-night?>
''GeOfrey Weston was a good fellow too.
| used to call him friend thirty years ago :;
and you loved Joyce as sister once,
didn't you?'
oh! yes, quite as sister. Poor
JOycew
"Wel, Mary, we have not either of us
proven true friends, for we have left their
only child to struggle with poverty and
| orphanage alone. God forgive usv'
II didn't even know that Joyce left a
| child, Doctor"
/ ''Nor 1; more shame for us! We never
/ inquired; we have been sinfully negligent
! to this one of Gods least, one Of His little
me. Thank God it is not too late to do
| something"
! My dear father" said Escotte, won't
/ you read US your letter."
eyes, my son; but it isn't letter. 1t
/ is only note written by a clever, friend
/ less girl. Poor child! poor child! Listen
1 all OF you! There's no more time to
/ lose
! Opening the paper he read aloud:
Grey. H. NJ. FEARNE: MY DEAR SIR
My father was Rev. GeOfrey WestQn-my
| mother Joyce Lane, his wife. They have
! been dead many years. | am Ellen Yves
! ton, their only daughter. | am twenty
! six years old. Hard work has impaired
my health. My physician prescribes a
| change. l hear of you and your wife as
/ good people. Having not one friend in
! the world L write to ask you to let me, a
/ stranger, come and live in your house a
| few weeks. l can pay my board so long.
/ If l live / will go to work in the fall. If
/ | die you will have to bury me. Don't
I take me if it is a cross to do it. l am not
/ especially unamiable, but l might try
/ you. Do just what you think is best. Re
| spectfully, ELLEN WESTON"
THAT'S a curious letter." remarked
Mrs. Fearne. "What do you think of it,
my son"'
Il was just thinking, mother that it
sounded just little reckless, and yet it
| is pathetic too, in some way. She feels
evidently convinced that her condition is
precariOus, and yet she writes with cool
/ uncOncern about the results. you will
have to bury me if / die, she says, Just as
another woman would have said: You
Will have to send to the depot for me if
| come The most noticeable feature in the
! letter is its breyity. l really didn't know
a woman could be so succinct. She gives
all essential particulars of her history,
including that Of her parents, in three
| lines. She is certainly friendless and
poor, and as certainly proud. Let us re-
spect her misfOrtunes, and never ask a
/ question about her after she arrives. for
l see my father will have her here soon.''
''SOOn!' exclaimed the old gentleman,
rising to give better emphasis to his
words. 81 think so. There's no time to
be lost. | am burdened with the neglect
1 of which we have been guilty. Think of
! GeOfrey WestOn's little girl standing alone
in a wicked and cold world like this with
out the touch of one friendly hand. All!
think of the danger, the temptation all
around her! Give me the pen and ink, my
| son, and let me atone as quickly as l may
for the long lost years. Twenty-siX !
| Twenty-six helpless, girlish years! God
| forgive me! They reprOach me sOrely /!
Well, Mary, what shall l say for yOu?7
''Say that she must come Immediately
/ and stay as long as she likes as my guest
for her sweet mothers sake"
''rhat sounds well and like you, Mary.
! My Charlie, kiss me good night. You
and EscOtte may 60 now. We must
write to this orphan and comfort her be-
fore we Sleep
Mr.. Fearne took Charlie off, down the
lighted streets, and it is, perhaps, no dis
paragement to their humanity to chronicle
the fact that their talk was more of them
selves than OF the orphaned girl to whom
the minister was at the same time writing
sweet and cordial letter. A little while
they linger at the door, these two, to
whom life is just now made only of pleas
ant things; a little while in which the
/ cir. hears again words which are always
new and Sweet-the words which tell the
| old story of a strong mans love and care
/ for a young and loving woman; and then,
/ in the cold and night, he walks off and
! leaves her so thoughtful and so happy
that, forgetting the hour and the season,
she stands lingering in the doorway lis
tening to his receding footsteps.
AS the last sound dies away her ears
I hear something which etarfInS apd