The Dickinson press., 1884-02-16

UcllOHcO lu0T0 WAS sO luuCu IA IuAG lhZy
fellow Pelham"
cit is all his wife's doings. She has
brought out his dormant powers"
The shadows are passing over the wall
again. l bend forward eagerly. What
is it? What a blurred looking picture!
It is raining Fast, pouring, with the hiss
Ing sound of rain on pavement. It is 80
dark that I can only Just distinguish a
narrow alley, such q den of pestilence as
Shoreditch can best show.
On the right stands a public house. I
see faint lights through the chinks of its
dirt. encrusted shutters, and here loud
tones and evil words from within.
A mar reels to the door, and looks
out; nothing but rain and black mud,
and q horrible stencil from the rushing
cutters. He shuts the door with an oath
and goes in again.
Take care, missus!"
A faint glinmer from a lantern shows
two figures picking their way
through mud and filth-a rough-looking
man, whose old fur cap is drawn low
over his brow, and behind him q woman,
dressed in the coarse gown and white
tie black wooden cross on her breast,
and a long cloak round her. The face ON
which the yellow light shines, is homely.
with a slightly worn expression, and
eyes full of kindly sweetness.
II am very glad to have arrived" she
says cheerfully, shutting her cotton UNI
brella. and about to step into the house.
A man fiom within pushes her back
roughly but not unkindly.
edo you know what you undertake.
Missus?" he says. Five of em-two
brothers, wives, and a child. And it's
black smallpox"
1 know; let me pass! Thank you for
your warning" she answered gently.
The man understanding and draws
back.
She goes in.
I suppose some days, even weeks:
must have passed in my dreams, for I
awoke to find my little circular picture
fnll of daylight.
It is the same alley, but a narrow
pathway along it is swept clean and dry,
At the door of the public
house stands a little group of people
surrounding the sister of Mercy. Two
of them as if their hearts were too full
of speech; on the arm of one hangs a
weaklw woman, the other stands alone.
They press her hands, one man raises
the rough sleeve of her gown and kisses
it's hem, with tears raining down his
CHI ,eks.
Kindly words she says to all, a little
practical advice a little exhortation. They
listen as if she we're a saint from heaven,
and then she goes on her way.
One old man exclaims las b disap.
pears: "Well, if there be a God, He will
hear our blessingg on that there Sister,"
The shadows gathered so quickly v q
my picture that l hardly saw her to the
end ofthe street. Ileant my head on my
hand and tried to make out these visions,
bnt l seemed strangely unable to fix my
thoughts.
Exceptional cases, nothing but ex-
ceptional cases." I heard myself mutter,
and the words half aroused me. 1 felt
for my pencil to make another memo
randum, when my attention was again
arrested.
+ y Il i
Shadows rose up one after another
like thin curtains from my magic circle,
and q new scene presented itself to my
gaze.
A charming boudour, furnished with
every luxury, the walls hung with Grim
son silk, full of pictures and cabinets of
precious china. A white bearskin rug
before the fire, on which was seated a
young lady, who leaned her arms on the
lap ofan older woman reposing in a deep
armchair.
They were very like each other, but
it was doubtful whether the elder lady
col1d have been go lovely::as her gold
haired child.
The girl held out to her mother a
closely-written letter, saying in q broken
voice "Mother, 1 want you to see what
l have written to him."
Her lips smiled bravely' while the
tears were streaming UNDECIDED down
her cheeks.
The mother took her letter. 1 seemed
to be reading with her eyes, for 1 heard
no voice, yet l knew what that letter
contained:
"MY DEAREST HARRY: Your letter
came to me this morning, and it is 30
difficult to answer that l hope you will
be patient with me. We have known
each other so long, and loved each 9TH
er 80 dearly, that it grieves me bitterly
to refuse to marry you. Yes, dearest. it
is indeed to refuse you that 1 write, and
perhaps you will think me hard and pc
dantic for my reasons, and perhaps I'm
feeling and unkind. Oh, do not think
so, for l have been crying all the time
that l have been writing this, and l
can scarcely see to write it now. 1t
goes to my very heart to .grieve
you so. And must /, need l, tell you
why? Harry, if you do not grow more
steady, you will break my heart. I
have tried to believe what you say. that
very full Of faults. l could not hear of
| INV hI,eho nd 40 or 600 him holm.
less from drink without terror, disgust,
horror. l dare not, Harry; your sal
walton is in higher hands than mine.
Do not lean on a broken reed. We
have no strength in ourselves. I am
doing this-I am sending you away from
me but it is breaking my heart. For
l love you, my darling-l love you an
know that you love me Do not try
to see inc, or to alter my determination,
for 1t cannot be altered. Goodbye, my
darling. I will prey for all Gods bless
ings on your head. Goodbye, Good
bye, "MAuDE."
Then the shadows stole llngeringly
over the circle, folding it softly out of
sight.
Again l must suppose a lapse of time,
perhaps years. It is war time, anxiety
and trouble are brooding wei the land.
room, with the same figures, but differ.
emily occupied. Dressed in deep mourn
ing, mother and daughter have been
picking lint. A little packet of letters
lies on the table and low sobs burst now
and then from Maude.
There lies her own letter, worn and
yellow and old. 1t was found in his
breast, and sent home with a lock of
his chestnut hair, accompanied by a let
ter from his Colonel-full of bitter grief
for the young officer whom everyone