St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1884-04-24

went out OF the rOOm-Out OF the house.
1t seemed to him that things had
grown darker since he went in. He
hardly knew how he found his way to
the cars. 1t was. two hours past his
dinner time, and he was faint for lack
of food, but he did not know it.
He got to the station somehow, and
waited till it was time for the train to
start for Montclair. All the lonely
way home he kept whispering to him
self-''One month, possibly two" rs if
| it were a lesson on the getting by
heart of which his life depended. He
heard the conductor call ont "MOnt-
clair" at last, and got OFF the cars
mechanically. His-wife stood there
waiting for him. She had been anxious
about him all day.
ooh, William !" she cried, and then
she saw his face, and stopped. There
was a look on it of one over whom
some awful doom is pending-a white,
fixed look that chilled her.
She took his arm, and they walked
on silently through the summer after
On.-When they reached home, and
she had taken off her bonnet, he at
last spoke;
"Mary, come here and let me look at
YOU. | want to learn your dear face
by heart"
| She came and knelt by him, while
he took her cheeks between his hands,
and studied her face.
care yOu going away?" she asked,
for his fixed, silent, mysterious gaze
began to torture her.
"les, | am gOing-intO the dark"
"To die ?" she gasped
"Yes, to die to everything that
makes Hp mans life in this world" d"
he answered bitterly. "Mary, am
going blind, Think what that means.
| After few weeks more shall never
see you again, or our children, or this
dear, beautiful world where we have
| lived and loved each other. The whole
creation only an empty sound forever
more. Oh God, how can bear it !"
'Is there no hope p she asked with
curious calmness, at which she her
self was amazed.
"NOne. 1t was my errand TO town
to-day to find out. | have felt it com
ing on for months, but | hoped against
hope, and nOw-l know. Q Mary, to
sit in the darkness until my death day,
striving for Il sight of your dear faces
1t is too bitter and yet what am
saying? Shall my Father not choose
his own way to bring me to the light
of heaven | must say, ,ciH say, His
will be done"
Just then the children came running
in-bOyish, romping Will ; shy, yet
merry little May.
"Hush, dears," the mother said soft
ly, papa is tired. YOu had better run
out again"
"No, Mary, let them stay" Mr.. Spen-
Ger interposed, and then he said, SO
low that his wife's ears just caught the
Whisper
II cannot see them too much in this
little whilc--this little while"
Oh how the days went on after that
Every day the world looked DINNER
to the minister's darkened eyes He
spent almost all his time trying to fix
the things he loved in his memory. II
was pitiful to see him going round over
each well-loved, well-knOwn scene
noting anXiously just how those tree
boughs stood out against the sky, ol
that hill climbed toward the sunset
He studied every little flower, every
fern the children gathered for al
creation seemed to take for him new
beauty and worth.
Most of all he studied the dear home
faces. His wife grew used to his dim
wistful eyes following her SO constant
" but the children wondered why
their papa liked so well to keep then
in sight, why he did not read or study
any more.
There came time at last, one Sun
day morning, when the brilliant sum
mer sunshine dawned for him in vain
'Is it a bright day, dear ?" he asked
hearing his busy wife moving abou
their room.
''Yery bright, William"
"Opcn the blinds, please. and let th'
sun shine in at those east windows"
Mary Spencer's heart stood still
within her, but she commanded he
voice, and answered steadily
''They are open William. The
whole room is full of light"
"Mary cannot see it the time hai
come ] am alone in the darkness
''NOt alone, my love-" she cried, i'll !
passion of grief and pity and tender
ness. Then she went and sat dow
beside him on the bed, and drew hi
head to her bosom, and cOmfOrted him
lust as she was wont to comfort he
children. After time her tende
caresses, her soothing tones, seemed t.
have healed little his bruised
tortured heart. He lifted up his hea'
: and kissed her-his first kiss from on
the darkness in which he must abide
and then he sent her away. thinl
every soul, standing face to face wit
. an untried calamity, longs to be for
space alone with it's God.
f Three hours after that the churc
. bells rang. and, as usual, the ministe
p and his wife walked out of their dwell
: ing save that he now leaned upon he
: arm. In that hour of seclUsiOn he ha
: made up his mind what to do. The
- walked up the familiar aisle, and sh
}. left him at the foot of the pulpit stairi
q and went back to her own pew in from
e He grOped up the stairs, and the
n rising in his place, he spoke to tn
/. wondering congregation
q "Brethren, / stand before you as on
n on whom the Fathers hand has falle
, heavily. | am blind. | shall nevt
o see you again i'll this world, you, III
Il children, for whose souls have strive
, so long. / have looked my last o
q yonr kind, familiar faces on this earth
!, see to it that ! miss none of you whe
: my eyes are unsealed again in heavel
q Grant, o Father, that of these Tho
is hast given me | may lose none"
Y There was not fearless face anon
= those which were lifted toward him,
m he stood there, with his sightless eye
-e raised to heaven, his hands on
At stretched, as if to bring down on the
.r the blessings for which he praye
Some of the women sobbed audibl
~ but the minister was calm. After
moment, he said:
,t "My brethren, as far as possible Il
- services will proceed as usual"