News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1885-09-17
The Girl Wife.

The Girl Wife.
1t was a beautiful young American
girl, Lettice Lee by name, who sojourn-
ing among her English friends while,
crossed their fair garden, bright with
the tender greens of spring and all
abloom with hawthorn, and, tempted
by the shadows of the lane beyond,
strolled slowly down it, until, coming
to an old church set about with trees
and fanked by an ancient graveyard,
she entered there and wandered among
the messy stones, reading their quaint
inscriptions and thinking such thoughts
as youth and beauty do of graves and
death-thinking pittyingly and with a
certain sad tenderness, but not as of
anything with which she had to do, or
ever would.
The willows were very old. The
shade was very deep. The gray church
flung its own dark shadows ON the spot.
The ivy of centuries draped its walls.
And the pictures of apostles and mar
tyrs, of Jesus and his mother Mary, and
of Joseph the carpenter, which glowed
in gold and crimson and purple on the
painted windows were the work of
hands that had mouldered into dust
ages before.
1t was so different from anything the
girl-who had come from land where
all the fine buildings have brand-new
look, and even the ivy that is trained
against church-walls speaks of a geo.
metrically-minded gardener-had seen,
that it fascinated her. She was ro-
mantle and poetical; and it is very hard
to be romantic in America
Now, for the first time, she felt the
influence of an old country's reminiscent
ces of the past upon her, and yielded
her spirit to it utterly.
She leaned against a great tree and
looked down upon the gray grave-stones.
Most of them were so old that no one
lived to deck them any more. And yet
the ages written on them were often
less than her own was that day. One at
her feet bore this inscription:
Here heth Lucy-Aged 16.
A tear came into the girls eyes as she
read 1t. Perhaps more would have fol-
lowed, but at that moment voice close
beside her broke the silence.
''You are looking at the graves, my
dear These are only humble stones.
Inside, the church there are some very
fine tombs. If you would like to see
them, can tell you all that is known of
them have been curate of Amberly
for thirty years.
The girl turned toward the speaker.
THho+ Y,oarIu +rxri
her whole life A very old man this
must be to speak of thirty years as a
mere portion of his.
She looked up into his face and an
swered back the Kind smile that shone
upon it, and felt thrill of wonder at the
sweetness in the eyes and on the lip, fol
in her short experience old men were
generally either harsh or testy, or at least
cold and unsympathizing.
She had no father, or grandfather, ol
any aged relative. A little orphan
something of an heiress, and very beau
tiful, she had always been petted by he
friends, and had never been unhappy
but of strong home-ties that endear ever
the old and the ugly, she knew nothing
An old gentleman was some one who die
not like noise and was rather averse t.
music, whom it was not unpleasant t.
see 90 out of the room, and who gener
ally paid the bills for somebody. o
most of the old men she had known thi
was true picture; but here was an ole
man of whom one could not think sucl
things-a dear old man.
She gave the curate of Amberly an
other smile, and said: eyes, she woulC
like very much to see the church and tn
tombs. Her name was Lettice Lee, ant
she was visiting Mrs. Holden, at tn
mansion yonder, and she was just iron
America for the first time. Perhaps h
knew" and the curate signified that h
did know, and that Mrs. Holden was hi
dear old friend, and they went into tn
church together.
There are old faces that are NOR
beautiful than any young ones can be
! Not manly, it is true; tol the evil pas
/ sions of our race-anger and greed ant
malice and jealousy-are strong with
too many breasts, and mark themselve
outwardly upon the features, throug
the long slow years of long life, to
deeply. Griefs also line themselves upo
the brow, and hollow out the cheek, an
dim the eyes, but now and then SON
one, alike strong and sweet, putting b
the sin and bearing the sorrow patientl,
comes to the autumns of existence wit
such countenance as, it seems to M
God meant that an old man should hav
The curate of Amberly had done this.
A conscience that required much.
life that satisfies his conscience. \
memory of wrong done to anyone,
duty unfulflled, of wanton youth or Sc
fish middle life. These should wr1
Peace upon my forehead. These hf
written it upon his although he oft'
said little sadly that since his moth
died no one had ever loved him muc
A certain shyness, a doubt of his ov
power to charm, had kept him from Il
society of young woman in his yout
he had none of the gallantry that charr
them; he had so lofty an idea of womal
hood, and he gave it such reverence tn
no one ever fancied he could love. Pr
perly speaking, he never had love
though now and then some woma
: whose hand he never dared to tone
, had thrilled his heart and caused hi
to write quaiD love-verses to her-vers
. which she never published or ev
} showed to anyone; over which he nev
wrote any real name, lest by some chan
they should one day be seen, but only
3 To a Lady. And which were SO d
tinctly respectful that they might ha
been written to some fascinating gran
mother. No breath or passion in the
only polished admiration.
And even this was AL over now-h
been for many years-and the old bach
lor curate had no "reminiscences to ma
youth sweet, no memory of young he
pillowed on his bosom, or of fond han
that had Clasped his.
Somehow, he thought of this as
ushered the young girl into the {
-, falr npllE.