The Penn's Grove record., 1885-01-10
"FIvB YEARS ago."

This day five long years agol Oh,
how my heart aches when l think of
that hot afternoon i'll the merry month
of NAV, when we two stood together
for the last time in the old orchard, I'M
der the apple-trees witch seemed bent
down with their weight of soft pink
and white blossoms, the soft cfirp and
hum of birds and insects mingling
dreamily in the warm golden sunlight
1lckering in briaht light and shadow on
the green grassl
/ can see it all now, as | sit here try
ing to put it down on paper. When |
suffer my mind to dwell upon that day.
a kind of desperate longing and remorse
comes over me, and | would gladly give
ten of the best years of my life If |
could but live one short hour over
again. But, alas, it may not be Re
'grets and repinings are alike usel3sS.the
lost opportunity can never come again,
the day that is past is gone for ever and
the word once spoken cannot be re-
called. Five years have come and gone
since then. Five times since that day
have the trees IN the orchard been
white with blossom !; and, when L see
them, l feel as if my heart must break
with the agony of remorse and the
weary longing for the hope that never
comes.
There are times in our life when a
word spoken or left unsaid may alter
the whole tenor of our future, when we
hold the scales Of destiny in our hand,
and are permitted to say the word that
may prove the turning-point of our ex-
istsACC for either veal or woe. Such u
moment was mine and now, five years
after, l sit, pen in hand, thinking it all
over, and every word and every look
come back to me, as though the occur
renee took place yesterday, instead of
so many years ago.
/ was staying on a visit with my mar
ried sister in her sweet country home ;
and a happy visit it proved to be, for
there met Harold Broughton, the hero
of my life. Even now my hand shakes
as | write his name, and the sight of it
brings back the romance of my Life that
is all oyer and gone, laid away IN the
tomb Of the past, but, though dead,
lever forgotten.
1t was sHch a lovely evening when |
saw him first, all nature looking her
brightest and freshest 10 the spring sun
shine. There was a visitor coming to
Rosebank-an old gentleman, Helen
my sister, told me, smiling F; and, after
she had seen her husband start for the
station to meet him, she carried me off
with her to pick flowers for the stran-
gers room.
Poor old Mr.. Broughton," she said;
''he IS so particular, and so fond OF
flowers p
[ was upstairs dressing for dinner,
and wondering somewhat at the trouble
Helen took to make me look my best /;
but she laughed, saying, as she fastened
a lovely bunch of lily of the valley in
my hair
at is all in honor of old Mr.. Brough-
ton, dear"
Then, hearing the trap driving up the
avenue, she ran off to welcome the Wis
itOr and, soon following her, | found
them all assembled in the drawing
room. and was Immediately introduced
by Helen to Mr.. Broughton, who, to
my utter establishment, was neither old
nor ugly, but decidedly the reverse. In
utter beWilderment, l looked at him,
while I felt my face growing crimson
with confusion. Mr.. Broughton was
tall, broad-shouldered, and certainly
not more than thirty years of age, with
u kind open face, and pleasant brown
eyes that contrasted forcibly with his
fair hair and moustache-not handsome
50 far as regularity Of features went,
but altogether brave and manly-look-
80. xUhA pnn not1poffvaIu Fa1f
was to be honored and trusted. Such
was my first impression of Harold
Broughton, as, in the awkward pause
that followed, I looked up into his face,
and then turned to Helen and her hus-
band, who both seemed highly amused
The little mystery vas soon explained
amidst much laughter. There was no
sold MI. Broughton;'' it was all
Helen's fun, whe seemed more than de
lighted at the success of her little plot.
The laugh however broke the ice of
formality between us, and we soon got
on c~apitally together. Dear Helen al
ways so bright and merry, and yet SO
sweet and loving-nO wonder her hus-
band idolized and almost worshlpped
his ''wild Irish rose" as he called his
pretty golden-haired wife, with her
laughing blue eyes and sunny smile
Tom, " she would say, clasping both
white hands on his arm, snow confess,
would you eyer have thought of the
wild mischievous Helen McDermot Is
she had not led you that niadcap race
v the downs, and YOU had been SURE
l vas run away with, and pictured Inc
at the foot of a chalk cliff, or something
equally terrible Z All, you little thought
Icould make Princess answer whip and
bride so well ~
And Tom would look down, with
love in his eyes aud voice, and assure
her that his mind had been made up,
his heart ~irreyocably lost, from the mo
ment he had met the first glance of hei
blue eyes, and that the memorable race
on the breezy downs only brought mat
tiers to a crisis-that vas all.
But j find myself wandering from
nay own story, and more inclined &c
write abb It my dear sister Helen. Per