The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1885-12-30

went to the closet, and taking from the
shelf an old-fashioned work-box, I'M
locked it and drew out large leather
purse. After few moments calcula-
ton, she replied, "Nearly sixty dol
lars"
"And how much do we owe?" he
asked.
Nothing, Jake, except ten dollars
for the rent. have paid all the other
bills. You see we are slowly laying by
comfortable little sum-"
" Yes, Martha, slowly, very slowly,
indeed"
Putting the money carefully away,
she drew her chair closer to his side,
and taking one of his wrinkled hands
in hers, said:
Something is worrying you tonight,
Jake. What is it?''
He raised his face, but quickly turn
ing away, answered, nervously:
We have had hard day at the mill,
Martha, and l am not feeling well;
that is ell"
"No! MOI Jake, do not tell me that.
There is something more. For over
thirty years we have had our trials and
our Joys together, and / know, l am
sure, you will not hide your trouble
from me now"
For moment he hesitated, as if I'M
certain what to say; then Frightening
up, he answered:
Yes, Martha, | have never known
sorrow that you did not share and
nobly bear your part in, so will tell
you all Mr.. Durant has failed, and
the mill has closed"
These words were spoken in husky,
trembling voice, and, as he finished, he
covered his face with his hands, and
began to sob.
Softly his wife rose, and tenderly
placing her arm around his neck, said:
"Jake, it does indeed seem hard and
difficult to understand, but we have
gone through greater trials than this.
You will soon be able to find other
work"
He started up at these last words as
if they had frightened him, crying, 1T
is not alone the loss of my place,
Martha. Look at this" touching his
silvery hair, "and at your own white
locks. See these shrivelled hands, and
the burrows on my face. What do they
mean? Why do bend so low and
tire so easily? Oh, Martha! Martha!
when l think of it, it seems as if l
should go mad. Every month l feel
my strength growing less. may fight
against it, but the day will come, and it
is very near, when | cannot work, even
if / have work to do. You, Martha,
too, are becoming feeble, and though
you strive nobly to hide it. the cares of
our small home are more than you can
bear"
He had uttered these words standing,
and with flushed face. But now he
sank into his chair, and in low, moan
ing voice, repeated to himself, All.
Will. Will. why were you taken from
me?n
In vain she strove to comfort him.
For long while he sat gazing at the
fire, as if unconscious of what was 90
ing on around him, then suddenly start
ing from his reverie, he said,
" Give me the paper, Martha"
She went to large Bible that lay
upon the table; folded in its leaves was
a newspaper, which she handed him.
There was only one article there of any
interest to him, and this he had long
since known by heart. 1t told of the
wreck of a sailing vessel upon the
coast of South America, from which no
one had escaped. He held the sheet in
his hands, but without glancing at it his
lips repeated these words, over and
over again, "Sunk and all hands lost"
Hundreds had read this article and it
had soon passed from their minds, but
in this dwelling it told of the loss of an
only child, and left a heart-pang which
death alone could relieve.
AT last his wife took the paper gently
from him and replaced it in the Bible;
as she did so, she heard him murmur-
ing, " No hope, no hope.'
PART II.
The snow lies thick upon the frozen
ground and is still falling. No Won
der, then, that Uncle Jake and Martha,
wrapped in their own sorrows, do not
hear the muflled footsteps slowly APP
preaching the house, nor the opening
and shutting of the gate. There is a
slight noise at the window. Do not
look up, Uncle Jake; do not look up,
Martha. 1t is only the fierce wind
rafting the shutters. Softly the latch
is lifted. For moment the cold air
! iuolICo lis lnCu lilC uOOl 10 Sllclllly
closed. Oh! What cautious foot
step it is that steals along the little
hallway, so slowly and gently, towards
the halt-open door. 1t would take a
sharp ear to detect it, and time not
only burrows the face but deadens the
hearing. A tall, manly form steps
noiselessly into the room. Do not look
around now, Martha; do not look
around, Uncle Jake. The shadow
upon the wall is merely the Pickering
of the flame. Softly, and still more eau
tiously, the form glides towards the old
couple, and, kneeling down before them,
murmurs, Father! Mother!"
l believe there are bright, invisible
angels lowering over a scene like this,
who read the heart and see there writ
ten the love and gratitude our lips can
not express; and / often feel that here.
after we shall find our good thoughts
as well as our good deeds, placed to oul
credit on that great ledger which will
be opened for the last time on judg.
ment day, when our accounts are bal
anced.
Three forms stand before the dull
light of the fire. Upon the brow of two
time has set his marks. The third is {
strong, sunbrowned man in the prime
of life. With eyes full of tenderness
and love he looks upon the dear ones
! oil M fn