The Penn's Grove record., 1886-02-13

y VAAAAAS OAAH -
| battered down mo friend, not one" in
spite of the bells that clamored out,
orags and dirt, rags and dirt" he was
getting on. Out of the pocket of his
ragged Jacket peered a ragged spelling
book; at corners of streets, on steps, at
| crossings he studied it. He was get
ting oowm
FCamdeLa wo will Ieave. John March
with RI G4Bket and the ragged books
in his cherries lodging. We will go
back a little and enter a very different
| scene; light and warmth meet us, COM
fort and luxury have made their abode
here, In this room where a man in the
prime of his life sits, dressing-gowned
and slippered, before his desk. But no
pleasant thoughts are passing through
his mind, and it is with her he is angry
Why, to him she IS Il child still, a mere
infant. how dare she think Of such
things a Sailing in love and marriage?
How dare she suffer the young spend
thrift ~vagabond to speak to,him on the
subject?
"'When, after all these years of care"
goes on the father, his tone deepening,
''all this paInstaking, toiling early and
late, with the happiness of my child
near to my heart, hoping for it, yearn-
ing after it, this beardleSs rake comes
forward to demand my purse, and | am
/ to say calmly, Take it, with my bles-
singh When | have listened to the
voices of my mills, and thought how
pleasantly they sang, hoping always
she bids me give them up, and what
! ,1,,, i,,v-0 hrArrrIf mn for fhiC CJNnn6-
thrift sutton to make ducks and brakes
OF. Never, never never. Listen to me,
and understand. You see this man
no more; you never take 50 much as his
name upon your lips.
There came a faint cry from the pale
girls lips as she stood there a moment
uncertain. Bending before him till
her hair touched the hand wandering
so restlessly amongst the papers, she
strove to take it in her own and plead
with him; but he drew it back coldly
and hastily.
"Once more" sobbed the girl; ''only
let me see him once more to say good
bye"
"Still for himI" called out the mill
owner, bitterly. pleading for him
am nothing; this is gratitude and duty.
| say to you see him no more.
So he turns to his desk again, know
mg net that trial and temptation are
about his daughter, that the voice of
her lover is in her ear, pleading with
her, urging her to fly with him.
How can she listen? Oh, but she
loves him. she loves himl and it so hard
to think of never seeing him again,
never hearing his voice. 1t is so hard
to have no one to love!
And lie tells her that when they are
married they will come back, and be so
submissive that he cannot fail to for
give. The old tale, the old music, and
she loves him.
Think Of it now, old man, sitting
alone in the midst of riches; think of it
as you consult the watch and look
around you. Yes, you are right; 1t
grows late, bedtime; but there IS no
gentle good night for you, no kiss for
you tonight, but that sorrowful n
which trembled on the hand which
holds the watch-key. Oh, put it to
your lips for the memory of that kiss,
for those pleading tears, for the wlstful
eyesl Think of 1T now!
IN his old lodging, retained perhaps
from the force Of habit, perhaps be-
cause he liked to think of those first
days of struggle and failure, hope and
fear. John March sat with his Tampa
twisted wick of paper floating IN oil in
a cracked teacup-and his books. This
lodging is a room, with five so-called
beds and accommodations for ten l0dg-
ers; but he had portioned off his W
particular corner with tattered sheets,
paying double for it; and keeping it to
himself, study and sleeping room IN
one.
Sitting there however tonight over a
worn history-for the spelling-book had
been superseded long ago-John March
grew restless. In the bed nearest his
corner there was a moaning sound,
coming at intervals, feeble and despair
ing. John couldn't stand this; he
drew aside his curtain and looked out.
Scantily clothed, but yet in remnants
of a richer time, pale, hollow-eyed, there
sat a woman, who looked at him even
IS he looked at her, but there was only
misery in her eye.
John came out from his retreat.
"Was she ill?" She shook her head
drearily. Gould he do anything for
her, get anythingp"
mo"
"There is plenty Of misery here"
said John, "but yours seems a bad case.
Can't you trust mep"
The woman turned her large eyes up
on him wlstfully. "IIere is my sick
ness" she said, turning down the cor
ner of a ragged cloak of fine cloth which
she had taken from her own shoulders.
Under it, gathered close to her heart,
lay a sleeping child some six or seven
years old.
John touched the warm. rosy cheek
compassionately, and put off a brown
curl that was straying across it.
1T is all over with me-" said the
woman. 81 am dying-but this is worse
than death"
81 I'M but a poor lad" said John,
strangely touched by the soft tones and
gentle speech so new to him, ''but l
am honest, indeed, Tell me about it,
and see if l can't do something"
The woman put out her left hand,
where glittered in the rays of his lamp
the wedding-ring. Cautiously she put
it out and then covered it up again.
1t is the only thing L have left; l
couldn't pawn that. Yes, l will tell
you all, for | am dying. l have known
that long; but tonight it is near-neaT.
Listen. thenl''
The wick floats on its oil and grows
dim, but dawn is breaking for the hol-
low eyed woman whose head falls back
on Johns arm, whose fading sense re-
ceives his promise to are for the little
one sleeping on quiet and unconscious
while her mother dies.
Think of it, now, oh, man of mills
and ledgers, think of It'll
"But," says John in a startled whis-
per, ''the name, the name, how am l
10 find out
A faint light comes into the glazing
eyes and a movement to the blue lips.
"Seek out a mill owner, named
No more, John, the light is come, dawn
has broken. Shut up the eyes tenderly