Butte semi-weekly miner. [volume] (Butte, Mont.) 1886-1890, 1886-12-29
AN OLD MAIDS HUSBAND,
Won at Last After Many Years.

jestic columns across the ploughed fields
and gloomy Bigelow mountains, over hill
and valley, in great sheets of misty liquid;
now looking like some awful wrath, and
anon as if a host of shrouded forms has
tened shiverinsly onward, fearful Of some
impending calamity.
And i, filed iwithYa weary restlessness,
wandered about the little farmhouse,
dreading the strokes of the hours, for this
~unpropitious ides of March was my only
sisters wedding day.
I was but two years her senior, but SO
odd and settled looking, with my painfully
plain face and great gray eyes. that 1
looked ten years older than rosy, dimpled,
laughing-eyed Lucy.
Harry Lerton was O well-tO-dO, intelli:
gent young farmer, and 1 liked him as well
as l could have liked anyone who took
from me the one treasure Of my love'ess
life.
In a few minutes Harry came upstairs,
kissed us both, drew Lucy's hand within
his arm, and I followed them with good
| Mrs. Bentz down the crooked little stairs.
A few quiet words OF introduction took
| place between the minister and Mr.. Gray
and the members of the little family.
1t was soon over. They went away, and
L WenU DdCk 10 my HIoLOVOuOuS Ill., II
year from that time we laid Lucy and her
little babe in the same grave; and a great
hush fell on my life.
Seven years sped away, marked by no
great changes.
In the fall of &c 1 was prevailed upon by
some friends to form one Of their party in
spending the months of July and August
at Barrie, a small French village on the
borders OF Lake Simcoe, in Canada.
The day after our arrival | wandered at
sunset down to an old, WORKOUT dock, and
seating myself at one end on a pile Of moss
grown beams. was enjoying the well-earned
satisfaction OF having nothing to do, when
l was startled by a sweet voice, almost at
my elbow. saying:
"Marvin, do you see that cluster OF tiny,
arrowy-shaped clouds there below those
huge battlelnents of purple and crimson?
Their tips are such a bright gold they make
me think of the ligk t that must shine upon
the faces OF the rede "med as they near the
Eternal City,"
I rose and looked in the direction from
Which the voice came, aud beheld on the
other side of the pile of logs, on which l
had been seated mysels. q small basket
carriage, and in it reclioe1 young girl OF
apparently fifteen or sixt@ zen summers. l
could see that she was pit fully manned,
while on her pale, beat tiful face WAS
STAMPED an expression of patient meekness,
touching in one SO young.
The other figure was that OF a tall, we'll
formed man whose face was turned from
me. .. ,
He did not speak, and presently the girl
said: II wish you would repeat that
dirge OF Hunt that you said one evening at
Hillcroft, l feel SO restless" .,
There was a moment silence and then IL
needed but the first two lines,
Blessed is the turf, serenely blessed,
Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,
to bring before me the farmhouse in Maine
and a little group assembled there on a
pustv afternoon in March, and l seemed to
hear that same voice say, beloved. we are
gathered together" and then, sinking down
on the logs, l forgot all about the dirge and
the speaker, while memory tolled through
the troubled waters of the past, her lost,
lost treasures, until the harvest moon
rolled up the still flushed sky, and the
skrill-voiced daughter of my host said:
"Pardonnez, M'slle, mails vos amis cher
chez vous."
A few minutes later, as l entered ourlong
narrow parlor, his voice greeted my ear,
and genial old Mr.. Hartman presented to
me INV friend, Mr.. Gray" h said quiet.
lv."We have met before, Miss Harrington"
and l replied, Yes; you have a good mem,
ory, Mr.. Gray" Then we sat down and
talked such talk as was a cool relresning
stream to my barren, arid life.
After that we met and talked often. His
sister Orpah grew strangely attached TO
me and her holy, spiritual nature was q
wonderful book to one h had seen out
the hard, bitter side OF life.
When NV friends tested about my pen
chant for the preacher, I would say II am
thirty-three. and growing gray; the dreams
of youth will never come back to me- 80
wilfully thought then; but, oh. how dear
his presence and strength were ge''ins w
me I was oon to learn.
II was the morning before we left B.:
T was again sitting in the shadow Of the old
docIr with sVita Nuova" before me. but
NV thoughts were not with Beatrice's fair
ia INIT nv own, and l was dropping an
other s.fennel Leaf into the already bitter
cnn. AZ I r%eproached myself for having
been SO misled by the sophistry OF "oniy
friendship for one whose every thougnt
seemed in unison with my own, and VINO
cared no more for me than ne o'd LOT tnoss
closed the book, and Marvin Gray. stand
ing before me, said:
..Miss Harrington, l am a man OF lew
words. Years ago a dream OF love came
To me. as it does to most young lives. A
70 shot fired by a boy learning to
shoot killed her by my side. MAJ th was :
ton wears ago. l esteem you more uhan
oman have met in all that time.
o orr loves you and ~grieves at the thought
~ s~enaration; for her sake will you marry
met" ..,lod mn n
,onk mn in those wonderful eyes and say
NO Mr.. Gray; Il man should love his wife
as his own self" and holding out my hand
Far nv hook, | walked away.
Eonrteen months after this, on one o.
+he last of the golden, misty October g
days. DAY ~: Is ! pause, aus s5s E %G%sgt s ss H opening 8
tn lU, sta nown figure came up the walk. stopped
an in my face with a light in his Eyes that
had never seen there a bel0 hes rt' 40 - loneed
Hope, I was mistaken; I love you' m
miss YOU every hour. May l come up
dear?"
-A~un~<~A