San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1886-08-06

time that would bid you enter the old brick
walls of the parsonage. Not within the
study would | have you follow me this eve
ming, the little study with old leather furni-
ture, with its poor faded carpet and worn
old books on which the dust las settled, hav-
ing now no kindly hJUi TO brush II of, No,
we will pass that by, for | would have you
follow me further on, aye, follow me 10 the
very verge of the dark valley Of the shadow.
Come with me, then, To the bedside OF an
old man, an Old man who ere this night is
over Will have surrendered up all claim upon
this world and Will have gone through the
broad gates that lead 10 the fair City of God.
Outside the snow is falling heavily. II is
as though nature were SOTrOwng for him
this man who has not been friend 10 man
alone, but has, following the Great Masters
footsteps, loved all things both great and
small He has been sinking so fast, so fast,
and only to-day, for yesterday he was up sit
ting in his old chair before the hearth. But
in the night there came, as it were, a mes
senger from the King TO bid him come. So
sudden it is that now it is too late TO send for
her whom he has loved with an exceeding
love. She who would willingly have put
her hand in his and gone with him on his
dark mysterious journey; dark to her, but
for him all light and glory.
Twice Helen has begun to send to her but
has ceased, knowing too well that long ere
she can reach them he will be far away. So
alone she sits there watching with fearful
eyes the beginning of the end. Not treIn-
bling nor at all afraid is ne as he lies there
too weak TO speak or even move, for life has
not been so kind to him that he should be
lOath 10 go. But his eyes wander aimIesSly
about the room looking for her, and his lips
murmur as we do in dreams, Nelly, little
Nelly"
Had we not better telegraph" says Helen
to her husband, but he shakes his head. HE
can not last an hour longer; it is useless, my
dear"
Slowly the night hours creep on. The
lamps are lighted. Helen has lighted an I'M
usual number in this room, for the dying
crave the light and as she kindleS them she
feels within her heart what poor pretense
they will so soon seem to him in that Celes-
tial Country, whose light shineth from the
great white throne of God.
But he fingers longer than they have
thought, and all through the night they
watch beside him as he lies there in half
snow ceases and all the world is white and
still. And towards morning the dying eyes
uncloSe and stare with joyful intentneSs into
space as though seeing already his Lord and
Master Looking he surely is into worlds
where other eyes may not penetrate, and
over all his face there comes a light as of
Heaven, and he stretches out his arms to-
wards that land and so dies.
Allen has been hard at work all day, and
he is tired now. lie is glad TO be at home.
lie is in the hall shaking the snow off his
OvercOat and soft hat hoping inwardly that
Eleanor has dinner ready. lie opens the
parlOr door and goes IN; the fire is burning
warmly brightly there, the room is wei
lighted. But underneath the glaring lights,
clad in no other dress for dinner than a
plain, grey wrapper, with all her loose,
bright hair about her, his wife is standing.
She holds crumplCd, blackedged letter in
her hand, and her face is as white as the
face of the dead.
Good Heavensp cries Mr.. Allen, stop
ping short in the doorway, What is the
natter"
At his voice she turns, her great sad eyes
upon him and her voice it seems TO pierce
his heart.
you would not let me 90 to him, and
now he is dead. | shall never see him any
more. Oh, DOME. DOnie"
What do you mGanY' says her husband
slowly. Coming to her he takes the letter
from her unresstlng hand and reads it
through. When he has come to the end he
turns 10 her where she stands with her face
buried in her hands and tries to put his arms
about her, but she starts away from him.
"GOu-yOu would not let me 60" she
cries. Il told you he would die but you
were so cruel TO me. If | could have seen
him once before he Went only once, but
nOw-nOw | shall never be with him again;
never, Tor am too wicked to even hope that
Nbu IN ltJ me 20 Nlltlt lie HIS gone, anu
shall never see his face again.
She breaks out into passionate weeping as
she speaks; the violence OF her emotion
trightenS him.
DO not cry 50, Eleanor. Try and be
quiet, my dear"
You tell me not to cry" she says, looking
at nm win anger mlnglng with her grief.
~ GU do not care for me or for him, either.
Leave me; L Will have none of YOU"
She filings herself down upon the sofa and
turns her face from him. Allen in perpleX-
ity as to what to do reads the letter over
again. 1t is from Helen, and the sad tidingS
are told as gently as they could be, with
none OF the bitter sting of death about them.
TO think" means the girl, rising and
beginning u walk up and down the room,
ito think that he should have died there
alone, with only Helen; without me, |,
whom he always loved 50 well, | who would
have died for him had he but said the word"
Eleanor" says her husband, laying his
hand FIRMLY upon her arm, Eleanor, you
must take something; you will be ill if you
don't Do you hearY'
why do you torture me with your sense
self from him. ut is all your fault | was
not there"
You are behaving like mad woman"
says her husband, losing patience, SO little
he cOmprehends the frenzy of her grief.
Come and take something Instantly, or else
So she lets herself be led into the dining
room, and even drinks some OF the wine he
brings her. She has ceased crying; she sits
white and still in her accustomed place with
her eyes fixed on her husbands face. And
when dinner is over he comes to her and
puts his arms about her and she does not put
him from her.
'sYou know did not mean to be unkind
to you, my dear, do you not? he murmurS
"You know il | had thought it serious L
would have let you go. Do not you believe,
Nelly"
But she does not answer him. She does
not heed any of his caresses or wei -meant
offers of consolation, and presently she rises
and goes up to her own room.
precious row about an uncle" mutterS
Joe, lighting cigar. You wouldn't ind
me wasting salt water if mine was to knock
off; not but what Pm fond of the old boy"
His conscience is not quite easy tonight
so he sits smoking until the clock strikes
midnight. He has just risen to retire when
the door opens and Eleanor enters. At first
he half doubts if she is awake, so set and
fixed are her eyes. But she comes to where
he stands and lays her hand upon his shout
der.
Forgive me Joe" she says, "for all that
have said to you. He would not like TO
have me angry, he would say it was not
right, and IL must try and be better now,
and perhaps if | try very hard God will let
me see him again wherever he has gone"
Her husband stOops and kisses her. "Of
course my DEAR" he says tenderly, but
come, you must not stay up any later" And
he puts his arm around her and leads her up
stairs.
But no sleep comes to still her senses.
Through the night she lies there thinking OF
him who has gone before to that "undiScoy-
cred country" that country he loved so to
think unOn Now even now as she lies