Saint Mary's beacon. [volume] (Leonard Town, Md.) 1867-1983, 1886-12-23

iy, oh, SO slowly, a dark and heavy
burden with them. Up from the black
shadows into the fair moonlight
through the wide, open cabin door,
and ilto the light of his own hearth
fire they carried the cold senseless
form of the blacksmith, and his little
daughter gathered his head in her
arms, and rocked backwards and for
wards in grief too deep for words or
tears. Many a time pale little July
had looked on death, and she thought
it had come again to their humble
home, but she was wrong.
Not this time, July, said Mr. Cross,
cheerfully. He amt off the handle
yet, child. Here's his heart beatin'
under my hand like sledge-hammer
a Already. Not 80 close to the fire, boys,
though / believe he amt so much
frozen as dead beat and stunned, with
a long tramp and fall somehow.
And so it proved. At the end Of
an hour the blacksmith sat in his arm
chair by the fire, very feeble and diz-
zy, but happy as king, with July
sitting at his feet, and the two curly
headed cherubs sleeping on bear
skin beside him, while he ate his sup
per and told his adventures. The
snow had detained him at his fathers
until he became so uneasy about the
children at the cabin that he set out,
in spite Of entreaties and warnings, to
come to them. Taking a short cut
through wood roads well known to
him, he came into the main road near
his house, but seeing no light from
the windows (poor July had put up
the wooden shutters when night came
on) he had wandered out Of the path,
missed his footing, fallen over the edge
of the precipice, and only been saved
from death by the vast drift Of snow
into which he sank. Here, stunned,
chilled, and bewildered by the storm
and darkness, he had CROPPED about
vainly trying to find his way out of
the ravine, and conscious that his
shouts could not be heard above the
roar Of the storm, and at last he sank
down to die, utterly unable to move
another step. But when he had lain
little while with his eyes closed and
his heart beating slower aud slower,
suddenly he heard music in the air above
him. yes, you may believe me or not, Just
as you please said Jim, sturdily, but
heard the angels singing. 1t was like the
music in church, only swceter than any
they make there, and the clouds were roll
ling away from before it, and the moon
shining like silver in the sky. Then gath
cred up strength to call my little July here
! called her three times, and when had
done it ! was sorry, for ! was afraid she
would try to come down to me, and be lost
in the snow Then | tried to raise myself
up again. and in minute the world seemed
to spin round and round, and Just didn't
know any more till heard Dan Cross say,
He's all right now boys and so | am all
right
And it was Miss Margie and all of them
you heard singing said laughing, crying
July, looking up at Margie with Il face Of
half alteration. But / reckon the angels
don't sing any swceter than she does adj
dcd July, softly.
Anyhow, it was the singing that saved
my liic,' said Jim, with trcmble in his
rough voice; 4 was falling asleep in the
snow when | heard it, and when man
falls asleep there, il is apt TO be a long sleep
IA long sleep, little July And Jim strolicd
the child's hair, and gazed musingly into
the fire, while July bent forward and tim.
idly touched Margie's hand with a touch
that was blessing.
There amt only angels in heaven. |
reckon there's some Of 'cm on the earth
too said Dan Cross, nodding sagely, and
pointing his speech with so direct look at
Margie, that she and every one else laughed
outright. But there was no one to contra
dict Mr., Cross, for somehow the girls sweet
ways and sunny temper, and patience and !
gentleness had won every heart there.
Orphan Margie, who was so lonely this |
morning, had many warm friends now. !
AS she lay down at last to sleep, on the bed !
of cushions and shawls, and piles of clean
hay, which had been spread for the girls in |
one room of the cabin, she thanked Iea |
ven for the friends she had found, and fora
happy Christmas eve. And the last sound !
she heard was Emmie saying, in leepy |
voice: How funny things are know you |
so well now, Margie, that | can hardly be- .
lieve that | never saw or spoke to YOU in |
my life till Mr. Winston said this morning, |
Miss Emmie will you caTrya cup of coffee |
for me to that little girl over there? She !
has such sweet, tired face. She looks |
Xix a snow Maiden and if go near her / |
shall expect to see her vanish away in "A
wreath of snow
And Margie's dreams were none the less |
fair and pleasant for hearing this.
There was merry breakfast in the morn. |
ing, and u safe and pleasant Journey to |
Clifton, in the stage which the indeiatiga- |
BILE Mr.. Cross had mounted on runners
and Il joyful welcome from Col Elliott, his |
handsome stately wife, pretty Sue, the bride |
elect, and host otrosy checked little broth |
erS and sisters. Sue was an older edition |
of Emmie little taller, a little grayer, |
but just as pretty and warm-hearted. They |
would not let Margie speak of going to !
-ville. Emmie and Alice hung round |
her and entreated, and Sue urged her To
stay, and finally Mrs. Elliott put an end to
the controversy, by sending off an express
to inform Mrs. Delaney that her niece was
at Clifton, but she would not be given M
till after the wedding, when Mrs. Delaney,
who was expected to be present, might car
ry her home with her
So Margie was one ofthe wedding guests.
and not only that, but one of the bride.
maids having been prevented from coming,
Margie was seized upon to fill her place.
Her plea that she had no white dress was
laughed at-a yapory tulle' of Sues was
taken in little here and there, and found
to fit her admirably, and Emmie clapped
her hands with delight as she saw how love
ly the little snow maiden looked with her
white robes and silver arrow in her curls.
When the wedding ceremony was over,
Mrs. Delaney raised her eyeglass, and said
graciously, Mrs, Elliott, may ask the name
of the bridemaid with the remarkably beau