The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1886-11-19
OUR

oiile skies; with merry voices. with cloud-
less faces and happy hearts.
remember just how yellow and murky
the sunshine lay on the floors that morning,
and now | thought the wind walled about
the corners of the liouse-to me it had 10
frolic. The children came in from play
while | was at work, all flushed and eager,
and happy, jostling and pushing each other
g~ood-naturedly in the entry.
Dinner time came at last and they gath
cred around the table gleefully-just as
gleefuliy, | thought, with a half bitterness,
as if they had all been there.
why, what's this FORE" asked Harry,
stopping. "Mothcr, you've got one chair
too many"
flush, Harry-I know-don't you see?a
and then Lucy finished her sentence in a
whisper.
Why had | done it; | hardly knew. To
lay the plates and set the chairs, and pass
that one plate by-that place that always
was by mine-it seemed hard. 1t was Il
very little thing; but you know how dear
these little things become to women ONE
times.
So had put it there--the empty chair;
and with its pitiinl, appealing blank
ness beside me, | sat down to the festival
meal. | remember just how everything
looked, as III a picture-my husbands face,
with its peaceful smile, and the children
grouped round iii the old places; and a
tleck of yellow sunlight that had fallen in
through the warm south window upon the
table cloth. | remember everything. |
knew that John had just bowed his head
to ask n blessing on our food, and the
childrens' eyes were closed, when | saw
| saw as distinctly as | see this paper upon
which | write the words-a shadow fall
across the empty chair.
turned my head, and | saw him, my
dead boy Willie. | know it was Willie.
Yoa need not doubt me, for I tell you |
cannot be mistaken. Should not | know
him, /, his mot.era | looked deep, deep
into his eyes. | saw the old, rare smile; |
touched his own bright curls upon his
forehead; | spoke 10 him; he spoke to me.
"Wiilie :"
"Mother :"
The voice was breatllless, but it Was his.
"Willic! Willie
Again the old, rare smile. With one
hand he motioned silence. His fathers
voice hushod the amen and the children
looked up and began their chatter.
"Did you speak to me, Mary?' asked
my husband.
No"
"Why, I thought some one spoke during
the blessing
So they did not see him. | alone was
chosen. | looked into his face, smiling,
smiling down into mine SO ;eudeily-you
cannot know how tenderly; but in his eyes
| saw-and I thought my heart would
break to see it-a certain, sad, reproach-
fll look, that | had caught m his face
once, years ago, when ! accused him of
injustice of some trifing, childish fault-a
look that had haunted me in many a still
hour since. And then | heard him say dis
tiuctly, though to not another ear was the
GREATNESS voice audible:
II want them to be happy. want you
to enjoy the day. Did you think | should
not be with you, mother?'
He was with me, thank God, and | was
happy. | talked. | laughed, | chatted with
the children; their merriment increased
with mine; my husbands pale face lighted
up. | felt my own eyes sparkling. And all
the while, where they saw only that empty
chair, | saw the beautiful, still face and
happy smile. saw him pleased with the
old familiar customs. | saw him mindful
of the children's jests. saw his eyes full
of their own home love, turn from one to
another and back again to mel saw and
I was content. All that day he was beside
me. He followed us into the sitting room
and took his old seat by the coy fire. lie
listened to his fathers stories and watched
the children at their games, and joined us
when we gathered around the piano for
our twilight song. | heard his voice; the
children asked what made me sing so
clearly.
just as the shades began to fall heavily
he drew me toward him by the frost bound
window. lie stopped and kissed me. He
took me in his arms and said, as he had
said before:
"Did you think | should not be with yotl,
mother?"
And then | missed him. | called to him,
but he did not nswer | stretched out my
arms to him, but he did not come back to
me. The room grew dark; my head swan;
| tottcred over to my husband.
s'Oh, John! | have lost him.
"Mary-why, Mary! What is the mat
ter?" and he caught ME in his arms.
/ looked up. | was not in the parlor by
the frost bound window; the children were
not beside me. The sitting oom fire had
died down into the ashes; the door into the
hall was open, aud my husband had on his
overcoat. He was holding me tightly in
his arms.
81 thought-oh, John. joint And then
I told him all my dream. When had
fl nished he was still a long time, then
sMary, perhaps the boy has been 10
you.'
At his moment the clock on the mantcl