The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1888-08-04

Perhaps Emily felt this; for as she raised
herself little from her sofa. and held out
her hand to Mr.. Stenhouse, there was not
trace of agitation or confusion in her
manner.
81 am very glad to see you. II was SO
| kind of you to come. Did you leave your
wife quite well? and all the children"
Commonplace, simple words they were
| the simplest, most natural, that could
possibly be chosen and yet they were the
best and safest They took off the edge
of that sharp agony which was thrilling
through every fiber of the strong mans
heart They brought him back TO the COM
monplace daily world, TO his daily duties,
and his ordinary ways. The wholesome,
| saving present came between him aud the
delirious past. And though it was Emily
old smile, her very tone of voice, and
trick of manner she had how well he re-
called it, of half extending her hand, draw
ing it back, and then putting il forward
again, with the uncertainty that was the
| weak point III her character still lie had
no desire TO snatch her TO his arms, and
hold her there, in her old, familiar place,
like any mortal woman. lie felt inclined
rather TO stand apart and gaze at her, as
| she lay, cOnsecrated from earthly emotion,
| III her almost superhuman peace, or else to
fall on his knees and worship her, as Dante
| worshlped his Beatrice when he met her IN
the fields OF Paradise. And he found him
self powerless to say any other words than
one or two, as brief and inexpensive az
| her own.
MY wife and the children are well. 1t
! was very good of you to send for me, after
| had been so rude, 80 ungrateful almost,
| to your husband"
= Emily bent her lead, acquiescing; and
| then, as If with great effort;
i had something to say 10 YOU some
| thing / thought you would listen to, from
me, now. / entreat you to accept this
! partnership. 1t will be good thing for
| you, and an equally good thing for Sir
| John aud Mr.. knowle. You would like Sir
| john very much if you knew him very well.
| lie knew nothing about you and me till
| lately. And he has been such good, good
| husband to me-
Thank God for that If if he had
| been anything else than good to you"
| And then, shocked by the sound of his
own harsh voice Earring on the stiffness of
| the room, and still more SO by perceiying
the sudden tremor that came over Lady
Bowerbank, lie stopped, recognizing the
sanctlty of sickness of near advancing
death.
yes" he added, almost in a whisper, 81
y
| am not ashamed of his knowing in
decd, / have been asking Mrs. Knowle TO
tell nIm-how very poor we are, and are
likely TO remain; and that if he really still
wishes me TO accept his offer, / will do my
utmost TO prove deserving of it..
VIII you? oh, will your" clasping her
| hands IN her old, pretty childish way at
| anything she was very glad of.
John Stenhouse turned away,
| 1T Is not easy, but | will do it because
! you wish 1t for your sake"
mo, do it for your own" said Emily,
! solemnly, with ali the old childish manner
| gone. DO it, that you may take wise
mans advantage of this chance of getting
on IN the world, and living fully the life
that is before you. Think, life of twenty,
| thirty years, with work to do, and money
, to use, and influence to make the most of,
for the good of yourself and all that belong
! to YOU. That is what | want. want you
! to lead your own noble, active, useful life
Just as | once planned it though it was
! not to be beside me, and though | shall not
even see IT. for am going away, John
| you know that2"
He could not deny it; he did not even
| attempt to do so; he just moved his lips,
| but they would not form a sound
Yes, going away-in a few days, or a
few weeks moro, to where | know | shall
be quite happy happier than l ever could
| he here. j only wished before ] went to
let you know the truth. She" glancing to
Mrs. knowle, she has told you aIl?"
"1es," he muttered, but attempted not
nor did Emily offer, any further explana-
ton. One a husband, the other a wife,
with the shadow of the dead father between
thcm-it was impossible. The past was
over and done. But the present was peace
all peace.
And now good-by, and God bless you!"
SAID Emily, family. Give my love TO your
wife. Does she know anything about me?"
No; never told her"
All, well, let that be as You choose
And one thing know | have forgotten
| one thing that had to say to you-Mrs.
| hnowle, what is II? Oh my head. Please,
Mrs. knowle, will you help me?' with the
querulous tone and wandering eye which
told at once how fast her sand of life was
running. Yes, remember now; it wa, to
give you this taking valuable diamond
| brooch from under her pillow, land to ask
/ you II you ever have a little daughter of
! your own, TO give it to her from me. And
| perhaps, if your wife did not object. YOU
| wouldn't mind calling her Emily?"
Nobody answered or stirred, not even
| Mrs. knowle, who stood at The window
IN nurses vacant place, and John Stem
| t4Net@~l HAAS aNI OpiOoitS tue SOFA Nntie
! Lady bowerbank lay sat, with his hands
! clasped tightly on his knee, looking at her.
as II lie wished to carry away the last pie.
ture OF her, vivid as life and youth, per-
manent as love and death.
At length he moved, and, taking the
| brooch from her hand, kissed both, and SO
babe her farewell.
III You come soon 10 settle in Iiyerpool,
perhaps | may see you once more," said
she gently, and with a sort Of compassion
IL her voice, for she saw that he was abso
lutely dumb with sorrow. But both knew
that this was only a fiction TO hide the last
geod-by; and when the door closed be-
tween them, both felt that they would
never see one another again.
They mover did, though Lady BowerbanB
| lived Tor several weeks longer, and even
after the time when the Stenhouses came
to settle in Liverpool. She heard all about
| them from Mrs. knowle, who, il her GUS
tomary active way, TaB exceedingly helpful
to the rather helpless Indian lady; and SIZE
sesfned to take faint, Pickering interest
the last interest Of her fading life-in
the house they fixed on, the manner they
furnished II, and their general household
| ways. Nay, she sent many little gifts TO
them harmless, domestic gifts, such as
not even the pf0udest man could reject. and
| which, without making any external show
OF giving, greatly added to the comfort #
Mr. Stenhouses home. But she ne cr
asked TO see him again. she seemed 10
feel that the last meeting had been a peace- .
tul closing of everything that bound her
to life, and everything that made death
painful; apparently she did not wish to re-
we either, but lay perfectly at rest, wait
ing patiently for the supreme call.
II came at last, quite suddenly: as often 4
happens IN consumption, when both the
watchers and the patient are luled into
| hope that is still far distant. Size had no
one With her, and no time to say farewell
70 anybod!' only the nurse, running to her
and bending over her, fancied there came
through the choking Of the expiring breath
the words, John dear john"
consequently. the woman fetched Sir
John, and told him, and Mrs. Knowle, and
everybody, that Lady Bowerbank's last
words had been her husbands name. No
body contredioted the fact.