Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1888-04-27

busy men do, when one day he realized
that 1t was more than six weeks since he
had heard from his child friend, Laura
Holt. "How odd that the little soul
has not written" he thought: "perhaps,
she, too, has forgotten"
However, as he had just got some
numbers Of a magazine in which a short
story OF his was appearing that month,
he put wrapper round one and adj
dressed it to Miss Laura Holt" and by
return of post there came for him letter
in a strange handwriting bearing the
post mark of the town in which she lived.
Ay, but was it SO strange? Amyatt
stared at it for full minute before he
opened it. his memory going back, back,
back-Oh! to the days of his boyhood,
gone never to come again, never any
more. And then, when he tore the cover
and found that it contained a little note
in his friends round handwriting, that
memory straightway vanished.
Dear Mr.. John Dawes" it said,
''thank you 80 much for sending me the
story. Mother is just going to read it 10
me, but wanted to write to you first.
You must have thought it odd l didn't
write SO long. have been very i'll, and
can only sit up for few minutes and
write with pencil now think l am
rather better. have been five weeks in
bed already. Ever your loving friend,
LAURA"
Naturally, Amyatt knew but little
about the ailments of children, but it
seemed to him that for child of years
old to be in bed five weeks at stretch,
with no immediate prospect of getting up
again. was a very bad sign, and in his
anxiety he appealed to the regimental
surgeon.
whats the matter with the child"
he asked.
~ don't know"
Then you'd better make the illness
shorter, or give it scarlet fever" he said,
thinking that Amyatt was merely stating
a case for one of his stories.
"But it is real child" the major ex-
planned.
Very bad look out, then," returned
the doctor, decidedly.
Then Amyatt wrote to the mother.
II shall be grateful if you will tell me
how my little friend u.s." he said. II
assure you if had known her for twenty
years / could not feel more anxious than
her letter has made me feel this morn
ing" Yet even when this was gone, he
still could not take his thoughts away
from the dear little friend whom he had
never seen, lying prostrate-for the
handwriting told him she must be indeed
very ill-on bed of sickness and pain.
In two days the reply came-written
in the same hand as the cover of the
child's last letter, handwriting which set
every nerve in his body throbbing, every
pulse beating like steam engine.
my little girl is very, very i'll, " Mrs.
Holt wrote; "much worse since she
wrote to you, and the doctors told me
last night that l must be ready to face
the worst. When l tell you that she and
l are quite alone in this world, you will
know what my agony is. l can't write
about it. l can only thank you and bless
you for all the pleasure you have given
her, and beg you, utter stranger that you
are, to pray that this blow may not fall
upon me. Yours gratefully.
LAURA ST. MARY HOLT"
Utter stranger that you arel" Why,
even in his concern and distress, Amyatt
almost laughed out aloud A stranger to
her-a stranger! Why the letter. the
handwriting. the name, had all brought
back the self same memory that the cover
of the child's letter had called back only
the other day! The memory of WHAT
Well, just this-of the only woman that
he had ever asked to be his wife, the only
woman he had ever loved.
She had told him frankly and simply
that she was engaged to another man,
and Amyatt had rushed away, never
asking, in his misery, so much as his
rivals name.
So it had been Holt! And he was
dead. Yes, evidently he was dead, for
she had said that she and the child-the
child who was dying-were quite alone
in the world
But he could help her therel She
should be alone in the world no longer,
for he would go to her-he would stand
between her and the world, he would offer
her his strong arm and his true heart to
guard her from all evil to keep her so that
trouble should not come nigh her.
Ay, but could he help her so that
trouble should not come nigh her9 No;
no, alas! for when he reached her side,
her little child was-dead. John Strange
Winter in OndOn Tadies' Pictorial