St. Paul daily globe., 1888-06-24

and when the hour of came rang the
bell at cottage door, which she her
self opened to me. She had changed
her street attire, and had replaced it by
house dress of some soft, gray ma
terial, and looked lovelier to me than
ever.
She took me into the little rear parlor
where, in reclining chair sat, or rather
lay, lady whose hair was snowy white,
and whose pinched face and care-fur-
rOwed brow still held the traces of the
beauty which once must have made her
remarkably handsome woman.
Mother" said Eunice, ''thiS is Mr..
GraySon, the gentleman told you of a
month ago, and said he woke up and
offered me his seat in the bridge car
after we got over on the other side. Do
you remember, you almost laughed over
it? And told you when l came home
tonight that he was coming to see us.
DO you remember?''
"Yes. Eunice, l seem to remember;
but do not remember things as well as
when your father was here. Was there
no letter tO-day?"
''No mother; but there may be one
tomorrow. We must be patient, you
know"
''Mr. GraysOn, sit where can see you
plainly" said Eunice's mother
She eagerly scanned my face for a
whole minute, which seemed an age,
and then said: Eyes, think you could
be patient, too, but could you wait for a
letter for four years?"
And then the tears ran down the
pinched, wan face, and the sobbing
brought on cough which ended in a
flow OF bright blood from the pale, thin
lips.
Eunice took the pillows from under
her mothers head, and while | offered
to run for physician, she had poured
out some Styptic already at hand, and
the hemorrhage was stayed. She fell
asleep soon after, and we sat silent by
her side for awhile, and unconSciously
had clasped our hands.
After time, when her mother slept
soundly, we walked noiselessly into the
front room, and almost in a whisper
Eunice told me the story of her own
and her mothers life.
Until five years before she, her father
and mother. had lived a quiet, happy
life, her father being junior partner
i'll grain and provision house i'm Broad
street, and from his share of the profits
had bought the home where, they now
lived, and had laid by for rainy day
snug sum of money in bonds. One day
a friend. whose judgment he thought
lntalllble, came to him and untOtded
scheme where large profits were sure
to ensue, but which took more money
than he alone could command.
Robert Gray took all his savings eX-
cept 81, 900 and embarked in the under
taking. Then further sum was re-
quired. and rather than take his little
remaining hoard, he indOrsed his
friends notes with his firms name,
which was violation of his copartner-
ship agreement.
The project failed, and Mr.. Gray,
after writing brOken-hearted letter to
his wife, explaining all the circum-
stances, and another to his firm, in
which he stated that he would in time
make good the loss he had caused them,
had left the city, and from that day no
word had been heard from him. His
firm refused to take from Mrs. Gray the
little money that she had, or even ac-
cept from her the deeds of her home
stead, which stood in her name, and
said they were willing to wait Mr.
Gray'S own time for settlement.
In all these years no word had come
from her father. They had lived as
economically as they could, and had let
the upper floor of the cottage to a
tenant, and still they had to encrOach
on their small boarding. The mothers
health was broken, and she became a
confirmed invalid, which added another
drain. Eunice, who was but sixteen at
the time of her fathers flight, saw but
one way out of the difficulty. She must
go to work. Through her own eXer-
tiOnS she secured work in bookbind-
cry where she now was, and was earn
ing fair wages, and there her story
ended.
''Oh! Mr.. Grayson," she added, ''if
only mother could get strong again, and
father would return, / would be happy
girl again." and she broke down with a
burst of tears.
l comforted her as best I could, and
asked her how long her mother had been
SO I'LL. She said she had her first suffu-
sion of blood in the early spring, but
since then they had been rather fire.
quent, and sometimes alarming, but the
medicine the doctor had prescribed had
always checked them.
When left her that night told her:
81 always want to be your friend, and if
L can be any service in any way, and do
not see it myself, you will, know, point
it out to me-" And then we said our
first good night"
Early next morning told my mother
the entire story of our acquaintance and
begged her to call ON Mrs. Gray and see
if anything could be done to relieve her
in any way, which she promised to do.
Eunice had told me when parted at
night that she might he late in going
over, but l could call the next evening
If would, to see how her mother was,
so did not wait at the bridge and took
lonely ride.
When l reached home that night l
fOnpd n motto from upnfhar oclyipr mo 70
come at once to Mrs. Gray's. arrived
there only to find my worst fears real
lied. The poor woman had had a
return of the hemorrhage shor tly
after my mothers arrival, the physician
had been unable to stop it, and her life
had ebbed away.
There is no need to tell of the quiet
funeral, or of the drive back from the
family plot to our own home, where
mother insisted Eunice should stay for
a few days, until she had learned better
to bear her grief. The days grew to
weeks, and every time mention was
made by the poor girl of the necessity of
her going home and back to her work.
mother said, mot yet"
What use is there to tell how we two
grew to love each other, or of the state
of my own heart, for was well aware
that Eunice knew even if l had not
spoken.
One night as we sat by the fire In our
snug parlor, it was shortly before Easter
a year ago, mother said gently:
"Eunice, dear, you have no mother,
l have no daughter. l will gladly be
your mother if you will be my child.'' l
knelt at her feet and said, "For my
sake"
And so she staid. The cottage where
her mother died was rantad anfira ond