The Monitor. [volume] (Woodstown, N.J.) 1884-1892, 1888-09-14
BY LOVE RECALLED.

WY III y-h ItS4taifs solItlJ LOu IdeS
no other lares'
THO SICK ram lifted himself Of his pill
Low and looKcd eagerly, fcarfully, in the
f.cc above MIN.
It was Il naughty yet frank countenance
"a face which mingled strength Of will
with pride, amt tenderness with truth,
yet had enough poetic fire in it to make
tho request his father made Of Clarence
Livingstone q very hard one fer him to
grant.
For Elmar Livingstone, dying, remem-
bered the wrongs lone by him Tin the
days Of nature" and, recalling a lucky
venture, which by enriching him had
beggared another, asked his son to take
that others orphan daughter for his
wife.
Clarence knew nothing Of the hour OF
temptation which saw his fathers fall
knew of no reason more powerful than
Christian charity which had induced his
father to adopt the penniless girl when
she was left alone in the world; and, full
of fair dreams for his future, he shrank
from Il marriage with one whom he had
rarely acen in his years Of study and
travel, aud who was only to him n shy,
awkward child-no more.
81 have no love-" lie answered. "Why
do yol ask this of me, my dear father?
Make any provision yon wish for Miss
Munroe, dover her as richly as you
CHOOSE; bt;t leave her, rs l pray you TO
leave lac-iree. / have 10 love for her,
nor she for Inc; we are strangers. Let US
remain so, lest i'll matingu us as 0 would,
You do both lives injury"
"Stoop Gown, Clarence. She loves
you; you nave been her hero, her idol for
years. / have fostered her idolatry, for I
have wished to atone for the wrong l did
her; and there is but one way-to make
her the VIE of my only son. Ny boy, you
will not refuse TO make my last hour
e~asicrf'
Father, | would purchase your peace
with lay life, were it possible. But there
is surely some othe: way than this, and |
will find it. What is the wrong of which
you speak? / nus know it since / am
10 atone; and trust me, my father, though
it take my life, l will not fail to make the
atonement n complete one"
"There is no other way moaned the
sick man; land since you bid me unseal
my lips, l will tell rou how / gained my
wealth, anG planted my life with aloes of
remorse, my son. NY cordial! The story
is not long, but very hard to tell-very
hard, my boy-for it will make you blush
for your father"
And, while the summer night closed in
gray and spectral, Clarence Livingstone,
listening to his fathers story OF a credu-
lous friend betrayed, ana wealth snatched
from n t~oo-trustiD9 hand, bent his young
head in a humiliation wholly new II
wholly intolerab!e to him.
Without, in the clustering shadows Of
the veranda, droopiag like Il lily on its
stem, stood Lana Munroc, drinking in the
tale with pulses beating as strongly as
those in the breast of her Clarence, in her
own girlish bosom, pain as Keen, regret
as bitter; for she had loved Eimar Living
stone as a second father, and felt the sin
of the dying as keenly as the wrong done
the dead.
Besides, another pang was hers-for
Clarence had begged his father not to
ask him to be more than a stranger to
her!
The story was told, and the old man lay
painting on his pillows, his face damp
with dews of coming death; and the girl,
peering into the chamber with wide pain
darkened eyes, saw Clarence on his knees
beside the couch.
"Forgive me, my son; | did the wrong
for you" came hoarsely to her from the
drawn lips of the dying. Make her
your wife, and all will be well. She is
pure as a flower unplucked. She has
grown dear to me rs IL daughter; and, my
boy, she loves you!"
A hot flush crept into her face at the
low broken words, but it died instantly,
for Clarence was replying, and she bent
her face to her hands rs she listened.
"She may be all you say came in the
clear tones of the young man but she is
no more to me than Il flower which | have
no wish to gather. If she loves me it is
with n childish love, which will not lin
ger. Rest content, father, she shall not
suffer through your-your regard for me.
will give back all the i'll gotten wealth.
But / will keep my freedom; Icannot sell
it, father"
"What do you meant"
"That | Will make over TO Miss Munroe
every acre that you leave me-every fnrth-
ingthatisherdue. Nay, not one dissenting
word" as the old man stroyc to speak.
"Let me keep my honesty, and make
my way with clear hands, If empty
ones. ! would not oilrr my and to your
ward now, even though / loved her,
which / do not"
Clarence, my CON-
"Fathcr, say no more, but trust to me;
now you shall sleep"
The girl, shaken tyhuslcd sobs, turned
from the silTery night, and glided into
the house like u shadow.
Ere morning dawncd, the houl Of FL
$50. T -f,A. tat.. l.,1 ,yAf. .rt.H. 1,,,A,
eye could not follow It's flight, free of the
clogging clay, to its Judgment.
And, as untracciblc, it would seem, as
the spirit of thc Iaaa who had wronged
her, yet guarded her youth, Lena Munroe
had also gone with the night, leaving no
token behind her, bidding no farewell,
Six years later the accident occurred on
the midnight train which filled the hos
pital of C. with motuiug life, or
crushed and shapcless bodies, in which
was left scarcely strength to sigh.
The nurses went from pallet to pallet,
holding bandages. aiding to bind upgreat
gaping wounds, shrinking from the sight
Of severed arms, but putting personal
feeling away before the great needs that
met them.
One nurse, with sweet blue eyes, tender
and pitiful, gave Il low cry at last, rs tine
surgeon whose assistant she was paused
beside Il cot on which n young man lay
unconscious.
"You know him. the surgeon asked
her, regarding her blanched face cur
iously.
She bent her head in silence, n sob
bursting from hcrlips.