The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1888-04-27
EUNICE GRAY,
CLERMONT AVE,
Brooklyn.


was pleasure, and when it fell to my
lot to write something about collision
between an ice-cart and horse-car, in
which an old lady was killed, the mat
ter-of-fact editor said to ME: "What's
the matter with you? Take this con-
founded blank verse and make stick
full of common sense of it." came
down out of the clouds and did his bid
ding, and slept but little that night
after finding my pillow.
kissed my dear old mother with
unwonted tenderness that morning.
She was all had in the world then,
and l was all she had; my father hay
ing died ten years before, leaving her
with q slender fortune, and myself and
an elder sister to smooth as best we
could her path down the declining
years of her life.
A little more than year before, my
sister had been taken with q severe
cold, which ended in fatal attack of
pneumonia, and she was lying by the
side of our father in the shades of
Greenwood. and poor mother, like
Rachael. would not be comforted."
When / met Eunice that morning,
she held out her hand, covered with
the same neatly darned gloves, and l
could not feel as if we were strangers.
l told her so, and also what little of
history there was in my humdrum, un-
eventful life, and asked her if she
would allow me to call at her home
that night and finish my story.
She said: II have but poor home
to show you, but if you will come, I
shall be glad to see YOU"
How slow the hours passed that day,
and when the hour of seven came.
rung the bell at cottage door, which
she herself opened to me. She had
changed her street attire, and had re-
placed it by house dress of some soft
gray material, and looked lovelier to
me than ever.
She took me into the little rear par
lor, where, in reclining chair, sat, or
rather lay, lady whose hair was
snowy white, and whose pinched face
and care-furrowed brow still held the
traces of the beauty which once must
have made her aremarkably handsome
woman.
Mother" said Eunice, "this is Mr..
Grayson, the gentleman / told you of
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 itP And told you when I came
home tonight that he was coming to
see us. Do you remem berpn
Yes, Eunice, 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 l can see
you plainly" said Eunice's mother
She eagerly scanned my face for a
whole minute, which seemed an age,
and then said: Yes, l think you
could be patient too, but could you
wait for letter for four years?" And
then the tears ran down the pinched,
wan face, and the sobbing brought Oh
a cough which ended in flow of bright
blood from the pale, thin lips.
Eunice took the pillows from under
her mothers head and while l offere d
to run for physician, she had poured
out some styptic already at hand, aud
the hemorrhage was stayed. She fell
asleep soon after, and we sat silent
by her side for awhile. and uncon-
| sciously had clasped our hands.
After time, when her mother slept
soundly. we walked noiselessly into
the front room, and almost in whis-
per Eunice told mo 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 in grain and provision house
in Broad street, and from his share of
the profits had bought the home where
they now lived, and had laid by for a
rainy day snug sum of money in
bonds One day friend, whose iudg-
ment he thought infaliible, came to
him and unfolded scheme where large
profits We're sure to ensue, but which
TOOK more money than he alone could
command, Mr.. Robert Gray took all
his savings except two thousand dol
lars and embarked In the undertaking.