The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1889-06-15

written, for just as Isabel had seated her.
self at the desk, Mr.. Falconer came in with
a telegram from her aunt, announcing the
death of John Harmon, and asking her to
come at once.
"Poor auntie," she said, with a sigh,
ssthough it is really q blessing, yet it will be
such shock to her, for she loved him, and
was always hoping against hope that he
would yet reform"
s'Do you wish me to go with you, OF
would you prefer going alone?" he said, as
he smoothed her hair with sympathetic
hand.
Il think had better go alone,'' she said,
slowly, after moments thought: ut
might distress auntie to have stranger
see her in her sorrowful, straitened circum-
stances"
s'True, your intuitions are finer than mine;
but dread to have you take the journey
alone"
"Do not fear for me-" she replied, quietly.
i am accustomed to travelling alone, and
shall do nicely.''
.'You will stop in New York and bring
Miss Ford home with you?" he said, inter-
negatively.
Eyes, think sou she replied, looking up
at him with pleased smile; chow readily
| you plan for me-"
eff you find her badly off, had better
meet you in New York, in order to assist
her." he suggested.
'Thank you; will telegraph to you in
time should I need your assistance"
There was barely time to pack the trunk
before the carriage would be at the door
to carry her to the station, and she had lit
tie time to think Of any thing but the det~dls
of the unexpected Journey Mr.. Falconer
took roll OF bills from his bill-book.
''Isabel, he said, II wish you to go amply
provided to do whatever is needed for your
aunt, you can help her moW to advantage.
Please feel no restrictions whatever, and if
there is not enough ask for more, and leave
| her comfortable"
ssMr. Falconer,'' she said, in trembling
voice.
81 do not wish any one who has loved and
| such abundance. I should he ashamed of
myself could allow it," He spoke kindly
and firmly.
81 can not tell you how gratifying it will
| be to me to be able to relieve the distress
expect to find,'' she said, as she put the bills
away.
! AS the train whizzed along her mind took
retrospective turn. Only three short
! months ago, and she had passed over THE
road bride, III such maze Of strangeness
| that she hardly realized that it was herself.
| Her book Of experiences had been unfold
| ing ever since, and what a delightful one it
| was, so widely different from any thing she
| had ever dreamed of, and sine thought Of
| her husband with a warm thrill at her
heart. 1.-THE kindest and most unseltish of
! men," she murmured, ''and Oracle, sweet
| darling! could a mother ask for a loveier
| chlld2''
She was thoroughly rested now. Mind
and body had been treated to such an en-
| tire change that she was once more bueyant
with life and energy, and the peevtshness
| produced by the long routine of work and
mental aggravation, which had so worn
upon her nervous system, had passed
! away, and she was going to her aunt in her
need with every faculty on the alert, and
! with her tenderness aroused toward the
| friend who had been all the mother she had
| ever known.
A lady sat before her, holding a little girl
| in her arms; the child was peevsh '.Go
to sleep. DEAR" said the lady, kindly. clay
your head on my shoulder and take q nap''
ooh, auntie, can't" The child was al
most sobbing with excitement and weari-
ness, for they had come a long Journey.
"AuntieG' The word, so familiar struck
| a vibrating chord in Isabels heart, and re-
| minded her of the loving care her aunt had
given her in the old days, before poverty
| and sorrow had come to wiring her heart and
! chill her affections.
| One time Of sickness she remembered in
| particular, when Mrs. Harmon had nursed
her night and day for weary weeks, and
| tears Of joy rose to her eyes as she remem-
| bered that she had it in her power to re
in doh of
tude.
| Meanwhile Mrs. Harmon was sitting in
| her poor home in maze of sorrowful
| trouble; John Harmon had been unusually
! dissipated for the last six months, and her
poor heart had sank away down, out of
! sight of hope or courage, and she had
prayed wildly that SOMETHING might come to
| change the miserable routine
| Something had come; he was a carpen-
| ter, and in ascendinga ladder in state of
intoxlcation his foot slipped, and, falling, his
| neck was broken, causing instantdeath, and
| when he was carried to his miserable home,
| which he had left that morning with curses
and threats, the poor wife felt as if in some
| way she was responsible for the awful oc-
! currence.
| She longed for, yet dreaded, Isabel's adj
vent in the shabby little cottage. She had
| written so little since her marriage that her
! aunt had little idea of what her manner of
! life was now, but she was sure Of one thing,
! that it would De painful to her to come into
the home, which nad so long sheltered her,
and see the ravages drink had made, for
she had been obliged to part with every
thing of value in the house, an old secreta-
| ry and s shabby old bureau and a battered
| sewing-machine the only pieces of furni-
ture left which were not actually indispen-
sable.
| She remembered only too well the girls
last stay at home; how her very soul rose
| up in rebellion against John Harmon's
course, and the bitter words and scornful
| looks which made it relief when she went
! away, for he was not man to bear inter-
| ference, and lsabels fierce disapproval only
drove him into more logged persistence in
| wrong doing.
She almost repented sending for her, as
she thought it all over, and then longing
| desire to see her, to lean upon her strong
young arm for support, would possess her,
and she could hardly await patiently the
hour of her arrival.