The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1889-07-27

N3d jSEs( remind me, as lool
at her, of pair OF
SS3YD{@1ss dimpled, baby arms
S,tk.&&G5 that never more will
"N&SS-- cling to the proud
Obi yes: and more than that memory is
hidden within the folds of that black gown
There is triple story Of bereavement and
Of anguish of soul keener than that felt fol-
the dead, but, as yet, / do not know it quite
all.
She is mystery to me, and l fail to com
prehend her many times, although know
her history to be crowded with incidents
sad and tragical.
The afternoon sun comes through the lat
tice in bright golden bars, and falls lovingly
on her dark hair, revealing to me that it is
not really black, as had thought but of a
deep brown color, but she is not conscious
Of the sunshine.
The scent of the fragrant roses comes up
from the little garden below, with the
breath Of carnations and volets growing
plentiful there, but her soul is shut against
all that is beautiful in nature to-day.
She is SO strange and lives within her
self, in such an atmosphere Of deep sorrow,
that have never been able to penetrate it
and understand the heart throbbing out it's
existence TO the music Of it's dirges.
I would love to talk freely to her this
afternoon, but am at loss to know how to
begin. ] am, at best, a poor comforter; my
heart is sympathetic enough, but it's emo
lions fail ms in words. In this, as in many
ether things, am very unfortunate, and
che good that would do is never realized.
But finally venture: Miriam, would you
enjoy a drive on the beach, or shall it be a
stroll in the woods to fill up this remaining
piece Of day?''
Out there beyond the trees, and swell
ing shoreward, lie the blue waters of the
bay, and beyond booms the broad Atlantic
There is a lovely drive along the sands, and
the weather is glorious, and this is why
offer myself and pony phaeton to her, as ac-
cessories of pleasant afternoon by the
sea. But have missed 1t again, and my
suggestion CRATES or her optional pleasure.
Slowly the great dark eyes are lifted to
mine in sorrowful negative, and [ know l
have swept all irresponsible chord.
am answered further by doleful shake
of the head; but she essays no word. Small
need; I understand her.
She crunches a letter in her hand savage
1y-a letter addressed to me, yet more hers
than mine--as if to remind roe that it's con-
tents are all she has room for in her
thoughts, and that a drive on the sunny
sands would only mock the shores of moth
ing to which her soul drifts this after
noon.
Then she gets up as if | have annoyed or
disturbed'her by my question, which pre-
sumo I have, and goes down the walk to the
little wicket opening out to the clustering
trees in front of my cottage. The great
white lilies that droop either side the way
are hardly paler than She, or more inno-
cent.
The wind coming up freshly from the
water catches at her gown, and losses her
long loose curls until she s}livers. Per-
haps it whispers to her of her far away
desolate English home which stretches out
It's arms, fguratively, and begs for her
presence; entreats the proud, beautiful
face to shine once more within its great
manorial halls. If that is what the winds
and waves are saying, their petition is met,
doubtless, with cruel rebuff.
Presently she comes back to me, but, in
stead of sitting down on the ottoman at my
feet, as half expected her to do, she drops
the letter into my lap, kisses me hungrily,
whispers brokenly; II can never do it
never!' and goes upstairs. make no an
swer; there are no words left me adequate,
neither does she look for q reply.
take up the letter, and although know
It by heart must needs run over it again.
It. has come all the way from Hastings, that
beautiful city by the sea, in merrie old
England, and is a. call from desolated
Heatherleigh Manor. "Do know aughh of
Miriam Percival Fairfax? If SC, tidings of
her will be thankfully received. The grand
old hall is waiting at her disposal, as the
death of Sir Rupert Percival and his writ
ten request leaves her the sole legatee." /
am not allowed to answer the letter; Miri
am will not have it so, and Heatherleigh is
nothing to me. OF course / have told her
she had better go, but with look Of horror
in those haunting eyes of hers, she has re-
fused emphatically, as whispering with
white lips she tells me that she 'hdtes her
ancestral halls and ''that have no idea
what 1 ask Of her"
Perhaps I don't, and the deep aversion
ranking in her soul toward her birthplace
comes kissing through the white teeth, and
effectually silences me in protesting further.
She came to me two years ago, sad and
sorrowing, from the newly made graves of
husband and child. Remember" she said
to me once, shat my husband and son sleep
where the shadows of Heatherleigh fall not
on them. My poor, brave Arthur could not
rest well if they did, and my little one has
forgotten, on his dreamless pillow, the
curse that turned him away from it's male
dictive DOORS"
have not questioned her, regarding her
sorrows and grievances as too sacredly her
own for my Intrusive inquiries, and she has
only revealed that which she chooses to tell.
But she is the daughter of my dead
friend, and therefore open my arms, and
receive the desolate, heart~broken woman
into my home and heart. I f1atter myself,
too, that her sorrows have been somewhat
mitigated through my efforts. She is
cheerful, even, sometimes as we stroll in
the fields, or wander off among the ragged
hills where the wild heatherbell and bar
berry grow.
One time in particular remember, as I
sit holding the crumpled letter, scene
that with her face comes back to me, as
beautiful dreams come sometimes across
our days of care.
We had wandered up the hills, and were
sitting at the foot of a tree, resting. Our
baskets beside us were filed with the red
fruit Of the barberry, and wreathed with
ferns and gayly- colored leaves. In the dis
lance shone the blue waters OF the bay,
Z, %ho nj c1rv