The Superior times. [volume] (Superior, Wis.) 1870-1912, 1889-03-02
CHAPTER XIV.

clouded to another besides Raymond
Bristol. There was little woman, o
little, lonely wife, wandering over the
earth, from place to place, carrying as
heavy burden as her soul could bear
\ long future lay before her, without
one visible raw of sunshine to light up
the lonely, dark road. This lonely
little homeless wife was Lenora Bris-
toll On that darkest of dark nights
that she left the mansion, alone, friend
less, and almost penniless, and after
her lonely walk to the city, she reached
the cottage with the light in the win
dow"
That cottage was the first on that
street, and its only occupant was a
poor, lone widow that once had been
the wife of fond, loving husband,
and the mother of two beautiful chill
dren. All We're now gone from the
world, and their bodies were at rest in
the little quiet cemetery by the old
white church. AS this poor widow
opened the door and saw a woman
standing there in the rain and cold, the
kind, saddened heart went out to that
poor, lone wanderer, and then when
Lenora sank to the floor she pitied her
still more.
Poor, dear soul, no doubt she is bur
dened with sorrow, and perhaps is
dear little lam b that has strayed from
the flock. / am glad | have left that
light in the window these long years,
for perhaps it has done one poor soul
some good.
She partly carried and partly
dragged the limp cold body and
laid it gently down upon low worn
sofa; the black dripping hat and long
heavy veil were then removed from the
head, and the old lady's eye rested on
young beautiful woman.
"Ahl Dear, sad heart, so fair, so
young to see trouble; but then the
world is full of it, no matter where we
go"
Mrs. Bassett for that was her name)
stirred up the fire and put the kettle
on; in few minutes hot, steaming
cup of tea sat on the table that stood
near the lounge; the warm fire and the
gentle chatting of the cold hands and
| face soon caused Lenora to open her
eyes, and as she looked up she saw a
sad gentle face bending over her; the
hair was white and the eyes had lost
| the brightness of youth, yet around the
mouth played a sweet gentle smile.
as that you, mother? and have you
come to me at last? Oh, it is all so
terrible, and 1 need you so much. You
know now all about it, and you know
it isn't true. [ am going to Chicago on
the first train an see if | can't find
some clue to this strange mystery. You
/ believe in me, don't you, mother? /
knew you would"
eyes, dear, do" and Mrs. Bassett
! stopped and kissed the cold white
brow, while a few motherly tears
/ trinkled down her pale, hollow cheek.
She readily saw that Lenora was de-
lirious, and as she had been a nurse
| since her husbands death, she knew
/ just what to do and say.
Here is cup of good hot tea have
brought for you; you seem chilly, and
this will do you good"
| Lonora sat up and drank the tea.
How pretty you have made my
room look, and did you or nurse build
that nice bright fire? How is baby,
mother? Tell nurse to bring her here.
| want to see her-there, now, [ drank
/ the tea, see? and that will do"
You feel little better now, don't
/ you? Nurse said baby was asleep,
and we won't disturb it. You lie down
now and go to sleep, for 1 believe you
are tired"
The poor, weary young wife obeyed,
and was soon asleep. That was the
| first night, of many more following,
that kind Mrs. Bassett sat up and
watched over the feverish, delirious
stranger for three long weeks.
Lenora lay in that pretty little clean
cottage, and her unknown friend did
everything she could for her beautiful
| strange patient.
Lenora had gone again and again
over those awful days and nights, and
Mrs. Bassett now knew who her pa
! tient was, but she said nothing to any
one about what Lenora would say
At the end of three weeks Lenora
began to grow better, but very slowly
/ five, six weeks had passed, and she was
able to walk round the cottage, and
/ felt quite strong. She wanted to leave
/ there then, but her kind friend would
not consent to her going just yet.
You may go in one week if you
promise to be careful of yourself, but
| no sooner"
Il shall miss you very much, for you
have been ike a mother to me; but
you know l can't stay here, for the
/ memory of it all would kill me, and
then | must go to Chicago to see what
[ can do. | would just as soon die as
live, now, but l am not the one to say
that it is time for my troubles to cease,
and l pray God may give me strength
/ to bear them"
| LTo BE CONTINUED