Barton County democrat. [volume] (Great Bend, Kan.) 1885-1915, 1889-08-22
DEAD TO THE WORLD.
A Story OF Devotion and of Wasted
Opportunities.

1t was as superintendent of an old
cemetery, in a lake-shore city, that 1
came to know Miss Abbie Pennel. A
1iet spot it was, though the growth of
population had brought it almost into
the heart of the town; sacred as the
resting place of most of the early resi-
dents. and where few were buried save
as. now and then, some old person was
brought to be laid beside families and
friends who had been awaiting them,
perhaps for years. Hence, little of the
passion of fresh grief entered at those
old stone gates, and eyes grew moist
with the mist of tende.. recollection,
rather than with the tears of smarting
sorrow. Time had laid his finger in
soothing touches on the hearts of the
mourners. and in lichens and MOSES
On the quaint old monumental stones.
A liking for the place grew upon me
Cor its peaceful silence, Accumulated by
the stir and hustle of the city streets
outside its walls. In summer evenings,
when the bird-voices in the tall, old
silver naples were hushed, and the
passers through the long. straight
walks were all gone. l would often
pace up and down. with the dusky tree
shadows falling around me, and the
white stones over the sleeping dead
lifting thick on every side, and wonder
as to the history of that great company
on whose every book of life fms was
written. And so. walking through
them day by day, musing of the hopes
81
ashes, an emotion of sympathy and in
terest in them grew upon me, sense
of friendliness-I had almost said, of
acquaintance. strange feelings, indeed,
toward spirits who had long passed
beyond the need. if not the knowledge,
of any of the gifts poor mortality can
bestOw.
Among the graves that from age,
epltaph, or some eXtraneous cause,
soon drew my attention, was one in a
retired corner, noticeable for the con-
slant care with which it was tended
and the fresh flowers on it; renewed
as often as they faded, while the
modest headstOne bore date some
thirty years before.
Strong indeed:' said to myself.
must this affection be that after all
these years fOrgets not its sorrowful
ministry"
Malcolm Mcknight Randall" read
the inscription. "a young man of
great promise, drowned May %, 1S-,
aged twenty-five years"
Poor fellow" thought, .gifted,
no doubt, beyond the measure of men,
loved, also, it would seem, beyond
their measure" A daguerreotype was
liked in the front of the stone, but sun
and storm had dimmed the lineaments,
till only the eye of affectionate re-
membrance could possibly trace them.
And whose that was had not long
to question. Every afternoon she
came through the old, arched gate, a
slight, gray-haired figure in black,
with face that no features or years
could ever make plain, holding. as it
did, the beauty of rare sweetness
ard serenity. Making her way to
young Randalfs grave, she would re-
main often for an hour or more, tend
ing the plants that grew about it, or
sitting by the grassy mound, her head
the soft, blue eyes. that, despite their
brightness. always held certain pa
thetic wistfulness.
do you know that lady?" one day
asked an old factotum of the cemetery,
as the little figure ir black passed US.
''Oh, that's Miss Abbie Pennel; she's
been a milliner here for over thirty
years"
"And what relation was she to the
young man whose grave she cares for?''
well, now.n resting his hands on
tho spade with which he had been
trlnming the walks. lyon look at il
one way. an she want no connection,
an another way. an she was, or pret-
ty nigh it for she and Randall was to
have been married in a week or so,
Remember him7 Oh. yes A dashin'
sort Of q chap. handsome, I believe
the girls called him. Some Sad he
might hsv been stiddier, but I dom,