Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-02-18
MISS BRETHERT0N
By MRS. HUMPHREY WARD,

DIV W AISOs
 Eustace still felt the caressing touch of the thin fingers casped round his. It seemed to him as if the life still left in her were one pure flame Of love, undimmed by any thought of self, undisturbed by any breath of pain. Oh. this vi ,tory of the spirit over the desh of soul oves. body, which humanity achieves and renews from day to day and from age to age, in all ihose nobler and finer personalities upon whom the moral life of the world de pendsl How it burns its testimony into the heart of the spectatorl How it makes him thrill with the apprehension which lies at the root of all religion-the apprehension of an ideal order-the divine suspicion
 That we are greater than we know,
 How it inpresses itself upon us as the only miracle which will bear our leaning upon, and stand the strain of human questioningl It was borne in upon Eustace, as he sat bowed beside his dying sister that through this fragile body and this failing breath the Eternal Mind was speak. ing, and that in Marie's love the Eter- nal Love was taking voice. He said so to her brokenly, and her sweet eyes smiled back upon him a divine answer of peace and faith.
 Then she called faintly, Paul" The dis tant figure came back; and she laid her head upon QuSOdIltl DTStiSU, "ulle EuSUaCe was gently drawn away by the nurse. Presently he found himself mechanically taking food and mechanically listening to the low voiced talk of the kindly, white capped woman who was attending to him. Every fact, every impression, was miSery-these details SO un- expected, so irrevocable, so charged with terrible meaning, which the nurse was pour ing out upon him-that presence ill the neghboring room of which his every nerve wasconscious-and in front of him, looking like drowning barrier shutting off the view of the future, the advancing horror of deathl Yesterday, at the same time he had been walking along the sandy Surrey roads, de- lighting in the last autumn harmonies of color, and conscious of the dawn of period of rest after a period of conflict, of the growth within him; of temper of quiet and rational resignation to the conditions of life and of his own individual lot, over the development of which the mere fact of his sisters existence had exercised strong and steadying influence. Life, he had per suaded himself, was for him more than toler- able, even without love and marriage The world of thought was warm and hospitable to him; he moved at ease within its friendly familiar limits; and in the world of personal relations heart was safely his, the sym pathy and trust and tenderness of one human soul would never fail him at his need And now this last tender bond was to be broken with rough, incredible suddenness The woman he loved with passion would never be his; for not even now, fresh from contact with his sisters dying hope, could he raise himself to any dattering vision of the future; and the woman be loved, with that intimate tenacity of affection which is the poetry of kinship, to be taken from him by this cruel wastefulness of premature death. Could any man be more alone than he would bes And then suddenly consciousness fell upon him which made him ashamed. In the neighboring room his ear was caught now and then by an almost imperceptible rnurmur of voices. What was his loss, his agony, compared to theirs?
 When he softly returned into the room be found Marie lying as though asleep upon her husbands arm. It seemed to him that since he had left her there had been a change. The face was more drawn, the look of exhaustion more defined. Paul sat beside her, his eyes riveted upon her. He scarcely seemed to no- tice his brother-in-law's entrance; it was as though he were rapidly losing consciousness of every fact but one; and never had Kendall seen any countenance so grief stricken, so pinched with longing. But Marie heard the familiar step. She made faint movement with her hand toward him, and he resumed his old position, his head bowed upon the bed. And so they sat through the morning, hardly moving, interchanging at long intervals a few words-those sad, sacred words which we'll from the heart in the supreme moments of existence-words which, in the case of such natures as Marie de Chateauvieux, rep resent the intimate truths and fundamental ideas of the life that has gone before. There was nothing to hide, nothing to regret A few kindly messages, a few womanly con- missions, and every now and then a few words to her husband, as simple as the rest, but pregnant with the deepest thoughts and touching the vastest problems of humanity this was all. Marie was dying as she had lived-bravely, tenderly, simply.