Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-08-10

On! 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 for the dead, but, as yet, I do not know it quite all.
 She is mystery to me, and fail to con- Prenenu hcr many times, although know her history to be crowded with incidents sad and tragical
 The afternoon sun comes through the lat. tlce in bright golden bars, and falls lovin gly 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 tho fragrant roses comes up rom the little garden below, with the breath of carnations and violets growing p,entl1ui 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 tho heart throbbing out its existence to the music Of it's dirges.
 l would love to talk fpeeIy 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 tlons fail me in words In this, as in many other things, 1 am very unfortunate, and TcdllZcu, But finally venture: 'Miriam, would you enjoy drive on the beach, or shall it be stroll in the woods to fill up this remaining piece of day?"
 Out there beyond the trees, and swell ing shoreward, He the blue waters of the bay, and beyond booms the broad Atlantic There is lovely drive along the sands, and the weather is glorious, and this is why I offer myself and pony phaeton to her, as &C., cessorles of pleasant afternoon by the sea. But have missed it again, and my suggestion grates on her optional pleasure.
 slowly the great dark eyes are lifted to mine ill sorrowful negative, and I know have swept an irresponsive chord.
 am answered further by doleful shake of the head; but she essays no word Small need; understand her.
 She crunches letter in her hand savage ly-a letter addressed to me, yet more hers than mlne-as if to remind me 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 noth- 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- sume 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 shivers. Per haps it whispers to her of her far away desolate English home which stretches out its arms, figuratively, and begs for her presence; entreats the proud, beautiful fOon tn oh, 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: 'I can never do it never!' and goes upstairs. make no an- swer; there are no words left me adequate, neither does she look for reply.
 l 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- ln merrio old England, and is call from desolated Heatherleigh Manor. "Do know aught of Miriam Percival Fairfax? If so, tidings of her will be thankfully received The grand old hall is waiting at her disposal, as the death of Sir Rupert Pekcival and his writ ten request leaves her the sole legatee" 1 am not allowed to answer the letter; Miri- am will not have it so, and Hcatherleigh 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 'hates her ancestral halls,'' and "that have no idea what ask of her."
 Perhaps I don't, and the deep aversion ranking i'll her soul toward her birthplace comes hissing through the white teeth, and effectually silences me in protesting 2 further
 She came to me two years ago, sad and sorrowing, from the newly-made graves of husband and child. "Remembcr," she said to me once, "that my husband and son sleep where the shadows of Heathcrleigh 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-brol1en woman into my home and heart. I fatter myself,
 
 mitigated through my efforts. She is cheerful, even, sometimes as we stroll ill the fields, or wander off among the ragged hills where the wild heatherbcll 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.
 Wc had wandered up the hills, and wero sitting at the foot of a tree, resting. Our baskets beside us were filled with the red fruit of the barberry, and wreathed with ferns and gayly- colored leaves. In the dis tance shone tho blue waters of the bay and above us beamcd the cioudless sky, while the breeze dallied hcrc and there, hlnting Of sterner season.
 Miriam leaned her sunny head against the messy trunk. and sat looking far off over the shimnlering waters II. the quiet dis Funeral Work & Cut Flowers
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