The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1890-07-04

HOW MI IIlt kdlCS VI VIC CITY WclC upEueU,
and the world came to see the work of des.
truction. English, Americans, foreigners
of all kinds went about looking at the ruins,
as at Pompeii or H%erculaneum, criticising,
examining, somewhat disappointed that the
havoc was not more universal.
On the 18th of June came the funeral pro-
cession Of Monsignor Darhoy, the third
Archbishop of Paris murdered within a
quarter of q century. undera gray and
sunless sky the car with its long train of
mourners, soldiers, people, solemnly, silent
ly defiled along the quays, past the still
smouldering ruins of palaces and mansions.
No roll of drums, no funeral music broke
that awful silence; only the rI,ytlmical
tread of the sohliers, the hollow rumble Of
gun-carriages. In the dambness OF ;brokell-
hearted city, a city reeking with blood new
ly shed, the martyr was carried to his tomb
In the great cathedral-iast stage Of Il jour
ney that had known so many dismal halt
ing-p!aces-from prisoii 10 prison, and then
to the common grave at Pere Lacbaise, from
there to the bed CT state in the archiepisco-
pal palace, and now to the final resting
place among the historic dead.
In the Rue Git lie Cnir life had resumed
its wcnted way, save for Ole empty place.
Rose was again astir, the careful manager,
the attentive wife, nursing her baby, busy
with her domestic work, cleaning, cooking,
keeping the little apartment as neat ami
bright as a palace. There were flowers on
the window-sill again, a binc'l OF flowers
on the table at wh:c! Philip wrote or read,
a bouquet of lilies Of tie valley. pure, spot
less, telling no tale of n ruined city, a hui
inflated and impoverished nation. Within,
by the domestic hearth, all was peace.
Philips arm was slowly mcnding. He was
able even to work a little ut the famous
carved sideboard in his workshop, or TO
bring one of the panels into his wife's sit
t%ing-room, to sit there by the open window,
chiselling a group of fruit, bird or fsi, ard
whistiing softly to l!i,nsN'f as he worked,
while Rose sat in her rocking clair crocli.
ing to her sleeping babe.
And Kathleen, the widowed, the heart
broken, what was her life in these days OF
restored peace? She was very quiet. She
bore her sorrow with a silent resignation
which was more pathetic than loud waiIings
or pass. onatc tears. But Rose would have
liked better to see her weep more. That
blOodless face, those tiXed and hollow eyes,
that slow and heavy %step-,le step which
had once been so light and swift upon The
s~tair-those long intervals of silence and
apathy, were not these the indications of a
broken heart?
Rose Durand did all in her power to com.
fort the m0urner. She tried TO persuade llel
sister to surrender the Apartment OF, the uI-
per story, and to occupy Il little room oil
Philips workshop; a mere c,oset; bat Rose
could furnish it, and make it 4 pretty nest
for her darling; and then Kathleen would
be her child again, always under her watch,
full care. She would share all their meals,
live with then. altogether: and the company
of the little one, who showed himself full OF
intelligence, would scothe ami amEse her.
You are very good, dear answered
Kathleen nleekly, when this scheme was
pressed upon her; 'you and Philip have
been all goodness TO me. But | like to live
alone, just o am not fit company for
any one. And again. if-if-" will q pro-
found sigh, "if-hc should come back, and
fine his rooms altered, his books disturbed
it would seem us if | had not really loved
him"
Rose was silent. Till this moment she
had supposed that Kathleen was absolutely
convinced of her husbands death, that the
black gown she wore was the sign of hope
less widowhood: but these words told OF a
lingering hope, and after tli Rose no long
er urged her sister to give up the apartment.
1t was better she should go OH hoping until
the thin thread of hope wore out, than that
she should sink all at once into the gulf of
an absolute despair. Better, too, that she
should have the daily occupation OF arrang-
ing her rooms, busting Customs books,
opening a volume now and then and look
ing at a page, as if it held his own words.
There were pages of Musset's poetry which
seemed to speak to her with her husbands
voice, so often had lie read The lines to her
in their brief married life. She knew all
his books, and knew the measure of his love
for each.
tTo be C5ntinue6J