DeSoto times. (Hernando, Miss.) 1879-1898, 1890-02-27

PiaJ' oho Weas. When ] returned
from tae theater that night She was IN
tEe sltting-room as usual, though nat
sewing and she asked me to come in.
= want to talk to you," she said in
broken tones, and there was STRANGE
llght IN her eyes and an eagerness in
her face quite unusual.
She sat by a table on which a lamn
was teebly burning. The wrap she had
worn to the play hung over the back of
hef chair, and her bonnet had been
hastily taken off, leaving her snow
white hair slightly disarranged.
Il have been to the play" she said,
fastening her eyes upon me with an in.
tenslty of gaze that made me uncom.
Portable.
An! l hope you enjoyed it," was
| my response, trying my best to get rid
OF the burning of those sad eyes of hers.
she said not word, but sat and
looked at me in that fixed, inexplicable
way for several minutes.
"Do those things ever happcn?" she
SAID at last, her eyes almost burning
holes in me- As l had no idea of what
things she referred to, | managed TO
say that did not understand her mean
ing.
why, events like those of this play"
She said, too excited to be entirely co.
herent. do husbands come back to
their homes after years of absence, as
Enoch Arded dido"
''No doubt they do,"I answered, "or
the poet and playwright would not have
thought of it."
She sat silent again for little while,
her eyes lit with light that was indie,
scribable.
81 wish | knew" she said, presently,
"if, outside of plays and stories, they
ever do. | wish l knew | wish |
knew"
She clasped her hands and looked at
me as though must tell her. At least,
| felt that way, and in order to turn her
eyes from me for moment, l repeated
that | thought they did.
She hung upon my words with a look
which resembled joy in her face.
Il have dreamed of it," she said, 81
have hoped for it for years. l have
thought of the possibility of it every
waking moment of my life. l have
longed for it with all my soul. Why? |
Because my husband went away fifteen |
years ago-went in unreasoning anger
Jealous without cause, and l have
listened for his footstep every moment
VI my waking IIrU. .si..ov. ha-.~ Il'vu I
in this house, working like slave to
keep it, that he might know where to
find me when he came, because we lived |
here together, Every night through
all the long, lonely years of his absence
l have kept a light burning in this
room that he might see it and
think l was within waiting for him. /
am not so old as l look. am thirty
five, and you might think me sixty, so
much have l suffered. Sometimes |
dream that he has come, and for long |
time after am almost sure that he will; |
but the years go on and am still alone.
But now, that l have seen that play,
Enoch Arden, feel something like hope |
growing again in my heart. Let come
what will, will wait right here in this
house until he comes Or | go to my
grave"
looked at her snow-whitc head, and |
her delicate, withered face, and felt my |
heart swell. had read of martyrs, but
she was the first one | had ever seen.
What words had for a sorrow like hers? |
The next night | left the city. She
was in her sitting-room when | started,
going on with her weary waiting, and as
l looked back from the corner of the |
street | saw the window lighted by the |
lamp which burned for him whose com
ing was so long delayed-and-well, |
am not ashamed to say that tear rolled
down my cheek as / thought of the |
woman who waited within.-Gertrude |
Garrison, in Texas Siftings.