News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1890-01-23

teen years before, about this time
(and she remembered the chrysanthe-
NUNS then in bloom), she had laid
down among them her little fair, dead
daughter. Her heart bled as she
spoke of the flowers; he saw the
anguish in her face and stopped.
"Oh, mother. forgive. 1 never
thought of my sister," he said broken
ly. She bowed her head and they sat
silent hand in hand, for a moment.
Then Mrs. w. spoke in a low, sweet
voice:
81 should like to see this young
girl; and, my son, no apology is need
ed for what was unintentional; a
simple explanation should suffice.
Poor child! l wonder if it was her
mothers grave"
Rachael was astounded the next day
by seeing the Wainwright turnout at
their door.
She clapped on a clean white apron
and showed Mrs. w. very civilly into
the parlor, and took the card in to the
master,
"Humph!'' he said. 81 don't want
to see her. Where's Chriss?'
"Here, father" she answered. She
had been reading beside him, and he
had never noticed her.
''It's Mrs. W., sir; she that bought
the Morris place. She's a real lady,
sir.'
"Oh, Rachael, what shall l say to
her?n exclaimed Chriss.
'You don't need to say anything.
just go and smile at her, my lamb,
and she'll be satisfied, know"
When Chriss saw the tall lady in
mourning her heart misgave her for a
moment until she heard her voice.
''My child" it said, ''you must Won
der at my visit. 1t was my son Frank
who intruded upon you yesterday, and
who could not rest until l came to say
how entirely u mistake it was"
Chriss took courage to look up under
her long eyelashes and was reassur-
ed.
eOh, certainly, Mrs. W.; he was
very kind-and- polite, am sure,
and l thank you for coming"
'Thank you, dear, and now I will
go. You have a pleasant home here,
Miss Field" she said, as Chriss walk
ed off with her to the carriage.
"Oh! do you think SOP Yes, it is
pleasant. Wait just one minute, Mrs.
W., please.
She ran swiftly out of sight, and re-
turned with an exquisit bunch of white
chrysanthemums.
The tears sprang to Mrs. WIS eyes.
She took the bunch and the small hand
with it into her own and laid kiss
upon the pure young brow.
They're mothers flowers; she's
dead, you know" said Chriss, simply.
II know, my dear. and 1 shall cher
ish them good-by."
"Ohi Rachel that's the loveliest
lady l ever saw ~ cried Chriss, rush
ing into the kitchen.
81 suppose you won't look at any of
US now," retorted the old woman, an d
was huffed and offended for two whole
days. A week after that there came
an invitation to take tea with Mrs. W.,
and great were the preparations for
proud of her darling as she drove off
arrayed in a pretty, quaint gown of
lilac, with rutfle of red lace at her
neck and wrists.
''She's pretty as PEACH" declared
her old nurse, with them sweet blue
eyes and them little pink cheeks, so
she isl
Mrs. w. met her, and wave of
emotion went over her, and she
thought of her own lost darling.
'.Now, dear, we are to be friends,
you know" said Mrs. W., as they sat
down together in the beautiful libra w
'and l don't even know your nama
Mother named me Chrysanthea,
and they call me Chriss. You see
was born in October, the same as the
flowers, and I suppose that made her
think of the name. was only two
years old when she died"
Two years oldr' the words sent
pang through the mothers heart
She sighed heavily, then crossed the
room and took portrait from the
table and gave it into Chriss' hands.
1t was that of a dear little dimpled
girl, with an upturned, laughing face
'My daughter" Mrs. w. said.
"Oh, have you a daughter? What /
pretty childP" Then seeing the sad,
troubled look in her friends face she
threw herself on her knees and buried
her head in Mrs. WIS lap. After
that they were more than friends. A
sweet sense of peace flooded Mrs. WIS
motherly heart as she held that girlish
form in her arms and passed her fin
gers through the dark, clinging curls,
and she learned all the cruel loss that
young heart had suffered, unconscious
of how it revealed the very depths of
an unsullied nature of the tenderest
kind.
What wonder if Mrs. w. thought:
"Oh, heart of gold! If she could only
be my daughter indeedr' And so it
to pass that very next year,
when the chrysanthemums were in
full bloom, Frank Wainwright led his
bride to the little village church.
Old Rachel brings their children
often now to the spot where their
mother used to watch her flowers in
her desolate childhood, and as she
smiles at the pretty, chubby faces the
old woman murmurs to herself:
''She's happy now, and it's natural
she should be. She's got something
better than flowers to care for now.
God bless her New York Journal
Making Ones Self Scarce.
We should never give too much of
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