Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1890-01-18

so dull ana dlIhcult compared with Uncle Am.
brose's way of teaching me. The Frsulein
was always grinding at grammar-while, ex-
| eept SO far as learning my French verbs,
hardly knew what grammar meant. but. with
out being vain. it is only fair to Uncle Am
6rose to say that at ten years old knew great
| deal more about the history Of the world and
! people who had lived in IL than ms
! Cousin Dora, who was eighteen. And even in
/ those days knew something about the great
! poets OF the world of whom Dora and her
/ sisters knew nothing; for Uncle Ambrose had
told me about Dante and his wonderful history
about hell and heaven. and about Goethe and
| his Faust and he had read Millions story Of
Adam and Eve and the fallen angel who tempted
nun ana Shakespeare's Tempest" and "As
You Like II" and Midsummer Nights Dream"
aloud to me, to familiarize my ear and nv mind
| with poetry while was still child he SAID
l had to thank his kindness for all knew and
for being better companion to my mother
| than would have been il had had Fraulein
| and Mademoiselle to teach me.
| When we were sitting in the railway Carriage
and the sun was shining full upon Uncle AM
! brose's face noticed for the first time that
! there was great change in him since the sum-
mer. had been too excited and busy to take
! notice of it before, but saw now that he had
I grown thin and paler, and that he looked older
! and very Ill. put my arms round him and
| kissed him as l used to do in the dear old days
Poor Uncle Ambrose" said, how sorry you
must have been. love you better than ever
dear. because you are so sorry for u.s." His
! head was leaning forward on his breast and
| no gave one great sob.
| That was his only answer.
| How distinctly remember that journey,
| through the clear September light. by great
! yellow corn fields and the blue bright sea, and
| then hop gardens and orchards full OF fruit
| and then houses and houses and houses and
/ then at last the air grew dull and thick and the
sun seemed dead and this was London.
! Uncle Ambrose was silent and thoughtful all
| through the journey, which seemed so long;
| OH so long. as if it would never come to an end
and bring me TO mother and home. / have
| been to the Highlands since then and to the
! Riviera but those journeys were with mother
| and they did not seem half so long as the
| journey from Westgate to London and across
London to Paddington and from Paddington
| to the little station at Lamford. where we
! waited for father that evening-for father who
was never, never, never coming home to US
| again.
| At the sight of the station, and the station
| masters garden-which was all ablaze with
! dahlias and hollybocks now, where the sweet
! peas had been blooming-I burst into tears.
! They were the first had shed since left West
| gate; but the sight OF the garden brought back
/ the memory of that evening when I walked up
! and down with mother. and when we we're both
so gay and happy. talking of father and what
! he would say and how he would look when We
| saw his face at the carriage window.
l have but to shut my eyes. even now. after
seven years have changed me from a child to
almost Il woman, and l can see the station lying
| all among the meadows by the river side. and
| eau see my fathers face as | expected TO see it.
| smiling at the train came in--dear we'll
! remembered face which i was never to see
aguln.
There was a carriage at the station to take 8
| home. but mother wasn't in the carriage. When
he saw my disappointment Uncle Ambrose
told me that she WINS still a great invalid and
had not gone beyond the garden since her ILL
ness.
You will have to comfort and cheer her
with your loving little ways, Daisy" he said;
''but you will have to be very quiet and gentle
1t Is not so long since she could hardly bear
the sound of any ones voice. You will fnd her
sadly changed"
More changed than you are?" asked.
Much more. Think how much more trouble
she has gone through than have had to bear"
But you look as if you cou dn't have been
more sorry" said; for indeed I never had
seen such sadness in any face as had seen in
his that day.
Mother was lying on a sofa by the drawing
room fire. The evenings were beginning to be
chilly and she was an invalid, wrapped in a
large white China Grape shawl, one OF fathers
gifts. which remembered ever since could
| remember anything. There was a middle aged
woman III the room. neatly dressed III black
with white cap and apron, whom l afterward
knew AZ one OF mothers nurses. She had had
two nurses all through her illness. one for the
day and the other for the night. for there had
been enc dreadful time when il was thought
that she might try to kill herself if she were
left alone.
Yes, she was changed more changed than
Uncle Ambrose. She was wasted to a shadow
and there was no color IN her face. Even her
lips were white. Her beautiful hair, which
father had been SO proud of. had all been cut
off, and she wore little lace cap, which COW
cred her close-cropped head and was tied under
her chin Her poor hands were almost trans
parent.
She gathered me up in her arms and she
kissed and cried over me, and thought even
then that 1t did her good to have her little
daughter back again. She told me years after
ward that those tears were the first that had
brought any sense OF relief with them. She
lifted me INTO corner OF her sofa, weak she
was. and she kept me there till my bedtime.
she had my supper laid upon little table bv
the sofa and she fed me and cared for me with
her own feeble hands. in spite of all the nurse
could say, and from that night was with her
always.
You don't know what it is to me to have my
little girl again" she said to nurse; 'you don't
know what is TO feel this frozen heart begin
ming to melt and to know that there is some
thing left in this world that can love-
She SAID almost the same words to Uncle
Ambrose next day when he came over to River
Lawn soon after breakfast to give me my morn
ing lessons and | thought he looked more and
more sorry as he stood listening to her with his
hand upon the little pile of books which he had
brought over from the cottage. He answered
mother with a smile minute afterward:
Yes. it Is a blessed thing to know we can
love and be beloved" he said.
Mother told me afterward that there was a
reason for his sympathiz!ng with her in her
sorrow more than any other friend. He, too,
had lost his nearest and dearest, his good and
devoted young wife, after brief illness, almost
as suddenly as her loss had come upon her.
He, too, was alone in the world, but for an only
child, his son. OF whom he was doubtless very
fond. But. mother added, there were times
when she fancled thathe was fonder of me than
OF his own son.
Our lives went on very quietly after that day,
and from that day was mothers only COM
panlon. We have never been parted since my
desolate days at WeStgate. and we have lived
almost ont OF the world. Mother says that next
year when | am eighteen she will have to 20
into society for my sake, and that she will not
be able always to go on refusing invitations to
garden and tennis parties all along the river
banks from Henley to Reading. 1t will be only
right for me to little more of the world
mother says, and to mix with girls of my own
age. l suppose shall like it when the time
comes, but have no longing for parties, or
dances. or fine clothes, and my cousins in Har-
ley street say l am the oldest girl they ever
met with, but that it is no wonder l am odd
considering the eccentric manner in which
have been educated.
have been SO happy, so happy with mother
IN all these years, so fond of our pretty house.
which grows prettier every year under mothers