Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-07-15

neither the name of tho church where they had been married. nor the name Dfthe clergymanwho had married theme
 "Sleeping or waking, speaking in Qleams of consciousness or in feVer1sh ramblings, she always said the same things, and tEls was all .Aney had travelled all that night, fresh horses awaiting them constantly, and his serV ant taking the hired carriage back, she supposed, from the village where they stopped at last, and where everything was prepared for their marriage; other servants waiting there with private travelling carriage She never asked the name of the village in her shyness and bewilderment she never thought to do this and months afterward, when Sir Gerard denied the marriage-teling her it was but a sham one to quiet her scruples, and to satlsfy her that he had kept his promise to her-she had no proof to bring, as she could never have.
 "Poor child with what anxious, frightened eagerness she would describe all she remembered of the church, again and again as if we, who had lived here all o1r lives, could know this village, which lay at the distance of a twelve OOs 6sAA oAAO AAoNOA ceased reminding us how there was Q deep, old porch to the church door, and @ bent cross above it and she told us how, as she came out of it's shadow, she stepped upon low stone grave which bore her own name, and two lines which struck her sadly and drearily then, but had often comforted her since, and which she could never forget. They were only these:
 'sThis simple stone shall bear . single line
 Here lies a sinner saved by grace Divine,
 "And that was all she knew of the church, except that, from the gate where they stood a few moments waiting for ihe carriage, Sir Gerard had turned back laughingly to read the time on an old grass-grown sun-dial near the church-yard wall. This was all she could remember, and this, as said, she told again and again breaking of sometimes to plead with Sir Gerard to make their marriage known, and some times to whisper to her babies, with . pity which it was sad to hear upon Q mothers lips, but still always going back to the one subject, and always clear and exact in that.
 1t was in the early morning that she died, and then her mother came up here, and pleaded with Hiram to have her brought home with her twin babies. But no; it was of no use. She was buried quietly from the keepers cottage in the wood, with no name upon her gravel will show it to you before you leave to-morrow-and, after that, your grandfather allowed that you should come here. Yet, from the day that Mary brought you here until she herself died, some long months afterYard, he hardly spoke to her. Her care of you, or her reunion with her daughter, seemed to have put an impossible bar rier between them, which neither could throw down; which, perhaps, only death itself could have removed, and so it may have been that death came in pity.
 "Gerard, after she was dead, the love that had been buried in anger for so long awoke in all it's strength. l heard him moaning over her, and calling to -her piteously by all the old pet names !; but they could not move her then, as they would have moved her if they had been uttered few hours sooner.
 "After that, we two lived on together here and you grew up with us, bright ening the old house for me, but never for him. The very sight of you always made him more cold and stern the very sound of your voices deadened his voice, or reused it to harshness and impstienoe. So the time has gone on, and the year that he has always fixed for you to leave here has come. Gerard, you mustn't harbor il-will against him, even if. Q! the last moment, he will not bid God bless you. ."
 "I can never harbor ill-wiIl against him, save for my mothers sake and Magdalen's, replied Gerard, in such 6 gentle voice that I knew where his thoughts were lingering. "Aunt Jessie do you thiuk he has ever tried to fnG that ehurch2"
 "I believe" " she answered, very low "that he has been to seek it many times but he never told me, and I never dareC to ask. I'm sure," she added, as if ap pealing for him to his grandson, "tha he longed to believe in his daughter marriage, but could not. He IS too proud to own this, yet feel quite sure of it And often feel how hard it is to wonde at this-putting myself in his place There was Mays word but, then, for year he had lost the. May who had beel his truthful, innocent child; and t I uoubb JOuE mOLueE s b1ubn NnS AOb WIl1 it would have been, a year before, t doubt the word of his own home-Ohild Can you understand this ?"
 "Aunt Jessie, you never doubted hel truth 2" asked Gerard, with proud i'm patience glancing through all his gen tleness.
 "Never, dear but we women are diff ferent in our judgments. Then, as waa poin0 to aax beside that what de pendence could he have on the honor o Sir Gerard Athelston? The honor of tn Athelstons B held of but slack worth il their own county; and even we coul' hear all this when our child was gone It is an unprincipled and absolute race Gerard, and your father was the wors of all his line"
 "Aunt Jessie, is he living stillP"
 asked.
 "No he married again week or tw after your mothers death-whether h had waited for that, or whether he hA not heard of it, do not know-an | sd oI~onI hs A<&pa