Sullivan republican. [volume] (Laporte, Pa.) 1883-1896, 1891-08-07

John Eastman's eyes, hope left Aunt
Merry's heart, to follow into and fix it
self upon that unknown land into which
his soul had drifted.
'Don't reproach YOURSELF" he had
said, at the last; 'you did your duty,
Merry. God bless you'll"
We never called her "Aunt Merry"
after that-never but once. 1t was the
day they buried John Eastman; and she
turned to me with look of hopeless sor-
row upon her pale, sweet face, and said,
'Call me Aunt Meredith, child"
The years have crowded fast, in spite
of crippled bodies and hearts that give
back echoless answers. Thirty and five;
| have notched them upon my crutches;
ten upon two, the last one fifteen. For
the twisted body is well-nigh spent, and
the last crutch is as good as new, save
for the notches where my knife has re-
corded the years.
l have borne my burden tolerably,
with Aunt Meredith's help. She has
borne hers grandly, without help.
Without help, did 1 sayl Then
spoke too quickly; for one evening 1
found her sitting alone on the west piaz-
"a, among the honeysuckles and jasmine
vines, watching the sombre cloud banks
piling across the sunset, or forming into
a purple bridge to span the crimson
cloud lakes
|. She did not hear my crutch upon the
soft sward, and her voice was scarcely
more than the hum of the bees in the
yellow jasmine bells.
"No man, having put his hand to the
plow, and looking back, is fit for the
kingdom of God"
Every step of my life, the clouded and
the cloudiess, has been blessed and
brightend by her. She has paid her
debt, interest and principal, and is now
herself the lender; for when Uncle Clay's
wife died ten years ago, four others were
admitted to her household--Uncle Clay
himself, Frank, May and Richard.
Frank and May have both been in to
say goodnight since l have been lying
here, thinking about Aunt Meredith S
mistake. May hugged her with both
arms, and said, softly: "The blessedest,
best auntie;" while Frank stood a mo-
ment behind her chair and softly stroked
the silver braids ard recouuted the days
trials and its pleasures.
81 shall be a man soon, and take care
of you, Aunt Meredith" was his good
night.
Aunt Meredith nodded and smiled,
and went to open the door for Robert,
pausing rs she passed my lounge to draw
the covers more closely about my shoul-
ders, while / lay here as if asleep.
Then for half an hour she and Ro bert
sat there before the fire, while Robert
told her everything.
First, he had thought he might take
still another set of books to keep. By
staying an hour later every night he
could accomplish it, But Aunt Mere
dith said; ''No, dear. 1t is not right to
stay out so very late;" and the books
were given up.
Then the clock struck half-past ten.
Robert rose and lighted Aunt Meredith's
candle; and again the halo seemed to
form around the silver braids, and
showed me the smile upon her pale face
as Robert bent his head to kiss her faded
cheek.
Now she is gone, and it is Robert who
bends over my pillow and whispers,
"Poor Clarence" as he draws the covers
ever so lightly over my chest.
And now, he, too, is asleep; but his
bed is so near that can touch him if l
choose. A little silver call-bcll is in
reach on the other side.
"You may want water, DEAR" Aunt
Meredith said, when she put the bell
there; as if did not know what it is
Aunt Meredith fears. 1t is the black
banner on the door-knob.
But am not thinking of that tonight.
am thinking of Aunt Meredith; and
thinking of her life, so full of promise
and so barren of fulfilment, and of my
life SO devoid of promise, and yet SO full
of peace.
l am thinking, too, of the lives of the
children asleep in their beds; of the
young man about to enter the world
pure of heart and strong of purpose; of
the graves of the two men who blessed
Aunt Meredith with their last breath; of
the dying pillows made easy by her prom
ises; of the little child who only left the
shelter of her arms to slip away to Gods.
When l remember these, bless Aunt
Meredith's mistake. = Youths Companion.