St. Landry democrat., 1891-08-29

the principal" she urged.
John Eastman smothered his disap
pointment, and said, "It shall be as yot
wish, Merry; but it will be very lon!
year to me-"
Before the year ended Uncle George
wife died, and her two children, Rober
and Annie, were added to Aunt Merry
charge.
She hesitated when Uncle George cam
to ask her to come over and take charg.
of his house.
''No, George" she said, II cannot
sJust little while, Merry" he begged
"until we can get things in working or
der; just one year"
''But there is john" she insisted. 81
owe something to John"
''And to no one else, Merry?" asked
Uncle George. "What if Eunice ant
rhad not cared for you When you were
left alone"
She turned pale when Uncle George
reminded her of her obligation. After
all, more would be expected of her than
the mere interest upon her debt. Like
many other debts, whether of money, OF
gratitude, or of affection, hers had come
to face her at the moment when she was
the least prepared for it.
Her lips trcmbled when she attempted
to speak; she put out her hand as il
seeking some support, and rested it
heavily upon the back of chair.
can never forget that scene. Boy as
was, l realized that it was the sacrifice
of a life: lifted my poor twisted body
upon my pillows, and from my corner
watched the struggle my aunt was max.
| ing.
Uncle George stood leaning against
the low mantel, looked heavy eyed and
weary. Aunt Merry stood before him,
with her hand upon the tall chair. The
young face was growing grave-the girl
had given place to the woman.
While | watched, the sunlight crept
through the open window and crowned
the brown braids of hair with kind Of
halo, just as the freight touches the
silver ones tonight. Then Aunt Merry
lifted her head and said softly, II will
come, George"
So John Eastman was asked to wait a
second time. "Just one year yet, John, "
Aunt Merry begged. ''Let me feel that
have at least paid my debt in part.
But at the end of the year she said,
''There is so much to do, John; let US
give the children one more year. We
can spare so much to them. Just one!
l promise not to ask another, John"
With heavy heart he answered
for the third time, ''It shall be as you
wish, Merry
think Aunt Merry began to feel then
that an unseen power was shaping her
life in strange, uncomprehended
mould.
Strange indeedl Before the year
ended a scourge passed over the city.
The Angel of Death hung his black ban
ner on almost every door. Uncle George
was among the first to be stricken.
"God bless you, Merry" he said;
'sdon't forget the children; God bless
you'll" With the blessing still on his lips,
he left u.s.
Then she was glad that she had stayed
with him; the sacrifice was fully repaid
IN that last blessing.
But the next day little Annie laid her
hot cheek against Aunt Merry's, and
cried out that the fever was burning her
throat. For eight days the little life
swung in the balance; but on the ninth
she crept into Aunt Merry's arms and
whispered, "Good auntiel" just once
before death set seal upon the childish
lips.
The black banner floated again from
our door, and met an answering signal
through all the stricken town.
Death played upon many heart-strings;
but none, [ think, were so entirely swept
as was Aunt Merry's. She had scarcely
seen the clay heaped upon the grave of
little Annie before messenger came for
her. John-honest, patient John East
man-was dying.
Poor Aunt Merry! The blows fell so |
fast that she had scarcely time to consid-
er the magnitude Of one before heavier
sunk it out of sight.
This was the last; when the light left
John Eastman's eyes, hope left Aunt
Merry's heart, to follow into and fix it.
self upon that unknown land into which
MS 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"
lfter that-never but once. 1t was the
lay they buried John Eastman; and she
urned TO me with look of hopeless sor-
'ow upon her pale, sweet face, and said,
Call me Aunt Meredith, child"
The years have crowded fast, in spite
If crippled bodies and hearts that give
pack echoless answers. Thirty and five;
have notched them upon my crutches;
en- upon two, the last one fifteen. For
he twisted body is well-nigh spent, and
he last crutch is as good as new, save
or the notches where my knife has re-
orded the years.
l have borne my burden tolerably,
With Aunt Meredith's help. She has
'olne HITS STanuly, WlCnouC nelp.
Without help, did I say9 Then I
poke too quickly; for one evening I
ound her sitting alone on the west piaz-
a, among the honeysuckles and jasmine
ines, watching the sombre cloud banks
fling across the sunset, Or forming into
purple bridge to span the crimson
loud-lakes.
She did not hear my crutch upon the
oft sward, and her voice was scarcely
lore than the hum of the bees in the
elbow jasmine bells.
"No man, having put his hand to the
low, and looking back, is fit for the
ingdom of God"
Every step of my life, the ciouded and