The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1891-11-11
Selected Storm.
As It Was Told TO Me.

III was my aunt Lena WllSOu WIN
told me the story, WHEN we were look
ing over book of photographs. There
was one that did not admire, COM
menting upon it after this fashion:
"That is good face, auntie-a noble
face; but what a stiff, horrid picturep
L" It is taken from an oil painting,
dear, not from life, and 1t is the picture
of the best friend | ever bad-the no.
blest, most generous man ever knew"
waited quietly till my aunt wiped
away the tears that filed her eyes, won
dering at her emotion. The portrait
was not that Of my uncle John Wilson,
for it was entirely unlike the one that
hung upon the wall in the large draw
ing-room. But l knew very little Of
these relatives of mine, although my
mother was uncle John Wilson's sister,
for my parents lived in France until /
was seventeen years old, when was
orphaned, and came to share my Aunt
Lena's home, with seven children of
her own, who gave me cordial welcome,
and made me one of The family in the
kindest, truest sense { the words. But
it was TO Aunt Lena hei st If that / chung
in those early days of desolation, and
nv own mother could not have been
more gentle and loving to me. She
looked at me, when her tears were
dried, with her sweet smile, and said:
" ShalL. tel you tie story, deaf?"
sob, ytsl" l cried. f"-thinking
of the tears" if it does not make you
feel badly"
"No, dear; no. Where shall be-
gin? 1 think it must be when l was a
little girl, only ten years old, and lost
my father. Long years before, my
mother had died, and l had been my
fathers idol, his companion, pupil and
playfellow, so that the world looked
very empty to me after he was taken
away. His dearest friend for many
years had been an old schoolmate,
Stephen HetheiingtOn, and his friend
took me, after the funeral, to board
ing.school, where was entered as his
ward. | was too your G then to ask
Questions about my own prospects, and
did not know that l had absolutely
nothing, but was indebted to my guar
dian for the clothes wore and the food
l ate. He came to see me very often,
and loved him as had loved my own
father, with child's devotion, rever-
ence and affection that / had never ex-
pected to feel again. He was a man
under thirty when he became my guar
dian, but to my childish ideas he
seemed quite advanced in life, and the
feeling of his superiority in age, as well
as in everything else, never quite left
me. We were strangely alike in one
respect, man and child, in having no
near relatives, and it was natural that
we should cling to each other more
than we might have done had there
been others to claim portion of our
love. wish l could tell you anything
that could convey to you any true idea
of Stephen Hetherington. He was not
very handsome, but he had face to
win perfect trust. There was nothing
small about him. All his thoughts
were broad, liberal, noble, his gener-
osity unbounded, his courtesy perfect.
When / was nineteen he took me from
school and found me home in the
family of some old friends, the Will
sons, who consented to take care of me.
He sent me quarterly allowance that
believed to be left by my father, but
which, many years later, knew was
provided by my guardians generosity.
81 was very happy with the Wilson's.
Your mother was about my own age,
and we were soon like sisters in our
love for each other, while John was my
lover, dear, before | had been week
in his mothers house. I was still very
young, just from school, and John was
twenty-two-a boy still in heart, and
ready for any frolic his sister or / sug-
gested. 1t was all sunshine for year,
and / never guessed that | was max
ing desolate heart that was all my
own, giving bitterest pain where bad
received only kindness. never guessed
it, for L loved Stephen FetAerington
with the same warm affection my child
ish heart had given him so long, and
realized nothing of the higher love he
was trying 10 win, and which gave to
John Wilson. Child, child, did not
understand at all the set, stern face my
guardian wore when he gave his con-
sent to my marriage, nor why he left
us so soon afterward, settling upon me
the sum from which my allowance had
been drawn. When you are older,
dear, you shall read some pages in the
diary that was Stephen Hetherington's
last sad legacy to ME, closely written
volumes that were the companion and
solace of his bitterly lonely life. And
you will see how mans noble heart
can elevate its love dream, and raise
merely pretty girl to place scarcely
lower than an angels. 1t makes me
very humble, very pitiful in my own
eyes to read the record of my lovers
devotion, and see what a glamour his
love threw over my commonplace
attractions.
81 was happy in my married life,
never dreaming of the sore heart wan
dering purposeless through foreign
lands for love of me. But when had
been ten years a wife and had seven
children, my husband lost his sight.
He had been clerk in large whole
sale house and had nigbt-work at all
seasons upon the books. The perpetual
rows of figures, the close calculation, had
injured the nerves of his eyes, and
when he was yet a young man he be-
came hopelessly blind. Before the hor-
ror of poverty was added to this afilic-
ton had another grief to bear 10 the