Weekly expositor. (Brockway Centre, Mich.) 1882-1894, 1891-08-28
for her to be like this. 1 don't like

spoke Tor the urSJ time. mo, Salu,
II don't want him. / want Mr.. Eas.
ton-maybe he can give me some com
fort" And my benumbed mind went
wandering on in the dark, searching
for something to cling to, until its
spell was broken by hurried coming
in, and Mr. Easton, dark and thin,
stood looking down at me compassion
ately.
i believe he had prayer-book in
his hand, but he probably saw it was
useless to talk to or pray with me as
anything but child. remember
saying to him in an awe-stricken
whisper, II have lost John. and sc
lost everythingm Mr.. Easton was
rather unpopular in his congregation.
He was very good to me that first
awful week, and l began to under,
stand that he was unloved, because un-
appreciated.
He sometimes would send me books,
gradually he fell in the habit OF COM
ing over and reading aloud to me,
evenings, as | lay on the sofa, for
was not strong enough to sit up long,
and, while / would catch q few words
now and then, my mind would be pic
turing, back OF my closed eyelids, that
awful shipwreck over and over again.
One evening, l saw it all so distinctly
that started and cried:
"Oh, stop! l cannot see anything
yet but those awful waves. And / can
hear nothing but those cries as the
ship sank. Oh, do you think ever can
forget!"
Mr.. EastoI had closed his book. and
he walked up and down the room slow
ly and softly. A flush of pain rose
suddenly over his dark thin face. He
paused near the window, and, pushing
aside the curtain, he looked absently
out into the warm dark night and l
saw his lips move as if he were re-
peating something. Then he turned
and came hurriedly up to the sofa. He
put his hand out and then suddenly
drew it back and stood regarding me
gently.
Mr.. Easton went away soon. He
came less often, and did not read again
until, one afternoon. l begged his
pardon for my discourtesy and asked
him to read once more. 1t was Dante.
this time, that he held in his hand, but
he opened it and quoted:
"And in the book that day we read
no more" He smiled little bitterly.
Let us talk instead" he said.
wondered at his caring TO talk to
me; at his religious kindness, | be-
lieved it, in being willing to try and
interest the poor, pale woman. with
all her fresh beauty gone, that my
glass showed me. the listless black
robed girl TO whom life looked so poor
and empty.
After he left l went YEARLY round
the room. tidying the little disarrange-
ment a visitor makes. Mother had
gone over to Mrs. Dawson's, and | was
alone. heard step on the porch
and moved slowly TO the door, and in
one moment l was clasped in Johns
arms!
For the first-and probably the last
time in my life / was guilty of
fainting; but John merged the lover
into the physician, and brought me TO
my senses very quickly. Why should
try to describe scene that was sacred
for us both. Let it suffice me to say
that Heaven seemed for once TO be on
this earth. that the measure of my for
mer suffering was the measure of my
present JOY. Half an hour later /
know all; how John had been picked
up. quite unconscious, after floating
hours clinging TO a plank and some
rigging, by a small brig bound for a
little Dutch port; how he had been de-
liriOus from fever for weeks; and how
he had started for home, even when
the Dutch doctor had assured him he
was risking his life, and had come TO
me before anyone knew of his arrival
even. He had begged the doctor 10
telegraph to me. and had been assured
it was done. Whether he had made
some mistake in my address, or what,
we never knew; but / had not received
the message. That evening | wrote a
note to Mr.. Easton. begging him to
come over the next day, and rejoice
with us. Mr.. Archer's little boy
whore he lived, brought me this reply
the next morning:
my Dear Miss Marion-'I am leaving
Sunnyrock for some time, perhaps FOR al
ways; and | start to-day, so / shall not see
you before j GO De not think me cruel il
| say it is sometimes easier for me to
mourn with those who mourn than to re-
joice with those who rejoice; but believe
that my prayers are for your happiness Ill
ways. And, when you think of your own
great grief and pray for those who suffer,
remember me-
Always faithfully yours,
''CuTHBERT EAsToN."
There came a sudden little stab of
pain through my heart as / read this
a sudden access of light on things that
had puzzled me. which almost blinded
me for a moment 1 handed the note
to John silently. / told him of Mr..
Easton's kindness. He read it through
grimly, and faint flush tinged his
check.
What do you think Of itP" / in
quired. How old is hep" asked John,
before he replied. II don't know
twenty-seven. perhaps. +" well. then,
think he may getover it, y he replied,
bitterly; then, with rush of generous
feeling: Heaven help the poor fell
l.. 4 - 4. IA