The Forest Republican. [volume] (Tionesta, Pa.) 1869-1952, 1891-08-05


and was soon to have been John East
mans wife. When she had accepted the
new charge she sent for her lover to tell
him that the the marriage must be
postponed.
He protested, but Aunt Merry was
firm. ''Just one year, john" she in.
sisted. "Then we shall be better pre-
pared to accept the new-charge.
She would not say "burden," but it
was burden to lay upon her young
shoulders-a cruel sacrifice to ask Of one
who, having never known a home of her
own, was about to step into that sweet
peace which is found nowhere but about
the family freside.
But she did not hesitate. III am only
paying interest on the debt 1 owe his
mother, John; can never hope to pay
the principal" she urged.
John Eastman smothered his disap-
pointment, and said, at shall be as you
wish, Merry; but it will be very long
year to me-"
Before the year ended Uncle Georges
wife died, and her two children, Robert
and Annie, were added to Aunt Merry's
charge.
She hesitated when Uncle George came
to ask her to come over aud take charge
of his house.
"No, George" she said, 'I caunot. 5"
'Just a little while, Merry" he begged,
"until we can get things in working Or
der; just one year"
"But there is John" she insisted. ~
owe something to Johu."
''And to no one else, Merry2" asked
Uncle George. "What if Eunice and
had not cared for you when you were
left alonep
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 trembled when she attempted
to speak; she put out her hand as if
seeking some support, and rested it
heavily upon the back of a chair.
can never forget that scene. Boy as
was, realized that it was the sacrifice
of life. lifted my poor twisted body
upon my pillows, aud 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 to-night. Then Aunt Merry
lifted her head and said softly, 81 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
l 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!
promise not to ask another, john"
With heavy heart he answered
for the third tune, SIT shall be as you
wish, Merry.
| think Aunt Merry began to feel then
that an unseen power was shaping her
life in a strange, uucomprehended
mould.
Strange indeed! 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;
'don't forget the children; God bless
youm With the blessing still ON his lips,
he left us.
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, aud
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 foated again from
our door, and met an answering signal
through all the stricken town.
Death played upon many heart strings; I;
but none, think, were so entirely swept
as was Aunt Merrys. 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 aud 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 a 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