The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1891-07-24

previous week. The husband. always
pale and slight, showed little change.
and that !nfrequently. But the f1uctu-
ations of the woman, as indicated by
complexion, gait, expression, and other
wise, were numerous and pronounced.
Often she looked brighter and more ro-
bust than on the preceding Sunday.
Her face would be then rounded out,
and the dark crescents beneath her
eyes would be less marked. Then 1
found myself. elated.
But on the next Sunday the cheeks
had receded slightly, the healthy luster
of the eyes had given way to an ON
nous glow, the warning CT death had
returned. Then my heart would sink,
and, signing, l would murmur, in
audibly:
This is one of the bad Sundays"
There came time when every Sun
day was bad one.
What made me love this woman?
Simply the unmistakable completeness
and constancy of her devotion to her
husband-thc absorption of the woman
in the wife. Had the strange ways Of
chance ever made known to her my
feeling, and had she swerved from
that devotion even to render me back
love for love, then my own alteration
for her would surely have departed.
Yes, | loved hCr-if to fill ones life
with thoughts of Il woman, if in fancy
to sec her face by day and night, if to
have the will to die for her or to bear
r.. 1, a. 4
things mean love.
My richest JOY was to see her content
with her husband, and the darkest VOC
of my life was to anticipate the terIni.
nation of their happiness.
SO the Sundays passed. One after
noon | waited until almost dusk, yet
the couple did not appear.
For seven Sundays in succession
did not meet them upon their wonted
walk
On the eighth Sunday I saw the dog
first: then the man. The latter was
looking over the railing. The woman
was not with him. Apprchcnsively
sought with my eyes his face. Much
grief and loneliness were depicted there.
Was he or the greater mourner, l
wonder?
/ suppose two years passed after that
day ere | again beheld the widower--
whose name | do not and probably
never shall llnow-upon the bridge.
The dog was not with him this time.
1t was fine, sunny afternoon in May.
Grief was no longer in his face. BY his
side was very pretty, animated, rosy
little woman whom | had never seen
before. They walked close to each
other, and she looked with the utmost
tenderness into his face. She evidently
was not yet entirely accustomed to the
wedding ring which / observed upon
her finger.
| think that tears came to my eyes at
this sight. Those great brown eyes,
the plush saeque, the lovely face that
had borne the impress of sorrow and so
speedily had felt death-those might
never have existed so soon had they
been forgotten by the one being in the
world for whom that face had worn
the aspect of perfect love.
Yet one upon whom those eyes never
rested has remembered. And surely
the memory Of her is mine to wed, since
he, whose right was to cherish it, has
allowed himself to be divorced from it
in so brief a time.
The memory of hcris with me always,
fills my soul, beauties my life, makes
green and radiant this existence which
all who know me think cold, bleak,
empty, rcpcllent.
You will not laugh then, my friend,
when tell you that love is not to me
thing unknown.
SO runs a part of the last letter to my
father that the old bookkeeper ever
wrote. -Philadelphia Press.