The Bossier banner., 1891-09-24

On Sundays thereafter [ would 20
early to the bridge and visit until they
passed, for it proved that this was their
habitual Sunday walk. Sometimes
they would pause and join those who
gazed duwn at the black river | would.
now and again, resume my Journey
toward the hospital while they thus
stood, and would look back from a
distance. The bridge would then ap-
pear to me an abrupt ascent, rising to the
dense city, and their two figures would
stand out clearly against -the back.
ground se@ @s
1t became matter of care to me to
observe each Sunday whether the
health of either had varied during the
previous week. The husband, always
pale and slight, showed little change,
and that infrequently, But the fuetu-
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 !
found myself elated.
But on the next Sunday the cheeks
had receded slightly, the healthy luster
l'of the eyes had given way to an ON
inous glow, the warning cf death had
returned. Then my heart would sink,
and, signing, I would murmur, in
audibly:
''Fhis is one of the bad Sundays"
There came time when every Sun
day was a bad one. .s.,
What made me love this womani
Simply the unmistakable completeness
and constancy of her devotion to hel
husband-the absorption of the woman
in the wife. Had the strange ways o1
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, l loved her-if to fill ones lif'
with thoughts of woman, if in fancy
to see, her face by day and night, if t.
hare the will to die for her or to beal
pain for her-if these and many more
things mean love.
Ny richest joy was to see her conten
with her husband. and the darkest wo,
of my life was to anticipate the termi
nation of their happiness.
So the Sundays passed. One after
noon l waited until almost dusk, ye
the couple did not appear.
For seven Sundays in succession
did not meet them upon their wonte'
walk. sH
on the eighth Sunday T saw the do
first; then the man. The latter wa
looking over the railing. The woma
was not with him. ApprehensivelY
sought with my eyes his face. Mucl
grief and loneliness were depicted there
Was he or the greater mourner,
wonder?
: / suppose two years passed after tha
day ere l again behe1d the widower-
} whose name i do not and probabl
never shall know-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 hi
side was a very pretty. animated, ros
I little woman whom | had never see
e before. They walked close to eac
t other, and she looked with the utmos
: tenderness into his face. She evidentl
: was not yet entirely. accustomed to tn
wedding ring which. observed upo
her finger.
think that tears came to my eyes ;
this sight. Those great brown eye
the plush sacque, the lovely face thi
had borne the impress of sorrow and S
speedily had felt death-those migf
never have existed so soon had the
! been forgotten by the one being in tt
I world for whom. that face had wor
. the aspect of a perfect love.
Yet one upon whom those eyes new
q rested has remembered. And surel
the memory of her is mine to wed, sinC
he, whose right was to cherish 1t, h;
allowed himself to be divorced from
: in so brief time.
The memory of her is,with me alway
fIls my soul, beauties my life, max
green and radiant this existence whiC
:, all who know me think cold, blea
. empty, repellent.
You will not laugh then, my frien
& when tell you that love is not to me
n thing unknown.
II So runs part of the last letter to n
q father that the cid bookkeeper ev
l. wrote. Philadelphia Press.
s. II