The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1892-10-27

earnestly and frequently OF her con-
dition, and Mary .Sastburn bends
tenderly over her. How little either
could know whence came the shaft
that had pierced the quivering heart.
When she was conscious those
around her saw a new light in her
eyes, the light of a steadfast, earnest
purpose. Yet she would lie quietly
among her pillows and never muir.
tmur or confide in any one.
''Will you not see Mr.. Stanover?"
asked Mary Eastburn one afternoon
when the invalid was able to be prop
ped up in an arm chair.
"Yes-now," was the quiet answer,
and the young companion left the
room.
1t was a beautiful September after
noon, the air was redolent with per-
fume and. warmth, drowsy with
the hum OF bees and the tinkle OF the
distant sheepbells. Marion lay look
ing over the scene with e, weary
patient sigh. These weeks ofpain ana
delirium had unraveled the coil OF her
heart. Her course was plain and
clear, and the poor, feeble strength
will all but fail in the effort.
When Francis comes in he crosses
straight to her side and with an I'm.
feigned impulse carries the little hand
to his lips. She looks up into his
eyes with faint smile and whispers:
81 wanted to ask a favor OF you,
Francis" ..--a'. =.
"On this glad day of your recovery
| Int ho 81 1 ~
may make, my dear" -
For an instant she looks over the
sunlit scene without. Just q PREACHER
aus moment, a hungry bope that this
tone OF tender solicitude may have
arisen fromsother emotion than pity;
then as she remembers his tone OF de-
jected sacrifice in the conservatory
she nerves herself for the task. The
hope-poor, struggling hope-is crush
ed and stif1ed. &
"We are sometimes blind to*our
best interests, Francis, and / was to
mine. Do not think harshly OF
me; remember my weakness, how for
q moment the luxury of your love
shone with tempting brilliancy, but it
cannot be; no, it can never be!'
i'll. Let us not talk now
81 am i'll and shall never be we'll
again. So as my time upon earth is
short l must fill every moment. I
must not be selfish. I have q large
fortune and others starve for crust.
Last winter I did some good; this
season I will do more. Oh, Francis"
she sobbed suddenly and convulsive-
ly-"the doctor says: I shall never
see the roses again; that not later
than the violets I shall die, and in
deed am not afraid, but it is such a lit
letime; dosen't it seem that l might
be happy?"
Francis is pale as death; his lips
tremble as he kneels beside her.
ssMarion, my snowdrop, do not
talk so; you are too young to die.
Life will, must hold Joy for you and
we will live it out together"
But she had drawn the last barbed
arrow from her heart. Pale and
trembling, yet nobly calm. she met
has eyes. One slender hand pushed
back the dark hair from his brow and
fingered lovingly there as she conclud-
ed:
eve are not the authors of our
lives. 1 have been too idle all along,
just because was weak and ill. Now
the end shall find me waiting with
some merits in my hands, and you
l would not seal your young life with
the memory of grave. These things
leave too deep scars upon our lives.
See how the sun fades, yet to the last it
kisses the earth with tenderness. So
shall I leave the earth, dear, loving it
to the end, yet not weeping at the
parting. Why should ~ And her
eyes fell upon the crutches which had
been her support; upon the wasted
figure which could never even need
them again. II.
Francis Stanover, drawing her to
his bosom, felt that it was because
she was too sanity, too unlike all the
earth, that she could put Joy from her
and take a load upon her greater
than she could BEAR