Waterbury evening Democrat., 1892-05-06
CHAPTER xxx.
CONCLUSION.


 wish that might draw the veil of silence over the remaining events of this history, as draw the veil of chari- ty over the acts of those who persecuted and despitefully used me in my un- happy days of the long ago. It gives me no pleasure to relate the sorrows and troubles that came in after life to those who cruelty treated me. for in the full measure of my happiness hold no enmity against any, but rather extend to all free and full forgiveness. I have no desire to exult over anyone's downfall, and trust that in finishing these pages may speak with moder- ation becoming one who tries to lead Christian life.
 MT. Bernard, as have said, spent money lavishly in his contest for cleo tion to congress, and the result was a financial embarrassment from which he was unable to recover. After year of hard struggling he was compelled to give up and pass into bankruptcy. Mrs. Bernard refused to adapt herself to his altered circumstances, and after long suit and much crimination and recrim- ination, they separated. Bernard went west, where he began a life of debauch- cry which in time led to his incarcera- tion in an asylum for inebriates, and where after long time he died, mis- erable, lonely, friendless wreck with not an eye to shed tear of regret, and not tongue to speak a word of love or pity.
 Ten years after my marriage my fa- ther wrote letter urging me to come home. It was so full of the spirit of contrition and so pitifully pleading in its tone that was not proof against its requests. He stated that my step mother was very sick and not likely to live long, and that Mary had come home q heartbroken woman, and that they were all in great trouble and need ed some one to comfort them in their sorrow.
 went. Charles urged me to go, and I did not hesitate. I put aside all of the past, dismissed every recollection of my stepmother's cruelty and my fathers colduess, and with no feeling in my heart save wish to console them went forth on mission of mercy and charity, happy in the thought that could do good to those who had done so much to darken my life.
 Arriving at my fathers house was shocked and grieved by the sight that E { my eyes. My father was so changed since that morning when I stood on 8 distant hill and looked back to my old home and saw him for the last time Then he was proud, erect and strong, while now I saw him bent with age and trouble, his head whitened and his face furrowcd. My stepmother, too, was so sadly altered. Instead of the proud, de- liant woman she was when she drove me from my fathers house I found her a sunkcn, wasted skeleton, weak almost unto death And Mary, my once naughty sister, what a change there had been in her! It needed no words to tell me that she had suffered bitterly and that her hopes and her life were blasted. I saw all that plainly written in her aged -countenance, her deep sunlen eyes and her bowed form. She had drunk from the cup of disap- pointmcnt and had drained it to the dregs.
 My father met me at the gate when alighted from the carriage, and coming forward, held out his hand. He was trembling like a leaf, and the tears stood in his eyes. He held my hand an instant, his lips moved as if in speech, then turning away he threw himself down on the stile and burst into tears. The scene was too touching for my feel ings, and I, too, wept true tears of sor. row and grief. If had harbored any thought or feeling against my father, should have forgiven him then.
 Several minutes passed in silence, after which my father lifted his face to eli 11f cheeks, and, taking my hand again, said oh so sadly:
 My child, may God forgive me fo1 what you have suffered, for you never can."
 Father" said, drawing nearer tc him, q have nothing to forgive. have no ill-feelings for anyone"
 God bless you, my child," he said softly, laying his hand on my head God bless you for what you say, and for coming to us in this dark hour" | He paused an instant to master the rising tears, then went on:
 My child, you do not know what : have suffered, nor how sad and lonely have been these long years. My life has been a sorrowful one, and ofte1 and often I have longed for some one tc | love me as your nOLner olOS ana aS you would had I let you. Agnes, I have been punished bitterly-more bitterly than can tell"
 "There, father" replied, laying my hand on his arm, ''do not say any mor' now. It distresses me to hear you tall so. l have come to you, and if cal cheer or comfort you, even a very little I shall be happy"
 went in to see my stepmother, bu she refused to speak to me and turned her face away. I believe it was not re sentiment but shame that actuated her and was confirmed in that opinion when at last she said to me:
 ''Why do you come here to rejoic at my misfortune and to laugh a my trouble? Is it not enough tha I should be brought down to this, with l how rSv,on I,ar,o &.>e