The Meeker herald. [volume] (Meeker, Colo.) 1885-current, 1893-12-02
HER BURDEN. 1asp!
or my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
SAGrnal or l. L

stance falthfulS heart there was no
time IN her life that he had not
reigncd its king. All time before that
great event had faded into the dim,
shadowy past, and paled before the
glorious sunshine of the blissful real
ny. Only few short months but to
the dreamy, fancifui girl it was an
eternity; an eternity filled with a per-
feet light, the light that never shone
on land or sea-"
And he is coming to mel" she
unused, one balmy spring day, in her
ialr Southern home; Ibis last letter
his dear letter says, Il will be with
| you, my sweet, true Constance, in less
than week. Before the fragrant
roses bloom in the little garden you
have SO beautifully described to me;
that garden, sweetheart, which / can
see in fancy, and the great live oak
tree with the rustic seat under it, at
the end of the garden walk. can see
you, too, there, dear, dressed in the
pretty gown which you wore when
you had your picture painted for me.
can see your face, my darling, with
the soft white moonlight falling upon
1t, lighting mp your blue eyes, your
| wavy brown hair, your sweet red lips.
All! in little while-yet how long
to an eager heart will hold you in
my arms, your rightful place. | will
ress kisses upon your lips; will read
the sweet secret in your dear blue
eyes; Will see you at last! Oh, Con-
stance, that will be best of all. The
world may smile at our love. since we
have never personally met but be-
tween two congcnial hearts there
need be no ceremonial of the worlds
making. Through the medium of
letters we know each others natures;
we have learned to love each other.
and now we will meet: and the ideal
will fade before the glory of the real.
| will come direct to YOU be waiting
for me at the oak tree. Your
Harold"
How often she had read and re-read
that letter! How slowly the days had
dragged by, bringing nearer the meet
ing-days whose feet seemed clogged
with iron shackles. How she loved to
gaze with silent rapture on his
pictured face, the picture of
her boy, her bonny, bright,
handsome Harold. What though he
had won brilliant name in the far
off North-what though the name of
Harold Burgoyne, the rising young
journalist, was upon every lip-hc
was hers He filed her sad, lonely
life to overlooking and made up for
every loss that that life contained.
AT last the day came wncn the meet
ing took place. 1t was all just as they
had planned it; down in the moon
lit garden, beneath the live oak tree.
She stood there, waiting for his com
ing; one swift, eager glance, and both
hands were outstretched; then, his
arms went about her, and her head
dropped upon his shoulder, and all
was still. 1t was the meeting of twin
souls-hearts that were matcs-in n
love too pure for earth.
There We're days of happy compan-
ionship after that; days never to be
forgotten, but alas! all TOO pricr. buu
nothing on earth can last-nothing SO
fair, so like n dream of heaven-and
the sad, sad parting came all too soon
Constance, ! will come back TO
you" he said, great tears in his beau
tiful dark eyes, as he held her to his
heart in that last sad farewell-a
farewell destined to be eternal. II
will come back to you, my dear one,
before the autumn leaves deck the
trees. This is April will be with
you before September. BE brave and
strong, true heart, for | shall not
change ] shall live to make you hap
by. Live for me, my Constance, for
your love is very dear to me! There
is none like it upon earth"
She smiled into his eyes, her own
full of tears. Perhaps some preset
cncc of the future crcpt over her
heart, and gave her warning-a vague,
subtle warning-thut that love would
be her doom-that the man so madly
worshipcd would bring her deepest
sorrow black despair.
He loved her with all his heart, but
he did not understand this woman's
nature, its warmth, and scnsitlveness,
its depths of intensity and despair.
They parted. lie, to go back to the
excitement of his career-she, to bear
all the sorrow and desolation OF her
lot alone, in dull, uneventful round
of lifc's daily dutics-dutics which
sometimes seemed too heavy and
cumbersome for her, and her heart
was no longer in her work
Time went by. The sultry summer
weather was wearing slowly on to
earl; autumn. II was August; but
Harold was too occupied with his work
to dare hope for n vacation.
He broke it to her as gently rs pos
sible. 1t meant so much to him-to
them both. for surely they belonged
to each other If he did his work
we'll now, at this particular juncturc,
his future was assured; aud that future
would be hers, also for were they not
going to pass their lives together?
So he wrote; and Constance submitted
with patience. His success was hers.
No sacrifice would be too great to at
tain that end And she never told
him of her own failing health, of the
weakened heart, the feeble strength.
She would not trouble him or bring n
cloud to his brow--hcr bright, bonny
boy, so dearly loved.
And So as the days glided by-rap-
idly to him in his busy, bustling life
slowly to her, in her loneliness and
sadness - Harold Burgoyne never
dreamed that his Constance was
owly but surely fading away. Still,
with sublime unsclfishncss, she hid 1t
from him, and wrote as checrfully to
him as she could, trying to cover up
1.-THE smart and the pain"
Then, one day, there came letter
to Constance-a letter from the far
off North: n letter signed by Il