The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936, 1893-09-22

and in my heart. l cherished her mern
DRY with a tenderness that had grown
calm, and / loved her as one loves a
dream Of q most beautiful and enchant-
ing thing.
Twelve years do not mean much in
the life of a man. They pass almost un-
noticed. One follows upon the other,
slowly yet swiftly. Each is long, yet
loon at an end. Although they multiply
rapidly, they leave few traces behind
and vanish SO completely that when one
looks back upon them there is nothing
left to remind us of their fight. and age
creeps on without warning.
at seemed to me that only a few years
separated me from hat delightful season
or the beach at Etretat.
Zone day last spring l went to dine
with friends at Maissons-Lafitte. Just
as the train was about to start a portly
matron entered the coach | occupied ac-
companied by four little girls. | could
not help looking c~uriously at this large.
rotund, motherly creature, whose face
was like the full moon under a berib-
boned hat. She pulled and painted from
the exertion Of her hurried walk. The
children began to babble, and | unfolded
my newspaper and commenced to read.
AS we passed Asnieres my neighbor sud-
denly accosted me:
81 beg your pardon. sir. Are you not
M. CarnierY
eyes, madame
''She laughed with the contented laugh
of q cheerful woman, but there was just
a tinge of sadness in her voice.
edo you not recognize mey
81 hesitated. 1t seemed to me that |
had seen her face before, but l could not
tell when and where. answered:
"'Yes-and, mol certainly know you.
but l cannot recollect your name She
blushed a little.
"'Mme Julie Lefevre.'
Il was startled out of my wits. For a
moment the earth seemed to reel around
me, and a veil was rudely torn from my
eyes which made me see things with ter
rible, h~eartrending clearness.
sit was she! This stout, common
woman, the mother of these four girls!
| eyed the little creatures with as much
establishment as l did their mother. They
had followed her; they had taken their
places in life. already half women, and
she counted for nothing-she, who had
once been such a marvel of delicate and
coquettish charmsl
cit seemed to me that l had known
her but yesterday, and to find her thus
again! 1t was impossiblel A violent
pang wrung my heart. l rebelled
against nature and her brutal, infamous
work of destruction! l looked at her
with frightened eyes. When l took her
hand in mine, tears dimmed my vision.
I wept for her youth; l wept for her
death. This stout woman was a stranger
to me.
"She, too, was touched, and she fall
tered: I am much changed, I know, but
it is only natural. lam a mother now
nothing but a mother-a good mother.
Farewell to everything elss that is
passed. I did not think that you would
recognize me or that we. should ever
meet again. You yourself are not as
you used to be. 1t took me some time
to decide whether I was mistaken in my
surmise. Your hair has grown quite
gray. Think of it-12 years is a long
time. My Oldest daughter is nearly 10
years DID,
"Ilooked at the child and discovered in
her some of the old charms of her moth
er, undefnable as yet, uniformed and in
the bud, and life seemed to me nothing
more than a rapidly passing train. We
arrived at Maissons-Laf I kissed
my old friends hand and parted from her
with a few trivial phrases. was too
deeply moved to speak.
SIN the evening when I was alone ex-
amined my face a long time in the mir
ror and ended by recalling to my mind
the picture Of myself as I had been in
bygone days, with brown mustache and
black hair and a young, fresh face. But
now I was old. Farewell"-Guy De
M~aupassant.