The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1893-01-04

At that time a messenger asks for him; a
messenger with marks of haste in bis flushed
face, and who looks strangely plying as he
confronts the man Of business All told in
few words.
The riding party of the morning had pro-
longed their excursion beyond the limits of
the park, begulied by the pleasure of each
others society and regardless Of increasing
heat. There had been an accident; his sons
horse in taking fence had caught its foot
and fallen, carrying its master with it. His
friends FASTENED to his assistance, but it was
too late. The fall had killed him, and they
bore his body to the nearest inn, where IL
had lain some hours before they could get it
removed home.
This was not all. His daughters horse
had taken fright at the accident and run
away. She had been thrown and injured.
Back to his stricken house returns sorrow
ing, gray -haired man. Back to the roof
where lie the remains of his first born, and
where his daughter in delirium suffers the
pain of bandaged wounds. A sad ending
to day begun with pleasure.
And TO the father standing in darkened
room beside the body Of his child, England
seems very far away. The world for him
lies in an open coffin.
Again the English village August is
nearly spent and the dog roses are in full
prime of loveliness. 1t is a glorious morn
ing, in which all nature seems to rejoice.
but in the village there is a subdued excite
ment. Gossips gather round the doors, for
getting their morning occupations, and talk
in low tones.
In the cottage which we visited before
there is change The cid armchair, ten
auted SO long by grandmother. is empty.
The Bible is closed. In an upper room she
lies upon a bed, and each passing hour
80 A..
faded cheek. By her side is her daughter
and her daughters husband. 1t is through
their faithfulness that grandmother has
lived in comfort all these years, and they
strive to cheer her dying hours with every
kindly artihce.
One thing they cannot give her that she
cesselessly asks for. The letter 1t has
never come. Through the early summer
months she looked Tor it, and disappoint-
ment came Just as it does to-day. The
faithful mothers heart has followed her
sons wanderings in foreign land for thirty
years, and when death is about to claim her
that heart knows no change.
HAS no letter come, Bessier' The poor
eyes lock up full Of longing. No. it has not
noon. and afternoon draws on, while grand
mother lies waiting and fading gradually to
"the land o. the leal"
mo letter yet. Jessiep
No, not yet There will be one soon,"
says grandmother, with sudden energy.
My boy has not forgotten me! know
there is letter coming"
But the postman's step does not echo in
ths village street Just now, and the face on
the pillow changes even as they gaze. The
call has come. Her children gather round
her bed in silence-s silence broken by the
entrance OF the clergyman who has been
hastily summoned. He bends over the pill
low and whispers something of certain So
cred name Grandmother stirs little, and
as her lips move they hear her repeating
brokenly the words: Come unto me-Rll
ye-that labor and are-heayy laden-snd
Twill give you-rest"
The simple-heerted clergyman kneels
down, end amid the solemn sounds of
prayer, mingled with the sobs Of those
around, the breath grows shortsr-shorter
yet--until it ceases altogether. And all Of
grandmother remaining ia the frail earthly
form in which she lived her life.
Tenderly loving hands compose the re-
leased limbs and fold the wrinkled hands
upon the breast. Grandmother looks peace
full as she lies asleep with the light of the
setting sun shining through the window and
casting radiance even through drawn
| blinds.
Nsxt morning the postmau, coming down
the street, shows something TO those he
/ HDSdke JO-soL1etuiuB buhO EAFOLS bu0 lntoE~
est of all. By and by he comes to the house
of mourning. with its darkened windows,
and gently Tars at the door. Jessie opens it
and as the postman goes away looks at the
little packet in her hand aud shows the post
mark to her husband. 1t has come at last,
| the long expected letter. But too late.
| They take il to the room where grand
mother lies and read aloud the few curt
| lines informing her OF his bereavement,
| almost feeling as il the deaf ears will hear
the words and have their longing satisfied.
and then with raverent hands they lay it
| on the silenced breast, where it is still rest
! ing when the coffin lid hides it forever.
| In pleasant part of the dear little quaint
churchyard, ove-grown with flowers and
shsded by large willow tree. is the grave,
marked with small beadstone. Carven
upon it are the words Of the text she died
repeating They stand in their lofty grandeur
unsupported by any dourishes. but what
| more can be needed than the simple prom
Use, 81 will give you rest!' Surely. to the
tired frame and burdened heart, worn with
the canker OF years. that ''rest" must be
very sweet.