Western liberal. (Lordsburg, N.M.) 1887-1919, 1893-06-09
HIS FIRST'S ASHES.

When h wife Of Durande, captain 10
the One Hundred and Twelfth cuira3-
siers Of the line. died, he was sorely
stricken with sorrow, and would not be
comforted. In fact, he had hardly had
time to enjoy his happiness or appre-
ciate his treasure, for they had been
married only a month, when she was
taken from him in tho midst Of their
wedding tour in Italy.
just about returning to Paris, she fell
III IN Rome and died of fever, in spite
of the many physicians called to attend
her and the devoted care Of her husband,
who never left her side till she breathed
her last.
Conscious to tho end. she bravely
sought to console him.
1T was not given to mortals," she
said, "to be happy for long. Our joy
has been too great; it could not last
Do not weep, dearest" she cried; ''let
me pass away in peace, without tho
memory of your distressed face. Smile;
do not look so sadr' and she raised her
trembling hand and caressingly laid it
on his cheek.
You are a soldier" pursued she:
death should have no terrors for you.
have loved you only; do me, then, one
last little favor. wish to DO near you
always, even in death. l beseech you,
cremate me, then; reduce me to a little
heap Of ashes that you can carry always
with you. / shall neye disturb you.
How strange it seems to call n heap Of
ashes Yet so it will be. You will
sometimes glance at me thus, and can
r,ever entirely forget mel"
Neverthelc-s when Durande returned
10 Paris he was a changed man. He was
tim and haggard; his eyeshad lost their
luster, his step its elastic spring and
confidence.
Courage. courage, my boyI' his colo
mel would say to him.
"Be brave, my friendP' repeated his
brother officers.
But JOY and brightness had gone out
Of Duraude's life. The once brilliant
soldier was a broken man.
No one ON arrival was allowed to
touch his luggage, and he himself, with
care and weeping, drew from his satchel
an artistic little vase that he solemnly
charged his brosseur never on any &C
count to lay hands upon.
"a token Of poor madameY" the man
Yentured to ask.
Eyes, a token" Durande responded;
before which, the slim Roman urn that
held all that was left of his poor wife's re-
mains, he knelt and wept bitterly when
alone again. At night it stood in full
view upon a cabinet beside his bed, that
his eyes might rest upon it when not
closed in sleep and by day. When his
leave had expired and he had returned
to duty, ne wa distract, a stranger to his
comrades, joining in none Of their pleas
ures or amusements, seeming to live only
in the memory Of his lost wife and that
urn-which might be knocked over.
He had placed her portrait in every
room in his house, and by a strange para
dox Of sentiment it was here, among all
these tender ~recollections, that he passed
his least miserable hours.
By degrees, through steady contem-
plation, perhaps, the sight Of the Roman
urn produced a less painful effect upon
the disconsolate widower, and no longer
caused him the cruel heart pangs Of the
first days of bereavement.
He was now able to picture his dar-
ling as she had been in the zenith Of
strengthan and beauty, gay, smiling charm
ing. Again and again he recalled and
lived over the moments of that honey
moon journey, and grew happy himself
in this sweet, posthumous revival Of
radiant hours.
When ut work the urn stood on his
writing table, and he thought how in
life and in that bygone time he had writ
ten and pondered and she had sat qui-
city beside him reading or sewing tran
gully, silently, without disturbing him,
Six months passed, heightened to a
year, and now and then ithappened that
Durande forgot the urn and left it on his
table at night instead Of carrying it to
his bedroom. Finally he enshrined 1t
for good on his Office table. Not that
the memory Of his wife was less than at
first, but because in time it was borne
in upon him that a funereal deposit like
this was unsanitary, unhealthy in a
sleeping room.
Nevertheless every day it was sur
rounded, as usual, with lilies and roses,
his wife's favorite flowers.
lac ono year AuusAAtAeu 70 LMo1 anu
Durande had returned TO his bachelor
life.
otis wrong TO bury yourself alive
thus" said his friends and his wife's re-
l~ations; ''begin, so into the world
again"
Durande yielded, nce more won't out,
fEequented the quarters Of his brother
officers, Joined IN their iollifying, aud
actually one evening carried them all
home with him 10 a banquet IN his OWL
apartments. The wine was good. the
champagne sparkling, laughter, songs
uproar the order Of tho lisht; when tn,
supper ended they all adjourned 10 th'
private Office. where the moFtuarl
shrine stood alone upon the table, severe
aud mournful.
Revelry ran riot in tho midst O
which Durards suddenly recalled IL.
presence Of tho dead, as no was won
10 call tho urn, caught Il up hurriodly