New Ulm review., 1893-01-25

as the days Of busy mon do. when one
day he realized that it was moro tnan.
six weeks since he had heard from his
child friend, Laura Holt.
How odd that little soul has not
written" he thought; perhaps she,
too, has forgotten. =
However, as he had just got some
numbers of q magazine in which q
short story Of his was appearing that
moEth, he put q wrapper around one
and addressed it to Miss Laura
Holt; .'and by return of posts there
came for him q letter in strange
handwriting, bearing the post mark Of
the town in which she lived.
Aye, but was it so strange? Amyatt
stared at it forsa full minute before he
opened it: his memory going back:
back, back-Oh, to the days Of his
5boyhood, gone never to come back
again, never any more. And then,
when he tore the cover and found
that it contained little note in his
friends round handwriting, that
memory straightway vanished.
Dear Mr.. John Dawes, it said, ''thank
you so much for sending me the story.
Mother IS just going to read it to me, but
wanted to write to you first. You must
: have been very ill, and can only sit up
for few minutes and write with pencil
now. think am rather better I have
been five weeks in bed already. Ever your
loving friend. LAURA"
Naturally, Amyatt knew but little
about the ailments of children, but it
seemed to him that for child of nine
years to be in bed five weeks at a.
stretch, with no immediate prospect
OF getting up again, was very bad
sign, and in his anxiety he appealed
to the regimental surgeon.
"What's the matter with the child"
he asked. .
81 don't know"
'"Then you'd better make the ILL
ness shorter, or give it scarlet fever"
he said, thinking that Amyatt was
merely stating a case for one OF his
stories. w.
"But it is a real child" the major
explained. # ...
Every bad lookout, then," returned
the doctor, decidedly.
Then Amyatt wrote to the mother.
II shall be grateful if you will tell
me how my little friend is," he said.
II assure you if I had known her
for twenty years I could not feel
more anxious than her letter has
made me feel this morning." Yet
even when this was gone, he still
could not take his thonghts away
from the dear little friend whom he
had never sesn, lying prostrate, for
the handwriting told him she must
be indeed very i'll, on bed Of sick
ness and pain. e.2. B.. .~.-@
In two days the reply came, writ
ten in the same hand as the cover of
the child's last letter, handwriting
which set every nerve in his body
throbbine, every pulse beating like a
steam engine.
''My little girl is very, very ILL.," Mrs.
Holt wrote, ''much worse since she wrote
to you, and the doctors told me last night
that I must be ready to face the worst
When tell you that she and are quite
alone in this world, you will know
what my agony is. can't write about it. I
can only thank you and bless you for all
you, utter stranger that you are, to pray
that this blow may not fall upon ME.
f.. Yours gratefully.
"LAURA Sr. MARY HoLT."
cutter stranger that you are!n'
Why, even in his concern and distress,
Amyatt almost laughed aloud. A
stranger to her-a stranger to her!
the letter, the handwriting, the name,
had all brought back the self.same
memory that the cover of the child's
letter had called back only the other
day! The memory of what? Well, just
this: OF the only woman that he had
ever asked to be his wife, the only
woman he had ever loved. E4-
l. She had told him frankly and
simply that she was engaged to an
other man, and Amyatt had rushed
away, never asking, in his misery, so
much as his rivals name.
So it had been Holt! And he was
dead. Yes. evidently he was dead, for
she had said that she and the child
the child who was dyiug-were quite
alone in the world. 80.
But he could help her there! She
should be alone in the world no long
er, for he would go to her-he would
stand between her and the world, he
would offer her his strong arm and
his true heart to guard her from all
evil, to keep Ter 50 that trouble
should not come nigh her.
''Aye, but could he help her so that
trouble should not come nigh her?
No; no, alas! for when he reached her
side the little child was-dead.- ohm
Strange Winter, in London Ladies'
Pictorial.
ROBBED THEM WITHOUT MERCY