The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1893-12-03

Q
/ I've been very i'll. Miller will tell YOU
I I've kept up, I've forced myself TO be bet
/ ter for thiS-fOr this
You will wear yourself out, ma am
said the nurse. You must not talk, you
must be quiet or I shall have 70 send the
/ young lady away
/ No, no. cried the dying woman,
again clucthing Dora with fevered arms.
/ For what must i be quiet'-to live lit
/ tie longer only want to live while she's
/ here. l only want IL as long as / can see
I Dora, you'll stay with me, you'll stay
/ with your pOor-pOOr''
She shall stay as long as you want
/ her, but for Gods sake think Of some
/ thing else, wOman-thiuk of where you're
[ gOing,' cried Miss Bethune, harshly over
Dora S head.
Then there was pause; and Dora, still
on her knees by the side Of the bed, met
/ as best she could the light which daZzled
her. which enveloped her in kind of pale
fame. from the eyes preternaturally
bright that were fixed upon her face, and
listened, as to a kind of strange lullaby,
to the broken words of fOndness, a muir
muir of fond names, of half sentences and
monOsyllables, in the silence Of the hushed
room This seemed to last for long
time. She was conscious of peOplG> pass
ing with hushed steps behind her, looking
over her head, a mans low voice, the
whisper of the nurses, a movement Of the
lights; but always that TRANSPORTED face,
all made Of whiteness, luminous, the hot
breath coming and going, the hands above
her face, the murmur of words. The
girl was cramped with her attitude for
a time, and then the Cramp went away,
and her body became numb, keeping its
position like a mechanical thing, while
her mind, too, was lulled into "a curious
sense of tOrpor. yet speCtatOrship, This
lasted she did not know how long.
She ceased to be aware of what
was being said to her. Her own
name, Dora over and over again re-
peated. and strange words, that came
back to her afterwards. went on in fall
tering stream. Hours might have passed
for anything she knew, when at last she
was raised, scarcely capable of feeling
anything, and put into chair by the bed
side she became dimly conscious that
the brilliant eyes that had been gazing at
her so long were being yelled as with
sleep, but they opened again suddenly as
she was removed, and were fixed upon her
with an anguish of entreaty. Dora, my
child-my child Don't take her away
She is going to sit by you here said
voice. which could only be a Doctors
voce-'here by your bedside. 1t is easier
| for her. She is not going away"
Then the ineHable smile came back.
| The two thin hands envelOped Dora 5
wrist. holding her hand close between
them, and again there came a wonderful
intervaI-the dark room, the little stars
Of lights the soft movements of the at
tendants gradually fixing themselves like
a picture on Dora S mind. Miss Bethune
was behind in the dark, sitting bolt up
right against the wall, and never moving.
Swallowed by the curtains at the foot of
the bed was someone with a white and
anxious face, whom Dora had only seen
in the cheerful light, and could scarcely
identify as Harry Gordon. A doctor and
the white-capped nurse were in front, the
maid crying behind. 1t seemed to go on
again and last for hours this strange
scene, until there suddenly arose a little
commOtion and movement about the bed,
Dora could not tell why. Her hand was
liberated; the other figures came between
her and the wan face on the pillow, and
she found herself suddenly, swiftly swept
away. She neither made any resistance
nor yet moved of her own will, and
scarcely knew what was happening until
she felt the fresh night air on her face,
and found herself in a carriage, with
Harry Gordon's face, very grave and
white at the window.
They disposed of her a. their ease, talk
ing over her head, bandying her about
she who was mistress of her own actions,
who had never been made to stay where
she did not wish to stay, or go where she
even in the rebellion of her spirit. There
was a something more strong than her
self, which kept her there on her knees
in the middle of the circle-all, as Miss
Bethune had said, attending on the one
I who was dying, the one who was of the
first interest, to whom even the queen
would bow and defer if she were to come
in here. Dora did not know what to say
to person in such a position. She APP
proved yet was angry that Miss Bethune
should bid the poor lady think where she
was going. She was frightened and ex-
cited. not knowing what dreadful change
might take place, what alteration, before
her very eyes. Her heart began to beat
wildly against her breast: pity was in it,
| but fear, too, which is masterful and OBJ
! literates other emotions, yet even that
| was kept in check by the overwhelming
! influence, the fascination of the chamber
| of death
| You will come to me in the morning
and let me know the arrangements, - Miss
Bethune said, in low voice.
| Yes, | will come; and thank YOU a
| thousand times for bringing her, ~ he said
They all talked of Dora as if she were
| thing, as if she had nothing to do with
| herself. Her mind was reused by the
motion, by the air blowing in her face
"What has happened? What has hap
pened?" she asked, as they drove away.
| Wv Ill she be up SODuef, beyond that
shining SKYE VIII she know that she is
| known2 viii she be satisfied with His
likeness, and be like Him. seeing Him as
| He is ,'' said Miss Bethune, looking up at
| the stars, with her eyes full of big tears
"Oh, tell me-" cried Dora, what has
| happened2n with sob of excitement; for
! whether she was sorry or aWe-stricken,
she did not know.
just everything has happened that
| can happen to woman here. She has
got safe away out of it all and there are
| few, few at my time of life that would
not be thankful to be like her-out of it
all, though it may be great thought to
go"
do you mean that the lady is dead2"
Dora asked in a voice of awe.
She is dead as we say; and content,
| having had her hearts desire"
Was that me?" cried Dora, humbled
by a great wonder, "Me2 Why should
she have wanted me so much as that, and
not to let me- go2'
''Oh, child, ! know no more than you,
and yet know well, well. Because she
was your mother, and you were all she
had in the world"
My mothers sister, ' said Dora, with
a childish sternness; and" she added
after moment, mot my fathers friend. ~
"Oh, hard life and hard Judgment
cried Miss Bethune. Your mothers
| own self a moor rtyY. ayrapt +l,ot 81