The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1893-12-17

nan. OF horror. nail OF PRIDE the Grape
upon her dress which proved her right TO
that new exaltation among human crea-
tures-that position Of a mOurner which
IS in its way a step in life. Dora did not
ask where she was going when she fol-
I lowed Miss Bethune. also in black from
head TO foot, TO the plain little OrOugham
I which had been ordered 10 do tit and
I solemn honor to the occasion; the great
Z white wreath and basket of flowers,
I which filed up the space, called no OBJ
servation from her.
They drove in silence to the great Gem
| etery, with all its gay flowers and elabor
! ate aspect of cheerfulDess. 1t was a fine
I but cloudy day, warm and soft, vet with
out sunshine and Dora had a curious
! sense of Importance, Of meaning, as If she
had attained an advanced stage of being.
/ Already an experience had fallen to her
/ share, more than one experience. She
4 had knelt, troubled and awe-stricken, by
1 death-bed; she was going now to stand
/ by grave Even where real sorrow eX-
/ lists this curious sOrrOwful citation of
( sentiment is apt 10 come into the mind Of
I the very young. Dora was deeply i'm
pressed by the circumstances and the po-
sitiOn, but II WaS impossible that she could
I feel any real grief.
/ Tears cane TO her eyes as she dropped
+ the shower OF flowers, white aud lovely,
( into the darkness of that last abode. Her
/ face was full of awe and pity, but her
breast of that vague, ineXplainable ex-
/ pansion and growth, as of creature en-
! tered into the larger developments and
/ knowledge of life. There were very few
[ other mOurners. Mr. Templar, the law
| yer, with his keen but yelled observation
| Of everything, serious and business-like;
! the doctor with professional gravity and
! Indifference; Miss Bethune, with almost
| stern seriousness, standing like a statue
in her black dress and with her pale face
| Why should any of these spectators care
| The woman was far the most moved
| thinking of the likeness and difference of
/ her own fate, of the failure of that life
/ which was now over. and of her own a
! deeper failure still. without any fault of
| hers. And Dora, wondering, developing.
her eyes full of abstract tears, and her
/ mind of awe
Only one mouTner stood pale with
watching and thought beside the open
J grave, his heart aching with loneliness
/ and profound natural vacancy and pain.
! lie knew that she had neglected him. al
| most wronged him at the last, cut him
| off. taking no thought of what was 10 be-
! come of him. He felt even that in so do
! ing this woman was unfaithful to her
| trust, and had done what she ought not
to have done. But all that mattered
nothing in face of natural sorrow. natural
/ love. She had been a mother to him. and
she was gone. The ear always open to
/ his boyish talk and confidence, always
ready to listen, could hear him talk no
more; and, always more poignant, his
| care of her was over, there was nothing
more to do for her, none of The hundred
! commissions that used 10 send him flying,
! the hundred things that had to be done.
! His occupation in life seemed to be over,
his home, his natural place. 1t had not,
! perhaps, ever been a natural place, but he
| had not felt that She had been his
1 fhng r. l.
! in his veins; and now he was nobody's
son, belonging to no family.
The other people round looked like
| ghosts to Harry Gordon. They were
part of the strange cutting off. the sew
| erance he already felt none of them had
anything to do with her, and yet it was
he who was pushed out and put aside as
| if he had nothing to do with her, the
| only mother he had ever knownl The
little sharp old lawyer was her repre-
sentative now, not he who had been her
son. He stood languid, in a moment of
| utter depression, collapse of soul and
body, by the grave. When all was over,
and the solemn voice which sounds as no
other voice ever does, falling calm
through the still air, bidding earth return
to EARTH and dust to dust, had ceased, he
still stood, as if unable to comprehend that
all was oVer-nO one TO bid him come
away, no other place to go to- not think
ing of moving. His brain was not re-
lieved by tears, or his mind set in activity
by anything to do He stood there half
stupetied, left behind in that condition
where simply to remain as we are seems
the only thing possible to US.
Miss Bethune had placed Dora in the
little brougham, i'll vigorous fulflment of
her duty to the child Mr.. Templar and
the doctor had both departed, the two
other women, Mrs. BristOwe's maid and
the nurse who accompanied her, had
driven away, and still the young man
stood, not paying any attention. Miss
Bethune waited for little by the carriage
door. She did not answer the appeal of
the coachman, asking If he was TO drive
away she said nothing to Dora, whose
eyes endeavOred III vain to read the
changes in her friends face; but, after
standing there for few minutes quite
silent suddenly turned and went back to
the cemetery. 1t was strange to her TO
hesitate in anything she did, and from
the moment she left the carriage door all
uncertainty was over. She went back
with quick step, treading her way
among. the graves, and put her hand upon
young Gordon's arm.
You are coming home with me-" she
said.
The new, keen voice, irregular and full
of life, so unlike the measured tones to
which he had been listening, struck the
young man measily in the midst of his
melancholy reverie, which was half
trance, half exhaustion. He moved a
step away, as If to shake off the inter
ruption. scarcely conscious what, and not
at all who it was.
My dear young man, you must come
with me- - she said again
He looked ut her with consciousness re
awakening, and attempted to smile with
his natural ready response to every
kindness. 1t is you,' he said, and then
II might have known it could only be
YOU"
What did that mean' Nothing at all
Merely his sense that the one person who
had spoken kindly to him, looked tenderly
at him Though he had never known why
and hau been both amused aud embar-
Passed by consciousness), was the most
likely among all the strangers by whom
he was surrounded to be kind to him now.
But it produced an effect upon Miss
Bethune which was far beyond any mean,
ing it bore
A great light seemed suddenly to blaze
over her face, her eyes which had been SO
yelled and stern awol1e every line OF a
face which could be harsh and almost
: rigid in repose, began to melt and soften,
her composure. which had been almost
solemn, failed, her lip began to culver,
tears came dropping upon his arm, which