The Camden chronicle. (Camden, Tenn.) 1890-current, 1893-12-08

money with which to pay the substi-
tutc. j had wicked feelings enough,
madame, 1 can tell You. 1 did not
feel that God was kind to me, as had
always felt before. cannot tell you
how felt, for it is wicked to say any
such words, but in the midst of my
despair l met Father Uric.
You were not at church last Sum
day, dame, he said.
NO sir, said l. 4 have SO much
on my mind that L forget everything
else. Jean Baptiste is conscripted, and
we have no money to pay for a substi-
tute.
" SIS that any reason why you
should not remember heaven?' said
Father Uric. Surely God may
well forget us if we forget Him.
'And though L did not feel as
though 1 cared what Father Uric said
just then, 1 remembered his words
when was alone, in the dead of the
night, and also that had not prayed
that Jean Baptiste might be spared to
me; and l felt as though if 1 prayed
heartily and from my soul, an answer
might come, and I felt comforted.
And next morning l dressed myself in
my very best, and went across the
meadows to the church, and then 1
knelt down and tried to remember the
good words had been wont to say.
But / could not recall one, and / was
forced to use my own poor language,
and to say just this-no more:
" Heavenly Father, who knowest
what mothers love is, let me keep
Jean Baptiste from the cruel war.
''I said it over and over again.
There was no one near but one lady in
deep mourning, and / could not see
her face. She knelt also, and counted
her beads. And all was still as death
only now and then heard my own
voice, as though it were another's.
And something seemed to say that my
prayers would be answered. And ]
arose comforted, and I went out into
the church-yard, full of moss-grown
stones, and walked there for while.
And the lady in mourning came out
also, and laid wreath of immortelle'
upon a soldiers grave, and kissed the
stone, on which sword was carved
and his name, and went away. And
went home also, and my heart was q
rest. And all day 1 watched an(
waited for some strange answer to ny
prayer, but none came. And l wa
sad of heart again when the twilight
fell, and il was time to milk the COW
/ took my pail and went to find her
She had strsyed into meadow hare
by, and was cropping the sere autumn
grass. / knelt down there to mill
her, and'my poor pail would not b
full, l knew. 1t was another sign o
our great poverty. 1 got my quart o
SO, and set it down and leaned agains
the fence and wept And said:
"'There is nothing to hope for, an
prayers do no good. jean must go t
the war, and his mothers eyes sha
never see him again.
"And my eyes we're covered wit
my apron, when hand as soft as sill
touched mine, and a voice-oh, S
sweet and heavenly-said softly:
"'No, dame, he shall not go. Hol
your apron. This will keep him wit
you
"And / looked up, and there stoo
| a lady. Her face was SO beautifu
that it frightened me. And the su
: was set, and the moon was up, and i
Wilderness fell over her. About h,
neck she wore black cross, and gol'
: EN- hair rippled down over her for
i head. She was like the Madonna j
the picture in our church. / coul
t not stir. could not speak. 81
y smiled upon me.
y "'Hold your apron, dame,' 81
said.
"And I had just strength enough
do it. And then shower of gold al
silver trickled into it. And again 81