The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1893-02-25

! October Sd, lSy0
Aged twenty-three years, ten months.
Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord"
Mary could not see the words on th,
card, but she knew them by heart. Hat
she not chosen and paid for them herself
and was there not one hanging in her owl
little room at home?
Presently she said sorrowfully:
st seems very long time.
What do, my dear?"
"Since she died So many things have
happened. Jessie was the best girl l evel
knew. And what does she have for it all
She fell in love with man as wasn't good
enough for her; and when they'd walked
two years she had to give him up along Of
his bad habits. Then she was always wor
rying as to if it was right and wouldn't
look at any one else; and then she died
There are lots of bad girls, lots, who are
happier than Jessie was"
The old woman shook her head.
"You know more about it than me, my
dear, she said. "Jessie weren't one to
talk much. think she's happy now.
She was always one to cling to religion.
"Yes," said Mary softly. The little
prayer-book had belonged to Jessie.
She got up suddenly.
"I'm going" she said. ~ can't do you
any good tonight I'm tired and cross. "
She bent over the bed and kissed the
unlovely face. Then she extinguished the
light and went down stairs and homeward.
Her own room on the top story of the
house was very small, but it was neat and
even pretty. The chair-bedstead and the
table covered with red cloth were quite
nice pieces of furniture; and bright-col-
ored shawl hid the dress and jacket which
were hanging on the door. Mary could
not realize her ideals of house decoration,
but she did her best. On the mantlepiece
was vase Jessie had given her; there
were autumn leaves and berries in it. There
was also portrait in an adjustable frame.
1t had been taken two years ago, one bank
holiday, by man at Leytonstone, where
she and Jessie had gone in the tram. 1t
was not ilattering likeness of either of
them. Certainly it did not do Mary jus
tice. But it was the only photograph
there was of the dead girl Mary would
not have parted with it for love or money
When she had lit the lamp her eyes
turned almost involuntarily to this portrait.
Jessie and she had so often spent their
evenings together that she looked naturally
to this poor substitute for the living friend
when she was specially in need Of her.
Now she walked up to the mantlepiece and
stood FOR awhile gazing steadily at the in-
artistic representation of the common look
ing young woman in which there was no
trace of the sweetness of expression which
had made Jessie's charm. Gradually Mary's
eyes filled and her mouth quivered. At
last she began to cry softly; and presently
she went down on her knees on the floor
and hid her face in the low chair where
Jessie had so often sat.
"Oh,n she said aloud, her voice broken
by short sobs Il do want you, Jess. #
you was here | could tell you. There
isn't any one else as'd care or understand,
But you would. You've been through
somethin' like it, And you always knew
what to say.
"Jessie," she continued more softly, al
most in whisper, "my heart'll break,
I've been tryin' not to think all day, and
now can't help it. IF I could talk about
it I'd feel better. And SO I'm goin' to
pretend, I'm going to shut my eyes aud
try to believe you amt dead, Jessie, but
that you're settin' there and want to know.
I'm going to pretend 1 can put my head
in your lap and feel your hand smooth
in my hair. It's only make-believe,
Jessie dear, like the children do, but I'm
so lonely, and it's better than nothing"
There was little silence. Mary rose
and extinguished the light. 1t seemed to
her that she could talk to Jessie better in
in the darkness. Then she resumed her
former position, and by and by the pretty
broken voice was heard again. One who
listened might well have believed that she
had an audience, and an audience in sym
pathy with her.
at began just after you died, jess; a
little after Christmas it must have been.
| didn't have much heart for goin' out,
you know, and | was so wretched without
you, many's the time l thought | couldn't
have lived on. And one day there was a
meetin' over at the hall, and tea, Some
one gave me a ticket, and / thought it'd
cheer me up bit. And | went
There was young man there as had come
with Mr.. Munns, and he happened to sit
near me. You know, Jess, since you'd
had your trouble, didn't have much con-
fidence in men, aud didn't seem to need
sweetheart, havin you. And pr'aps
I'm cold. Anyways, | was never one to
set myself at men, But this one weren't
like them about here He was like gen
tlefolks look. And | see he KEEP starin'
at me, not rude, but as if he was pleased
to see me. And | pertended not to see
him.
"And afterwards he come and spoke.
And we begun to be friends. He was
Just the sort you'd have liked, jess. And
he said should We keep company? And
| told him how it was about you and me,
and how didn't seem as if could think
of sieh things then. And he said had
more need of friend if yoH was gone.
And he looked at me so--kindly, Jess"
There was louder sob than those which
had preceded it. 1t is hackneyed truth
that the keenest pain is remembered joy,
the greatest loss recollected gain, when
the present has not fulfilled the pr5mise
Of the past.
aAnd-we KEEP company, jess. Ii be-
gan gradual. And / seemed to sort of
soften And | was inclined to trust in
people more'n | did. An he didn't have
any o the faults I see in the most of men.
He didn't drink, nor swear, nor keep his
self uutidy. And he could talk of things
we'd often wanted to know, books and
sich. He was in carpenters shop, jess,
and I've heard them of that trade is re-
fpeder, just like them as works our way
is over factory girls, And he b'longed to
clubs where gentlefolk worked, and came
and befriended 'em. And he'd caught
their tricks. Oh, jess, it wasn't any won