The Pascagoula democrat-star. (Pascagoula, Miss.) 1878-1920, 1893-02-10
The Daughters Sacrifice.
BY sYvANuus COBB, JR.

Mary Goldlhwait sal by the
wel-flled grale in her fathers
drawing-room. II was on cold
evening in winter. and The wind
howled mournfuily around The
street corners aud through the
narrow lanes and alleys. Mary was
a pale slim girl, bui possessing a
beauty which even the most tas-
lidiOus could not have questioned.
Her hair, which was Of a deep,
golden brown, lay neatly waving
upon a brow as pure as snow, and
the soil luslrous eyes winch seem.
ed to have the same deep golden
hue. shed a light from the soul
which could only have emanaled
from a source of purity and worth.
She had seen eight. twenty
years of life, and yet she remain
ed "A maiden beneath her fathers
roof. A close calculator in physi,
ognomy would have said that Mary
had some heart grief that made
her look so pale. So she had,
though perhaps no one save her
scif, ON eareh, knew uil her heart
secrets. She had lost beloved
mother when she was twenty, and
since then she had seen one broth
er and one elder sister laid away
in the tomb. She sat now with
her small white hands clasped
over her bosom, and her eyes turn.
ed downward I'LL the long lashes
lay like golden pencilIings upon
her cheek.
Near her, in his great armchair,
sat her father. lie was a tall, slim
man whose head was white, and
/ / whose face was deeply lurroweo
by the hand of lime. There were
some kind marks upon his feature,
and some hard cold ones; but now
he looked unhappy.
"Mary," he said in continuation
of a conversation already com
menced, "lor eight and lwenl,
years l have found a home TO
you, and your every wish has beef
promptly met and answered. You
good has been my highest aim, anl
your peace aud happiness my onl,
joy. You are advancing in years
and soon your father must leav,
you alone. But I-I-canno
leave you at he mercy of a COLI
world. Now a good home is opeI
to you, and you must accept i,
Men might call ME selfish coul,
they know all my motives; but
am sure you will not. A crisis ha
come; a volcano has grown up be
meath my feet. In a few NOR
short days it must whelm me I,
utter ruin. if | be not saved. M,
Smith has asked me for your hand
lie has seen you at church and h
has watched you narrowly. II,
loves you. And, moreover, he i
wealthy; more wealthy than you
father was. Aud he holds note
of mine, too; noies TO the amoun
oil hundred thousand dollars"
"Bu, your name is not alone OIL
these note ?" gasred Mary.
No; only The first of Iour. but
am holden for The whole. Yet tn,
quarter par. Of that is sufficient /,
ruin me-"
"And Mr.. Smith makes my hant
the equivalent! ~
eyes. Or-l must say, he ha
not said so. But he knows ~,
situation, and knowing it hs ha
asked Tor The hand Of my child
All, Mary, it does seem 10 me lha
God has kept your hand ill now
that 1t might be the means of lit
ing your old father up from ruin
You have even rejected suiior
whom l have favored; but | d.
not think you have rejected a bet
ter man than Mr.. Smith,"
All! That old man had forgot
ten one! He had forgotten
bright, haired youth who once la,t
his heart at Mary's feet. But ,ha
was many Years ago, aud his min,
went not back so far.
"Now what shall | tell MI
Smith ~
my heart il all broken an,
torn" she sad, gazing sadly int,
her fathers face, "but my hand i