Waterbury evening Democrat., 1894-11-19
SILENT SISTERS.

They had quarreled in girlhood and mutually declared their intention never to speak to each other again. wetting and drying their forefingers to the ac- compartment of an ancient childish i'm cantation, and while they lived on the paternal farm they kept their foolish oath with the stubbornness of a slow country stock, despite the alternate coaxing and reinstatement of their par ents, notwithstanding the perpetual ev- eryday contact of their lives, through every vicissitude of season and weather, of sowing and reaping. of sun and shade, of joy and sorrow.
 Death and misfortune did not rccon- clio them, and when their father died and the old farm was sold up they travelled to London in the same silence, by the same train. in search of similar situations. Service separated them for years, though there was only n stones throw between them. They often stared at eacn other in the streets. Honor. the elder. married local artisan; 2t, years later Mercy. the younger. married fel- low workman of Jane's husband The two husbands were friends and often visited each others houses, which were on opposite sides of the same sordid street, and the wives made them wei come. Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered an allusion to the breach. It twas under stood that their silence must be received in silence.
 Each of the sisters had n quiverful of children, who played and quarreled to- gether in the streets and in one anoth CTS houses, but not even the street af- frays and mutual grievances of the chil- drcn could provoke the mothers to words. They stood at their doors in i'm potent fury. almost bursting with the torture of keeping their mouths shut against the effcrvesccnce of angry speech. When either lost a child, the other watched the funeral from her window, dumb as the mutes.
 The years rolled on. and still the river of silence flowed between their lives. Their good looks faded. The bur den of life and of their childbcaring was heavy upon them. Gray hairs streaked their brown trCSses, then brown hairs strcaked their gray trcsses The puckers of age replaced the dimples of youth. The years rolled on. and Death grew busy among the families. Honor $ husband died, and Mercy lost son, who died week after his wife Cholera took several uf the younger children. But the sisters themselves lived on, bent and shrivelcd by tUil and sorrow even more than by the slow frost of the years
 Then one day Mercy took tu her death bed. An internal disease, too long neg lcctcd, would carry her of within a week. So the doctor told Jim, Mercy $ husband
 Through him the news travelled to Honor'S eldest son, who still lived with her. By the evening it reached Honor.
 As Honor entered Mercy's sickroom. with purscd lips, q light leaped into the wasted, wrinkled cOuntcnancc of the ly in bed. her lips parted, then shut tightly, and her face darkencd.
 Honor turned angrily to Mercy's hus- band, who hung about impoteutly. Why did you let her run down so low" she said. II didn't know" the old man stammered. taken back by her presence even more than by her ques- tion. ''She was always n woman to say nothin. |"
 Honor put him impaticntly aside and examined the medicine bottle on the bedside table.
 ''Isn't it time she took her dose;''
 'I dessay.'
 Honor snorted wrathfully. What $ the use of n man." she inquired as she carefully measured out tho fluid and put it to her sisters lips, which opened to receive it and then closed tightly again.
 How is your wife feclin now:'' Honor asked after n pause.
 How are you now, Mercy:" asked the old man awkwardly. The old wom- m shook her head. I'm a-goin fast, Jim." she grumbled weakly. and a tear | of self pity trickled down her parch- ment cheek.
 What rubbidGe she do talk. cried Honor sharply. Why dye stand there like tailor's dummy: Why don't you tell her to cheer up"
 "Cheer up. Mercy" quavered the old man hoarsely.
 But Mercy groaned instead and turned fretfully on her other side, with her face to the wall.
 I'm too old; I'm too old," she moaned. This is the end O me" Did you ever hear the like?" Honor asked Jim angrily as she smoothed his wife's pillow. ''She was always con ! ceited about her age, settin herself up | as the equals of her elders. and here am l, her elder sister, as carried her in my arms when was and she was ., still hale and strong. and with no mind for underground for many a long day. Nigh three times her age was once. mind you, and now she has the imperence to talk of dyin before me-"
 She took of her bonnet and shawl "Send one O. the kids to tell my boy I'm stayin here," she said. And then just you get 'em all to bed-there's too | much noise about the house" The children, who were orphaned grandchildren of the dying woman. were sent to bed, and then Jim himself was packed of to refresh himself for the next days labors, for the poor old fel- low still doddered about the workshop. The silence of thu sickroom spread over the whole house. About 10 o'clock the doctor came again and instructed Honor how to alleviate the patients last hours. All night long she sat watching her dying sister, hand and eye alert to anticipate every which. No ,-ord broke the awful stiffness.
 The first thing in tho morning Mercy's married daughter, the only child of hers living in London, arrived | to nurse her mother. But Honor indig, nantly refused to be dispossessed.
 "A nice daughter you are" she said, "to leave your mother lay a day and q night without a sight O your ugly facep'
 "I had to look after the good man and tho little uns. :" the daughter plead I cd.