The Portland daily press., 1894-10-01

tation. At last the day came. She had
received no further intelligence, but she
felt sure that he would come.
The evening was in spring, genial and
balmy, their little home wilderness of
blossoms. Sho prepared his supper with
her own hands; she adorned the rooms
with the flowers he loved and even laid
out his gown and slippers and drew his
armchair beneath the window. Then she
went to her chamber and put on the dress
he liked to see her wear-a mauve silk,
with dainty laces at the throat and wrists,
and jet and gold ornaments, her flossy
brown hair held back by sprays Of hello
trope and sweet verbena Surveying her
self in the mirror, she smiled and blushed,
remembering his words when she had first
worn the dress.
''Oh, Maud, you are SO beautiful AL
ways wear this dress, darling, when you
wish to please me!'
The May sun wheeled lower and lower
and at last went down, leaving the earth
wrapped in the dusky mists of twilight.
Maud began to grow impatient. She lit
the lamps in the parlor and then went out
to the porch to wait. He surely would
come; he would not disappoint her! The
golden tints of day faded like the colors of
in the hazy luster of the sky, and then the
moon arose, coming up grandly above the
purple sleeps. Still he had not come, and
the poor wife's heart began to grow sick
with hope deferred. Another hour, and
then, above the murmurous music of the
night, she heard sharp step upon the
gravel and started to her feet, flushed and
breathless, but the next instant she fell
back, pale with disappointment, for the
step was not his-she knew that long be-
fore the person came in sight. He had adj
vanced toward the porch where she sat with
a slow, uncertain STEP observing which,
and recognizing him as one of her neigh
bors, she advanced to meet him.
''Mr. Rutherford, is it you? am look
ing for my husband. What do you think
can detain him2'
The man stood still, his face full of
silent, unspeakable pity Something in
his expression caught her quick eyes, and
she sprang forward and grasped his arm.
Mr. Rutherford, you bring me tidings.
speak; don't keep me in suspense.
Still the man was silent.
ssOh, SIR, she entreated, sRlon't triie
with my feelings. Do g~ss know anything
concerning my husband? If you do, f1.s
mercy sake speak out!''
Madam, / have heard-that is, thcEA
is bad news" he began, his voice hussF
and broken.
Her face grew as white as death, but he7
eyes were clear and calm and her hand
strong as she grasped his arm.
Sir, if you pity me, tell me the WORSE
at once. I can bear it.
well, madam, your husband and his
party have been waylaid and murdered by
the Indians"
Gail? Did none escape?"
mot one!"
She turned sharply, leaving him with
out word, and he saw her enter the house
and close the door after her, and that was
the end. He would never come back any
more, no matter how patiently she might
wait and watch. He would never know
that he had son. never look upon the lit
tie chubby face, with it's bold, blue eyes
and sunny curls, SO like his own. From
henceforth her heart and home were DESC
late.
And this was the anniversary Of her
wedding day. Six years ago, and she was
happy bride. Five years she had been a
heartbroken widow. Her boy slept in his
little bed, and she sat there, thinking,
thinking, and gazing out at the low,
leaden sky and the wind tossed trees. The
night was closing rapidly-a night Of
storm and darkness. The rain came down
In great smoking sheets, and the wild,
wailing winds rushed round the gables
and went shrieking over the hills like hui
man souls in agony. Her heart ached with
adesolation that seemed almost insupport-
able. Life was SO hard, yet for the boy s
sake she must endure and live on.
She looked down at her sable garments
with hot, binding tears. Six years ago.
and she was robed in gems and blossoms
His face, his very voice, seemed to come
back to her, and she fancied that his spirit
must be near her. No matter how high
above her, how happy, she knew that he
loved her still, and his glorified spirit may
have left it's home Of bliss to keep with
her that sacred anniversary. The fancy
consoled her beyond expression. She
| glanced over at the sleeping boy, with a
dim hope that his father loved and watch
| ed over him. Then sudden impulse shot
across her mind. She would not keep the
anniversary of her wedding day in the gar
ments of widowhood; she would put on
the robe he loved. If he knew aught of
| her poor, sad life, he should see how sacred
| ~ she remembered and observed his SIM
pleSt wishes.
Stealing up to her chamber she took
out the mauve silk and the dainty laces,
growing yellow and timeworn, and a
pretty jet and gold ornament and ar
rayed herself as in days gone by and the
old bloom came back to her cheeks and
the brightness to her eyes, and she seemed
to drop her years and her widowhood and
| to spring out afresh into the rare beauty
| of her early maidenhood. Thus arrayed,
she went down softly and seated herself
before the blazing fire, her face fearful
and expectant. If his soul were near, and
she chung to the hope that it was as she
chung to life, he should see how tenderly
| she remembered him.
| The anniversary night wore on, wilc
| and dark with storm and still the poor
wife, half dazed by her terrible sorrow,
sat by her lonely hearthstone, robed in her
| festive garments. At last there came a
step without, sharp, impatient step on
the gravel, but she did not hear it. A
weary, travel worn man, bronzed by ex-