The morning call., 1894-01-28

/ beiress which should make me master of
/ half the county.
But he said nothing more: only one day,
without speaking, he brought me an old
copy Of the Times with a little paragraph
marked in ink.
He never spoke of the heiress to me, and
before be could begin to wonder whether
the grass was growing on the grave Of my
grief the clay was heavy on his own.
He was thrown from bis horse and died
without word after two days of agony.
At the last there was look in his eyes as
if he would have spoken. but even AS /
caught the look, Death effaced il. ] DO
not know how much or how little he
knew. He was hard man aud am bilious,
but at that last moment | think he was
sorry for me.
lived on alone. ! refused all invita-
me except friend whom | had first met
abroad. l never had any friend but Jack,
and when his wife and he were drowned
in yachting accident l took their child,
Laurence, to live with me here. And the
years have gone by, and Laurence has
grown from child TO a man, and there
has been no voice at all out of the grave
of the past till last night.
! Perhaps it was Laurence's letter that
/ stirred the old dreams. 1t came to me
yesterday ard it said: '1'm as happy as a
: sandbOy. Dad, because the dearest girl IN
the world, and the prettlest, thinks Fun
not such bad sort OF chaplin fact,
! she's willing to marry me. / know you III
| like her when you see her. Now, her peo-
| pie make some difficulty about her not
! being well born and won't let us be en-
! gagged without your consent, so I've agreed
! TO wait until you've seen her. In be all
right then, that's certain. Pve not told
them your name, as they'd only make more
difficulties If they knew we were county
people and that sort of thing"
L had the letter in tie morning. and /
was selhshly sad, because he had found
the treasure that would make him less
mne-anXious, TOO, lest his pearl should
1ot seem such TO me. And after long
day in the library, where the warm fire.
light sparkles on the glass OF the book
cases and the polished oak of the chairs, l
went out in the dark, lonely and sick of
heart, along the South avenue, where |
often go when the empty house taunts me
too mOckingy with life's lost chances.
1t was dark when l went out. but as /
passed down the South avenue the moon
came out and shene through the leafess
branches. 1t touched with silver the slight
boar frost on the edges of the dead leaves
1t made ghostly shadows about the dark,
sealed doors OF the mausoleum, where so
many Careys are laid at rest. / have no
superstitlOus fears. If / had, ] should
never feel them in that place. It is so
tull OF memories that there is no room
fett for fears. Il was wonder / felt
When ! saw In the deep shadow of the
mansoleum door the stir of a deeper
/ shadow. l myself was in the shadow
OF the trees, but the moonlight
iell iuil on the grassy space that lay be-
tween NE and The closed door, with its
dark shadow that stirred. l stood still
! ana lonked-intereSted, not afraid. Then
ghostly shape glided across the moon
! llght patch toward me. Laurence, dear
Laurence! L was not mad. / am not
mad. The moonlight did shine on
the white face of my dead sweet
| heart. my girl wife, laid in her
grave THESE twenty years. Not the face
only was hers-the very walk, the turn Of
the head and the graceful folds Of the H.
dian shawl. s mist came before my eyes,
ana when l. could see again she was gore.
Why has her shade come again now,
after all these years. TO torment me with
vain longings.
Decem Der "a.
Laurence came home last night, but /
could not tell him.
He is so full Of his own Joy that 1t needs
but little effort to hide from him that a N
not now merely reflection OF his joys and
sorrows, but have Il new joy and a new
sorrow OF my own; for through all the
horror of that gh0sily appariton begin
To be sensible of a great peace. have
seen her once again. Perhaps IL is sign
from heaven that l shall meet her there
some day, and that she will not seem
changed.
Laurence and l talked after dinner-or,
rather. he talked. and did not notice my
silence.