Connecticut western news., 1895-03-28
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 &C., compartment of an ancient childish in- cantation, and while they lived on the paternal farm they kept their foolish oath with the stubbornness of 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 ard misfortune did not recon cile 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 stone's throw between them. They often stared at each other in the streets Honor, the elder, married local artisan; 2h 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 well come. Neither Honor rn9 Mercy suffered an allusion to the breach. It was under stood that their silence must be received in silence.
 Each of the sisters had 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- dren 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 effervescence of angry speech. When either lost 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 childbearing was heavy upon them. Gray hairs streaked their brown tresses, then brown hairs streaked their gray tresses. The puckers of age replaced the dimples of youth. The years rolled on, and Death grew busy among the families. Honor s husband died, and Mercy lost son. l who died week after his wife. Cholera took several of the younger children. | But the sisters themselves lived on, bent | and shriveled by toll and sorrow even more than by the slow frost of the years.
 Then one day Mercy took to her death bed An internal disease, too long neg lected, would carry her off within a week. So the doctor told Jim, Mercy s 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 pursed lips, light leaped into the wasted, wrinkled countenance of the dying creature. She raised herself slight ly in bed, her lips parted. then shut tightly, and her face darkened
 Honor turned angrily to Mercy's hus- band, who hung about impotently. "Why did you let her run down so low?" she said 1T didn't know, the old man stammered. taken back by her presence even more than by her ques- tion. "She was always woman to say nothin."
 Honor put him impatiently aside and examined the medicine bottle on the bedside tab>e.
 "Isn't it time she took her dose?'
 'I dessay."
 Honor snorted wrathfully. What's the use of man?" she inquired as she carefully measured out the fluid and put it to her sisters lips, which opened to receive it and then closed tightly again.
 "How is your wife feelin now?'' Honor asked after pause.
 "How are you now, Mercy?" asked the old man awkwardly. The old wom an shook her head. I'm a-goin fast, Jim," she grumbled weakly, and tea, of self pity trickled down her parch ment cheek.
 What rubbidge she do talk" cried Honor sharply. "Why d'y, stand ther, like tailor's dummy Why don't yor tell her to cheer up?"
 "Cheer up, Mercyl" quavered the olt man hoarsely.
 But Mercy groaned instead ant turned fretfully on her other side, witt her face to the wall.
 'iI'm too old; I'm too old," she moaned. "This is the end O me"
 "Did you ever hear the like?' Hone asked Jim angrily as she smoothed hi wife's pillow. "She was always con ceited about her age, settin herself ul as the equals of her elders, and here an I, her elder sister, as carried her in m. arms when I was and she was 9, stil hale and strong, and with no mind fo
 underground for many a long day. Nigl three times her age I was once. min,
 you, and now she has the imperence t
 talk of dyin before me.'
 She took of her bonnet and shawl "Send ono e the kids to tell my bo
 I'm stayin here, ," she said. "And the " just you get lem all to bed-there's to much noise about the house.
 The children. who were orphane :. grandchildren of the dying woman, wei
 sent to bed, and then Jim himself wi O packed off to refresh himself for tt 2 next days labors, for the poor old fe r. low sill doddered about the workshop
 The silence of the sickroom sprea
 over the whole house. About 10 o'cloc