Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1895-04-20
The rest of the story might be a long
tale by itself.
Under floods that are deepest.
Over rocks that are steepest,

The rest of the story might be a long
tale by itself.
Under floods that are deepest,
Over rocks that are steepest,
Love will find out the way
But Weymouth's way was a long one.
He lost time in starting on his quest
dealing made an excellent excuse for rid
ing hithcr and yon through the newly set
tied part Of the country, finding what faint
traces he could of the emigrants. from the
day Of their landing. but after many
months had passed he kept what patience
and hope he could in the midst OF discour-
agement, and believed at last that fate
would lead him where plots and plans had
failed.
One spring evening. the second year that
he had been in America. Weymouth was
driving into one of the older villages. where
he had once or twice been before. and there
saw worn and wistful face at window.
and knew that the search was ended. 1t
seemed the simplest thing in the world to
lock up and see her there after all the mys-
terry and silence; for a moment he could
not take in the truth and felt strangely
cold and duli--ther tremendous wave of
JOY struck into his very heart. There were
some young horses leading behind his
wagon. and he was driving an eXcitable
pair of colts, for whom the sight of a bum
die of straw on wheelbarrow was too
much altogether, so that they reared and
plunged and seemed to be putting their
driver IN danger tSnZapeln brent came TO
stand in door with great distress and dis
covered Weymouth as his face turned to-
ward her Just as the frisky company set
tied to the harness and halter again, and
went on quietly to the end OF their day s
journey.
Weymouth could hardly stop to give d.
rections or to care for his livery property;
he felt like n dazed man with his mind in
such a whirl of sudden delight and strange
timidity, and without listening to the ques-
tons of a group Of tavern oilers, he went
hurrying back down the road.
The houses were far apart. and the foot
path was only worn track in the cropped
grass: it might have been the field path
above the Severn. 1t was a misty night.
and the sky was gray and heavy, and there
beside wild thicket they met again as
neither thought Of anything except OF
meeting; certainly not of parting any more
while the yorld stood
There were sad tales to tell Of poverty
and shame, and there was need of all the
protection and comfort that Weymouth
could give. most Of all because some letters
which had been written had all miscarried
or never found him In his wandering way
of life. This was the bitterest of all, to
think ones self forgotten and perhaps dis
dained. but hope was stronger and now at
last prevailed. As for the keepers of the
dismal inn, they had failed to prosper even
after their own fashion. and the woman had
died not long before. after a long and
wretched Illness while her husband was in
jail for theft, and their companions, who
had fled with them, had long ago forsaken
them. In her last days the miserable wo-
man had been haunted by thoughts of the
help she had given to the awful deeds,
done at night in that dark. low room from
which Weymouth had so luckily escaped.
But as for Rogers. the accomplice, he had
gone with them to Bristol, much hurt by
his fall, and sick from the deadly drug
which once was cruelty said to have done
no harm to those who were also put to
sleep by the deep water of the Severn.
From Bristol. refusing to 90 to America. he
had been put on board a brig that was