The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1895-12-18
THE SILENT SISTERS.

They had quarreled in girlhood,
snd mutually declared their intention
never to speak to each other again,
wetting and drying their forefngers
TO the accompaniment of an ancient
childish incantation; and while they
lived on the paternal farm they kept
their foolish oath with the stubborn
dess of slow country stock, despite
the alternate coaXing and chnstise-
ment of their parents, notwithstand-
ing the perpetual everyday 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 reconcile 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, although
there was only stones throw be-
tween them. They often stared at
each other in the streets. Honor, the
elder, married local artisan, and
two and half years later Mercy the
younger, married fellow workman
of James husband. The two husbands
were friends and often visited each
others houses, which were on oppo-
site sides of the same sordid street,
and their wives made them welcome.
Neither Honor nor Mercy suffered an
allusion to the breach; it was under
stood that their silence must be re-
ceived in silence. Each of the sisters
had quiverful of children, who
played and quarreled in the streets
and in one ano TIERS houses, but not
even the street affrays and mutual
grievances of the children could pro-
woke the mothers to words. They
stood at their doors in impotent fury
almost bursting with the torture of
keeping their mouths shut against the
effervescence of any 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
burden OF life was heavy upon them.
Gray hairs streaked their brown
tresses, then brown hairs streaked
their gray tresses. The Fuckers 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,
who died a 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 neglected, would carry her off
within a week. SO the doctor told
Jim, Mercy's husband.
Through him the news reached Hon.
or's eldest son, who still lived with
her. BY the evening it had reached
Honor.
She went upstairs abruptly when he
told her, leaving him wondering at
her stony aspect When she came
down she was bonneted and shawled.
He was filed with joyous amaze to
see her hobble across the street, and,
for the first time in her life, pass over
her sister Mercy's threshold.
As Honor entered the sick room,
with pursed lips, light leapt into the
wasted, wrinklod countenance of the
dying creature. She raised herself
slightly in bed, her lips parted, ther
shut tightly, and her face darkened.
Honor turned angrily to Mercy'i
husband, who hung about impotently.
'Why did You let her run down sc
lowa" she said. 81 didn't know" thu
the old man stammered, taken bach
by her presence, even more than b.
her question. "She was always ,
woman to say nothin'.
Honor put him impatiently asid
and examined the medicine bottle o.
the bedside table.
''Isn't it time she took her dose9"
II dessay."