Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1895-08-05
CHAPTER I.
copyright By Bachelor, Johnson Bachelor. ;,

| IcriulneS appear 10 the memory in an
extraordinary degree. This is sound
scientific doctrine, and it is true, be-
sides. Take that old glove out of its
casket, my venerable and lonely friend.
You may look upon it with steady
eye, perhaps; but if there linger in it
The fragrance Of the hand it held SO
long ago, you dare not raise it to your
lips and say you have forgotten.
The sights of spring delight us for
their promise, but the scented breeze
blows out of the past, and we turn our
face toward it. To Arthur Lynde,
stretched upon his couch by the open
window, the breath of early June came
laden with more than single seasons
sweetness-with the fragrance of bios
SONS that had grown to fruit, and
/ ripened, and fallen to the ground
: Whether the memories it brought were
: joyous, or trivial, or sad, he turned to
the past willingly, for there was no
future. His life lay all behind him.
He could look upon it without shame
or any sharp regret for opportunities
!, neglected. 1t had been happy life
and short one. Thirty years meas
. ured it.
} Among the scenes that came back to
him in the spring morning was one of
trifling Importance; but it came with
singular vividness, and great persis-
lance. He was little boy then, and
he had been quite i'll, SO that he lay in
bed while the spirit of the springtime
beckoned to him from outside the win
dow, and he could not go. 1t was hard
to wait for returning health, and some
!. times he became desperately impatient,
taxing the ingenuity of his mother to
amuse him, but not her love to bear
with him.
| There was canary in cage in his
) room. His mother had given him the
, bird, and he felt most tenderly toward
1t. lie had never before thought its lot
hard, but, being then in captivity him
self, he was moved to pity the little
prisoner; SO he besought his mother to
open the door of the cage and give the
bird at least the freedom of the room.
She yielded to his entreaties, but, I'M
happily, neglected to close all the win
dowS. Thus it CHANGED that the canary
gained its freedom altogether and re-
turned no more. Arthur grieved ey-
J ceedingly, and quite unselfshly, for he
, thought less of his own loss than of the
fate of the little bird which. bred in
cage, was unfit for liberty and would
almost certainly perish. To console
him, his mother said that the canary
would realize its danger and would re-
turn, being provided with an infallible
instinct as guide. Believing implic-
ity what his mother said, and observ-
ing that the bird did not come back.
, Arthur accepted the logical conclusion
that it preferred freedom even at the
| price.
This small tragedy of his childhood
was all in the June breeze, as he lay by
the open window and inhaled the scent
of blossoms.
Suddenly there was a sound in the
room not dissimilar to the whir of a
birds wings, and then voice cried:
Good morning, Arthur, dear; I've
come to keep you company"
He turned his pale face toward her,
and she huttered down beside the
couch and kissed him. She was a pic
ture in the soft tints of the blossoms,
with blue and gold added
Don't you feel great deal stronger
this morning?" she asked. ''Surcly
you must on such day as this"
Il wish l could say so truly, for your
to-day; and, what is much more to be
regretted, | am no worse"
Don't speak like that" she cried. Il
had hoped SO much that Dr. Marston
would help YOU"
81 think the time has COME" he said,
ito lay such hopes aside. Dr. Marston
is older in practice and more com
petent physician than am. l would
have said year ago that his opinion
in such case was worth more than
that of any other man in this part of
the world-certainly far more than
mine. But it isn't. They are both
equally valueless. l do not know what
IS the matter with me, and neither does
he; and that's all about it. His view of
the probabilities of the case is exactly
what mine is; that l shall lie here for
months. perhaps for years, and pass
from death-in-life to rest, at my APP
pointed hour, which nobody can pre-
dict"
She drew away from him, and sank
into great chair, sobbing like child.
you always make me cry" she said.
eff you would only be more cheerful"
GAS to that" he replied, II have a
plan. 1t is impossible for me to be
cheerful, but why should my gloom en-
| velop you? 1t has done so, for nearly
year, since this illness came upon me.
Every day you have brought the light
| of your presence to me, dear little wifc,
and God knows am unspeakably CRATE
full. But am not so selfish as to per-
init this to continue. This room has
been prison to you as it has to me. l
am going to open the door"
She looked at him uneasily. How had
she shown him that she felt herself a
prisoner?
You have tried to do too much" he
said; "and the inevitable consequence
has come. 1t is all my fault. My self
ishness was very short-sighted. If l
had been wise enough at first to regu-
late your self-sacrifce, l might not now
be the burden upon you that am.
You have read to me, talked to me,
sung to me, and have been my consola-