The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-05-30
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loved at home. All beyond those
two places was nothing to him.

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two places was nothing to him.
Mary used to buy him lot of new
collars and cuffs now and then, and
neckties, and they were more becom
ing to him than the ones he bought.
He did not think so, but he wore
them meekly for her sake. She even
bought his hats when matters had
gone too far for her wifely endur-
ance; as, for example, when he wore
a dust and rain stained straw hat far
into November.
David had come to New York from
the South, and he never seemed to be
able to acquire the spick and-span
look of the native New Yorker. If
he had INDUCED his taste in dress it
would have manifested itself in long,
flowing broadcloth Prince Albert
coats, widely Aaring Byronic collars,
neckties, tied to blow in the breeze,
and wide brimmed soft hats.
But Mary loved him. She more
than loved him. She put him on
pedestal and crowned him with glory
and honor. She broke the alabaster
box of her whole beings alteration at
his feet; and she would have died
for him gladly.
Mary was large, fair woman, who,
richly and fashionably dressed, would
have looked like duchess. AS it was,
in her simple homemade gowns and
modest bonnet, she only looked like
a very beautiful mother, which is
more than some duchesses do.
A conventional looking young cur
ate, and handsome, large-featured
man of fifty, with deep mourning
band on his hat, sat in the seat di-
rectly in front of Mary. The elder
man had his little daughter, dressed
in mourning, on his knee, and he and
the curate laughed and chatted with
the little girl to amuse her.
"There is a newly-made widower,"
thought Mary; "and he doesn't seem
to mind much. l wonder if David
would (she had almost said "will")
care so little"
Suddenly the older man turned to
the curate, and Mary saw his face
grown drawn in an agony of grief.
did you ever bury any one you
loved desperately" he asked.
The curate answered, with appro-
pirate courtesy: "No, l have been
very fortunate. have always thought,
however, that the only wise way to
face such grief would be philosophic-
ally, knowing it is Gods will that it
come to all"
"You have never buried any one
you loved desperately. When you
come to do that you will not be
thinking of philosophy" said the
other.
And then they spoke of other
things.
Mary pulled down her vail to hide
her wet cheeks.
"Poor David he will mind; he
will not forget right away" she
thought.
AS they passed Woodlawn she
wondered whether, if she died, they
would bury her on the hillside where
David could see her grave every day
from the train window. 1t would seem
less lonely for her, she thought. And
then her heart turned to her chill
dren, and she wept for them until
she was reused by the trains getting
into the Grand Central Station.
A half-hour later Mary stood in
clean, bare little room high up on
the top floor of quiet boarding
house on side street. A young doc
tor with wide-awake, intelligent face
was talking to her.
eyes, Mrs. Robinson" he said,
gravely. "the operation is imperative;
for it is the only way to save your
life. If it is succeeds, you will be-
come a strong and healthy woman;
if it fails, you will be spared the pain
of a lingering death, for you will not
survive the operation more than a
half-h at most. l put the case
plainly to you. You must know all
the circumstances, all the risks, that
you may decide wisely"
II have decided" she answered,
steadily.
every we'll, l will have the nurses
here in a little while, and the other
doctors will meet me here at quar-
ter before two. l have spoken to
them about it. l was only waiting
for final word from you to complete
all the arrangements"
He babe Mary "Good morning"
and left her alone.
Mary was naturally rather cow