Freeland tribune. (Freeland, Pa.) 1888-1921, 1896-10-15

track. Christmas morning found the
train dragging itself wearily towards
New York. Paul was half frantic with
imFatience. Christmas night fell wnen
the goal was reached. The tired passen-
gers FASTENED to their homes, feeling
that they had been cheated out Of their
holiday. Paul ran up the steps of the
house only pausing to glance up at the
windows of the studio.
"She only has lamp burning" be
thought. "Nly little girl! What day
for her-alone! anxious!"
In the hall he met the ianitor, whom he
greeted with hearty Merry Christ.
mas" but the man seemed surly, and
mumblcd something under his breath
when Paul spoke of Mrs. Fenton. But
the young man was too excited to notice
his manner. At the second landing he
met strange woman who looked grave
and important, and behind her stood
the city editors wife. Her face was
white and livid, and her eyes were red
with recent weeping. Her gay, cruIn-
pied tea-gown contrasted oddly with
her look of grief
'For Gods sake! Mrs. Wilson," Paul
cried, what has happened. Is Mary
i'll? Tell me-quicll!" The little wom-
an who had spoken prose all her life,
now yelled her words. She could not
tell the naked truth. She laid timid
hand on Paurs sleeve.
She's asleep" she whispered, "and
her baby's asleep, too, on her breast.
Come, come with me-" She led the
way upstairs. Down below her hus-
band, who had been afraid to face Paul,
felt the tears roll down his cheeks.
God bless my little woman! She's
no coward! Good God! To tell man
his wife is dead! l couldn't do it.''
The city EDITORS wife had reached
the door of the studio. As she threw it
open, she burst into passionate weep
ing.
There's only one comfort" she
aobbed. "she thought you were with
her when she died"
Paul stood on the threshold, turned
by the shock into a passive spectator
of the swinging lamp before the picture
Of the Madonna.
Underneath on n low couch, Mary Law
with little golden head close against
her cheek. If she had suffered there
was no trace Of suffering on her still
face, but look of hope. She seemed
to be dreaming Of the child, who lay on
her breast, as il there alone it could
enjoy everlasting tranquility. She,was
not dead. Paul knew that. lie tnelt
by her couch, and laid his head by hers
on the pillow.
MARY, it's Paul-your Paul, Won't
you speak to him, beloved? Are you
thinking only of your little baby?
Speak to PAUL"
A few hours later, the city editor,
keeping watch outside the door, was
moved to strange fear by the utter
stiffness within, and crossed the thresh-
old. to find Paul PROSTATE and uncon-
scious beside the couch of his wife.
In New York daily's notice of the
spring exhibition few months later,
was this paragraph:
'irhe fame of Paul Fenton, g hitherto
obscure portrait-panter is established
by painting of his, which is by far
the chef d'veune of the exhibition. II
is representation of the Nativity, but
the treatment is novel and poetical
There are few of the conventional ac-
cessories-only a suggestion of a stable
in the straw of the bed, on which Mary
lies In the sleep of eXhaustion-hut IL
Is an inspired sleep, for her face is lit
With dreams, as If she beholds the high
destinies of the babe in her arms. Jo-
seph is overwhelmingly enough
not as an old, but as young man,
who has turned away from the sleeping
pair, and with bowed head is going
out into the night"