Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1897-09-16

devotion. A few weeks experience of the
''squalor, as she termed 10, Of their COM
pulsory retirement. the continual troubles
of which dried up the founts of his inspi-
ration and kept his pen still inactive, with
the imminent approach of struggle for
bare existence, brought its inevitable dis
aster. His wife frankly confessed her dis
illusion, and retired disdainfully from the
contest with adversely.
Where she went Silas made no attempt
to discover. He worked on steadily in his
loneliness and recovered much Of his lost
faculty, producing work which achieved a
fair measure of success, though he never
again attained the triumph of former days.
The greater part of his earnings he faith
fully sent to his wife's solicitors, but Silas
never attempted, and soon did not desire,
to communicate direct with the woman
who had deserted him. Enough for him
that by his remittanoes she was placed be-
You'd the reach Of want, or even Of the
need for that economy which she detested.
If she should ever want him, she knew
where he was to be found, and that suf-
feed. He had the solace of his loyal re-
membrance of her at best. He had his
work, which was only possible in peace
full solitude, and he knew it would be
worse than folly to attempt to disturb
either.
Thus the years passed on until one
morning as he was starting out on his
daily errands telegram was placed in
his hand. 1t was a summons to the death
bed of his wife. Without allowing himself
the delay of preparation, habited in the
threadbare garb he had long considered
suffici in his present retired life, he
hastened off to the city where it appeared
| that his wife dwelt so strangely near to
him and yet divided from him by that
gulf Of estrangement passable only at this
| urgent summons
1t was not more than half an hour after
the receipt of the telegram that he stood
before the door Of a handsome mansion in
one Of the suburbs. He gave his name to
the maid who answered his ring and was
Immediately hidden to follow her up
stairs. At the door Of one Of the rooms
young girl was standing, her pretty face
pale and drawn and her eyes heavy with
weary watching The maid servant men
toned his name and withdrew.
"You are too late, Mr.. Seabrooke am
SO sorry. telegraphed to you immediate
ly my mistress told. me to, but that was
only at the last moment" And she led the
way quietly into the room.
Silas could at first distinguish nothing
In the darkened room. As his eyes grew
accustomed to the darkness he saw the
figure of a young man kneeling beside the
bed in an abandonment Of grief he made
no attempt to conceal. The figure of his
wife lay still under the sheet, her white
face framed in masses Of her rich brown
hair. Silas saw that the intervening years
of their estrangement had left but few
traces on that beautiful face, and he re-
joiced that her way in life had flowed
smoothly to It's close.
He stood there for a moment looking
down at his wife and wondering at the
calmness with which he could look at that
face which he had thought could never
fail to move him.
To him she seemed now rather pic
ture, a memory Of long dead past, and
his heart was strangely cold and I'M
touched. Presently the young man beside
him rose to his feet, and, now seeing Sea-
brooke for the first time, uttered an ex-
clamation of surprise, and turned to with
draw Silas, however, placed his hand on
his arm and restrained him.
"Tell me" be said gently, "what was
she to your"
Nothing" was the quick reply, ut
tered almost tlercely, "but loved her."
$50 did I-onoe," said Silas edo not
go. You have more right here than l."
He bent down to kiss the brow of the
dead woman with reverence and with eyes
blinded to the present, seeing only the joy
of the dead past and the peace into which
she had entered.
His lips touched the calm forehead, his
eyes caught momentary glimpse at the
closed windows of her soul, his nostrils in
hailed the strange odor of death. His COM
panion saw him shudder and shrink back
as he raised his head abruptly, looking
round with sudden glance of horror.
sob, she's warm; still warm!' escaped
him in a breath caught as with sudden
pain, and he turned back to the door, flee
ing from the living dead woman not yet
quite passed through those portals irrevo-
cably dividing her life, in which he had
no share, from that of the past in which
alone he could hold her in imperishable
memory.-Edward Wilder in London Sun.