Edgefield advertiser. [volume] (Edgefield, S.C.) 1836-current, 1897-09-22

to herself, and so bustled here ant
there in busy preparation, SO thatnon
noticed how seldom she smiled or how
wan and pale she looked.
It was over at last. Marjorie ha(
gone through 1T all as in dream
scarcely needing the words whicl
bound her to another, or hearing he,
own voice in response. Then came
congratulations and farewells, and she
had left her childhood's home q wife
Then she awoke from dream life tc
reality, then for the first time knew
how stern duty she had imposed up
on herself, and she wondered if hel
strength would not desert her.
But Squire Arnold was too proud in
her possession to dream her other than
satisfied, and for six months she did
her duty well. Then sudden, sharp
illness prostrated her husband, and
before the new year opened she, stood,
clad in widows weeds, beside his
grave.
Butwhen she went back to her desc
late home she missed even the. duties,
and as she realized how dread and
empty life was,- new, hard feeling
crept into her heart against the man
who had, in his stern, unrelenting
anger, worked her this misery.
No word came from the wanderer.
He seemed to have passed foreyer from
their lives, but in the spring her
aunt's strength failed, and she gladly
obeyed the summons to her side which
allowed her to lose the great, lonely
house where she dwelt alone, and go
back to the dear, old farm to the place
her aunt so long had filed.
Soon would it be empty. With a
great start, the girl first saw the awful
change which had taken place. She
rarely spoke, but Marjorie wondered
often at the wistful gaze which fol-
lowed her every movement around the
room. But when a few short weeks
had passed all knew the end was near.
One evening, just as the sun was sink
ing to rest, and Marjorie and her
ERs4 anas hearth ath aase6ed by the sufferer
the sick woman, motioning Marjorie
nearer, whispered: '"The letter-in my
pocket--thought it best-forgive-"
The girl supposed her wandering,
and, STOPPING, she kissed the lips al
ready cold, and when she raised her
head the eyes had closed, the spirit
fled. Then when, the funeral over
and the house restored to its quiet,
she took her place beside her uncle, it
seemed as though oil the glory had
died out of her life, and left only a
gray shadow of its former brightness.
Two years passed, and Marjorie
wondered at the strange calm which
seemed almost paralyzing her life,
when suddenly her energy was reused
to action. A terrible fever had broken
out in their very midst. Men, women
and children fed before it, and there
were few to care for the thousands
already stricken. With sense of al
most gratitude, Marjorie took her
place by the bedsides of the sick and
dying. All expostulation was in vain,
and night and day she worked as
though unconscious of fatigue. One
evening, in passing through n
temporary ward, she caught sight of q
man whose face, bronzed and bearded,
yet carried with it aforgotten memory.
A moment she knelt by John Hard
ing's side. In his delirium he seemed
to recognize her.
"There was no light, Marjorie, in
the window. 1t was all dark-no
answer to my letter. So I went away.
1t was best so-best, best" and the
fever burned hotter and fiercer, and
his voice sank or rose in incoherent
words.
ga hopeless case, Miss Marjorie, :"
and the. old physicians voice, still
giving her the name of her youth,
reused her from her reverie. "He
worked like Trojan among the suf-
ferers, poor fellow, until he was
stricken down himself; and now he
will never work again" and with q
shake of the head the old man passed
on.
"Jchn, John, live for my sake; if
only once I may tell you it was my
fault-all, all mine," and with a burst
of sobs, the fair young head was
pillowed by his side.
When she had gone back for few
hours rest to the farm, the words OF
his delirium returned to her, and with
them those of her aunt.
He had said 'sForgive. With a
strange prescience she flew up into
the unused room, opened the lavender
scented closet, and one by one exam
ined the pockets of the dresses she
herself had hung there and left un.
touched. At last in one her search
was rewarded. Paper. cracked under
her touch, and, drawing forth an en-
velope yellow with age, she saw, il
the handwriting she knew so well, hel
maiden name.
The evening found her still sitting
with wide-open eyes, yet seeing moth
ing, and the letter on her lap.
"Forgive me, Marjorie. You know, dear
I-did not mean it. will trust you, darling
end you, with your gentle ways, must teact
me patience. Write me just one little wore
of love in answer; or, If you can't do that
nut light in the east window for me.
will see it and I shall know you have for
given me, little as deserve it: Yours til
death, JOHN HARDING.
s"Till death-till death!'' the white
lips moaned, and so they found her,
only idly muttering those words, Will
the fever burning and ravaging hel
tender flesh. It was fierce struggle
and when it left her, wan and wasted
she thought of the dreary future aheat
with a wild wish at her heart that sh'
had not been spared. But one morn
ing, sitting in her own room by hel
open desk, the old letter spread on
before her, familiar tread sounded