The Calhoun chronicle. [volume] (Grantsville, W. Va.) 1883-1984, 1897-09-28

ShoOh his neau Win wise shake.
Poor Mrs. Hayesl As she listened,
her fiorid face grew pale. Perhaps
she had made mistake after all, and
ut the memory of that white envelope.
hidden away somewhere in some deep
pocket, weight of iron was resting
on her heart. She stole stealthy
glance at her niece. Her cheek had
lost its color, her hand trembled a
little as she raised cup of coffee to
her lips, but otherwise she gave no
sign.
That evening Squire Arnold called,
aud when he left he carried with him
Marjorie Hayes's promise to become
his wife. Thus Mrs. Hayes's ambi-
ton was fulfilled, but vainly did she
console herself with the thought.
Something within forbade self-con-
graduation, and the rudy color often
left her cheek at some forbidden mem
DRY. Squire Arnold had no cause to
complain of capricious behavior. No
spice of coquetry tinged Marjorie's
manner now. With quiet calm she
moved about the old house, busy with
preparation for the now fast-approach-
ing nuptials; but, OH what would Mrs.
Hayes have given for one mischievous
glance ms of old, one ripple of merry
girlish laughter, one burst of happy
song.
Days merged into weeks, until one
bright, beautiful morning in May,
Marjorie rose to the consciousness that
her wedding day had come There
was strange tenderness in Mrs.
Hayes's manner, "a she helped robe
the bride. 1t was as though she pre-
pared lamb for the sacrifice, but it
was too late now, she whispered ever
to herself, and so hustled here and
there in busy preparation, so that none
noticed how seldom she smiled or how
wan and pale she looked
1t was over mt last. Marjorie had
gone through it all as in n dream,
scarcely needing the words which
bound her to another, or hearing her
own voice in response. Then came
congratulations and farewells, and she
had left her childhood's home n wife.
Then she awoke from dream life to
reality, then for the first time knew
how stern duty she had imposed up
on herself, and she wondered if her
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 we'll Then n sudden, sharp
illness Frustrated her husband, and
before the new year opened she stood,
clad in widows weeds, beside his
grave.
But when 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 forever 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 close the great, lonely
house where she dwelt alone, and 90
back to the dear, old farm to the place
her aunt so long had filled.
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 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
uncle, with strange foreboding Mt
their hearts, watched 10y the sufferer,
the sick woman, motioning Marjorie
nearer, whispered: ''The letter-in NV
pocket--thought it best-forgive-
The girl supposed her wandering.
and, STOPPING, she kissed the lips al
ready cold, aud when she raised her
head the eyes had closed, the spirit
fled. Then when, the funeral over
aud the house restored to it's quiet.
she took her place beside her uncle. il
seemed as though all the glory had
died out of her life, and left only
gray shadow of its former brightness
Two years passed, and Marjorie
wondered ut 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
aud 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 rs
though unconscious of fatigue. One
evening, in passing through
temporary ward, she caught sight of n
man whose face, bronzed and bearded.
yet carried with it forgotten 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. It was all dark-no
answer to my letter. So went away.
1t was best so-best, best" and the
fever burned hotter and fercer. and
his voice sank or rose in incoherent
words
"a hopeless case. Miss Marjorie.
aud the old physicians voice, still
giving her the name Of her youth.
reused her from her reverie. "He
worked like u TROJAN among the suf-
ferers, poor fellow, until he was
stricken down himself; and now he