Martinsburg independent. [volume] (Martinsburg, W. Va.) 1875-1900, 1897-10-09

aua SHiiuiCu nSts bStokc ~, anu tucEc
we're few 10 care for the thousands
already stricken.
With sense OF almost gratitude,
Marjorie took her place by the bed
side Of the sick and dying. All ex-
postulation was In vain and night
and day she worked as though m
conscious OF fatigue.
One evening, in passing through
temporary ward, she caught sight
of a man whose face, bronzed and
bearded, yet carried with it a forgot
ten memory.
A moment later she kEelt by John
Harding's side. In bis delirium be
seemed to recognize her.
There was no light, Marjorie, in
the window. 1t was all dark-no
answer to my letter. So went
away. It was bsst so--best-best
- and the fever burned hotter and
fercer, and his voice sank and rose
in incoherent words.
"a hopeless case, Miss Marjorie"
and the old physicians voice, still
giving her the name of her youth,
reused her from her reyerie. 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 a
shake OF his head the old man pass
ed on.
"John, John, live for my sake; If
only once | may tell you it. was my
fault-all, all mine," and with
burst Of sobs, the lair young head
was pillowed by his side.
When she had gone bsck for
few hours rest to the farm, the
words of bis delirium returned to
her, and with them those of her
aunt.
She had said: "Forgive.' With
a strange prescience she flew up into
the unused room, opened the layen.
der,scented closet, and one by one
examined the pockets of the dresses
she herself had hung there and left
untouched.
At last her search was reward
ed. Paper cracked under her touch
and drawing forth an envelope, yell
low with age, she saw, in the hand
writing she knew so well, her maid
en- name.
The evening found her still sitting
with wide-open eyes, yet seeing
nothing, and the letter on her lap.
"Forgive me, Marjorie. You know,
dear, | did not mean it. / will trust
you, darling, and you, with your
gentle ways, must teach me patience.
Write me just one little word of love
in answer; or, if you can't do that,
put light in the east window for
me. | will see it, and will know you
have forgiven me, little as deserve
it. Yours till death,
"JoHN HARDING
Still death-till death |" the white
lips moaned, and SO they found her
only idly muttering those words,
with the fever ravaging and burning
her flesh.
1t was fierce struggle, and when
it left her wan and wasted, she
thought ofthe dreary future ahead
with q wild wish at her heart that
she had not been spared.
But one morning, sitting in her
own room by her open desk, the old
letter spread out before her, a famil.
lar tread sounded on the gravel
path, and, looking up, she fell back
fainting, for she thought she had
seen John Harding's ghost.
But it was no ghost, but living
flesh and blood reality which bent
SO tenderly over her and waited till
the blood came back to the wasted
cheek, and saw the glad light of rec
ognition leap into the opening eyes.
Then Marjorie knew that God was
good, and, with great cry of
| thanksgiving that her wicked pray
er for death had gone UNPUBLISHED,
she chung to bis breast, and, clasp
ing her close to his beating heart,
their lips meeting in token of love,
John Harding felt the past was wip.
ed out, and that at last, after long
years, he held his wife.-N. Y.
Ledger.