Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1897-11-18

when ne was DONG SO wei at nome.
Better let well enough alone. But
understand he has sold out everything,
leased the farm and started out anew.
He gives no reasons TO anyone. I'm
sorry, for 1 always liked the lad" and
good old Farmer Hayes, rising fort
night later from the breakfast table.
shook his head with a wise shake.
Poor Mrs. Hayes! AS she listened,
her florid face grew pale. Perhaps she
had made a mistake. after all, and ut
the memory of that white envelope,
hidden away somewhere in some deep
pocket, a weight of iron was resting
on her heart. She stole stealthy
glance at her niece. Her cheek had lost
its color, her hand trembled little as
she raised cup of coffee TO her lips,
but otherwise she gave no sign.
That evening Squire Arnold called,
and when he left he carried with him
Marjorie Hayes promise to become his
wife. Thus Mrs. Hayes ambition was
fulfilled, but vainly did she console her.
self with the thought. Something with
in forbade self-congratulation and the
ruddy color often left her cheek at
some forbidden memory. Squire Ar
mold had no cause to complain of
capricious behavior. No spice of CO.
quetry tinged Marjorie's manner now.
With quiet calm she moved. about the
old house. busy with preparations for
the now fast-approaching nuptials;
but, oh! what would Mrs. Hayes have
given for one mischievous glance as of
old, one ripple of merry girlish laugh
ter. one burst of happy song.
Days merged into weeks, until one
bright, beautiful morning in May, Mar
iorie rose to the consciousness that her
wedding day had come. There was n
strange tenderness in Mrs. Hayes man.
ner, as she helped robe the bride. 1t
was as though she prepared lamb for
the sacrifice, but il was too late now,
she whispered ever to herself, and so
hustled here and there in busy prepara-
ton, so that none noticed how seldom
looked.
1t was over at last. Marjorie had gone
through it all as in dream, scarcely
needing the words which bound her ts
another, or hearing her own voice in re-
sponse. Then came congratulations
and farewells. and she hadIleft her child
hoods home a wife. Then she awoke
from dream life to reality, then for the
first time knew how stern q duty SHE
had imposed upon herself, and she Won
dered if her strength would not desert
her.
But Squire Arnold was too proud In
her possession to dream her another
than satisfied, and for six months she
dad her duty well. Then u sudden, sharp
illness prostrated her husband, and be-
fore 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. a new, hard feeling
crept into her heart against the man
who had, In his stern, unrelenting an
ger, 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
whero she dweit alone, and go back to
the dear old farm, TO the place her aunt
so long had filed.
Soon would II 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 sinking TO
rest, and Marjorie and her uncle, with
strange foreboding at their hearts,
watched by the sufferer, the sick wom-
an, motioning Marjorie nearer, whis-
pered: "The letter-in my pocket
thought il best-forgive-"
The girl supposed her wandering.
and, STOPPING, she Kissed the lips already
cold, and when she raised her head the
eyes had closed, the spirit fled. Then,
when the funeral was over and the
house restored to it's quiet, she took
her place beside her uncle. IT seemed
as though all the glory had died out
of her life, and left only gray shadow
of ita former brightness.
Two years passed, and Marjorie won
dered at the strange cnlm which seemed
almost paralyzing her life, when sud
denly her energy was reused TO action
A terrible fever had broken out In then
very midst. Men, women and children
fed before 1t, and there were few to
care for the thousands already stricken
With u sense OF almost gratitude, Mar
iorie took her place by the bedsio'es oi
the sick and dying. All expostulatior
was in vain, and night and day she
worked as though unconscious OF IA
tigue One evening, in passing through
u temporary ward, she caught sight oi
n man whose face, bronzed and bearded
yet carried with il forgotten memory
A moment she knelt 10y John Hardings
side. In his dclrium he seemed TO rec
ognize her.
There was no light, Marjorie, in the
window. II was oil dark-no answer tc
my letter. so went away. twas bcs'
so-bcst, best" and the fever burned
hotter and fiercer, and his voice sanl
or rose In incoherent words.
"a hopeless case, Miss Marjorie" ano
the old physicians voice. still giving hei
the name of her youth. reused her from
her reverie. lie worked like Trojan
among the sufferers. poor fellow, until
he was stricken down himself; and now
he Will never work again." and with
lGulee of the head the old man passed
ON.
John, John. live for my sake; If only
once may tell you it was my fault-all
all mine," and with n burst of sobs, th'
fair young head was pillowed by his
side.
When she had gone back for few
hours rest 10 the farm, the words OF hin
dellrium returned to her. and with them
those of her aunt