The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1897-07-31
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coats, widely faring Byronic collars;
neckties tied to blow in the breeze,
and wide-brimmed soft hats.
But Mary loved him, she more than
loved him. She put him on pedes-
tai and crowned him with glory and
honor. She broke the alabaster box
of her whole beings alteration at his
feet; and she would have died for
him gladly.
Mary was large, fair woman, who
richly and fashionably dressed,
would have looked like a duchess.
AS it was, in her simple home made
gowns and modest bonnet, she only
looked like a very beautiful mother
which is more than some duchesses
do.
A conventional looking Young man
curate, and a handsome, large fea-
tured man of fifty, with a deep
mourning band on his hat, sat in the
seat directly in front of Mary. The
elder man had his little daughter,
dressed in mourning, on his knee, and
he and the curate laughed and
chatted with the little girl to amuse
her.
"There is a newly made widower,"
thought Mary; "and he doesn't seem
to mind much. l wonder if David
would (she had almost said "will")
care so little"
Suddenly the older man turned to
the curate, and Mary saw his face
drawn in agony and grief.
did you ever bury any one you
loved desperately" he asked.
The curate answered, with appro-
pirate courtesy. mo, I have been
very fortunate. | have always
thought, however, that the only wise
way to face such grief would be
philosophically, knowing it was
Gods will that it should come to all.
"You have never buried any one
you loved desperately. When you
come to do that, you will not be
thinking of philosophy" said the
other.
And then they spoke of other
things.
Mary pulled down her veil to hide
her wet cheeks.
poor David he will mind; he will
not forget right away" she thought.
As they passed Woodlawn she
wondered whether, if she died, they
would bury her on the hillside where
David could see her grave every day
from the train window. 1t would
seem less lonely for her, she thought.
And then her heart turned to her
children, and she wept for them
until she was reused by the train
getting into the Grand Central
Station.
A half-hour later, Mary stood in a
clean, bare little room high up on
the top floor of a quiet boarding
house on a side street. A young
doctor with wideawake, intelligent
face was talking to her.
eyes, Mrs. Robinson" he said
gravely, "the operation is impera-
tive; it is the only way to save your
life. If it succeeds, you will become
a perfectly strong woman; if it fails,
you'll be spared the pain of linger-
ing death, for you will not survive
the operation more than half-hour
at most. I put the case plainly to
you. You must know all the circum-
stances, all the risks, that you may
decide wisely.
81 have decided" she answered
steadily.
Very we'll, I will have the nurses
here in little while, and the other
doctors will meet me here at quar-
ter before two. l have spoken to
them about it. was only waiting
for final word from you to complete
all the arrangements"
He babe Mary "Good morning.
and left her alone.
Mary was naturally rather a cow
ard, especially about little things.
Spiders, worms and snakes, even
very small ones made her almost
faint; and she was afraid to travel
alone, or. to sleep in room by her.
self. But her pulse was very steady
now. 1t seemed to her to say
David, David, David" as it beat.
She walked over to the window and
looked down at the people coming
and going in the street. 1t seemed
to her that she had entirely lost her
personality. She had really become
this Mrs. Robinson she had told the
doctor and the clearinghouse keep
er she was. She was of vital import
ance to nobody about her. To the
doctors and nurses she was ease"
and there we're many leases" like
her in the CITY. The hospitals were