The pioneer press. (Miller, Hand County, S.D.) 1893-190?, 1899-01-19

| nat says | must not stay,
j see a hand you cannot see,
That beckons me away
| That's it Marjorie, I'm an old woman
now-old before my time. God has
| been kind to nc, far kinder than / de-
serve; but the grass will soon be green
on my grave in the kirkyard. Let me
sleep in peace. Marry Johnnie Suth-
erland wi my blessing, and l shall ken
you will never want friend"
Such tender reasoning had it's weight
with Marjorie, but it failed to conquer
her scruples altogether She still re-
manned in the shadow of her former
| sorrow, fearful and ashamed to pass,
| as she could have done at one step,
into the full sunshine of the newer and
brighter life.
So the days passed on, till at last
there occurred an event so strange, so
unexpected. and spirit compelling, that
it threatened for time to drive our he
roiDe into madness and despair.
One summer afternoon Marjorie, ac-
companied by little Leon, met Suther-
land in the village, and walked with
him to Solomon's cottage They found
the old man in the garden, looking un-
usually bright and hale but his talk
was still confused; he mingled the
present with the past, and continued
to speak of Marjorie, and to address
her. as il she were still child
The sun was setting when they left
him, turning their steps toward An
Mandate Castle. They fingered slowly
along the road, talking of Indifferent
things, and sweetly happy in each
others society, till it was growing
dark.
Then Marjorie held out her hand.
Let me go with you TO the Castle
gate" said Sutherland eagerly.
"Not tonight" answered Marjorie.
pray, let me walk alone, with only lit
tie Leon"
Very unwillingly he acquiesced, and
suffered her to depart. He watched her
sadly till her figure disappeared in the
darkness, moving toward the lonely
bridge across the Amman.
Having wished Sutherland good
night, Marjorie took the child by the
hand and walked back across the mead
ows toward the Castle. 1t was peace
full cleaning; the stars were shining
brightly. the air was balmy; so she
sauntered along, thinking dreamily of
the past.
She walked up by the bridge, and
looked down at AMMAN Water, flowing
peacefully onward
AS she locked she unused. Her life
had begun with trouble, but surely all
that was over now. Her days in Paris
seemed to be fading rapidly into the
dimness of the past; there was broken
link in her chain OF experience, that
was all. Yes, she would forget it, and
remember only the days which she had
passed at Annandale
And yet how could she do so? There
was the child, little Leon, who looked
at her with her fathers eyes, and spoke
his childish prattle in tones so like
those of the dead ran, that they some
times made her shu Sder. She lifted the
boy in her arms
Leon" she said. "do you remember
Paris, my child--do you remember
your father"
The child looked at her.. and half
shrunk back in fear. How changed she
had become! Her cheeks were burning
feverishly, her eyes sparkling
Mamma" said the boy, half draw
ing from her, what is the natter"
Nothing, darling" she said
She pressed him fondly to her, and
set him again upon the ground. They
walked on few steps farther. when
she paused again. sat down upon the
grass, and took the hey upon her
knee.
Leon she said. patting his cheek
and soothing back his hair. You love
Annandale, do you not?'
Yes, mamma, and srandmamma,
and Mr.. Sutherland"
"And--and you would be able to for
get the dreadful time we spent in
Paris?"
and papa"
my darling, your father is dead"
She pressed the child to her again
raised her eyes and looked straight liz.
to the face of her husband.
Caussidiere.
1t was indeed he, or his spirit, stand
ing there in the starlight. with his pale
face turned toward her. his eyes look
ing straight into hers. For a moment
they looked upon one anothel--he made
movement toward her, when, with a
wild cry. Marjorie clasped her child
still closer to her, and sank back
swooning upon the ground.
When she recovered her senses she
was still lying where she had fallen:
the child was kneeling beside her, cry
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