The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1900-11-26

mantle episode in the octagenarian's
past Truly there is no age for the
heart.
DO you know, l have often thought of
him of late?" went on her kinswoman
after time. Poor Henry! I so nearly
married him-but L could never get over
the fact OF his low birth. And he was so
devoted to me. Sometimes recently
have wondered If [ did wisely in sending
him away. All these years L have never
doubted that was right, but noW-now
that am helpless and feeble-I begin to
think 1t would be a comfort to have some
one really belonging to me, who would
look after things for love of me, and rot
one of self-interest-a strong arm to lean
on, all ones own"
A strong arm, and this man had been
In his grave for more than fifty years!
You forget, said Molly, gently kneel-
ing down beside her, and pressing the
1withered hand-so strangely withered of
late-tO her warm cheek You forget he
has been dead SO long. Perhaps you have
been spared MUCH
Yes, you are right If 1 had married
him, should have been a widow nova
widow with an odious name. [ cannot
prlnS myself to pronounce his name,
child this with touch of her old man
ner-''to me he is always Henry Per-
haps it was for the best, after ALL
She was silent for some moments, gaz-
ing pensively into the fire, but presently
reused herself
yet, perhaps I should have had chill
dren. L might have had son, Molly,
and he, you know, in spite of everything
would have been more of an O'Neill-a
true. O'Nelll-than any scion of the race
| living now can possibly be. He would
have had~my blood, the real blue blood
| of the old O'Neills running in his veins,
and have transmitted it to his posterity,
and now 1T must moulder in the dust
| Oh, is it not a pity, child? Such a
| dreadful WaSte!'
| Miss O'Neill relapsed into silence, and
after a time Molly hoped she had for
fhr Of 16iY ION
| But in the afternoon, when the tea things
| had been removed, and the two sat by
! the fire in the darkening room, the in
| valid required to it again
while you were out today, she said,
ri amused myself by imagining all sorts
! of strange things, Molly. l began to
! think, suppose L had married Henry, and
! had a son, there would have been grand
mine of NINE as your modern poet,
| Tennyson, puts it. Sitting alone by the
| fire. L began to fancy that such was the
case, and to imagine [ heard the patter
| of little feet in the passages, and the
childish voices coming nearer and nearer
to the door. And then the door opened, -
she cried excitedly, stretching out her
! hands, land they all came rushing in,
helter-skelter, and SWarmed about me,
and climbed on my knee-all fancies, of
course, a sick old woman's fanctes'-she
dropped her voice, and sank eXhaus tediy
back ON her cushions;/ continuing, after
a pause-"but they were so vivid, Molly,
that for the moment [ could almost be-
! lieVe they were real 1 could see the
little f1aXen heads cleaning in the fire
| light, and the room seemed to echo with
| their laughter All fancies Molly; but 1t
is my own fault that they are not true.
[ wonder, child, after all, has my life
| been a mistaken"
ooh. no no, surely" cried Molly
| quickly; but Miss O'NeiT stopped her
! again with a sign.
''To think that I have never held
! child upon my breast she cried passion
! ately. Never listened to the first cry,
| which they say is sweeter than all the
! ears-and L have never heard it. The
| poorest matrOn in the village yonder
knows more of life's sweetness than /
| and it is all my own fault.
She began to weep, checking Molly, as
the latter tried to console her. by CRYING,
with a little angry sob: 81 know | have
lived for others, that was my folly; L
should have lived more for myself. See
! and 1 might have got so much more out
! of it. 1t seems such a pity.
| Molly, too, felt inclined to cry out
! days which succeeded, for this idea
! seemed to have taken possession of her
! kinswoman's mind, and to refuse to be
uprooted Surely, never before were
there such strange dying regrets; yet
! they were in keeping with the unusual
ness of the life. The sorrowful plant
was constantly on her lips. and the poor,
( 166Dl6 haDQS CW1lCuSo anu lluIl6ISu SNSI
J and anon. as though they would clutch
! backward at the vanished years. But,
| at last they were quietly folded and the
| euerulous wall was heard no more. There
was silence in the great house, though
a cry arose without, passing from lip to
| lip, and echoing from heart to heart:
1.-The LADY, was dead.
God bless her. sobbed the faithful
village folk, who poured in at the wide
open DOORS and were damned against
each other on the stairs, awaiting their
turn to take last look at the we'll
beloved face. "Gods bless her" they si,
hands: and, go surely" thought Molly.
''she cannot deem them empty now
REST her SOUL murmured the. poor
who focked in their hundreds to the
funeral; and Molly forgot the sadness
of her kinswoman's -oft-repeated cry, the
echo of past discords, even the mourn
full dust to dist" itself, at the sound
of that humble requiem.
(To be Continued..)
TCopyrighted IN the United States of
America nv D r. Pierce.