Democratic messenger. [volume] (Snow Hill, Md.) 1869-1973, 1903-01-17

rose TO a narrow ter
where group of viii
Welcome shade around.
in endless shining rip
hite beach. tapping softly
sand. A little breeze rus
the tall punches of beach
Gathering into great, grace
let me hear it,
it is a simplei thing, but
ng in it pleased me. and watch
hn sail away as We sat here,
it back to my mind.
watched a sail until it dropped
from sight
II the rounding sea. a CLEAN of
white.
last far-flashed farewell, and. like
thought
Slipt out of mind, it vanished and was
not.
".Yet to the helmsman standing at the
wheel
Broad seas still stretched beneath the
gliding keel.
Disaster? Change? He felt no slightest
sign,
Nor dreamed he of that far horizon
line.
$50 may it be, perchance. when down
the tide
Our dear ones vanish. Peacefully they
glide
On level seas, nor mark the unknown
bound.
We call it death-to them it's life be-
yond.'"
His voice dropped to silence; his
gaze still searched the unanswering dis
lance. The girl beside him sat motion
less. her head turned slightly away,
holding in one hand q willow branch
with which she had been idly brushing
the warm, dry sand ct her feet.
He unclasped his hands, bending for
ward to look at her.
"Well?" he said,-"well?"
Her fingers swept the willow switch
slowly back and forth over the sand.
and she still turned away her head.
When she spoke, her voice was not
quite steady:
Il like il very much. 1t is beautiful.
and If we knew that it was true. how
comforting it would be. OH" with a
sudden passionate note CT longing in
her voice. why can't we know that it
is so? have known what it is 10 watch
some one slip ont of sight that way,
7 So, ,al-
just a word or the sight of face TO
show that death is not the end. ard
that all is well. But she added. after
a pause. during which his eyes studied
her averted face sympatheIically, 1T
has never come
She turned toward him: do you be-
lieve it ever does come to any one?"
Il think he said slowly. Il think
no. know it does-sometimes. May
tell you a. experience OF my own, Miss
Evans?"
YES" she said, eagerly, tell it to
me-"
Again his eyes searched the misty
horizon line.
Il had very dear friend with whom
was intimately associated for a num-
Der OF years. We were almost like
brothers. and | knew well what a thor
oughly good fellow he was; honest.
kindly, and as tender-hearted as he was
strong and manly.
He had wife and baby girl about
two years old. His wife was a lovely
woman, and they were the fondest,
happiest pair of lovers il has ever been
my fortune to meet But Bess, the baby.
was the very core of his heart, and she
adored her father. He used to spend
hours talking to me about her, plan
ming her future. which was to be all
brightness il he could make it so. There
was nothing he was not willing to do
for her."
Miss Evans stirred slightly, and the
willow branch in her fingers tapped the
sand protestingly. He glanced quickly
at her.
No, Miss Evans, you must not think
that Bess never ursurped her mothers
place in his heart, but between her and
her father there was peculiarly strong
bond of sympathy
Frank fell i'll of fever. At first IL
did not appear to be serious. but sud
den change took place. and we soon
saw that the worst was to be feared.
During his sickness, whenever he
reused from his stupor, he would call
for Bess: Bring me the baby, Mary
he would say to his wife, and she
would bring Bess to the bed The child
would cuddle down by him, looking so
wise and grave. and stroke his hot
face with her dimpled fingers, calling
Papa. Papa!' till it broke ones heart
to hear her,
His voice choked. Rising from his
seat on the log, he walked quickly
down to the edge of the beach. and
stood looking out upon the franc =
water that lay an undulant refiectio,
blue above. Her eyes followed
fully. but she did not speak:
he came back and sat