Manchester Democrat. [volume] (Manchester, Iowa) 1875-1930, 1904-01-20
years waiting for n, missing #, longing

for It."
She turned with sigh and tiptoed
across the room to the cabinet where
she kept her music and took out the
yellow sheets with trembling hands.
1t was the meagerest collection, doz-
en- songs, perhaps, and all Of the most
sentimental nature. She had taken
them that winter when the little sing.
ing master came twice week from
the great city to give the finishing
touches to the education of the young
ladies in Broadmeadows. He had only
come one year. 1t was tedious jour-
ney in those days, and the small num-
Der Of pupils made the venture finan-
cial failure. Without his aid her rep
ertory had not grown. She had chung
timidly to the old music, practicing
conscientiously and following his In
structions as she remembered them
with painstaking fidelity.
She had long since discarded the use
Of the printed page. Still, there was
something tangible about those old
pieces, and to destroy them was like
giving up the best part of her life.
But she would never need them again.
What? Sit there and sing of love and
roses, cry necessarily for the dear ones
presence, while all the time throbbing
In tune to the melody would be that
unbearable thought Of what she once
had done3 Impossible, impossible!
Her master had always said she lack
ed warmth; that con amore and con
passione were modes OF expression that
could make no Roadway through the
snow and ice of her maidenly reserve,
which was rs incapable of being thaw-
ed as the pond ON the village green
when locked in the fierce grip of win
ter. His smile occurred to her with
irresistible force. What would he have
thought, she asked herself duly, had
he heard her that night, had he seen
her heart through the flimsy veil of
the song? All! She had been prompted
by no mere printed direction. She had
found her inspiration deeper than that,
as the icebound pond in time responds
to the voice of nature and leaps to life.
There had been no necessity to assume
a feeling.
She gathered the little pile of music
in her arms and clasped it against her
breast. Then she snnk down on the
floor and began to tear each piece soft
~ and unfalteringly. When her task
was finished her lap was full of scraps
Of time stained paper. She took some
n in hnS .1o n, 1&nl
wlstfully, letting them flutter through
her fingers. They We're like tiny, pale
winged butterflies, useless, dying, dead.
She gave low cry and buried her face
upon her knees, rocking to and fro in
q dumb agony mt the realization Of all
she had lost.
The clock in the hall licked monoto-
nously. Without, the garden lay dream.
ing of the past summer. The hush that
enveloped all nature was broken only
by the harsh alteration of the katy
dds. A sense Of coming blight pervad-
ed the sharp, damp air. How long
Miss Cordella sat there she never
knew, but at last, stiff and aching from
the discomfort of her position and
chilled by the mist that was creeping
over the land, she struggled to h9fl
feet, holding up the skirt Of her gown
in her hand that npnercf the pa3es
should be scattered on the floor The
candle had almost burned out. 1t afck.
cred uncertainty with an angry, sput-
tering sound. She stood quite motion
less for n moment Then she bent
down and laid her lips gently against
the mute keys Of her piano. t'
"Goodby" she whispered passionate
~. "Goodbyy