The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1906-02-21

seen a small, u~nofenulnS cnlld StrUch
dumb with passionate pain by a sudden
Glow from one coarse and brutal arm
| that should Rave shielded him? 10 a
! child's agony-so unwilling, so utterly
| without hope, so helpless, so mute-l
| can only liken James under this blow
| that she had newly got at Clifford's
hands. Matty Ferguson, and her feel
| ings toward her, and her ~disappoint-
ment-her jealousy, if you will-were
forgotten. She remembered nothing;
she felt that she could eve again re-
member aught but this-Giford's hand
had struck her; Gifford's hand had
| wantonly smitten the poor ~Quiverlng
wound, so barely healed over at any
| time-the dishonor Of her birth!
She could not have s%poken-to have
| saved her soul, she couldn't have shed
a tear; but she walked to the glass and
looked at herself, and saw that ner
mouth was white and set as it had
been that first night on her return from
Mr.. Clithero; and then, standing there
| and looking on her own face-a CHASTITY
| companionship!-she began slowly to
| think. to think as a free human soul,
Just set loose by a single blow from it's
long slavery; and as the mists cleared
from her she knew (but with %intensest
agony that she had wasted her life on
q mistaken idolatory; and that MohuD
was. and had been from the first, un-
worthy of her; and that it was better
to be that mans daughter whose she
was, than his wife whose coward hand
now so cruelty smote her.
Jane Grand saw and felt all this in
| about the space of five minutes-for the
| great crisis, the death agonies of our
lives, take place mercifully quick-then
she walked calmly upstairs (from the
window Of her room she could see Gift
| ford and Matty walking up and down
upon the lawn-GiffOrd evidently con-
| strained, and Matty's face, bright as a
sunbeam, tenderly upturned to his),
put on her plain village bonnet and
| shawl. and started alone for her usual
| Saturday walk to visit those outlying
| parishioners of Chesterford who lived
| far away beyond Yatton woods upon
| the moor. 1t was a delicious spring
day. The birds were exulting in low
strains over the few crossed twigs and
| straws upon which they were laying
| the foundation of their future domestic
bliss in the still lea1ess hedges. The
| smell from the new-plowed fields was
| fresh upon the sharp air. Every pool
of water along the lanes gave back the
reflection of a blue bright as eyer shone
| on an Italian sky.
"Oh, God, Thy word is good.' cried
poor James stricken heart, Thy word
is good! Thy creatures rise up and
| thank Thee after the chill of their Win
| ter is gone, but l mourn forever! 1t
| shall be so no more. This day l cast
| out earthly love from my heart, and
| give myself wholly to Thee! Disap.
pointment and cruelty shall I EeEer
meet with from Thy hands"
And then, walking along, she wept;
scalding, but still very wholesome,
healing tears, different tears to any
that she had ever yet shed in the Mo-
hun cause.
She paid her visits on the moor: ell
| tering with more warmth than she had
felt for years into the poor. common
troubles Of those hard, uncared for
lives; then, swayed by l know not what
| feeling, she returned home, not, as was
her custom, through Yatton, but by the
high street of the village, and past the
| vicarage gates. The windows of the
little study stood open to the bright
March sunset; and in his accustomed
| place beside the hearth was the vicar,
his head bowed upon his book, and a
look of ~untroubled. quiet interest upon
| his face. James steps Jagged, and in
voluntarily she sighed at this glimpse
| of a life that she felt to be so far bet
ter and happier than hers.
IF he only knew my sorrow he would
| come to me- was her thought as she
| wistfully fingered by the garden gate.
| IF he knew what I had suffered this
| day, he would come and speak to me,
rs he did in my first troubles, as he
used to speak to me when I was a little
child!;'
But the vicar read n. and the sun
| set faded from the study window; and
as some feeling distantly akin to shame
kept Jane from boldly ringing at the
| vicarage bell as she would once have
| done, nothing remained for her but to
| 60 Monochrome. bearing her own bur-
den of unaided care. and to learn what
ever news Miss Matty Ferguson might
have TO give to her.
When she reached the cottage 1t
| struck her as in some way looking DIFF
| ferent to what it had ever done before,
1t lay cold and Swallowed Over by the
neighbnring Yatton trees (also it held
Matty Fergussonl, and the little vicar
| age had Sllone so warm and tranquil
III the bright March sunset! Her heart
beat %nervously as she passed the parlor
| window. but she was sensible Of in
tense relief, on entering the house, at
finding that Mohun's hat and stick
were not in the passage. She felt that
| she could bear whatever she had got to
hear, better from Miss Fergusson's
own lips than from his: and. without
stopping to think. and so lose her new
ly-gained courage. she opened the sit
ins room door, and walked deliberately
in.
Upon a low stool before the fire with
her face bowed down between her
hands was Matty. She started round