The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1907-07-12
@ The A
Ashes Of the First.

" E
When the wife of Durande, captain
in the 18TH Cuirassiers of the line,
died, he was sorely stricken with sor-
row, and would not be comforted. In
fact, he had hardly had time to enjoy
his happiness Or appreciate his treas
ure, for they had been married only
a month, when she was taken from
him in the midst of their wedding
tour in Italy.
.Just about returning to Paris, she
fell Ill in Rome and died of fever in
spite of the many physicians called to
attend her and the devoted care of
her husband, who never left her side
till she breathed her last.
Conscious to the end, she bravely
sought to console him.
1T was not given to mortals," she
said, Ito be happy for long. Our JOY
has been too great; 1t could not last
Do not weep, dearest" she cried; "let
me pass away in peace, without the
memory of your distressed face.
. Smile, do not look so sad" and she
raised her trembling hand and cares
singly laid it on his cheek.
"You are soldier" pursued she;
death should have no terrors for you
1 have loved you only; do me, then,
one last little favor. 1 wish to be
near you always, even in death. l be-
'seech you, cremate me, then. reduce
me to little heap of ashes that you
can always carry with you. y q
shall never disturb you-how
ashes Yet SO it will be. You will
sometimes glance at me thus, and
can never entirely forget mel"
Nevertheless when Durande return
ed to Paris he was "a changed man.
He was thin and haggard; his eyes
had lost their luster, his step it's elias.
tic spring and confidence.
Courage, courage, my boy!" his
colonel would say to him.
BE brave, my friend!" repeated his
brother officers.
But joy and brightness had gone
OQI VI 1Tul dAoOlo lIIO, IAC OACO III
liant soldier was broken man.
No one, on arrival, was allowed TO
touch his luggage, and he himself
with care and weeping drew from his
satchel an artistic little vase that he
solemnly charged his brosseur never
on any account to lay hands upon.
"A token of poor madame?" the
man ventured to ask
eyes, token,' Durande responded;
before which, the slim Roman urn
that held all that was left of his poor
wife's remains, he knelt and wept bit
terly when alone again. At night it
stood in full view upon a cabinet be.
side his bed, that his eyes might rest
upon it when not closed in sleep; and
by day, when his leave had expired
and he had returned to duty, he was
, distract, a stranger to his comrades,
Joining in none of their pleasures or
amusements, seeming to live only in
the memory of his lost wife and tina.
urn-which might be knocked over.
He had placed her portrait in every
room in his house, and by a strange
paradox of sentiment it was here.
among all these tender recollect!ons,
that he passed his least miserable
hours.
BY degrees. through steady contem,
plation, perhaps, the sight of. the Ro-
man urn produced less painful eff
feet upon the disconsolate widower,
and no longer caused him the cruel
heart pangs of the first days OF his
bereavement
He was now able to picture his darl-
ing as she mad been in the zenith OF
strength and beauty, gay. smiling.
charming. Again and again he re-
called and lived over the moments of
that honeymoon journey, and grew
happy himself in this sweet, posthu.
nous revival of radiant hours.
i, When at work, the urn stood on his
writing table, and he thought how in
life and in that bygone time he had
written and pondered and she had sat
quietly beside him, reading or sewing
TRANQUILITY, silently, without disturbing
him.
DIX HOn'nS pdsseu lehStnensu 10 d
year, and now and then it happened
that Durande forgot the urn. and left
it on his table at night instead of car
rying it to his bedroom. Finally he
enshrined it for good on his Office
table Not that the memory of his
wife was less than at first. but be-
cause, in time. It was borne in upon
him that funereal deposit like this