The Intermountain Catholic. (Salt Lake City [Utah] ;) 1899-1920, 1909-04-17
MARY WILLIAMS
IN MEMORY OF MAnGE

sigh and looked out of the window across tbo wa
tiers OF the turquoise sea tossed in the July breeze
1 am sorry ] read it" she said little impa-
aenty- Il have only two weeks vacation, and /
uld not want a moment Of il spoiled It's a.
curious book The Wand of the Gentle"
The name is taking enough end all a name
should be. 1t takes the fancy as quickly as il
catches the eye The book itself is glorious Plot
plotting, action, dialogue, color-eyerytbing in II
Is evenly balanced justly proportional! artisticav
and humanity speaking it is satisfactory and vat
ii leaves me dissatisfied
Not the Margaret St. Ange reviewer and news
paper woman, but the real me-thc individual-for
IT makes me remember all that ] used to be. and
Wish might have been like her, that heroine who
was so brave and true and sweet All met 'T;s
weary. Work-a-day world.' And she settled herself
10 write her review of the novel, for it was the last
work OF one Of the best of modern writer's
Many people thought her all that she longed to
be- this woman of five and thirty, who was power
1or good IN her world.
She was at the head of the literary department.
Of a metropolitan journal and she fought ably to
keep her share of the publics mental food sweet
clean and wholesome. She worked harder than
she needed to. some people said but these were such
as did not knc Of the dear old mother for whom
nome had ~ kept, and the younger brother
Just starting profession and to whom ISIS
ter had alN4.s bee fairy godmother
But even the =oUndest of Canadian constitu-
tons and the bes+ disciplined of nerves will give
way sometimes and her physician had ordered her
to the seashore. She must have complete rest he
said and she lad come away to quiet seaside spot
Tor two weeks visit, bringing with her no work
except little reviewing of some pleasant ro-
mances which would help to while away the time
Soon. her review finished, each word of generous
appreciation clever criticism, telling in the
clear-cut English which always fell from her pen
There were those who said they could always tell
when Miss ST. Ange reviewed book herself or il
she gave 1t to subordnate). she laid aside her
writing and. book in hand, wandered toward the
hill above the village TO watch the sunset.
j was a quaint old seaside town Beside the
lltte church nestled the graves of early settlers
resting IN their last sleep, peacefully upon the
daisycovered fragrant hillside which sloped to the
marsh. This was green and brilliant and through
IFS softly waving sWamp-rosemary slender blue
ribbon to the sea.
She gazed long seaward. the sun gliding each
moss atherers hut to the glory of palace then,
as the sun sank like glowing ball of fire into the
waves she turned idly homeward. tarrying beside
little grave and watching the lingering beauties
of the sunset fall earth and sea- about her the
soft hush which precedes the dying day.
Some of the restful beauty of Nature passed
into her face she sat there stilled and tranquil
lied by the loneliness of the scene.
Here was strange face, that of "a woman
with story" some said, attractive rather than
beautiful.
Her warm, brown hair was streaked here and
there with threads of gray; the pallor of her
check was only now and then frightened by the
warm color which in youth had helped to make
her lovely; her features were not perfect by any
means Faulty faultess Jelly regular splendid
ly null" There were lines of pain about the full
red mouth but the hazel eyes were wonderfully
expressive, and the still, kindness of her gentle
somewhat repressed manner made those feel at
home who came within the pleasant circle of her
womanly friendship.
Upon the little grave were daisies yellow and
white nodding in the breeze and whispering all the
soft secrets Of the summer to the slender grasses
and fragrant clovers. Wild roses clambered
the gray headstone, and she found herself wish
ing to be at rest In such lovely spot.
'Oh, that We two lay sleeping under the quiet
sod" she hummed, then caughtE ..erself up with a
mental shake as she remembered the work she had
to do in the world.
Il wonder who is buried here she thought
idly, tracing with her finger the rough inscription
on the tme-Won granite.
ITO ye memorye of Msdge," she read softly.
The rest of the name was blurred and defaeed by
wind and weather, but at the bottom she spelled
out: "She was marryed one yr. one mo. g. one
daye.'
Quick tears sprang to her eyes and color came
and went Who was this Madge! What was her
story2 Had she been glad to have been "marryed"
but year, month and day, or had parting for
her been anguish, keen and terribel
"Ah, Madge" she murmured, death is not the
worst that can come to the heart of a woman"
That had been her name in the old days before
trouble had marked her for its own He had called
her so, and when she teasingly asked if it was
"Madge Wildfre" Of whom she reminded him, he
had whispered such words brought the happy
light into her eyes.
With heavy heart she took up the book again
and opened it at the dedication. She never read
the dedication Of book. That was one of her
fads
1T means nothing she said, cynically. "Peo-
pie dedicate their books to those whom the world
thinks they should honor. and oftentime5 the name
of the one Of whom they think and dream by day
and night is locked deep within their breasts"
But the simple lines on this page touched her
strangely ITO my memory Of Madge" it read,