The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1915-02-16

VALLEY OF SHADOW
BY JOHN JORDAN.
lCopyright.l


The tramp drew his thin coat closer
round him and tried to hurry on; but
the snow, though shallow, was too
heavy for speed, and he soon dropped
back to his former Flooding gait.
1t was growing late, and he was
very tired, very cold, and very hungry
too worn out even to speculate fur
Their on the madness that had brought
him to this bleak New England coun-
try In the depths OF winter, breaking
the habit that for years had annually
sent him South with his fellow tramps
long before the first furry Of SNOW
whitened the fields. His p~erilous stu
alton was enough to occupy his
numbed brain, without troubling with
bootless thoughts as to how he had
gotten into 1t.
Anxiously he looked round, seeking
some familiar object. He was uncer-
tain as to his exact location, but he
had once known all the region well,
and It seemed scarcely probable that
even twenty years could have obliter
ated all the old landmarks. Yet, af-
ter all, twenty years was a long time.
Perhaps 1t was foolish of him to
com home after twenty years and
hope to find anything familiar. The
population, he knew, had greatly
changed In that time, the old-time
Yankee stock giving place to French
Canadian immigrants. The old-time
houses must have sunk into ruins.
Fields must have grown into woods,
and woods have been been cleared to
enable their owners to wiring a living
from their stony but fallow soil. What
right had he to hope that the old
home or the old home-folks still ex-
listed? Probably he would not know
the place when he saw 1t. Fool that
he had been to come!
Once more he raised his head, bent
for shelter from the cutting wind.
This time he saw something familiar
"a graveyard with tottering head
stones rising from the. white mantle
that wrapped the mounds above which
they stood.
Sharply he drew his breath. He
had forgotten the immortality Of death
forgotten that its symbols persisted
where those Of life had persisted.
For q moment he stood stock-still,
h~esitating. He knew where he was
nowi
His fathers place was half a mile
straight ahead. Half that distance,
facing on . cross-road. was Mary's
home: he could reach 1t by a short
cut through the cemetery.
Just around the field yonder lay the
well-remembered swimming-hole. He
must have passed the old church with
out seeing It: perhaps it had been
torn down.
As he stared, a longing came upon
him to read the ancient news cut or
painted on the silent monitors before
him. Why should he go on-why
should he seek among the living for
those whom he might find numbered
among the dead? The presence, or
even the absence, Of a single name
there would tell him muchi
Yet, it was very cold and was grow.
ing dark. He must find shelter soon.
With sudden resolution he turned
aside and made his way across the
ditch that bordered the road. climbed
through a gap In the decrepit fence,
and entered the graveyard.
From headstone to headstone he
wandered. reading by the fading light
the names, the dates, the foolish dog.
gerel that spoke of loving hearts.
Most Of them we're old; the most
recent was dated five years back. But
the names were all familiar. Many
of them were those of men and women
he had known. Father. mother, sister,
friends, lay side by side, mingled with
tiny slabs bearing names familiar, yet
unknown. One name alone which he
sought was missing.
When 1t had grown too dark to see,
he paused and stared toward the patch
of woods behind which Mary's house
had stood. 1t was useless for him to
go on home; the records he had
scanned had shown him that home
could be home no more. But Mary's
name was not among them; perhaps
The fence on the other side Of the
graveyard was more difficult to climb
than had been that where he had en-.
tered, but he got over somehow and
set on across the field, Keeling as he
walked.
His feet were leaden; he lifted and
set them down without feeling the
clogging snow. But his heart had sud-
denly ightened. He no longer doubted.
lT~nstinctively he knew what he would
find behind the trees, and he was not
surprised when he passed through
them and saw the house standing just
as he remembered 1t, with cheerful
windows cleaning brightly across the
snow.
On he stumbled up the well-remem-
bered path, past fantastic snow-laden
shrubs and gnarly fruit trees to the
wide, welcoming steps. AS he mount
ed them the door opened, letting out
a broad shaft of freight.
There, on the threshold. she stood,
arms extended wide.
frank! Frank" she cried. AT
last! At last, beloved You have been
so long-so long!"
With housekeeping feet he made
his way across boards that seemed
to heave and rock beneath him as he
trod. Sustained by arms whose touch
drove away all memory of weakness,
he made his way within and sank
down before the great fire that blazed
upon the hearth.
MARY Mary" he breathed. And
yet again: MARY! Is It really your"
Lovingly her eyes snone upon hin.
Who else?" she asked softly. Who
else? Have / not waited here always?
| knew you would come-and / wait
ed"
Laurier's eyes were growing heavy.
Privation and cold were telling on
him.
Mary" he gasped, Il want you to
know! was not guilty-not guiltyi
have done much that l should not
since that dreadful day. i have wrecked
and ruined my life; i am old before
my time, worn out by weakness and
by sin. But l was not guilty. All.
God' Not guilty-not guilty."
Il know it," Like a great cathedral
chime her voice rang out. 81 know
til have always known 1t! And all
know it-nowl"
"Now?"
Yes! All know it! Father, moth
or. friends-all. All know, and wait
to welcome you. Fear not, beloved
| To vnn much shall he fnrniunn an-