Year: 1860

1
Sometimes he seemed to writhe as his
wife spoke; he was not as much under
the influence of drink as she supposed !;
but there came look in his face as he
lifted it, that blanched her own still
more.


so it would give you pleasure,
would it, to see the last of me? ?"


The candle-light fickered-it was
burning down to the frame that sup
ported it, and at every expiring effort a
lurid redness flashed over the small
room-over those two white faces
even the innocent beauty of little
girl lying in profound slumber near by.


"Henry, l wish it had pleased God
to let me follow you to the graveyard,
rather than to see you the wreck of
what you once were. Better the death
OF the body than ruin of the soul.


"Well, my lady, if that is your
wish, you needn't have been SO long in
telling it. I've been willing, any time
within the last five years, to leave you,
and glad to get the chance. No wife
shall say twice to me that when / went
over her threshold for the last time it
would be happy hour for her. I'wish
you every possible Joy of your release,
madam; | am now going out OF your
door for the last time"


AS he spoke he sprang from the
room. The cold wind steamed in for
brief second. and put the candle light
out-the chamber was buried in dark
ness. IrlH


Not a sound came from the woman's
lips, as she sat there for long time.
Then, when thought had racked her
soul beyond the power of silent endur-
ance, she moaned and sobbed, and wept
as if her heart would break.


Mamma" cried a little voice in the
darkness-"are you here, mamma? is
that you crying?"


Hush, my darling hush = and
sleep; it is very late.'


Has papa come yet? / want to
kiss him."


Oh! how that innocent question
smote her heart! she had driven one
whom her little child could still love,
still caress with infantine tenderness,
from his home. For q moment her
pulses almost stopped with horror, as
she remembered the calm steady way
in which he took leave of her. She
hurried to strike light. 1t shown di-
rectly upon the portrait of her husband
as he was on his marriage day; and
clasping her hands, she stood breath
less, scanning those almost faithful
lineaments. Then fearful thought
took possession Of her. "Oh l was
too hasty," she cried. 81 have said too
much, and may have his death to an
swer for"


Springing to the entrance, she flew
down the stairs, unlatched the door
and standing on the stone step, called
the name of her husband repeatedly.


ooh! which way could he have
gomez" she walled, striving to look
through the thick darkness, and feeling
the sharp drops of a fine rain striking
against her face.


Out she sped into the stormy night;
ran breathlessly, first to one corner, and
then to another; but not sound, save
the distant baying of watch dogs. could
she hear. Almost frantic, she flew from
street - street, peering into the dark
porches of the houses. 1t was nearly
midnight, and she met no one on the
way. Recalled at last to herself, by
the wet clinging of her garments around
her limbs, and the child tremors that
shot through her frame, she sobbingly
took her way homeward and entered
to find little Mary grieving and calling
for father and mother.


"But why didn't you bring papa :?
l want to kiss papa," cried the child.


"My Mary will never kiss papa again
L fear," murmured the sorrowful
woman, soothing the child in her arms.


That night of long, intense agony !!
That watching for the morning! When
it came-that pale, haggard face, that
looked out from the window, so tear
less-so stony-yet SO awfully grief
struck.


A violent fever succeeding, prostrat-
ed the mother, and when she came up
from the very brink of the grave, they
dared not tell her till months of con-
valesence had established her to
good health again, that about two
weeks after Henry Remington left
home, a bloated and disfigured body
supposed to be his, though there were
but few marks of recognition on the
corpse, was found in the river.


Even then, as she learned the sad
truth reason almost fed, and from
that hour Helen Remington was a
changed woman. Gathering up her
household treasures, she sold the pref
ty tenement that was her own, a gift
from her father, and bought very
small cottage with few humble rooms.
Thither she moved with her little
daughter whose artless prattle about
papa stung her poor heart almost to
madness. Relatives and friends Of
fered her home, but though most keen
lly sensible of their kindness, she re-
fused them all. She wished no eye
but that of God to be witness of her
daily grief, and thus chose life of in
dependence, embittered thought would
ever be by remorse.


Ten years passed by, and yet Helen
Remington lived in her desolate home
with her daughter, mournful and sor-
rowful woman, bearing about with her
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