Year: 1875

later, she came in person, he had her lit
orally thrust from the door.


Amer vainly trying TO get some other
employment-for Mr.. Ascots influence
deprived Andrea Of all his pupils-the
young couple went abroad. For awhile
they lived in London, but after Magenta
Andrea returned 10 Italy, and there
struggled on until he died. lie left his
widow penniless; she had only money
enough to pay her passage TO America,
whittier she had resolved 10 come, In
hopes by q last appeal to soften her
fathers heart. II was winter voyage,
and Margaret caught violent cold,
which threatened an Inflammation ofthe
lungs. She could only crawl feebly to
the nearest lodging on the night she
landed, miserable attic.


The next day Margaret wrote a note
TO her father, trusting to her boy to de-
liver 1t as she was too III to 60 herself.
knowing that Mr.. Ascot would be out
during the day, she had deferred sending
the lad until toward nightfall but hardly
had he lett before she began to think Of
the perils he ran alone in that great city.
Perhaps, she said TO herself, he has fallen
down some open area; perhaps he sank
cold and inscnsible in some bank Of
snow. When eight O'Clock struck from
neighboring steeple, and still her boy
did not return, she became almost wild
with fright Ten o'clock came, and still
no son. She listened intensely for the
sound of his feet, but she heard nothing
but the roar Of the storm. At last her
anxiety and fear rose 10 frenzy she was
sure her boy was dead. Eleven o'clock
struck. Her candle had burned down
into the socket, and was almost on the
point of expiring. Suddenly the sound
of carriagc-wheels, muflled by the snow,
was heard (; the carriage stopped. Surely
that was the opening Of the street door;
there were steps ascending the stairs
yes, she could not be mistaken, there
were the steps of the boy! The deor Of
her room flew open, and her son rushed in.


Mother, motherw he cried, Ainging
his arm eagerly around her, al came as
soon as 1 could. And. oh, mother, l
have brought grandfather with me.
Seew


She looked past her son, scarcely be-
lieving her own eyes. There, just behind
her boy, stood her father. She rose up in
bed; she held out her arms.


Fatherp she sobbed.


"Margaret, my child" And then they
were locked in each others arms, and both
were in tears.


al can die in peace now" she MUIR
INJURED, after awhile, as she clung to her
fathers breast, "since you have for
given me. You will promise TO take care
Of Thornton p


"Diel" cried the father, rising bolt up
right, and fairly lifting her from the bed,
all the strength Of his youth coming
back in that supreme moment. "You
shall not die. You are going home with
us; we have brought blankets, food,
everything; the risk is not 50 great as re-
naming another night here; physicians,
the best, shall be called in. No, you
shall not die! You have not come home
to die"


Nor did she die. Our simple tale has
already been too long in the telling, or
we might narrate how the sense Of rest
and peace that grew up in her now, the
skillful care Of the best physicians, and
the knowledge that her boys future was
assured, all combined to work cure that,
otherwise, might have been regarded as
almost miraculous.


Today there is no more beautiful wo-
man of her years in that great city than
Margaret. She lives only for her father
and her boy; they come, at least, before
everything else. But she does not ex-
clude herself entirely from society. To
the select and cultivated circle of which
she is the center and chief ornament, she
gives freely of her varied accomplish
ments and of her exquisite charm of
manner. But the memory of her dead
husband is still green in her heart, and
ever will be; and though men Of high
station and even worldwide celebrity
would WOO her, If they could, to be the
light of their home, they know, one and
all, tina. her first and last love lies buried
in that lonely grave on the blue shores Of
the Riviera, to which every year or two