Year: 1873




veyance of property by a husband
and wife to friend, to hold in trust
for the benefit of the said emily"
and just as I had written her name
for the tenth or twentieth time, and
1 was writing it again-I paused in
the middle, and looked up.


Do you know why I pausedP It
was because 1 heard the word-the
-audibly pronounced, and so
I looked around to know who spoke.
But it was not my wife, who sat
quietly at the other side Of my table
with her large gray eyes bent down
on the pages of a new book which
for the time engrossed all her atten-
ton, and there was no one else In
the room to speak it. 1t was some
one out of the room then, and doubt
less of the world, and I looked out.
The lower shutters we're closed.
The curtains hung over the upper
half of the window, but through
their parted folds l saw the young
moon, calm and plaid, in a deep and
unfashionably sky; and with a
dreamy and perfect distinctness /
saw Listen, while I tell you
what l saw.


1t was q mountain scene, or a view
among the hills. A valley sleeping,
and houses sleeping on the plain, and
trees sleeping, and everything still,
voiceless, motionless in the moon
light, and white snow deep over all.
And on the plain little church,
whose spire cleaned in the moon
shine, and raised itself in silVery
splendOr toward heaven. But oh,
nay friend, you who sit in your large
easy chair so cozily, SO warmly to-
night, there was something more
than valley, trees, and church, and
spire, that 1 saw so dreamily just
now. Beside the church still on the
plain, the snow lay two feet deep
over all the ground, white and re-
splendent. And there were places
where the snow lay higher up than
in others-little hillocks of snow
rounded up, as if it had fallen up
more lightly on such places than
elsewhere. And on one of these
places the snow had fallen very
peacefully, for it fell on a brow that
was once as pure as winter snow
flakes-on hushed heart that once
knew no load so heavy as to be
measured by its lightest fall. And
the snow lay with a terrible stiffness,
a solemn calmness of repose, with
the majestic silence of the folded
mantle on marble, over the grave Of
the dead girl that was in years long
gone, the idol of the village.


It was her name heard in the air.
Who spoke it, it matters not, it was
one Of the angels OF memory, near
us-thanks be unto Him who made
us! forever near us-taking the
presence of familiar objects to whis-
per old stories in our neverWearyihg
ears. And so, tonight, in my city
room, / am writing you this story OF
the village in the up-country to re
mind you as well as myself of all
her radiant beauty. Was she not
beautiful?


1 remember one evening, when,
with her old father, 1 saw her com
ing down the road, just at the spot
where the setting sun of June shone
through the trees and poured its
splendor on the dusty road. A car
rage had passed, and the air was
filled with yellow dust, and in it she
stood as in flood Of gloryP Alas
for our humanity, it was but so! and
she was dust, even as we. Yet she
was of angelic mold. Who said
God broke it when he made Eyei
1t was not so; or angels found the
broken fragments and replaced them
for at least that once. And yet she
fell, yes, fell.


Angels were tempted even within
the gates of pearl; yea even within
sound of the musical flow of the riy-
er of everlasting life; and angels
sinned and fell. Would you have
had her sterner of heart, and strong
er to resist, than was Lucifer, the
efar IF the roOrniuO2


One winter Sunday the oldimar
came alone to the church door, and
sat alone in his pew, and his stout
frame shuddered with agony as he
stood up in prayer. And all the
congregation was silent and full Of
woe, for all knew that she was lost
1t was as if each fsmily had lost g
child, so we'll beloved had she been Of
all. And when the pastor prayed,
humbly and with broken voice, fol
the deceived, the erring, the wander
inc, a sob from one who had loved
her too well broke the solemn silence
and then a wall of sorrOw-that low
hushed, half-suppressed moan of an
guish which you have heard-arose
| in all the house, and the old pastor
paused and wept.


A year dragged its slow length a
long; and when another winter was
on the valley, and when the old man
sat in his accustomed chair, gazing
into the vacant fire light that flicker
ed on the hearth, and when the rud-
ldv embers flickered on the wall all
through the valley, and in one large
, house, a mile down the road, all the
Young people were gathered for an
evening of winter merriment; and
while the cold calm moon, the never
changing, hypocritical moon, that
smiles the same on joy or woe, on
calm or whirlWind, shone on the cold
and quiet country road-she, the gen
! tie child on whom no wind before
| brgathed roughly, clad in thin gar


ments, with ragged shawl wound
around her graceful shoulders and
bare arms-the beloved child Of an
hundred homes in the valley, the best
/ adored of an old mans heart, whom
Gods messengers long waited to take


home to Him-she was walking SLOW
Ily, feebly, by houses that would have
opened every door to her,to the grea
lhouse wherein she should have beer
/ gayest, brightest, purest Of all, tha
night, and whose sounds of JOY sanl
like weight in her soul, and made
| her step more feeble, more heavy by


the old church and graveyard where


her mother lay-she thanked Coz