Year: 1875

to come home then, Shirley, ana let you
go alone, and | couldn't"


eco home." | gathered her closer-the
come to that?"


"No," she whispered softly "Itnever
will. I'll go with you there, or anywhere
else on earth, Shirley"


"Is it too late to take the offer now?' !
asked, starting up. Why do you ask il
I'll let him help me, Edna? Better that
than taking his aims, God knows, and I've
done that so long. What is this place?
Child, I'd almost beg at the street corners
for you if that was all!"


will you go and see :" she
cried, lighting up all over her wasted lit
tie face. Il don't know about it, only
that mamma said there might be an
opening for you, and it would be much
better than your old place, and papa
would use his influence for you. Will
you go, Shirley?"


"Yes, l willn' 1 said, stopping down
to kiss her


Something was dragging me back all
the while-holding me fast to the bedside,
within touch of her little, hot hand and
hearing of my baby's slecpy-soft breath -
but | didn't heed it, was desperate, and
her eyes drove me out into the world to
struggle With it and win for her sake-and
| went


So the end of it was that letters went
back and forth, and in two weeks from
the day that | was discharged from my
clerkship was engaged by the New York
house Of which Mr.. Nerdery's brother
was head, at salary that would keep
Edna safe all the winter far enough out of
the reach of want or the need of aims.
Only-it was desperate mans resources,
you knOw-shc must be in New Orleans
while | was in New York.


A winter at the North, they said, would
kill her, and | must not dream of taking
her away until she was thoroughly well
again.


This was the way it happened. They
were so glad to take her back; they had
forgiven" her SO entirely and wanted her
50, and they were so fond of little
Shirley ought to have been willing and
glad to leave them both in such tender
care. l was neither, but knew it was
my duty to give her up and | did it. |
kissed her gOod-by at the last and dragged
myself away from her arms, that tried to
I,1 H., la
glimpse | had of wife orchid was a little,
slender figure at an open window, half
buried in white, soft wrappings, holding
up baby, who laughed and sprang in her
arms, and whose little hand she tried to
wave to me.


Then came the lonely winter at the
North the silent starvation of my heart
through nights and days, the longing i'm
patience, hope. 1t only lasted little
while. | knew should have her IN the
spring, in home of our own that had
planned already.


1t was in March when erletters, which
had come faithfully all winter on their
stated days, failed suddenly. A week
went by without Il message from New Or
leans; and when it came at last it was writ
ten in another hand.


1t was long letter, but never read it
through. | only read three lines. That
told me that she was dead, that my baby
was buried in her arms. The yellow
fever had broken out in the city and my
two were among the first to go; her par
ents had left New Orleans, and before
their letters reached me would have sailed
for England.


SO | never saw the little, whtG-wrapped
figure and the laughing baby any more.


| never saw either of their parents again.


1t was better for us all, Mr.. Nerdcry
had said, that the intercourse should
cease with Edna's and the child's death
and, God knows, felt so, too.


So | lived on in New York alone, and
rose in the firm, travelled, and made mon
ey; and wandered from city to city, at
last successful in everything that touched,
without a trouble or anxiety in life-only
the burden of my empty heart. | was
thirty years old when my darling died;
had plenty more years to live, and death
was still long way off, People called
me a young man still, after my hair was
very gray, and seemed to have grown
old and tired down to my hearts core.
And the years went by wearily; and was
forty eight, and my hair was white.


1t was at Fleming's House that | met
Harriet StanhOpe. She was a cousin of
his wife's and an attractive woman-not a
girl The sort of woman whom everyone
calls interesting; clever and cultivated to
the utmost; swcet-natured and adapted
and good, with even more than a woman's
share of tact.


l had not known her very long before l
could talk to her of the story that she knew
already, and tell her about the day when |
looked back and saw the little figure in
the window holding up my child for me
TO see.


Well you have guessed already, l sup
pose, at the end of this beginning. |
never loved Harriet Stanhope-never.
But it came to me slowly at first, and very
reluctantly, and then with great shock,
that this woman cared for me. And l be-
gan to think of the possibility of her tax
ing-in mems eyes at least and to out
ward seeming-Edna's empty place.


She was lonely, too, as was, with no
near relatives, no home, and sorrowful
outlook before her. | never could bear
the sight of solitary and uncared-for
woman, and this woman touched all my
pity and sympathy. I gave her that and
my friendship most freely and sincerely,
and that was all. But | began to think
that even without love life might be
sweetened little, and so said to myself
that would marry her.


l did not resolve hastily. had known
her for two years before had thought of
it at all, and then it was long before the
idea took definite shape. | was travel
ing in the West, and one of the letters
meeting me at large town in Ohio de-
cided the last doubt that was in my mind.
I read it twice and then walked the floor
all night, and lived my life over in mem
ory and reached far into the future to
plan out what it would be-what it must
be if God preserved it-and then | sat
down to write to Harriet.


1t was only natural that / should dream
that night of Edna. She came to me at
dawn and stood by the bedside with the
child-my son, who bore my name and
was so like me. And she told me that
she had never died at all, but had been
waiting for me all these wears and God