Year: 1871

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The day had been dark and lowering,
with slow, drizzling RAIN Night set in
earlier than usual, and brought with it Il
cold, bitter, dashing rain and impenetrable
darkness. | was all alone III my little gar
ret chamber, lying there sick and helpless
gazing out of the uncurtained little window
into the blackness, until my eyes ached-
with the vain hope of being rewarded by one
gleam of light, straining my ears to catch
some sound save the trample, trample Of the
heavy October storm.


All day it had been thus--save the dark
ness-once or twice, indeed, Janette the
landlady's daughter brought me up bowl
of stale cruel, and asked me if wanted any
thing; of course | didn't, what should
want-what indeed! | was on ny puny,
sickly girl, dying of consumption, SO the
physician said, he paid me regular visits
twice week, prescribed large doses of cod
liver oil-that had not the money to buy
and then coolly informed me couldn't ex-
pect to get well if did not follow his direc-
tions; then he would feel my pulse, shake
his head gravely, and saying "good day"
close the door behind him as lie left the
miserable little room-taking all the pure
air and sunlight along with him. How
lonely was-all alone there, day after day,
week after week, month after month; all
alone, why shouldn't be? Not relation
that knew in the world, all dead and gone
the violets and daisies had bossomea and
died many times upon their graves-and
was left.


Why shouldn't be alone? There were
plenty who called themselves friends to the
heress Lucretia Grayaon, but when the bank
failed and swallowed up her all, when Lutte
Grayson became poor music teacher de-
pending upon her own labors for her daily
bread, when sickness came with its palsying
hand, where were friends, then where? The
world turned upon its axis all the same
there was no great change because poor Lu-
tie Grayson was dying, alone. o, no, why
should there be?


Once in while, Mrs. Wilton the minis
ter's wife called to see me; she invariably
brought a tract for my perusal, and hoped
that was making my peace with Heaven,
then went away in haste as if she feared
contagion in my close little garret chamber;
she never thought that the air was close to
me; she never fancied that the cool breath of
heaven should be mine as well as hers; never
asked if was thirsty, although my lips
were parclIed with fever; never said "arent
you lonely and tired here in bed SO long by
yourself?" No only gave sigh Of relief
as she closed the door, after a mournful
farewell" b" as if she never expected TO see
me in this world again.





the president of Benevolent Aid Society,
she came to see me once, bringing me few
articles she thought might be Of use to me
sometime. When she was gone, | teebly
unrolled the bundle and found a cap and
dress of coarse Swiss muslin, with coarser
stitches, shuddered--were these to be my
last garments2


Such things of course were not calculated
to cheer up poor, despairing invalid; few
kind words, cordial grasp Of the hand,
smile or two, or boquet of wild yet fra
grant Gowers-how little they would have
cost, yet how priceless they would have
been to me.


But that dark and cheercss night am
wandering in my story-that dark and stormy
night, rs lay listening to the wailings of the
tempest, am sure that was very tired of
life, and prayed fervently for death. No
one would mourn for me-of what use was
in the world-unloved? l thought of the
time, years before, when | was loved, when
Charlie Graham in all his boyish beauty said
to me: Lutte, dear, your love is the incen-
tive that would urge me onward and upward
in life-when make myself worthy of you,
darling"


was rich then and he was poor widows
only son. And now. That very day had
read his name in scrap of waste newspaper
as one of whom the world was proud; as one
who had struggled up from obscurity and
poverty, and had inscribed his name upon
the roll of fame.


And in connection with his name | read
that of one of Waslingtons brightest stars,
a peerless girl, to whom Madame Rumor
said he was soon to be united. l did not
blame him, | only buried my face in the
coarse covcrlid and cried quietly little while
all to myself.


"And this is friendship, this is love-" l
walled out in my anguish, and yet did not
blame him. My life was blasted, yet |
wished only joy for him. had not a friend,
yet reoiced in my soul that Charles Gra-
ham had scores and hundreds. only shed
those few tears as buried my faith and love
for Charlie Graham in my heart, for the
thought Of his tender love years before had
comforted me in hours of suffering and wea-
riness. 1 only prayed, "Let me wait patiently
until the end" and then the struggle was
| over.


How the winds shrieked and walled!
How the rains trampled and dashed and
whrled, and yet. what was it? 1t was not
the storm; it was not the midnight rcvelry
that often came up to me from the bar-room.
Louder and louder, until one great shout
it arose above the wailings of the tempest:
| Eirei frel tireP