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MY FIRST DANCE.

BY JOE 501', JR.

 

m

How grand I went upon the floor,
The ball-room floor at Heaton s!
Arra ed in my first longtailed coat

a.

An other go-to-meet
M artner stood beside me there
1th sweetest of sweet faces;

I thought the caller hit it right ,
When he said, “In your p aces.’

I bowed and bumped my partner‘s head
. hen “ Honors all ” was spoken,

And much bowed down I felt, indeed,
Too much bowed down and broken.

I “ Balanced to my partner " with
The greatest hesitation,

And treading on her dainty‘toes
She screamed in aggravation.

At “ Right and left ” I went both ways;
80 reatly did I rue it _

I wis ed the floor-cracks Wider yet,
So I could drop down through 1t.

I “ Swung my partner ” with such force,
Oh, shadow of perdition! .

That she whirled seven times around,
And shattered the partition.

I “Balanced to the next,” and oh!
I lost my balance badly,

And came full length upon the floor,
From which I got up madly.

“ Promenade afil,” 312d heftp'I trod
U onatra an ore . .
Andpcutting were the words with which
The owner did deplore it.

I thought that dancing was a forte
I\ stood small chance to win on-

In the next movement I deprive
My partner of her chignon.

I deemed such pleasure was a fraud,
A very great delusion,

For at each change I somehow put
The dances in confusion. ,

“ First couple forward there, and back!"

Alas for such a calling!

I backed a ainst a man and‘sent
Him on {he floor a-sprawhng.

And in the scene succeeding this_
Somebody clutched my coat-tails,
And in the twinkle of an eye
My coat was one of no tails.

. And so the woeful dance went on; .
I thought they’d ne’er get through it;
M partner trod u on my corns
8n purpose, and knew it.

How blessed the order, “ To our seats
And there we went a-cape n’, _
And then to crown the aggravatlon and hu-
miliation of the moment in my haste I
sat down
Upon my partner’s apron.

The Snow Hunters:

on, .
WINTER IN THE woons.

VII.-——The Moose “Ravage.”

FOB two days after the storm the party went
but a little distance from the-cabin, spending
their time in hunting the rabbit, partridge, and
the snowy owl, and in fishing through the ice.
The high wind had cleared the ice of snow, and
its surface was as bright and sparkling as ever.
One day Indian Alfborrowed snow—shoes from
Dave, and went out across the snow. Mr.
Tracey said that he would never come back, but
the guide shook his head.

“ Ef the boy ain’t killed he’ll come back, Mr.
Tracey. You must l’arn one thing about an
Injun: when he’s got a good thing he’ll try to
keep it. He stuck to Bill Becker ’cause he was
the best pardner he c’u’d git, but he ain’t fool
enough to put Becker ’longside 0’ me, Alf ain’t.
He’s got hopes thet, of he behaves hisself,
I’ll take him fur apardner, an’so I will fur
he’s a born son uv the fOrest an’ knows his
little biz on a raft, Alf does.”

The guide was right. When the day was
nearly spent, Alf came flying back across the
snow, at a rapid pace, bearing upon his shoul-
der a string of beautiful partridge, which he
threw down before the fire.

“Any noos, Alf?” demanded Dave, quietly.

“Big heap noes!” answered the Indian, in
a hurried tone. “All’e time big heap moose
in a ravage. Me see ’um. All yite, you bet
ye; I say so i”

A “ravage!”

Not many of my readers, perhaps, but have
heard something of the peculiar habits of the
giant denizen of the Northern woods and
forest—the moose. In passing through the
forest in winter, the hunter will come upon a
sort of circular pen where the snow stands in
a bank around a piece of ground from which
the snow has disappeared, and the grass be-
neath is cropped short by some animals. It is
a moose ravage, where the herd have tram-
pled down the snow and then rooted it aside,
to get at the grass beneath. The place gener-
ally is some sheltered valley, where the grass
has grown rank during the summer months,
for the‘ moose seems to remember his best
stamping ground during the summer season,
and to return to it in winter. Alf, in histramp
through the woods, had accidently “ lighted ”
upon such a place, and had returned to tell his
new friends of the sport before them.

Dave Blodgett started to his feet, all the old
hunter’s ardor aroused by the thought of what
was before him. The blood tingled in his veins
as he recalled old-time struggles with the giant
of the woods—the moose.

“ Yah, hip!”he yelled. “ Alf, I’m yer friend

"5

 

 

 

fur life. A moose ravage! Whar is it—whar
~ is it? Why don’t we git fur it now?”
“ Stop little, Dave!” rejoined the Indian;
“ good ways to ravage, you bet ye. Mornin’
we go. Today we no go.”
“ I kain’t wait,” muttered Dave. “ War

they big fellers, Alf—lots of old buck moose,
with horns like fan coral an’ feet like gun-
boats?”

“Big heap moose, you much bet!” was the
reply. “Me see ’um, root round like pig.
Little papoose moose, squaw moose—all’e same
—mighty big heap me catch.”

Dave was on nettles all that night, and at,

early morning the party, equipped with snow-
shoes, took their way across the snow, guided
by Alf.

If you have never seen a snow-shoe, imagine
an oval frame—work, from thirty-five‘to forty
inches in length, by eighteen broad near the
center, with a couple of tranSVerse bars to add
strength to the frame, which is of the lightest

and toughest wood, generally ash. The whole
is covered with anetwork of—mooseorcaribou—
skin, cut into fine strips and so interlaced as to
prevent the'feetl‘j from sinking into the softest
snow. When not, in use, the {shoes are slung
upon the neck,‘~amd from theinextreme light-
ness, incommode-the wearer but little.~ ‘

To the uninitiated,‘suow~shoeing isslow and

clumsy work. But .Dave Blodgett had taken,

the opportunity, inthese stormy days, to teach
his party their use. - Andnow, if not adopts
in the exercise, every one could} use them
handily, and they moved fever theisnow at a
rapid pace, with Alf inudvance. The Indian
felt his importance, for was not even old Dave
under his rule for the present ?f g
‘ _“ The durued Injun-feels; hisfoats,” muttered
Dave, in an aggrieved touegp“bu‘t I forgive
him on account of the ravage. v How fur is it,
Alf?”- . ' '
, “Two hours.”
. “ Fur from the lake?”
. “ Half mile.”
Dave was dragging one of the sleds after

.He was to return in

him, for they calculated on bridging home

heavy game For two hours they went on
over the snow until Alf halted and held up his
hand. \

“Moose tharl” he whispered. “ You be bees
now, Dave." .

Dave held up his hand to get the direction
of the wind, which was very light.

“ Whar is the gate, Alf?"

“ This side,” replied Alf.

“ we’ve got the wind in our favor. I don’t
reckon they kin git over the drift, Alf?”

The Indian shook his head.

“Now you take yourself round to t’other
side of the yard, an’ when you hear the ’coon
holler three times, you show yerself on the
bank. We’ll be ready by that time at the
gate,” said Dave, again addressing the Indian.

Alf disappeared rapidly, and the party ap-
proached the opening called “the gate,”
which always breaks the bank of the yard.
Soon they came to a hard-beaten track, ten
feet wide, the path of the moose in leaving
the ravage. Peeping through the trees over
the edge of a huge drift, at least ten feet high,
the hunters saw a sight which filled them with
wonder.

It was a circle of perhaps ten acres, which ‘

had grown up with small trees~the maple,
mountain ash and buttonwood, for the most
part. These trees were stripped of bark,
small branches and leaves, in a manner al~
most beyond belief. Even the larger trees
were denuded of their bark in the same man-
ner. A few solitary spruce, scattered here
and there, had alone emaped the hunger of
the moose, who seem to be averse to the taste
of the spruce.

But the objects upon which their eyes rest-
ed with the greatest delight were a group of
nearly fifty moose, congregated at the upper
end of the ravage, where they were feeding.
Some were stripping the bark and leaves from
the trees; others were forcing aside the snow
with the muzzle and forehoof to find the grass
below; while others, fully satisfied, were ly-
ing at their ease upon the snow, unthinking of
danger. All about the circle of ravage
the snow was dotted with the marks of wolf-.

tracks, for these cowardly, gaunt wretches -

prowl about the moose-yard, night after
night, howling with impotent fury, but dare
not attack the moose in his home, or even cross
the yard.

At the sight of this noble game the younger
members of the party could hardly suppress
cries of joy. But there was “no time for
foolishness,” Dave said, and be stationed them
upon the edge of the track through which the
moose must pass to get out into the open
country. The spare guns were laid beside
them, and Dave, raising his hand to his lips,
uttered the note of the “ ’coon” with such
startling distinctness and truth that Harry
and Rufe looked up into the trees overhead to
see where the ’coon was perched. At the
same moment Alf sprung out upon the snowy
rampart and dropped one of the fattest of the
herd by a well-directed bullet. '

A wild scene of confusion ensued as the
startled herd, heedless of every obstruction
which might bar the way, rushed down upon
the leveled rifles of the hunters. That shuf-
fling, deceptive, awkward ‘trot Carries the
moose over the ground much more rapidly
than one would suppose. With the head
thrown back until the palmated horns almost
rested upon the shoulder, they came down up-
on the track out of the ravage. Crack! The
foremost plunged forward and lay dead upon
the snow, for the "unerring eye of Dave
Blodgett was looking through the sights. The
shot did not turn them, for they were wild
with terror. Dave had time to load and fire
again before they could crowd through the
narrow passageway. Again and again the
double-barreled, rifles cracked, while the ,wild
shouts of the hunters struck terror to the
hearts of the fated game. A moment more

and" the herd are. away across the snow, leav— ‘

ing four dead in the narrow way. But fol-
lowing on the traces of the herd came the
hunters, loading as they ran. Each man se-
lected an animal and was away in pursuit, and
Alf could hear the shouts die away in the dis-
tance. ~

“ Big heap‘fun!” muttered the Indian. “ Bill
Becker—(adjective)—-fooll Me stay here all
’e time, you much bet!” ’ _

And he began to butcher the moose left in
his care, awaiting the return of the party.
They came in, one by one, tired out. Jack
alone was nowhere in sight. They shouted,
and the icy forest only echoed back the sound

A Man’s Revenge.-

BY ABBIE CLEMENS MORBOW.

 

 

 

THE draw-bridge on Preston street was slow-
ly closing. Vincent Wilde, hurriedly attempt.
ing to spring upon it, slippedand was precipi»
tated into the river.
brought him up——-pale, dripping and uncon»
sciouswa woman who had witnessed“ the acci-
dent requested, if none of the company knew
who‘re the young man lived, that he be convey—
ed to her residence, some two blocks away.

Leola Linton opened the deer for her aunt
and the strange procession which followed.
Thus she looked for the first time upon the pale,
handsome face of the man whose future was to
become closely entwined with hers. When, a
little later, he opened his eyes and encountered
hers—wistful, sympathetic, thankful—there,
commenced an acquaintance which blossomed
into friendship, and ripened into that warmer
passion which comes, sometimes a blessing,
sometimes a curse, to the sons and daughters of,
men. .

These two, in three brief weeks, were lov-
ersl

What need to tell of soul-thrilling glances,
passionate avowals, sweet, stolen kisses? are
they not chronicled deep in the heart and mem-
ory of all who have ever been blissfully intoxi-'
cated by the delicious thraldom of the goddess
of love? ”

The morning came when Vincent Wilde must
leave Leola and the friends who had been so
kind to him, for his home in the distant West.
a year and claim Leela for
his wife. ’ - ‘

But long before the year was ended, she Was,
wedded to another. '

It was the Old story of a child sacrificed to
save a father from financial difficulty and dis—
grace. , _ ‘ ‘ _ _ ‘ '

Leela had been early orphaned,’ and Mrs.
Quillion, a widoWed sister of her mother’s, had
taken the charge of ’her, and the tasteful, state-
ly home.  ' ' .

Among the relatives of Mrs. Quillion, and
frequent visitors at the Linton mansion, were
a brother-in-law, Mr. Walter B. Flatt, senior,
and his son Walter—named for him. ‘

Leela and young 'Walter had been warm
friends from childhood; but she utterly disliked '
the father. ' ‘ A '

It had been a favorite scheme of Mrs. Quil-
lion’s to unite in marriage the two children she

 

. stood shy, sad, silent.

‘ ed him, coldly and fearlessly:

After a while, when they «

idolized—her niece Leola and her nephew Wal-
ter. .

Two months after Mr. Wilde’s departure
Mrs. Quillion died suddenly, and when her will
Was opened, a clause in it read thus:

" I do hereby bequeath in personal pro rty my
jewels and the sum of one undred and fty hon»
sand dollars, to m niece. Leela Linton. cu condi—
tion that she be 10 ed in the bonds of holy matri-
mony with Walter B. Platt. If she fail to compl
with my request, said personal prosperty‘and jewe s
shall be given to my niece, Ann 9 . Platt, and said
money shall be donated to certain charitable insti-
tutions herein designated.’ ’ '

“ Leela, darling,” Walter said, coming over
to her side, and encircling her with his arm, as
the rest left the library; “ you do not believe I
wish to marry you on account of the money?

‘ You know that I love you, that I have idolized
you always 1” _

“ Hush, Walter,” she answered, gently, a
wistful, yearning, beseeching tenderness in her
voice. “ I cannot be your wife. I am engaged
to Mr. Wilde. ”

“ To him whom you knew so little time. Oh,
Leela, if you had not met him, you would have

. married me!”

“ I do not know,” she replied.

“ Leela, darling, I cannot give you up! He
-‘ does not love you as I do! Your aunt willed
it! I will never touch a cent of—”

“ Walter,” she interrupted, with infinite sor-
row and reproach in her tone, “ would you bid
' me be false to the truth, to my ownsouli”

Then he left her. She did not marry him.
A far sadder fate awaited her!

Her aunt intended her to marry the younger
Walter B. Flatt, but, through a clerical error
' in the will—an omission of the lawyer toplace
the word “Jr.” after Walter’s name—legally
the bride belonged to the elder Mr. Flatt, and
' he - was not slow in observing his advantage and
following it.

Leola’s father would never have willingly
yielded his daughter to the elder Walter Platt,
for he loved her. But he was an enervated,
selfish man, and in great financial trouble.
Mr. Platt had indorsed and redeemed notes for
him, and was his partner in several speculative
ventures. He could not afford to offend him,
and so all Leola’s protestations, tears and en-
treaties were powerless to prevent her becoming
, the wife of a man she loathed.

' She wrote a tender, touching, farewell letter
to her lover, and quietly, hopelessly resigned
herself to the position of the old man’s wife.

She busied herself, during her husband’s ab-
sence, with the supefintendence of the grand old
house of which she was mistress, and with her
books, which were a passionate delight.

Afterward, when a more terrible sorrow ut-

holding much of quiet content.

Several months had drifted away. She was
spending the dayat her father’s. All alone, .
she sat musingin the little vine—sheltered arbor,
when a shadow darkened the archway, and 1
Vincent stood with arms outstretched toward
her. She gave a quick, glad cry and then

“ Is this all the welcome my little girl has to
give me, when I have traveled such a distance
to see her! Haveyou been ill? Why haven’t
' you written me?” . .

“ Oh, Vincent! don’t you know? haven’t you
heard? didn’t you get my letter?”

“ Heard what? I have had no word from
you in months. I could not bear it! What is
it, darling? Do not be afraid to tell me; noth-
ingcan change my love for you i"

A spasm of intense pain convulsed her white
face, she turned from the proffered caress and
said: 

“ Vincent! Vinceuti
here! I am married!”

Then she told him all.

The golden afternoon drifted away. The
twilight came. These two must part. Vincent
rose to leave her, taking her two small white
hands in his.

“ Leola, it was a bitter, cruel wrong. We
are both young. It can not last forever. You
may be free sometime; I shall wait for you!
Kiss me just once in memory of the days that
have been.”

She lifted her sweet, scarlet, quivering lips
and her lover pressed his to them. _

A fatal kiss, whose price was years of sad-
dest suffering! . '

For, as the two stood in a last embrace, a
step sounded upon the gravel without, and
Leola’s husband—angry, furious—confronted
them.

“ You houndl you rascal! how dare you
meet and caress, my wife?” he shouted, and in
his wrath he caught Vincent by the shoulder,
and hurled him with violence out upon the
gravel walk. '

Viil‘cent Wilde recovered his position and
stood with folded arms looking unflichingly

upon his successful, angry rival, as he answer—-

If you had only been

“ I was engaged to Leela. You stole her
from me. Before God you have no claim to
her! ‘ If there be justice in heaven your sin

_ shall be punished!” Then he went away, leav-
ing her to the mercies of the monster who call-
ed her wife, with not the faintest conception
of the diabolical revenge this mean, tyrannical
man was capable of working out for them.

Mr. Platt turned and said to Leela, fiercely,
as he went with her in to dinner:

“ The day shall come when you will rue
this.”

He made the next few weeks a perfect tor-
ture to her.

One morning he informed her that he was
intending to join his son Walter in Germany
—Whither he had gone .to acquire perfection
in the languages before entering mercantile
life. He would be absent some three months.
She, and his daughter, Annie, might occupy
their time during his absence at home or at any
watering—place they choose to select.

Some five weeks after the departure of Le-
ola’s husband, her father handed her a paper,
containing the following paragraph: '

“ Wr. Walter B. Platt, sen., a well known mer-_
chant of this city, was drowned on the 15th of July
while on his way to Europe to visit his son. He
leaves a young wife and a large circle of acquaint-
ances to mourn his loss.” "

'Leola’s feeling was one of intense relief.
She could not mourn for the man who had
brought her only regret, though she put on the
outward symbol. ‘ '

In his will he bestowed all his property upon
Annie * and Walter, except “ the homestead.
That he gave toLeola, requesting her to live
thereafter his decease. '

When Leola Platt’s year of widowhood ex-

pired she became the bride of Vincent Wilde.
{The honeymoon was spent in a delightful tour
—where all American brides choose to go—,
through Philadelphia, Washington and Niaga-

m , .

It was a cool evening early in October. A
grate fire had been lighted in the cosy library.
Vincent had returned from'an exciting, weari‘
some day in Wall street, and was comfortably
reposing upon the lounge. Loola, in a small
recker beside him, held his band in a close,
loving clasp, and toyed’gently with the brown
lock which obstinater inclined toward his fore—

terly crushed her, she reverted to those daysas '

timentalisms peculiar to honeymoons, and
building such bright, beautiful, aerial duties
for the future! ,

Is sorrow always nearest when our cup of
happiness is fullest?

Their first consciousness of other presence
was a cold, satirical laugh—and the words:

“ So this is the way you occupy your time
during my absence. You thought I was dead!
Hal ha! a capital joke! isn’t it?”

They both started to their feet.

Leela’s face grew deathly, as one robed for
the grave, but she neither screamed, nor faint—
ed, nor went mad.

She placed her hand on Vincent’s arm, and,
in her innocence and ignorance, said:

“ Before God and the angels I belong to Vin-
cent! You shall not take me from him!”

The fiend answered her:

“ Before the law and the court you are my
wife. Think not, pretty bird, I shall let you
out of your cage!” '

, Vincent stepped toward him with uplifted
hand:

“ You list- Oh! my God!”

Then sound, and sight, and strength failed
him, and he fell fainting at his persecutor’s
feet.

“ Oh! God! you have killed him!”

An exultant gleam gathered in Mr. Platt’s
dark, fiendish eyes.

“ No! he is not dead, that would be too good
for him! I choose that he shall live to suf~
fer!” * ‘

Nothing could have been more favorable to
Mr. Platt’s pro-arranged plans than the death-
like swoon of his victim.

Leela knelt by Vincent and looked up to her
husband’s face with a wild, beseeching appeal
in her sad eyes.

But Mr. Flatt rudely, relentlessly pushed her
aside, and, ringing a bell for assistance, con~
veyed him to a waiting carriage, that bore him
to a distant lunatic asylum.

Leola’a husband confined herin aroom close-
ly barred, and informed his friends and hers
that she was mad. The infinite misery of the
next years of her life not the pen of a ready

writer could picture. I think she would have
died but for the tender, kindly administrations
of her stepdaughter Annie.

Close confinement, brutal treatment, the ter-
rible uncertainty concerning the fate of the
man she worshiped, were breaking her heart
and wrecking her life.

And this man—of whom descent a more
beastly ancestor than the ancient one Darwin
claims for us would have been wholly ashamed
~Quilp-like, gloated over the vengeance his
hand wrought.

But justice does not always tarry, and one
midnight, without warning, the God Shanatos
r summoned him to his judgment seat.

Leola was free!

But the one without whose presence life was
worthless to her lay dying in an insane asy-

‘lum!

Leela went to the asylum, and, introduced
gto the physician, found him a friend of her
childhood. He listened tuber strange, unnat-

mission to watch with her husband, led her to
his couch. ~ _
Vincent lay—pale, emaciated, a wreck of

' his former self—raving of her in his delirium.

She tenderly touched his heated brow, and

’ her voice, as she addressed him, had all its old,

tender sweetness:

"Vincent! Vincent! I am here! free! your
own little wife! Nothing shall part us now!”

Her words pierced the delirious mists of his
wandering brain. His wild eyes met the se-
rene, loving lack in hers, and, magnetized by
the gentle gaze, grew quiet, restful. Her light
touch on his fevered brow tranquiliaed him, as
all the physician’s art was powerless to do.

He knew her voice. The ghastly wildness
faded from his eyes. The fearful terror left
his pale face. He came back to her from the
borders of the dark river.

There remains little else to tell.

Half a score of years have passed lightly
over their heads since reunited they left the
land of their sorrow, and sought a home where
no things to sight familiar could touch mem-
ory’s chord to bitterness.

In mutual, tender devotion to each other,
the idolatrous love of beautiful children, the
peace of God which passeth all understanding,
they have their remmpense for the years that
were lost.

 

Peace.

BY KEEN E. BEXFOBD.

 

ALICE HEATH stood beside the window and
looked out. The trees were radiant in robes
of frost like airy, marvelous lacework. The
sky was without a cloud, and over everything
there was sunshine, golden and warm.

But to her the day seemed full of gloom. A
shadow hid the sunshine. She wondered if the
sun would ever shine for her again as it had
done before the shadow came.

There was a swift patter of little feet in the
hall, and little hands fumbled at the fastening
of the door. Presently the knob turned and a
child came into the room—a child whose face
was like a flower, so pure, so fair and frail it
was .

Alice, and seizing her h‘and in an eager, ex-
cited way, “ did you know that papa was go-
ing away?” ‘

“Yes, I knew it,” Alice answered, slowly,
without looking at the child’s grieved face.

“ And oh, mammal he don’t know when he
will come back. Never, maybe!” and the
pansy eyes ran over with tears. ‘5 Don’t let
him go away, momma.”

“I have no power to keep him here,” Alice
Heath answered, bitterly.

There were steps in the hall, and a man’s

' face looked in at the open door.

“ I am going now,” he said, simply. ' “ I
have come to say good-by, Alice.”

She turned away from the window, cold and
calm and proud, and held out her hand. '

“ Good-by, and I hope “you will be happy.”

“ Happy!” He repeated the word with a
world of bitterness in his tone. “ I never ex-
pect to be happy again.”

He held her hand a moment, with grief and
pain working in his face. He searched the
woman’s face claser to see if there was the.
least sign of releuting from her icy pride. She
was like a woman of stone. , I

Be dropped her hand and stooped down to,
where his child was sobbing out her grief. -

“ My darling, my little Peace !” he cried,
and caught her in his arms, his face wet with

tears.

"‘Oh, papa, don’t go!” she sobbed, putting
her little arms about his neck. “ Peace loves
you so. Stay with her.”

" I  I could,” he said, brokenly.

“Oh, you can, you can!” cried the child,
eagerly. “ Ask him to stay, mammal”

He looked at the woman as if half hoping
that she would do as the child had asked her
to, _ .

 

 

head. They were breathing those sweet sen-

~ ural, terrible tale and, obtaining for her per. .

“.Oh, mammal" she cried, running up to“

But she gave no sign of having heard. She
was ice and stone.

“ God bless you and ‘~ you, my darling,
and give you a better, happier life than He
has given me,” he said, kissing her as we kiss
the faces of our dead, and then be unclaimed
the clinging arms about his neck, and went
out, groping blindly as if the world was cud-
denly full of darkness.

And still the woman at the window never
stirred. She heard his steps go down the
hall, and then the closing of the door, and saw
him going up the road. Once he turned and
looked back. He saw her standing there, cold
and unrelenting.

She watched him out of sight. Then she
turned and came to where Peace was lying
prone upon the carpet, sobbing as if her little
heart would break.

Leonard Heath had married Alice Carlo six
years before. For awhile the current of their
new life flowed smoothly. Then trouble be-A
gan. Both were quick and impulsive. Hot
words were spoken, and gradually a barrier
grew up between them which neither strove
to tear away. They were too proud to yield
to each other, though both were equally in the
fault. So matters had gone on, until they had
resolved to Separate and go on in different
ways to the end of the journey of life. And
this morning he had gone away—At might be
forever.

 

The summer was drawing to its close. There
were autumn tints on sky and river, warm,
blue, and strangely suggestive of that saddest
season of the year, which was not far away
now. -

Alice sat beside the window with "Peace’s
yellow curls against her breast, and thought of
many things. Half a year had gone by since
her husband left her. Six years had not used
to seem so long a time. Of late shehadthought
much of their bitter trouble, and her heart had
accused her sharply. She was beginning to
feel what a bitter, bitter thingremorse is when
it comes too late. ‘ ,

Peace stirred uneasily, opened her pansy
eyes, and looked up. I

“ I dreamed such a beautiful dream, mam-
ma,” she said. “ I thought papa was here.
Oh, papa, papa! I want him so much!” and
the child hid her face upon her mother's arm
and subbed. There had no day gone by since
her father went away that she had not cried
for him to come back to her.

Her mother’s tears splashed on her cheeks,
' and she looked up.

“ Oh, momma, won’t you send for himf’she
pleaded. “ If I should die, papa would want
.to see me before I died.”

Alice’s heart gave a great throb of fear. For
a week Peace had been unwell. She seemed to
be fadingas a flower does. Her face was white
and thin, and her eyes had a strange look in
, them that frightened Alice sometimes.

What if her child were going to die? She
could bear anything but that. She clasped her
to her heart as if she would keep death away
by the magic of a mother’s arms.

The next day Peace was very ill. Her face
was full of feverish color, and her eyes had a
vague, far-oi! look in them.

“She will die,” Alice said to the neighbor
who came to sit a little while with her. “ I
know it well enough now.”

Peace slept most of the time, a restless, bro« 
ken, unnatural sleep. Often she talked in a
babbling way. More than once Alice heard

her speak her father’s name.

The next day she was no better. Alice wrote
a few lines a‘ndsent them to the telegraph of-
fice, as soonas morning broke. It was a mes-
sage to her husband, telling him that Peace was
very ill, and bidding him come at once.

“ I should be doing a wicked thing if I kept
the sickness of his child from him,” she thought
—“ a cruel, wicked deed, because she is his
child as much as mine, and he loved her as well
as I have ever done.

“ I have sent for your papa,” she told Peace,
when she woke up from one of her strange
slumbers.

A great gladness came into the poor little
face. After that, whenever she opened her
eyes, she asked if papa had co e.

Two days went by, and Peace grew weaker
every hour. The end was not far away, Alice
knew. A great fear seized her. What if he
were too late?

It was sunset of the second day. She held
Peace in her arms beside the open western win-
dow. The robins were singing on the cherry
tree by the gate as blithely as if there was no
such thing .as death in the world.

“ Hark 1” Peace said, suddenly.
corning.” 

Alice heard a step in the hall. The door
opened, and she looked that way, blind with
sudden tears. , .

“ Alice!” he said, brokenly, “ is Peace——”
and then he stopped, as if he feared to go on
and complete the question. 

“ Oh, papa! papal” cried the child, stretch-
ing out her hands toward him. “ You’ve been
gone so long—so long! Take me, papa!”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her
over and over again, with his tears falling on
her face. He knew from the first glimpse of
her hollow checks that her life was almost
done. .

“ Oh, Alice, must it be?” he asked, as if he
thought there might bosomething done to keep
death away. .

—For answer she drooped her head upon his
shoulder and cried softly.

“ I’m going to die, papa,” Peace said, pre~
gently. “ Lima ’11 be. lonesome when I’m
gone, and you must not go away.”

That broke down the last bar of pride in the
woman’s heart.

“ Oh, Leonard, love me, and forgive me, and
stay with me,” she cried. “ I was cruel and
wicked, and I made your life wretched, but I
will,try to be a better woman if you will let
me.’

“ Don’t!” he said, lifting up her face to kiss.
“It was I who was to blame. It is you who
must forgive. If God is willing, we’ll begin
our lives over again, and perhaps the past- will
help us to do better in the future.”

“ I’m glad you won’t go away,” Peace said,
by and by. “ When I’m gone, I’ll think that
you and mamma love each other, and I’ll know
you won’t be so lonesome because I am dead.
You’ll never go away again, papal”

“ I’ll never go away again, Peace,” be said,
and the child was content; x

The next day she died. They put pansies
and white lilies in her hands, as she lay inthe
rosewood casket, but she was the fairest bloc
sum of them all. 

“ She was too fair for earth,” Alice said,
kiming the dead lipc that gave backno answer.
ing caress asthey had usedtodo.

' “ We have no one left but‘eoch other now,”
her husband answered. “Peace is an angel;
but be Peace between us to the end.”

And there, by their dead child, they began
their lives over again; and her memory is al—
ways with them to make them true to each

“ Papa is

 

 

went away.

 

 

 

 

d

 

 

 

 

other and the promise they gave her before she L ‘-