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on each side are lofty arched windows, whose many panes flood the interior with generous daylight. Old-fashioned high box-pews fill up the body of the church. The gallery which in former days was occupied by the village choir, is situated beneath the belfry of the tower. Several years ago the addition of a parish house was added to the further side of the church, but the old building remains the same. Without, shaded by a noble avenue of elms, lies God's green acre. Among the moss-covered gravestones are to be found the names of the former patriarchs of the village and early residents of the town. Here, 'neath a carved weeping willow, is the grave of mine host of the old Wales tavern, and yonder, resting together in peaceful tranquillity at last, Sam Lawton and his wife, Mehitable, are buried. The cemetery is dotted by the little flags that, fluttering here and there, mark the
graves of soldiers of four wars. The oldest of these graves is that of Ebenezer Stedman, a veteran of the Revolution, who died in 1813. The weather-beaten stone of another Revolutionary soldier, a drummer in the war, relates the fact that his bass drum was perforated by a British bullet in the battle of Bunker Hill. Let us linger for a while in this silent and secluded church yard, far from the rush and noise of the great world without. And in gazing about upon the quiet and forgotten mounds of those who have gone before, we are thus inclined to meditate—“Such is the fate of many who have lived their little day in this world, often men of note, and useful in their generation, of whom it was said “how shall the world be carried on without them,' yet in a little while the tide rolls on, they are gradually missed no more, and finally their memory fades away. But how interesting is the catalogue, reproducing as it does the names of so many who once tilled these broad acres, and watched over the rising interests of the town, who cleared its forest and marked out its streets, who worshiped in its simple church, and built its earliest dwellings, who lived examples of integrity and honest worth, and have left an inheritance so rich and so beautiful to their posterity.” On Memorial Day each spring the undisturbed quietness of the place is broken by the muffled drums and martial tread of the blue-coated veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic and the young soldiers of the
Spanish War, who come to honor the memory of their dead, and to decorate their graves with the symbols of resurrection and with the colors of their country. The village people then are gathered in the yard to witness the service and to listen to the address by the chaplains. After the ceremonies in the yard, the squad accompanied by the spectators march down to the river bank below. Here a prayer is said in honor of those who fought and were buried at sea. As the chaplain reads appropriate passages from the Scriptures, the comrades toss their bunches of flowers into the stream, which are carried down, borne toward the ocean. HE world in which he lived spoke well of Roy Braddon. He was a clever, prosperous young man, with a character unsullied by vice, an agreeable personal appearance, and a manner that was very quiet, but not wanting in pleasantness. A thoughtful man, too, who was apt to contemplate all things in their gravest aspect. For the rest he was happily placed in the world, being the only son of a wealthy ship chandler, who elected to live where his forefathers had lived before him, in a big, gloomy mansion in the old residential portion of New Bedford. Occasionally Roy Braddon impatiently wondered why his father had not built a home up town, where other men of his position lived, but happily he was not troubled with an aesthetic temperament, and as a consequence accepted his life very quietly; for, on the whole, he reasoned, life was dull, after all, especially when a fellow was grown up and had had his fling at college. Besides, it was not a mean or sordid house, by any means. There was a gray-haired old butler, who had been custodian of the cellars and plate for the past thirty years, and a housekeeper of fabulous antiquity, who remembered the last hours of the last snuff-colored Braddon; and there were two prim, sour-visaged maid-servants, of a discreet age, selected by the housekeeper, who, change as they might as to their individuality, never underwent any variation as to those two qualities of primness and sourness. It was a ruling of the elder Braddon's: “Pretty housemaids are out of place when there's a young man in the house,” he was wont to say. Nearly ten years had passed since
ACROSS THE SEA AT WINTHROP By PAULINE CARRINGTON BOUVE
Across the sea at Winthrop,
Across the sea at Winthrop,
Across the sea at Winthrop,
“AND A CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM "
By EDGAR S. NYE
Roy had taken a desk in his father's office, during the last two of which he had become practically the manager of the business, for the elder Braddon was beginning to lose his business faculty, and in all this time he had made but one real friend. This was a young man who had come into the office a few years after his own advent, as corresponding clerk. His name was Frank Ryder, and he was the son of an army officer who had run through two inherited fortunes, and then cut his throat one morning in a fit of delirium tremens, leaving a widow and two helpless children to face a life which he had done his best to render hard for them.
The attachment between these two young men did not arise in a day. Howbeit, once they came to know each other, their friendship grew to be a warm one and they became almost inseparable companions. There was not a nook along the water front that they left unexplored. And they were very happy together, Frank full of wild, reckless talk of lives that were different from their lives; lives of adventure in distant lands; lives in camp and on shipboard, tossed about by the winds and waves, and in frequent contest with savage foes. The kind of a life he longed to lead, in short, instead of the dull, monotonous life of the office and its environments, which, as he termed it, might, and probably would, go on forever, and leave him no better a man than he was then.
“But you get an increase of salary every year,” suggested the more practical Roy. “It isn't such a bad billet, after all; and by and by, when I have full charge, I will take you in as junior partner.”
His son shrugged his shoulders with an involuntary expression of contempt for his father's weakness. “I could never have brought myself to do that,” he said. “Ah, you think not, Roy,” answered the old man, “you think not. But when a man has once loved a woman, her face is always rising up before him, pleading to him to think tenderly of her, let her have treated him as badly as she may. And it always ends with his forgiving her. The memory of the days when he thought she loved him counteracts all else. It always ends so.” “Never with me!” cried the young man. “Nothing on earth could induce me to forgive a woman who had jilted mc.” The old man shook his head. “Youth has many ideals that age dispels,” he answered sadly. “You will find it so, my boy, when you have lived my time. But to return—I received a letter from that woman to-day—the last she ever wrote. She is dead. Another hand, at the end of her letter, tells me that, her daughter's. She is dead, and has left one child, a girl, the last of a large family. Torres took her out to the West Indies, it seems, where they did well enough for many years, but had much sorrow, the climate killing their children one after another, until this girl was the only one left. Then came reverses. The man's health failed him, and ten years ago he died. After that the poor soul kept herself and the child
by teaching. She was always a sweet singer, with a voice as clear and fresh as a skylark's, and I think it was that fellow's music which tempted her away from me. And so she got on somehow, she says in the letter, until she felt death close at hand; and then, not having one friend in the world whose bounty she could entreat for her child, saving myself, and knowing that I was a good man, she says, poor soul, she turned to me, beseeching me, for charity's sake, if not for the memory of those days when I loved her, to befriend her orphan daughter. She doesn't ask me to do much for the girl, not to adopt her, or maintain her in a life of idleness; only to put her in some way of earning her living, and to keep her from falling into dangerous hands. “I received the letter this morning. The girl is in Boston. What am I to do, Roy? I leave it to you. I am nearing the end, my boy; and whatever I have saved is saved for you; whatever I spend is so much out of your pocket. What shall we do with Julia Torres?” “It is hard for a woman to get her living nowadays,” Roy answered thoughtfully. “A young woman, too, and a foreigner, as you might say. And surely, we shouldn't consider the expense. I shall never need half of what you will leave me. She might live here with us. Mrs. Davis would take good care of her.” “It is generous of you to say that, my boy. Just as I wished you to; just as I wished you to.” And so Julia Torres came to the old mansion on Union street. She had a hundred little arts by which women can embellish the dullest homes, and little by little, having found herself privileged to do these things, she began to exercise them. Quaint old jars and vases and cups and teapots that had been hidden away in remote closets, came out of their hiding places, blackened with the dust of ages, and were placed about here and there, making patches of light and color in the
darksome rooms. The ponderous old furniture was polished into a kind of beauty, and by a new disposition of old material, she brought light and brightness into gloomy corners. Flowers bloomed here and there in the windows. There was a new atmosphere in the house generally, and Roy felt the change greatly. He also found that he did not care quite so much for the society of his friend Ryder. It was midwinter, which was excuse enough for the suspension of their evening rambles; but he felt that he was not treating his friend fairly, and to make amends, invited him to dine with them once or twice a week. It may have been that he wanted to hear Julia's praises from the lips of the friend whose judgment he believed in; at any rate, he was gratified when Frank spoke enthusiastically of the beauty of her dark eyes and the charm of her singing. Often in the evening she sang for them, accompanying herself on the old piano, at which her father had taught her mother. Her voice was a clear, thrilling soprano, and her touch vibrant with tenderness and feeling. She sang all the old ballads which the elder Braddon loved, and in this way crept into the old man's affection. Roy was no musician, but her singing had a certain soothing influence on him; a little melancholy, perhaps, awakening a dim sense of sadness in his breast, that was all. He could scarcely have distinguished one of her songs from another without the words. He felt this deficiency of his somewhat keenly when Frank Ryder was with them, for Frank was possessed of a fine baritone and considerable taste for music, and often sang duets with Julia. It seemed to bring the two closer together, and occasionally Roy felt a pang of jealousy. He was angry with himself for the feeling and made a great effort to overcome it, asking his friend to the old house oftener because of this secret weakness. “What fear need I have of him if she loves me?” he argued with himself,