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Th to Th pc of fill Or be thi sic oti fin sic or Th sh Til wl IVIt dif en be rig rec mc This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est film6 au taux de reduction indiqu* ci-dessous 10X 14X 18X 2ZX 26X 30X J. 12X 16X 20X 24X 28X 32X The copy filmed hare has been reproduced thanks to the generosity of: D.B.WildonLlhr9ry University of WMtarn Ontario L'exemplaire fiimA fut reproduit g^ice d la gAnArositA de: D. B. Weidon Library Univtrsity of Wmttrn Ontario The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Les images suivantes ont M reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition at de la nettet* de l'exemplaire filmA. et en conformit.A avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. 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Un des symboles suivants appara?tra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols —^ signifie "A SUIVRE", le symboln V signifie "FIN". Maps, plates, charts, etc.. may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in th? upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre filmfo A des taux de reduction difftrents. Lorsqua le document est trop grand pcur Atre reproduit en un seul clinhi, il est fiimd A partir de I'angle supirieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas, en prenani le nombre d'images n^cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 • 4 i 6 U. W. 0. LIBRARY Otir Wm. 9^o7)onell, Author of tttXtt Hall, €(c., €tc. PRINTED BY WILSON « WILSON, OANADIAN POST. LINDSAY. ONTARIO, /f7^ - t-l^p ..... m 'm-':- t'4^1 ',1^ ^¥. V /"■J* ' i*^"*'*! s^' «%". Ta*;;. >¥..*' r*^ ^^5«"^' i^^ ■%**f V>'' ^Vij t^ > *«! ^s -j^ ^.' '.\^'M^ .1^'-' 3.1L.5'5 Vdk^cuwt^ 7^ Bt Our Strange 6ue$t BY WILLIAM MCDONELL. Author of Exeter Hall, Etc., Etc, CHAPTER I. Sunday, December 24th, 1875 — Christmas Eve. This has been a stormy week, snowing and blowing almost every day. Here from our upper win- dows I can set) the whirling snow clouds lush down along the drifted road, and there must be fully three feet deep of snow in our clearance. The tall pines, thickly draped in white, stand up around like mourners, and when the cold wind passes through them, they bead to the rude blast like creatures in adversity. Now and again, as the wintry gale sweeps on- ward, one might imagine the thousand flakes which fall from the burdened bi anches, to be almost suddenly whisk- ed into an icy mist, were like the frozen tears of berea\ed ones who are sorrow- ing for the flowers, the once beautiful summer flowers, chat lie fading and withering under the vast white pall which seems to cover the whole earth. Ah, how often I could wish that some •ihroud, some dense veil, would hide from my memory the faded floweis of my heart, the once glittering gems of hope which have been lo8« to me for- ever. The church bells are ringing a cheer- ing peal to many — yet the sound in the distance comes to me like a deep, melancholy wail. The faint tinkle of sleigh bells is singularly cheerless, yet many persons are no doubt happy while driving to church beneath the dismal sky, which now makes the steeples of Portville look far away, though that village is lirtle more than a mile distant. This is a joyful season to many, to almost all, yet its annual re- turn brings but sadness to us here in our lone home, a fresh consciousness of having been left forlorn forever ; and the effort we make to hide this feeling from one another, especially from my mother, only serves as it w. re to bring back a keener recollection of the past a ODB aTBAHOI GUEST. and the revival of a parting scene which can never be torgotten. As comets come back at stated periods from immense uistancen bringing bright* nesM, so in every life, as a contrastf there aro memories of the long ago which return to bring but gloom. And now, for some dreary time past, b»foieai*ed to think the matter of Httle consequence'; in fact he tried to nake us believe that he was pleased with the news. He took delight in military exercises and had joined the village volunteer com- pany, and as thi bad talked the mat> ter over and had agreed among ourselves not to appear much disconcerted, as it might, peihaps, have a depressing effect on my noble brother, who was to be with us but a few hours longer. What a struggle it was for ud all to appear reconailed to have him go away (n^m ui on such a mission, and every time that poor Anna Strong tried to smile that night a sigh would accompany the smile, and more than once in the midst of our forced hilarity [ saw her turn aside her head to hide a tear which she would quickly brush awaj. Ah Die 1 Reaides Anna Strong there WM another preient that niffht who felt a peculiar pang at the thought of parting with another very dear friend. When my brother came back from the drill ehed he was accompanied by William Brightman, whom we all had known for many yean ; he had been the almost constant companion of my brother from boyhood, and he had now resolved to go with him and join the Federal army. He was a fine young man of kind disposition, very intelligent, the pride of his parents, and one every way esteemed. How could he be otherwise than interesting to me. If I know my own heart, he held a place in it next to my brother. I may confess it now, for the crimson avowal was often seen on my cheek in times long ago when his name was in- sidiously mentioned by some prying ao- quaintanne. And how could I disbelieve him when he often and often told me that I was dearer to him than even a sister could be. I believed him, for sincerity was in his eye when he spoke, and— how 1 remember it ! — one pleasant evening, late in the au- tumn, while taking a walk together along the river bank, when be asked me if I would consent to be the mistress of his new house, which was to be finished in a short time, I soarcely hesitated to accept the trust, and oh, what happiness I felt in witnessing the pleasure which my consent gave him, and in listening to his plans for the future. What a task it is to appear happy when your heart is sad. How difficult to wear a smile and appear joyous when tears are ready to start and run down your cheeks. The season was the time when rejoicing was most general, when happy reunions took place, and when friends long separ- ated came back, many from far distances, to spend one day together, if but one day in the year, to talk of old friends, old times and old places. We had now met, but it l4o3^^ om 8TRA!rni gckst. wu a prAliminary to parting, to a pariinir perhapi forever. And oh, bow d Tioult I found it now to eeem cheerful, to act aa if the ■oene were one of gladneaa, to go through the dance without Kitting aitray amJ confuting othera ; but, alaa, I was not the only one on that oocaaion who appeared to have forgotten the proper movementi and to keep the right place in the quadrille, or to get BO bewildered as to be unable to keep time to what sounded to me like the moat melancholy muaio. >\ e danced for aome hours, then we had ■upper: after that there were songs ard duetts, and then a general chorus; and John and William — the two who were about to leave us — told us hunr.orous anecdotes and stories to make us laugh. What hollow laughter that was ! and then at the height of our seeming hilarity, long before the dawn, we heard the storm outside, then the sound of sleigh bePs, a sound that reached my heart like a knell— no knell could ever be mora deprossiiig — and 1 telt, as it were, the color steal away from my oheek when, with this, I saw Anna Strong standin^r, motionless as a statue, listening to the same sound with frightened look and quivering lip again, like one suddenly awakened from a pleasant dream to realize some terrible calamity. Why was it that the jingle of the Bleif,;h bells at that particular time caused Anna and me to look at each other with such deep meaning? I felt her band tremble as she suddenly caught my arm. The sound of the bells on other occasions had broU|trht pleasing excitement, and there used to be such a glad rush for fur caps, and mitten?, and muffs; for shawls and cloaks, and overshoes. Now, how different ! no one stirred, but for a few moments there was a solemn stillness, all as if listening to the wind and to the bells like doleful voices calling on us to prepare for a long, long separation. The bells again ga^e a hasty ring as if to tell those who were co leave us to get ready and hurry up. We heard the crancb of the sleigh runners on the dry snow; the door opened and in came the teamster, wrapped and mufUed, stamping on the floor as if to mako all aware of his arrival. He looked around to see if bis passengers were ready. Had he been the driver of a hearse come to remove some beloved form forevf r from our siffht, we could not have felt a greater sinking of the heart. Had we seen such a Vehicle at th« door, with its great black plumes, we could scarcely have had a touch of keener sorrow. How was it that those we cared for so much appeared at the moment to be so indifTerent. They had al* ready left the apartment. We could not speak a word to the man who had just come in to take them away in the darkness— for it was yet far from the dawn. There he stood on the bright hearth like some dread- ful apparition — how unlike Santa Ctaus ! — now holding his great hands over the tire, as if to hide its light from us ; now stamp- ing again and again, knocking olF flakes of snow and pieces of ice on the burning logs, as if to extinguish themi and leave us to cold and discomfort, and to the unfeeling wintry blast. Our foreboding thoughts had not time to form themselves into a deflnite shape before John and Wtlliam came in, just ready to start. ( hey evidently had things so ar- ranged that they could get away without a long leave- taking. My father was already seated in the 8lei^h. There were butt tew words spoken. There was a hurried em- brace — oh, how my poor mother would have clung to her son ! — and out they went into the wintry doom on that Christmas morn- ing. The driver cracked his whip. The bells gave an ominous ring again. The slaigh started off quickly, and just then a gust laden with snow particles blew out the lamp which I held at the doer, and, before it was lighted again the sound of the bells could be but faintly heard, and those upon whom our hearts were fixed had left us, perhaps forever. » - OIIAPTKR II. Gone ! — I never felt the terrible intense meaning of that word until then. Gone, but when to return ? Gone, but not on a holiday excursion at Christmas time, not on an errand of peace and good will towards fellow creatures, for it then shocked me to think of it, they had almost thoughtlessly left us to ecgage, if required, in actual hostilities against men towards Thorn they could not have had any personal grudge. ■n OUR BlRArfOB aoy oauM for ipite, much leu Any poiaible reMon for suoh » feeling as hatred. When, if ever, would they be likely to return ? If ■ant on to meet their eo-oalled enemiee what might not bo the reault? OtT they went, I feel, alai, how thouahtleHly, to •nler the dread arena nf deadly strife juet with a« much indiffenenoe aa if they had but started out to play a game of oriulcet. From what I had already heard aud read of this dreadful war, I could Imn^'ine a thousand fearful thing! which might hap- pen to them, as had happened to so many others, to many who had never anticipated disaster. The grey dawn at last appeared. We sat silently around the flru, each engaged with thoughts which completely baniahed sleep. There was now a wild storm outside, and though we could not yet tee the drifting snow-clouds we could hear their daih against the windows as they swept along. And then the almost oeaselefea waving of the forest trees caused a wail- ing, monotonous sound like the suppress* ed roar of ocean waves at a dintunoe. The lingermg gloom, the rough blasts, the rushing gale, and the moaning of the woods, were the preoursorsof the must melancholy Christmas I eyer knew. The daylight came at la^t. I think we scarcely welcomed it. The deep snow- drifts on the ground, and the dull leaden eky overhead, seemed to be as cheerless as our own hearts. My poor mother was greatly downcast, and after a little time I prevailed on her to go to her room and try to rest for a few hours. Anna haJ been 01-C8T I heard the sound of the distant ohurob* bell, and the jingling bells of sleigh after sleigh, as they paaaed along the road, re* minded me of the day, a ha|f thoae familiar voices, and there staring at me, a« it were, was my brother's vacant seat by the fira-p!aoe. On oomioi( down stairs, I fountl Anna as I had left her. How gird I was that sleep had brought her a few hours of forgetful* ness. My mother was still in her room, and I went about as quietly as I oould to put things in order, and feeling that I ought to get something for mother and Anna, I laid the table tor breakfast — cr rather din* uer, as it wap now upprottuhing noon. It was nearly two hours after this before our plain and oheerieas Chriatmas dinner was over. We had very little appetite tor anything, and merely went through the form of partaking of food for the sake, as it were, of the festive season. »Ve had no visitors that day ; everybody seemod to be away. There were family reunions, and meetings of old friends ; no one came to see us, not even a sunbeam made its appear- ance the whole day, aud then when the dismal ^shades of evening oame attain, and the night followed dark and stormy, we sat around the fire as before, thinkinv ; think' ing of what might be in the future, and communing with our melancholy thoughts. Four days had now passed since the sad parting on Christmas morning, and no message had cume from thosu who had left us. I called at the post office two or three times, but no letter was received. On the dozing for the last few minutes on the sofa, evening of the next day I almost clutched I gently laid a shawl over her, and then, after having added a little fuel to the fire, I stole away to my own {ipartmeut, and there, in the solitude of that dreadful morn* ing, aud while the wind was still turbulent outside, 1 could control my feelings no longer, I could not think, I could not pray, but with throbbing heart, with trembling liir.bs, and with grasped hands, I sat on the side of my bed and wept. I must have slept. The house was yet quite still, as still as it the poor sorrowful souls within it were taking their last long with beating heart two letters which were handed me. One was from John to my mother ; the other was from William Brightman to myself. My mother was so nervous that I had to read the letter for her. John wrote as if in the best of spirits. Everything had, he said, been arranged. He had been readily accepted as a substi- tute for Thomas. He and Will. Brightman were, he said, fortunate enough to get into the same regiment, even into the same company, and they would be sent to the front together in a few days. He wrote on sleep, rid at last of life's sad troubles and like one who was about to start on a pleas- misfortunes. But I must be up and doing, ant trip through a peaceful country, instead UtTR RTRANi of b«iof[ one to he Itorne ofT to "the front," hurried off to the hftttle'fleld, to the pUoe of ■laughter and d*»th, to ahciot down • •o. She told us much more of what the old boldier had to commuuiuate. He had called on her first, as she was in the way . f hid line of travel. He had heard heard of he r from William : and as soon as he had rested and gained a little more strength, he in-* tended to visit us also and deliver me William's watch ; the token which he had received for me from his dying comrade* Anna also stated that the poor man's sad story had so overcome her that she had to weep in his presence. Her friends, full of sympathy for the old soldier, would not let him depart then, but insisted on his re* maining with them for a time until he got better able to travel. She said he had been with them now nearly a weekj and that she would have written sooner were it not that she had been so overcome by the appearance of this visitor and his mournful tale as to leave her for somr days unable to write a word. It must have been three weeks from the time I read that terrible letter before I was able to leave my bed, My mother afterwards told me that I had read the letter through to the end ; that then it had dropped from my hand, and that I looked or rather stared at her with an expression of face BO woeful as to cause her to imagine the worst concerning my mental condition. Up to the time of my reading that letter, I felt almost positive that both John and William were lost' to us forever. But yet, when the blow came, when the dreadful assurance was certain, when the last lingering hope was banished, I must have given way, for I know nothing of what followed. An affec* tion of the brain deprived me of all sense, leaving me utterly prostrate, and for more than two weeks I remained in this condition —happily without the recurrence, even in a dream, of the oalamitous news— and at the end of that period, when my reason was gradually restored, the fearful truth came back to afflict me in another manner, giving my dear mother but little hope that I should ever leave my room alive. The OUR STRANOB Ol'EST. II I takdn to tate, and as conaid- » that if would re« 8 friends, t the old lad called 'ay . f hia i^rd of he /• lad rested h, he in-> iliver one ih he had comrade* nan 'a aad he had to lis, full of Id not lee D hia re< til he got 1 he had veek, and er were it ne by the mournful unable to from the before I y mother read the len it had looked or reaaion of lagine the tion. Up ter, I felt i William 'Bt, when aasuranoe iring hope w&y, for I An afiec* all aense, 1 for more condition >> even in I — and at ly reason ful truth r manner, hope that ire. The neceBsities of our condition required, how- ever, that I should make an effort, even while I 'ues very low. Another month passed and I was almost restored again. I knew not how it was, but believing that the futuie had no happi- ness in store for me, I managed to cultiv»i,e a feeling of resignation, and went through my daily routine of duties with a placid mind, though bereft of an aspiration for anything beyond that which now seemed allotted to me. I felt quite submissive, a burden of care and sorrow had been laid on me were there not thousands in the aame condiiion— I cared but little for future con- sequeucea. I did not desire to live ; I did not wish to dio. I simply knew that o^hera were, to a certain extent, depending on me, and out of my love and regard for them I went mechanically aa it were, and did what I could at home, ready and willing to lie down and rest when my time came. About tiie annual return of Christmas I alwavs felt a recurrenre of increaaed sad. nesa. Whenever Christmas came it always brought back a revival of that parting scene from my brother, and my dearest friend, never to be forgotten^ Since that time, Chriatmaa has ever been to us a season for silent sorrow instead of rejoicing. At such periods, instead of being together, we gen- erally separated and sat somewhere alone, as if each was deairous of hiding from all others the painful and depressing thoughts which were then sure to be uppermost in our minds. It was Christmas Eve again. The day was unusually fine ; as soft and warm al- most as a day in June. The air was clear and mild. There had already been frost and MOW, but these had disappeared for some days. Many were disappointed for there would be no Christmas sleigh rides. In fact it seemed as if winter had taken an early leave, desirous of permitting the virgin spring to bring garlands of real flowers to decorate Chriitmas trees ioatead of the artificial ones eo often used. As it was, wild fiowers could be found here and there in certain spots, and laughing child- ren could be seen gathering little bunches of these, delighted with their occupation. Early in the afternoon of that day 1 left th'i house again, and took my way thought* fully along until I reached my favorite rock-seat on the hill. I had not been there for some time, and I found this place of retirement now verj enjoyable. I nas followed as usnal by Carlo, our trusty dog, who, in his delight, kept running backwards and forwards and up and down the hill while I tolled rather slowly to the summit. 1 was never more charmed with the scene from this elevation than I was at that time. The air was balmy and refreshing, and there was a quietude which was moar soothing. Not a sound could be heard aave at times the shouting of boys at play ; their light hearta knew nothing of sorrow. Most of them were no doubt anticipating presents from Sunta Claua on the morrow ; and for days past children had been talking of that quaint little visitor, and watching for his return, aa if they soon expected tn see him in his furs and vehicle coursing down to them on a moonbeam. I had sat tiiere for some hours thinking mostly of the past, as usual, and was prepar- ing to leave for home, when I heard shout* ing again, and on looking down I saw a number of little boys run across a field towards the road, for something new had attracted their attention. I watched in that direction and saw an apparently old man on the road below, which ran close to the foot of the hill. He was bent and used a crutch. I noticed that he had but one leg, and he went along very slowly. He must have got> off the stage at the near cross-roads tavern, or it might be he had come from there. He wore a broad brimmed hat and a long grey coat, and he had a large bundle strapped on hia back, which led me to think he was a pedlar. Some of the younger boys may have thought that be was the veritable Santa Claus himself. Indeed, at this particular season he might be taken by the children to be the effigy of that mythical individual. The older boys v^ent close to him, but I noticed that several of the little lads kept back, as if afraid to venture nearer. The Vi •M »..» .topped u,„„ .„, """' ™"'°' "'™'- »>• that thi. -M nw, ' '"""'•^'"•'y "ruck h. ,ti 1 .,T A ""^ ""' '»" '<■■• fcta while ■>» '■l«w.vtI?'*"^i°°*'^"-»°8'"i-itor wL""°'^.'"°""''"l''« before m. I ' «»".d. Carlo btZi°^'"'''°'''™P« •?'"•e.r it h.t k ' " ' "" "■»'« 'We to "» dog he 1 "";/: J*'? "» ""heerd iT. ,' "'", ^ -•■• •■« -ad. .„ re.i„.„„, Ah „., ,t„ . «; ,p.k,„ ^ m. b "he :l! """ "r "« t«« !- -. .«*• '.alt irr ,r?.'.- r° '° •''-"^- "'-b.rt' ™ - the aettinc aun -J„i,.„ A ."^ . ^^*««^ ''^ys of cribiag his alt °'' «^»«e«ted in des- "B niB appearance. To an^^ u poor broken aoldier -„ ^t ^ ^^ '^"^ * Wea of what ,'"*'"', 7°"Jre able to reaistanoe. 1 my shoul- loughtfully iently too ;et fatigued Though nearly an aving been '• I observed n, as if de- 'ill, on we ast rays of e hill just ike one ir* er step in side, then the floor, • around, re for the louse was , and my ing chair he next le sunset in her |ed from |he little brought [he time ileep in peace Iranger. |eration 'aid to lurb or jarouse fk and These [mind- le and \r run llings. loed a OUR STRANGE OUKST. U ohair noiaeleiily beside him. He quietly took the offered seat, and removed his hat. I then noticed that be he had a large scar running from the top of his head towards bis forehead, and that the hair on the sides of this oat had for some distance become grey, giving him an older and more worn appearance than was really due to his years. He bent his head again, and I heard another sigh, and then I heard his s'lppress- ed sob, and another, and another. What must his emotions have been at the moment, led as he was to think, most likely, of a lost mother, of a lost home, and of kindred and friends lost to him forever. Just then my brother Thomas entered. The stranger turned towards him, and when he saw Thomas he dropped his head again, and held out his hand, which my brother grasped as if he were some old friend. I sat close to our visitor on the other side. Weak and overcome as he was, he leant upon my shoulder, and while he was in this position he trembled, his aighs beoame quicker, and unable to restiain himself any longer, he wept aloud. My mother awoke ; for a few monients she seemed bewildered. She did not move, but remained seated in her chair. She looked from me to my brother, and then at me again, as if waiting for some explanation of the unusual scene before her. Our strange friend was still weeping, with bent head ; but when he raised his pleading, pitiful face, covered with wounds and tears, and looked at hnr with outstretched arms, she suddenly started up, raised her hands above her head, ran towards him, stared at him wildly for a moment, fell on her knees> graaped him in her arms, and then cried out, *'0 God, my eon, my son ! God, my son 1" It was her son. While our dear brother remained quite tnknown to us — even to Anna Strong during the weeks he stayed where she was — the maternal instinct pen- etrated the mourful disguise of his wounds and revealed him to her, to bis mother, almost instantly. It was several days after this before he was able to give us in his imperfect way a history of his life since he left us . The hardships and privations which he had endured were dreadful . As hii utterance was very difficult it was hard to find out the import of his words, and the effort he was obliged to use to make himself under* stood was, in his feeble condition, at times rather exhausting. I liatened with a kind of dread composure while he told us of the fate of William Brightmau — of him who had won my woman's early affection— now lost to me forever. I received from his hand William's watch— his last token tome — and even now I sometimes wonder how reason remains unimpaired while I stand in imagination by the side of the grave — a grave now unknown— into which he was lowered from the field of carnage. Great heavens I think of the madness of men to engage in mutual butchery. O war, with bloody hand, what a curse thou hast been to humanity ! Many of the bravest and best have been excited by thy fiendish clamor and deluded by thy garish pomp to destruc* tion. When will rulers and statesmen have sufficient moral courage to decline the arbitrament of the sword? When wiU preachers of peace throughout the world proclaim more loudly the brotherhood of man, denounce the estrangement caused by nationality, and cease to invoke the god of battles? Alas, eo far, many of the influen- tial have been too ready to side with some armed champion and proclaim naval and mflitary glory as little less than the glory of heaven itself. In spite of all that the most constant and tender affection could do, my poor brother John remained with us but a few months. He had no desire to live as a confirmed in- valid, and as he evidently felt that life had no attractions for him,and that he would be only a burden on others, he wished for his release. Ah how willingly we would have borne that burden, and how comforting it would have been to us to wait on him and if possible ease his affliction. He left us I His ohair by our fireside is vacant, his voice is no longer heard, and he comes to us only in our dreams. From where I now sit I can see his grave on the hillside, and often at night I can see a moonbeam linger on the white marble slab that marks his resting/ place. Ah, could I but kneel and drop my tears ou that other grave, which alas, like so many on the battle field, must forever remain unknown. r" H OUR STRANOB GUBST. In a distant uemetery there ii another ileeper, another fond heart stilled in death. That true woman, Anna Strong, when she discovered how she had failed to recognize the one who v> aa dearest to her of all on earth, was greatly pained, and when she heard of his death she soon followed him— How I wish they may meet again 1 The church bolls are now silent, but a hundred sleigh bells are heard around, and people who have been at worship or else- where are now on their way to meet friends and relations ih happy homes at this festive season. Ah, the sad, oad memories which the day brings : it can never more bo but a day of gloom to us. The wind still oouraes outside, and the wintry storm raises its voice. The pine trees bend and the snow- clouds whirl along in a wild chase down the highway ; but even in the tumult I hear a little whispering voice — a sound that recalls the voice of one silent in death — the gentle tick, tick, of his watch which I hold at my ear — a voice which reminds me that time is passing away, that grey hairs have already come, and that my heart pulsating now like tnd ticking of this watch must soon cease it" throbbing forever. O War, War, what deep, deep sorrow thou hMt brought me ! there is no more Christmas for me in the (,uture. Thou hast darkened my path : thou hast left me without a hope, and I must go on my lonely, dreary way to the end with a widowed heart. THE END. 'f ^ f^- I I* I .■'"■'■•'Mc^ -^: .J"-, .^{1: Vj?. ^'•. ;Vf''. 3- .f^: <.-s^ vt;-,!^. **^-'*^VA :'^^l .M--» m ■•■"U *T;i' a; >fe',*' .^'i,i>*' '«:'i^"* W- Wi' ' *-i^ '¥» b^^^^ ''•*f M. %^ ;;«,;, . ^,.:t: w^ r-W ."^.•(,"^4 ^, irt r%^. '^-'TS.*-:,;;-*;;' vy^l*4i %^ .■•('.■■us. ■' ^\^ ■0. 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