LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1530, 13 January 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ON SAND ISLAND. [FBOM THE "ATLANTIC MONTHLY."] {Continued.) "With almost reverent hands, Nan unfolded the sail and spread it upon the door. Near the c rner, by the boom, there was a patch. Nan shieked when she saw it; it waa ao like the one she had put into the sail of the Silver Thistle. She examined it almost stitch by stitch and thrsad by thread and found the very place where she had put in black linen because the white was used U PAt last she cried out, 'lt is, it is I Ido believe that John Ware is drowned ! l\ow I will go and-and'-but Man's future was very dark. The blackness of it shut down betore her like a pall. She knew then how much easier it had been to wait and not believe, than it would be to believe and go—whither ? And yet, had she not promised to keep Thanksgiving '! Heaven, by its agents, had already prepared the answer to her prayer and guided her baud to its finding ; should she not keep her promise ? f-'he kneeled down before John's easy-ohaic to apeak the words that came so slowly b-ick, in responding emotions, from her heart. Jurying her face in tho cushion, she began to think out h*>r prayer.

Nau was conscientious, f-he feared to speak words the did not mean, and so she must think about it; si!.

At last she prayed, 'Help me to ba thankful! 1 am, and lam not. Oh, help me !'

The drift wo7(1 kirdlcd and shot a rurdy glow out through the chinks in tlio stove, a.d tho lines of rory light dickered across the woman's face as she timed it oo tho cushion; fcr the had let tho candb s bun only while she cxamiaed the piece of sailcloth.

it had grown q'.uto dark oat-af-dcow when, suddenly, Nan felt that she was not alone. John V.Ve, lur husband, stood in the cabin door, and the rushed up to give him welcome, crying out, "J was t.-yhig to keep Thanksgiving, John, because 1 thoughtjou dead 'Tws a bitter Thanksgiving.' And he, with his dear, strong voice, told her bow tha Silver Thistle had all in a moment capiised and gone down, almost before ho couht hose the email boat and spring clear of the larger one. He told her of his toil In the bulletin ,' waves before he could get into the little boat.

'1 did it for love of you, Nan,' he said; 1 and then I lloated without an oar until a ship, nutward bound, saw me ami eavqd nio, and for tlusi two months I'va been going from and getting to you,' And then, iN'an remembered ii all; the

sight Silver Thistle coming in, how it was gone when she looked again, and the ship on the far horizon sailing down the distance. She remembered, t;o, as one remembers in a dream, her prayeis that night for some one en the sea.

'I didn't kno*', John dear, that I was praying for you,' she said. 'l'm so glad I waited here for you to come. 1 hoy wanted me to go away somewhere,' —plaintively — ' when there isn't anywhere without you, for me.'

Just as he was answering her, there cape from the wood in the stove a loud snapping sound. Nan jumped np from her kneeling position, startled by the noise. Her thanksgiving was over. She was alone in the oneroomed house, even as she had been when she fell asleep and dreamed the dream that gave her husband to her. The sharpness of her agony knew no bounds. She wrung her hands and cried, ' Cruel! cruel! Who makes dreamß ? God knows I tried to be thankful j I was thankful, and now to mock me so!' She gathered up the sail, and, holding it with all the power of crushing that she had, she ran in the darkness to the point of rooks and thrust it down into the black, boiling ses. All night poor Nan lay writhing with her agony, for she loved her husband as one may learn to love, having only one object on which to lavish that love. This man, rough fisherman as he had been, to this woman had been all gentleness. Ho had been to her the very manifestation of divine tenderness and care. And now, what did she look forward to?

She had outwardly the cold relentless rim of black, seething waters, four rude walls, a pound or two of flour, a little fire, and a few articles of furniture. She had in her spiritual nature a blank, head wall, against which her whole being threw itself with blind fury. Nan, poor Nan, at last fell into sleep. Another morning dawned. Its brightness aroused her. A haalthy hunger urged its rower. She prepared the flour, piling thin dtiftwood into the stove with lavish hand, and ate her breakfast, carelesr of the future. Then she put hsr little house in order, made up a bundle of clothing, went out and shut the door.

Nan had turned her face away from the spot that had been so cruel to her. She went to her only neighbor. ' Will you put me on shore/ she asked, ' I'm going back to the mill'

'That's right, woman,' said Dick Dixon, and he drew his boat along the icy sands until it floated in clear water. Then he rowed across, with Nan in the boat, to the mainland.

She wrnng his hand for thanks, and, with her bundle in her arms, went up into the land, turning only once to glance at the island lying bound in ice in the midst of the sea.

She went to the railroad station. Nan had no money, neither did she owe any man money. Walkiog up to the ticket office, with a cold fixed lace she drew off her weddiDg ring. 'Will yon,' she said, 'give me a ticket for this to L ? I have no money.'

' For a brass ring ?' the man questioned, thoughtlessly. 1 For my wedding ring !' Baid Nan, proudly. ' But —I don't need it any more ;my husband is dead.' The stationmaster looked at Nan a moment. He motioned back the ring almost rudely, and thrusting forward the ticket she needed turned away. She hesitated. Then she snatched the ring and the ticket, thinking in her heart, " I'll travel back here and pay for the ticket with the tirft money I earn." With the outward train went Nan ; back into the stir of the town she went. It was night gwhen she reached L ; the mill, where she had toiled before John Ware came into her life, was uot far from the station, and she went to it, for the light streaming forth into the November night from its many windows told the story of labor going on within. How well Nan know the way ? It seemed to her as she opened the office door and went in, beariug her bundle, as though she had never been away.

She trembled as she put the question, " Is loom No. running ?" (Loom No. was Nan's old working home.) A sudden affection for the loom grew in Nan's heart. She was skilled in the work of weaving cotton. "No," was the answer.

" Will you give it 'o me ?" she demanded, hunger licking her eagerness, for Nan had eaten nothing since her breakfast on Sand Island.

"You?" with a questioning look at her panel. "Do you understand weaving ?" "Itis my old loom,"she answered. " And your name is"— She gave it, forgetting for the moment that i' r , was no longer her name. The loom wan promised to Nan. She went forth to seek lodgings at hor old boardinghouse, and fell into the same placi and former ways so thoroughly that oftentimes, when the motion and the noise about her in the grct mill filled hot sight and hearing, she tried to think that life on Sand Inland was only a dream. While the winds were high, and the snows fell, and the ioe grew, Nan worked patiently and steadfastly from morning until night, six days in the week, weaving cotton. When the spring, with the warmth of its own rejoicing, made the earth forgot its aohe of cold, r'an I nig 2d., 0 see and Island again. It was midsummer when she went to the town on the coast and made her offericg of money and thanks to tho stationmaster who, in November, gave har a passage ticket for L . The man looked at her with surprise, for of all the people to whom he had given tickets, this was the first that had returned to give thanks.

At the town wharf Nan found a boatman. He had just come up from the harbor bar, where he had stayed clammiug as long as the rising tide would let him. 'Never mind the clams,' said Nan, gathering in her dre c s from contact with them as she stepped iuto his boat. 'lt will take too long to get them out, and tho wind may r ; se.' • True! The wind rises now with the tide, mostly. I hope you're not afraid.' 'No,' said Nan, looking out toward the ocean witn unspoken foar in her eyes, whilo at her heart she had no fear. • Why should I be ?' she thought, as the oars touched water, and the boat moved on. 'Sand Island and tho ocean have done their worst for me.'

And yet the place powerfully attracted and repelled her, as she drew near it. Three times she told the boatman to cease from rowing, thinking in her heart as she did so that she would not land. The fishing boats wore within sight. Soon they would be coming in. It waa the desire to learn something of the fishing interests th;>t her husband had once had part and lot in that which caused her after the third delay to say resolutely, 'I will go on.'

The boatman crowd his (tars and laid them at rest; t 1 o boat floated, turning on the tide DmVttful and pprplexed ho said, ' It isn't my business to know who you are, nor why you're bound for yoadcr island, but if it's drowning yourself that you're thinking of, don't go there to do it.'

' Did anyone ever ? eagerly questioned Nan smiling s ftly to her elf at the thought, and wondering how anyone could hare courage to go forward to meet Heath.

The boatman made no answer. II". was watching her narrowly, and wishing that ho had her safely on shore.

' Death isn't so pleasant to me that \ should hasten to meet it.' she said. 'I am Nancy Ware, wife of John 'are/ Rven then the poor soul could uot bring herself to say widow of John Ware.

Nan's etoiy was known in all that region, although her face was not. The boatman looked at her with curiosity and interest as he rowed on toward the island. Presently he remarked, ' You've heard the news then'?'

' What news ?' gasped Nan. ' I've Levd no news,' she paid, speaking still louder; 'What i* it?'

' They'll toil you at the house, yonder, all abpufc it,' be replied, rowing with vigov, for he Haw, fluttering against tho blue of tho sky, a fir awsy rullte of nca, and knew that the wind was tncving on tho waters ana tint lie had no time to lose in getting lack

to the mainland, Faster and faster he rowed, nearer and nearer came Sand Island. As the boat touched the shore the man sprang into the tide aud hauled it up. 'Come,' he said, ' don't keep me. I've not a moment to spare.' Nan was trembling. She could not walk a boat's length without aid. He lifted her to the ground, and giving bis boat a thrust forward, springing into it at the same moment, he was beyond recall when she remembered that she had given him no money. Trying bravely to steady her quivering body and making it to do service for her will by taking her to the small brown house on the rocks above, she went forward. With her white face and asking eyes, she appeared to Mrs Dixon in the cottage. " I've been looking for you near a week," said the fisherman's wife. "I knew you was a coming, but to-night 1 didn't see any boat crossing over. I'm heartily glad to see you, Nancy Ware." " Did you send for me ? Tell me everything," gasped the excited woman. " Send for you ? No. Where could I send ? But I knew you'd have to come ; you who looked so long up and down for something."

" Tell me everything, repeated Nan, wondering how this woman could have news for her and not speak it out at once. For answer Mrs Dixon went into the adjoining room and fetched from thence an " oi'shin" jacket, which she had laid across Nan's lap. "There!" she said " 'Twas found just eight days ago. What do you think of that?

Nan was turning it over and over in vain search of somerhing that she did not find. " Oh, there isn't any mistake, not a mite, but what it's your husband's jacket. Every man of the crew identified it, even without the contents."

"Contents 1" echoed Nan, her large gray eyes grasping in their sight every possible content that a coat meant for living man could hold.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs Dixon, reading the thought that grew into expression in her face " Not that that you think ; but I will show you." She went again into the room whence she had brought the jacket, and returned with a small parcel wrapped In paper.

' This was in the breast pocket, buttoned in tight ' she said, laying it on the coat. Nan's fingers fell to work taking off the paper wrapping. When It was removed, there lay revealed a shrunken, shrivelled, water-worn pocket-book. It was ready to fall Into fragments at a touch. On any shore Nan would have recognised it. It was her gift to John Ware before he became her husband.

A dark faded blur lay across it. It was the mark of the ocean over the name that Nan had written there with a flush of ' dainty shame' that she should dare to write at all—a name that meant for her, at that time, all the future on earth and much of heaven beside. The well-known characters had faded from sight, but she could read them in the deeper lines graven on her heart. She looked at it with tearless eyes. Mrs Dixon ventured to say, ' I'd open it if I was you.' Mechanically Nan fumbled at the rusty clasp. ' There is nothing in it, I know,' she said. 'I remember it was empty the day before he went ' While she was speaking the clasp gave wav, and a dry pulpy mass of paper lay disclosed. To be continued.