CHAPTER XIII. ARDUOUS DUTIES.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 122, 3 October 1885, Page 6

CHAPTER XIII. ARDUOUS DUTIES.

It was no sinecure, this serving as companion to an invalid, but work from morning till night. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," and Candice for the first few days could ecarcely bear it, and it was only the thought of the baby that kept her up. „ , . •„ j Strange asitmay^ seem, this dying girl had taken a great liking to Candice. " What shall I call you ?" she had asked Candice on her arrival. Poor child I she had nofc thought of that, and under a sudden impulse answered : " May ; call me May, Miss Lome." •'What is your whole name?" Alda asked, more for something to say than aught else, and Candice answered, truthfully enough this time : " Lee ; my name is Marion Lee, but call me May, Miss Lome ; do not call me Mrs Lee." Alda complied, half wondering at the sharp pain in the young voice. How could she guess this dark-robed widow was thinking of the innocent Candice Lee who had gone to Valley Farm, and how that poor, tortured heart was yet quivering over the way in which her happy girlhood had ended? . fl . „,, The hands that smoothed the invalid's pillows were soft and tender, the voice that read to her by the hour was low and sweet, and the delicate broth and tempting morsels were all prepared by May with tender solicitude. She looked in her black robes hovering over that sick couch lik« some gracious Sister of Charity, some fair, pale nun at her holy ministrations to the sick and dying ; and Alda, noting the low voice and soft touch, had tenderly christened her "Sister May," And Sister May, who in days gone by had looked on this- iair girl with envy and jealousy, now sought by every means in her power to make her last days paaß away at least in contentment. So essential to Alda's happineßß did she become that when she awakened and Sister May was not by, her side, her young eyes would wander rest* lessly toward the door until she made her appearance; then with a little contented sigh, the invalid would sink back among the pillows. May, as we must now call her, noticed Alda's partiality, and rarely left her Bide except to go for a few moments to kiss and fondle Baby Mark. Baoh time she gazed at the lovely infant it seemed as if Mark, her young husband, were before her in miniature. How she missed the tiny baby ' from her life 1 No love is like a mother's love ,* she longed with a longing sometimes almost unbearable to stay witn baby always, and dreaded her return to tfa* darkened ohamberof sfokness., But that ■was impossible. She could not remain

with Baby Mark ; she knew he waß well sared for,- as Katie loved him dearly and spent every extra hour from the.shop in fashioning dainty garments for her pet, her , wee man as she called him. Candice came Less and less frequently on account of Alda'a condition. When she did come, however; and stretch out her arms, to him expectantly, he would put his curly head close down on Katie's shoulder and glance in roguish rebellion at his anxiouß, waiting mother ! Ah 1 babies are tyrants ever, and her heart would ache with a dull throbbing pain because her baby boy was forgetting her 1 "Come, Mark," she would say, coaxingly; " come to mamma, darling 1" but the curly blonde head would be instantly laid on Katie's broad shoulder, and the only thing Candice could do was to take him forcibly and carry him to the window to attract his attention ; then he would stay very contentedly with her during the remainder of her visit. Twas very hard for her to be parted from Baby Mark, very, very hard; but who would want both mother and child ? She must be content as ib was. Should she not be grateful above all else for the situation bo opportunely obtained ? Sometimes when she was reading to Alda her eyes would fill with a blinding- rush ol i tearß, and she would have tct n her head and dash them aside hurried da must not see her cry. But Alda breads noticed the pale girl's sadness, and one daj said, kindly, pityingly : " Will you not tell me your story, Sistei May ? Tell me why you weep 1 Surety sympathy is sweet to us all." But Sister May, with a cry of intense painj sobbed wildly : "I cannot, oh 1 I can not!" , , Alda. was not satisfied, and m low, plead ing tones asked for her confidence. "I will tell you my own heart sorrov first," she said, sadly; "then surely yoi will tell me yours ; but you sorrow for th< dead, I for the living. You think, perhaps Sister May, that thoughts of love and mar riage are not for me, but I have been f oolisl enough, wild enough, to indulge in them. Here she was interrupted by a apell of coughing ao long continued that it left her almost panting for breath ; then she reitimed. " Last summer," she said, softly, scarcely above her breath, " I first met him ; he was so strong, so masterful, that my heart went out to t him. I could not help it, though I had no right to think of earthly love. 11 1 loved him passionately and I love him yet » Mark ! Mark !my darling !" and a throe of pain passed over the lovely face. "Nay, do not stop me," she continued, as Sister May made a little, deprecating gesture and strove to stem the torrent of her words ; " I love him, none save God knows how well, but he doesnot know it ; however, it is better so, for ah ! my love is not returned J" . , , , Mark did not love this dying girl then I Even in that moment Sister May felt a little glad thrill steal through her ; then pity for the young creature lying so helplessly before her filled her heart to the exculeion of all else. Alda's sorrow was almost as great as hers, loving for a year this handsome young man, not knowing he was already wedded, ' and finding ifc at last a case of unrequited passion, while the angel of death was hovering over her, waving hie black pinions above her head and waiting, waiting ! \ " Now will you not tell me what makes you cad ?" It was Alda's voice, wooing her from , her reverie. Sister May answered, in a tremulous voice : " Miss Lome, I pity you, but oh 1 my story is too sad for even your sympathising ears. I oan tell you only this— if it were not for my baby boy I would not care to live ! The man you adore was not untrue to you, for you never possessed his love ; but my life was cruelly wrecked ! Miss Lome, my lover > loving me, wedded me and broke my heart; !" "But he is dead," Alda said, gently, frightened at the storm of passion she had awakened in pale sad-eyed Sister May. "Aye, he ia dead to me," the latter answered, almost sternly, but the words "to me" were very faintly uttered, and Alda did not hear them ; after tbis conversation there seemed a closer bond between these two fair women, and Sister May saw with a heart made etill sadder, if that could be, that Alda daily grew weaker and weaker, Uncle Sam, as Alda always called Mr Desbro, was very grateful to this blackrobed woman who lingered so patiently at Alda's side; not the faintest wish was uttered but she fulfilled it if she could. He watched Sister May curiously. Somewhere in the far-away past he had met some on© who resembled this woman ! Who could it be ? He puzzled his brains in vain. A turn of the head or some gesture would set him thinking; occasionally it would almost come to him whom she resembled most ; then a chance word would dispel the illusion, and he would be as completely in the dark as ever. This pale-faced widow was surely naught to him, yet he took a strange interest in her, and more than once caught himself thinking about her baby boy. Only her glasses saved her from recognition, for if he had caught a glimpae of her wine-brown eyes the missing link would have been supplied and he would have remembered it all. Sister May also was drooping. The old mau saw that. It was very hard on this delicate, tender woman, this night watching and daily attendance ; but Alda would have no one else. She was selfish, possibly, but who could blame a dying girl? The end was very near, and the old man c eyes were suspiciously full of moisture whenever he thought of it ; Sister May was more attentive than ever j Bkilf ul doctors had met in earnest consultation, and the word had gone forth that Alda might live a day, even a week, but surely not longer. The sufferer guessed It from their pitying glances. „ „ , "Tell me, am I going to die ?" she asked, reading her answer in their averted heads and saddened looks. She turned her tace to the wall and lay in silence for some time; then she said, gently: "Uncle,: guardie, I want you to send for Mark and Leta," Knowing her pitiful secret, he consented, and that very afternoon a message went speeding o\er the wires,