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YOL. 1.
GREENSBORO, N. C., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1875.
NO. 4.
RELIEF.
How cold, how dreary the day was!
The wind sounded hoarsely as it moaned
among the bare branches of the trees, and
died away in distant murmurs A white
frost had fallen the night before, .^nd
nipped leaf and floweret. The sky looked
like lead, and now and then a cloud fleecy
and white, as if laden with snows, drifted
in mid air. Blue-lipped, shivering little
children, with satchels and books, hurried
by to^ school, or stopped for a few mo
ments at the street corners.
I had taken my portfolia and drawing
pencils and seated myself before the blaz
ing fire. When the wind rattled the
casement I drew vizette closer about me,
and thanked God for a comfortable shel
ter from the inclemency of the northern
blast. A piece of bristolboard was be
neath my pencil. Scene after scene grew
beneath its touches. But all was dreary.
A frozen mill, an ice-bound tree, a snow
storm, a man striving to hold his cloak on
in the blast, these were the prominent
features in mv pencil sketches. I could
not be cheerful, do what I might. I could
not forget the drear aspect of nature with
out.
I threw aside the pencil, and wheeled
my chair nearer the fire. The coals
growled almost fiercely in the grate, and I
began tracing pictures and images among
them.
The door opened, and a strong blast
swept through. I looked up and saw a
cloaked figure—a tall, noble, and com
manding person. He threw aside his
traveling cap, unclasped the steel buckles
confining his mantle in front and Uncle
Eoger sat down beside me, to thaw out be
fore the genial blaze his stiffened fingers.
As he sat there, his deep olive com-
ple.vion became almost scarlet in hue.
His keen black eye rested musingly upon
the coals. Was he too tracing imagery
among them ? It might be, but it was not
probable. My uncle had little imagina
tion, and was never to my knowledge fan
ciful. It was more probable that he was
weighing in his mind some East India
speculation, for all his latter life h.ad been
spent there. It was to its torred clime
that he owed his olive complexion, quick
flashing eye, and susceptibility to cold.
The fire was peculiarly agreeable to him,
When he went into the frigid atmosphere
without, his broad .stout person shook like
an aspen, and he clasped and drew his
cloak closer and still closer about him.
He was a bachelor, one nearly fifty years
old His hair was sprinkled with gray,
but it looked handsome, nevertheless ; in
deed, all who looked upon my uncle called
him, even at that age a fine locking man.
I had oftentimes puzzled my brain to dis
cover why he had all his life remained
matchless ; why one, with his love of so
cial lile, affectionate disposition, and do
mestic tastes, had lived without enjoying
life’s great charm—a home.
But mysteries are curious things, and
this fact remained a mystery in spite of
all my speculations. I could not fathom
it; but now a stronger desire than ever
before I had, seized me to know why he
had never married. As he sat in the light
of the grate he looked so stately, genial,
and handsome, that the mystery grew
greater to my mind than ever, and I de
termined, by direct questioning, to find
out the secret.
“A cold day, uncle,” I said by way of
introduction; “a cold day, and I imagine
you feel it sensibly: it is not much like
the East India climate.”
“No,” said he abruptly, and relapsed
back into the dreamy state he had sat in
before.
“You do not like this climate, I imag
ine,” I continued.
“Not much,” was the laconic answer
wrung from him.
“But you did at one time like to live in
your native land,” I said; “why did you
go in the first place to the East Indies,
uncle.?”
“To trade,” said he ; “to buy and sell
and get gain. Tnat is what the world
lives for. Gold is the lever that moves
the world,”
“True,” I said, but you have won gold;
you are what the world calls rich ; are
you happy?”
His bi'ow contracted. “Happier than
I should have been without wealth, I pre
sume.” said he. “But perfect happiness
is not the lot of man.”
“You never had a family, uncle,’" I
continued ; “you have lived alone all your
life. Why did you never marry ? Did
you never love?"’
A deeper shadow stole to his cheek ; T
saw that I had touched upon a tender
point. He did not reply immediately,
but sat, I imagined, half moodily before
the fire, as still as a statue.
At length he turned abruptly toward
me. “Yes, I have loved,” he said, “but
it Was long years ago. The romance of
life is over wit’n me now. The flame has
gone out that passion kindled ; there can
scarcely be found one smouldering ember
that has survived the wrecks of time and
its accompanying sorrows.”
“Tell me all about it, uncle,” I said
anxiously; “when was it that you found
your heau ideal—-where did you meet with
her ? In America, or in the East Indies ?”
“It was long years ago,” he said, “long
before I went to the East Indies, that I
first met Adelaide Sullivan.”
“Was she very beautiful, uncle?"’ I
queried. “Had she blue eyes, a Grecian
nose, and delicate features? Was she
very lovely ?”
“To me,” he replied, “she was as beau
tiful as an angel, although you perhaps
might not at first sight have termed her
very fair. She had eyes as blue as the
violets which opened in the spring woods,
lips and cheeks that might have stolen
color from the rosebud, and a forehead
white as snow. But beautiful as she was
in person, she was more attractiv.e in
mind. She had wit, sprightliness, intelli
gence. She was gentle and refined. To
me she appeared, in those days, of all her
sex the paragon.”
“And still you did not marry her,” I
8 lid ; “why was this ?”
“Mercenary parents stood in the way—
parents who said that something more
than love was wanted to commence our
housekeeping upon—parents who frowned
upon my schemes, until, in a fit of passion,
I vowed to amass gold until their cupid
ity was satisfied ; and with this vow upon
my lifis, I bade adieu to Adelaide, and
sailed for the Indies. For long years I
toiled unsuccessfully. My head grew
gray with time and thought and care. At
length the news reached me of Adelaide’s
marriage. From that hour I relinquished
all ideas of ever possessing a home of my
own—of forming the centre of a domestic
(uri;ie. 1 amassed gold, for acquisition
had grown into a passion—a habit with
me, and it is a passion with me still. Just
now I was planning the sale of some ten
acre lots on my plantation. There was
not much romance about that operation,
you will admit.”
“No,” I said, thoughtfully. “But what
of Adelaide? do you know anything of
her now? Have you ever found her since
your return to your native land"?”
“No, not I. Why should I? She is
the wife of another, and has forgotten me.
At any rate, she has no business, remem-
heiingme; a pretty chap I should con
sider myself, looking up married women,
and reviving old flames. No, no!” and
my uncle shook his head decidedly.
Just then a rougher blast shook the
casements ; the day was in truth a most
inclement one. The wind not only shook
the casements, but forced open the door.
My uncle jumped to his feet, and sprang
to close it immediately ; but he did not
accomplish his de.sign. A weak voice ar
rested his hand. The figure of a pale and
half frozen child stood upon the doorsteps,
as if hesitating whether a welcome await
ed for him inside or not.
“Gome in, boy, come in !” said my un
cle hastily ; “a dog should not be abroad
in such weather, much less a delicate child.
Come in, and thaw out your stiffened fin
gers, dear.’’
The boy mounted the threshold, and
tottered toward the fire, fle was very
weak ; it might be through hunger, it
might be through cold, perhaps from both
combined.
I rose and offered him a low chair by
the grate. He sank into it; and as he felt
the genial heat of the room stealing into
his benumbed frame, a few tear-drops
rolled down his wan cheeks.
My uncle was a benevolent hearted
man. Ho regarded the lad for a few rno
ments with an expression which showed
that much contact with a rough world
had not entirely dried up the fountains of
sympathy in his heart.
“Why are yon abroad in such rough
weather?’ he asked. ‘Your parents cer
tainly cannot have sent you ?”
The child’s under lip trembled with
emotion, and tears sprang into his eyes.
“My father is dead,” he said, “and my
mother is very ill and destitute of bread.”
“Poor child 1” said my uncle compas
sionately, "and this is the reason why you
are out; you are too fine a little fellow
to be sent on begging expeditions.”
The boy's cheek flushed, but it was with
mortified pride and anger.
“I am not a heggar,” he said, disdain
fully. “I never took a copper in my life,
and never mean to, without giving some
thing in return. My mother sent me out
this morning to sell this, and not to beg.”
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a
small roll. I watched and admired the
little fellow as he untied the string and
unrolled the brown paper that enclosed^
his treasure.
I was surprised when I saw it at last
held up for exhibition. It was a white,
satin apron, beautifully painted and
trimmed—one which must at some -time
have belonged to the most honorable oft
the Fraternity.
My uncle was a bright Mason. I saw
his eye kindle and his cheek flush at the
sight of the satin texture now offered in
exchange for bread—for the common
wants of life.
“To whom did this belong, my boy ?”
said my uncle, in a mild voice ; “was this
your father’s?”
“Yes,” said the child ; “my father used
often to wear it, and a pretty sight it was
sir, to see him dressed out in his beautiful
regalia. My mother hates to part with it,
sir; indeed she has parted with every
thing else before she would part with this,
but she is sick and in great distress. This
morning she said I must offer this for sale,
for she cannot bear to see me beg, and we
I have nothing else to sell. A man up
! town to whom I offered it, told me that
i he was not a Mason, and had no use for
i such regalia, but if I would come here
; perhaps I could sell it. I accordingly
} came, and now how would you like to buy
I it, sir ?’’
I “Buy it!’ cried my uncle; “no, I would
not buy J for the world; but your moth-
; er, if she is the widow of the man who
wore this, shall never again send you
forth on such an errand. I pledge the
word of a gentleman and Mason Take
j your hat, boy, and show me the way to
1 your residence ”
My uncle had taken his cloak, and was
I already clasping it. around him.
“You will not surely go forth, uncle, in
such an hour, and with your East Indi.a
coristitutioQ. to brave this inclement
storm,” I said, rising and standing before
him. “Youoaii send money and relief to
this unfortunate lady without eJiposing
yourself.”
“I cannot send,” he replied implicitly.
“If the widow and child of a Mason can
brave the rigors of the storm, I certainly
am not too weak, too effeminate, for the
task. Give me my cane and hat.”
j I handed them to him, and taking the
i child by the hand he went forth into the
: wind and sleet, for the latter had com-
* {To 8thpage.)