Among the Ashes; or, Doomsday (with illustration) (Christmas Supplement) [pp. A001-A032]

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AffO2\Fq TIlE ASIlES. [C~nis~~s,
turn, and the father and fl~e mother
never Ii card of their child again."
Monsiem had turned on his seat and
looked askance at il~e stranger. Madame,
his wif~, sat with open mouil~, gazing at
h~r husband.
"Think of it, good people," went oa
the little old trembling lady. "I was the
friend of that young mother, and I came
to her in Paris in her affliction. We
spent months traversing Paris, and we
advertised, offering large rewards; but
~o tidings of woman or child were to be
had. We gave ~p the search ill Paris,
and went moving from place to place,
lingering so sadly, and making such frantic inquiries, that people began to point
to my friend as the`poor crazed mother
who was looking for her child.' Ah, my
friends, if you had seen her as I did-her
eyes dim, her cheeks wasted, weepin
herself to death over a toy, a tiny garment, a little shoe! Search was useless,
and by the time we could prevail on her
to give it up, the poor thing was so broken in heart and body, that we only
brought her home to die. She died in
my arms, and I promised to keep up the
search so long as I lived. She had a firm
belief that her child was not dead, and
the horror of its growing up among bad
people haunted her perpetually. Her
husband lived ten years after lier death,
and though he never kept up such a constant search as I did, yet he could not
forget that there was a chance of his lost
daughter's being alive somewhere. I
think his heart was broken too-more by
the loss of his wife, perhaps, than by that
of his child. Both parents had been rich,
and, when the father died, he willed all
their possessions to their child, who
might yet be discovered living in ignorance of her parentage. After a certain
time, if nothing has been heard of the
girl or her descendants, the property will
be broken up and divided in charity.
Since the father's death, I have never for
one moment relaxed my efforts to discover some trace of the child of my friends.
I now begin to grow old, and I fear
I shall not be able to keep it up much
longer. I have cheered my heart many
a time, telling myself that the girl would
be a daughter to me in my advancing age,
and would repay me with her love for all
the labor I have had for her. She would
now be nineteen years of age. When a
child, her hair was dark; it would now
be darker still. Her eyes, I think, would
be gray, the color of her mother's. I
have often fancied I saw a face like what
I had pictured her to myself, and spent
feverish days in finding out my mistake.
~Now you know what I meant by a will
The faces of the innkeeper and liis
wife had changed so that they did not
seem to be the same persons who had sat
there half an hour ago. They now nodded their heads, while neither spoke.
"But why say that tlie will a' the
wisp had appeared under our roof?"
asked Rosalie, shm~ply
The old lady trembled wildly, and
looked round on the three faces. At this
moment, Stine appeared, coming down
the court-yard, with a fresh supply of
coffee.
"My friends! my friends! " cried the
little old lady, stretching out her hands
to them, "I believe that there "-pointing to Stine-" comes the child I have
been seeking for these many years!
NIonsicur Van Melckelieke sprang to
his feet, while his wife pushed back her
chair, and stared furiously at the stranger.
"Madame has lost ber mind!" cried
monsieur, eying the lady with terror.
"Ah, no, monsieur! Te~l me that I
am right, or help inc to the proof of it.
My child has, in some strange way, been
thrown upon your charity. Some feeling of honor makes you wish to keep a
secret."
"Madame is all wrong," said the man,
a little mollified. "The girl is my niece.
I will bring you face to face with her
mother. She lives at some distance, but
she shall be brought here to satisfy you."
"Bring her at once," said the old
lady
Next morning, a coarse, loud-voiced
woman came into the inn, and Madame
the Stranger was summoned to meet her
in the garden, under the apple-tree. All
the family were present at the interview
-monsieur, madame, Rosalie, Stine, and
Jacques.
"She is my daughter," said flie
coarse woman; "but I gave her up to
my brother for the good of the family.
Speak out, Stine, and say if I am not
your mother."
I have always known you as my
mother," said Stine, shrinking from her.
"Dear madame," to the Englishwoman,
"give up this fancy. I mn grieved to be
such a trouble to you."
"Help me, good Jacques, to get back
to my chamber," said the poor old lady,
faintly
That night, very late, when Stine was
wearily toiling up her tower staircase, a
door opened, and the English madame
came out, wrapped in her shawl.
"My dear," she said, "take me up to
your tower-room, to see the view from
your window. It must he fine this starry76;6]night. J3esides, I want to talk to you."
a star, so high was it above the peaks of
the Flemish houses away down in the
town below. The cathedral tower looked
over at her in ghostly magnificence. Her
small lattice lay open, and the music of
the chimes came floating dreamily in as
they played their melody tl~rough in
honor of tlie midnight hour. The room
was cool, dark, and quiet. Madame sat
down on Stine's little bed, and the cathedral clock struck twelve.
"My dear," she said, to Stine, "I am
not going to afflict you with my trouble.
I aill used to disappointment, yet there
is something in this case which is different from all my fermer experiences. I
cannot shake off the interest I feel in
you. Granted that I am a crazed old
woman, still I would like to leave my
mark, a good mark, upon your fate. Do
not be afraid to speak freely to me, my
d~ild. They are harsh to you in this
house."
"They are not very kind."
"You ~-ouId wish to get out of their
power, and yet not marry Jacques."
"I will not marry Jacques-Heaven
bless him!"
"Yet a husband could protect you."
"They are not going to kill me; and
I am able to bear my life."
The little old English madame was
silent, reflected a minute, and then began
again
"I went out this evening to calm my
heart in the cathedral. I found it almost
deserted, and full of a solemn peace. I
prayed, and became resigned. Having
finished, I was resting myself, when I
found the painter, Monsieur Lawrence,
standing beside me. He addressed me as
your friend, and we had some whispered
conversation. He talked about you. He
loves you. You have repulsed him. Is
it possible il~at you are so hard!"
"Madame, I am not hard," gasped
Stine, after a pause.
"I can believe it."
"Madame, before I knew Monsieur
Lawrence, I had never loved any thing;
now it seems as if I could love the whole
world for his sake. He is to me all that
one lives for, lives by. He iS absolutely
as my life. I speak extravagantly, madame; but remember, at least,that I did
not wish to speak at all."
"Go on," urged the little lady.
"There was a time," said Stine, lean.
ing on the sill, and gazing over clasped
hands into the starry outer dimness, "a
time when I never thought of checking
my love, seeing nothing in it that was not
beautiful and good. But I was forced to
change my mind. Madame, I will tell
you about it. I was sitting one evening
in the court-yayd at my knitting, and the
0' the wisp." Stine's little room seemed situated in