The Argosy — page 227: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

An Every-Day Story. 215 reputation for her sake?—the ruined boy who, even in his one first bitter abasement, had been too proud to seek her pity by word or sign from that day, and of whom she had had no token all these years. Time passed. Mrs. Linden had no children. She dida great deal for her young brothers, and loved them much. Five years later the Rev. Arthur Halcroft died of a Lingering malady, a kind of decline. His dearly beloved daughter was every- thing to him; and he caused her ta promise that his remains should be taken down to the churchyard of that first parsonage of his, Hay- ford, and laid to repose by the side of his wife. Rosalie trembled and wept as she promised this; but she wept much at that time. In the end, she was too 11] to go on the sad journey, but remained at home, weeping hysterically, feeble and feverish, and shivering at the very name of Hayford, as they noticed for many weeks. But her grief wore itself out in time; she reappeared in society, rarely beauti- ful in her black robes, and arranged to go down with her husband to visit Hayford during the next summer, and see to the grave. But, when the appointed time for the journey came, Mr. Linden was himself ill. Rosalie would have again put her visit off, but an architect was to meet her at Hayford to receive instructions for a monument in the church; and so she started alone, taking her carnage and servants. Mr. Linden insisted on that: it would be more comfortable for her, he thought. Halting at a town conveniently near, she drove the next morning to Hayford. Her pale face looked forth wistfully from the carriage windows, but she could recognize familiar features only in the landscape, not in the changed objects nearer home. MHayford had ceased to be a quiet, rural village, and become a bustling “terminus ;” the railroad had revolutionized everything. Handsome bnick buildings had replaced the primitive old shops; a fine hotel had usurped the site of the homely inn; and showy modern villas and cottages ornés appeared everywhere. The time-worn dwellings she had known as a child seemed to have disappeared. ‘Those that remained were tricked out with new paint and plaster, pillared porticoes and deep bay windows, Venetian blinds and Italian shades. Even the old school-house past which she had so often wandered, learning logic in the light of Bertram Payne’s beautiful eyes, was transformed into a dashing “ Hayford College.” Sick at heart, she drove to the new hotel, left her carriage and servants there, and set out on foot to visit in private her father and mother’s grave. She had feared to find the church and cemetery unrecognizable, perhaps even the parsonage gone; but the changes that had revolu- tionized the village higher up had not extended so far as this. The familiar houses, embowered in old-fashioned shrubberies; the dark stone church, with its ‘white harvest-fields of dead” stretching ecomniclooolkks