The Argosy — page 138: what you’re looking at

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

Gentleman Stephens. 123 at Bailey’s farm upon the opposite uplands, with its pretty house sheltering safely from the winter’s rages among ricks, and orchards, and pleasant pastures. Stormy clouds were hurrying past the sun, but his lowering beams lingered lovingly on that happy spot. 5te- phen’s face had grown terribly wan, and there was a strange look on it as he narrowly scanned the familiar view, in spite of the weariness that was on him. He had dreamed and thought much of Mary during that past night: much too of old tender memories of childhood, and of his parents, brothers and sisters: memories from which even his sad experience had not excluded him. He thought too of other things, but those thoughts went up straight to Heaven and left no record on earth. He was too weary to look out long, but turned his gaze from the sheltered homes of the valley to the desolate cottage. The intense chill of fever was on him, but there was no more wood left to light the fire, and only the hardest of couches. waited for his pain-racked limbs. Nevertheless he went in calmly and shut the door. “William,” said Mary Morpeth that evening to her husband as they sat at their comfortable tea, ‘‘there was smoke again to-day in the mountain cottage. Perhaps Gentleman Stephens has come back. Let us go up to-morrow and see.” “That we will,” said William. ‘‘I should like to shake him by the hand more than most men. I reckon it is all along of him we are sitting here so comfortable to-night. We will go to-morrow.” As darkness fell the wind began to howl among the orchard-trees of the farm, but it was up on the mountain that its towering strength expended its full force. It raved and rioted about the cottage as at some coveted prey, and each blast that rode up from afar came with voice of fate, or fury, or prophet of ill. The spirit of the mountains was abroad, the thunder pealed to the echo, the torrent went leaping down the rocks. Hark! a louder blast than ever came up through that tunnel in the hills, gathering over-mastering force as it careered along. It reached the mountain, tore along its side, and with a loud ha, ha! dashed in the door of the cottage and entered. | For some minutes all was confusion, and everything borne in by the wind, or light enough inside, danced a Walpurgis eddy in the centre of the floor. But something in the cottage awed that revel into silence by its presence, and by degrees the wind let go its partners in the dance and slunk away like one abashed or defeated. It was the presence of Death. Stephen Pierrepoint lay dead upon the bed, and as the lightning played upon his face it revealed there a mysterious look of triumph and rapture. Foiled was he ? condemned? forsaken? his yearnings after a better life mocked and rejected? Not so, never so. Only sometimes, when such longings are sincerest, God, while accepting the end, rejects the means we have chosen and leads us to it in His own way—it may be by a sharp straight path of agony, but be sure it is the nearest way GONG OO SS (CO) am =)