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THE BUDS OF HOPE.

“Let me see your face—quick!’

Christian drew aside the draperies, and Mrs. Gray looked eagerly in her face.

“Yes, you are Christian Ford,” she said; “I n know you now. Have you been here long?”

“For some time.”

Mrs. Gray caught her hand, crying out, “It is you who have watched over me—no wonder I kept dreaming of you! It is to you that I owe my life; and after all the wrong I have done you.”

“Do not talk now,” Christian said, soothingly; “you are too weak yet.”

“I must speak! Say that you forgive me!

“I did that long ago, Mrs. Gray.”

The woman laid her head back on the pillow, weak and exhausted; but from that hour she began rapidly to mend.

Days passed, and she was able to sit up and be wheeled to the window; but no other allusion to the past escaped either of them, no word concerning that man whom each in her own way so fondly loved.

It had been the habit of Christian’s attendant to bring the boy every day into the yard that she might see him, though she had not been allowed to enter the house from fear of infection. One morning Mrs. Gray was sitting by the window when the boy entered the gate.

“Whose child is that?” she gasped.

Christian did not speak, but her eyes answered the appeal.

“His!” exclaimed the mother; “and you have cared for it and loved it—oh! Christian!”

The proud, worldly woman leaned her hand on Christian’s shoulder and wept aloud, tears such as wash out the stains of earthly weaknesses and errors.

“He must not come up here yet,” she said, at length. “Go down to him, Christian.”

Mrs. Gray sat watching the meeting, and soon she saw Christian point to the window, and the child kiss his hand as he looked up.

Six weeks had passed since Mrs. Gray’s attack, and she was now able to go down stairs to see the grandchild, whose existence she had so  haughtily denied, to receive every day new proofs of Christian’s kindness and attention.

One morning, Christian had returned home to look after her house, leaving the boy in his grandmother’s charge. While Mrs. Gray sat listening to the child’s prattle a letter was brought her—her son was in America, that note only preceded him by a few hours.

It was evening when Christian returned; she walked slowly back through the sunset, full of a quiet contentment which she had not known for years.

She entered the little parlor in which Mrs. Gray often sat—but she was not there—only a figure dimly visible at the other end of the room.

Before Christian could move or speak, she found herself face to face with Robert Gray.

“Tell me, Christian,” he cried, grasping her hand, “have I made atonement? May I hope again? Yesterday I had not dared, but my mother has almost banished those fears. Say, will you be my wife?”

Christian Ford released herself from his arms, and stood looking in his face which had grown so old and changed, but from whence beamed a pure light of truth and integrity, nobler far than the youthful beauty of other years.

“Speak, Christian!” be said, troubled by her silence.

“Yes,” she answered, “for you know yourself now—I have no fear.”

There they stood in the twilight of that room, with a world of peace and hope opened before them, leaving far behind the wild sorrow and the mad follies of the past, ready to accept life as it is, neither dreamers nor idlers, and sufficient always to one another.

Then the door opened, and Mrs Gray stole in, leading her grandchild by the hand.

“Christian, have you forgiven us?” she whispered.

Christian’s eyes answered for her; the mother joined the hands of those hardly tried ones, and when she embraced and blessed them, Christian felt upon her forehead not only her kiss of motherly love, but the pure tears of repentance.

THE BUDS OF HOPE.

II null JOUHSON.

The buds of hope, like flowers fair Oft wither ere they bloom; Consigning all onr future bliss To an untimely doom;

Or, as the snow-drops, pure and sweet, They into being start; Bloom In life’s 8pring—then wither In The Winter of the heart.