LIKE THE ECHO OF A DREAM.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2562, 24 July 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

LIKE THE ECHO OF A DREAM.

(By Wilhelm Schwartz.)

“Jhatls right, old girl, stir up tho fire, light the lamps, pull down the shades. - Make the old home look bright and cheery, for the night is coming to us!” “Good gracious, August, what is the matter with you?” asked Mrs .Schwartz turning around from the fireplace to look anxiously at her husband. “ Why, your eyes are red, and your facelooks drawn and white, and your voice sounds hard and husky. Tell me what it is. You have been somewhere in a draught and now you have got to pay for it with a nice cold, and perhaps a touch of rheumatism as Avell.”

“Maybe you are right, Lisbeth—maybe you are right—somehow I don’t feel quite well to-night,” said her husband with a sigh, as he hung up his coat and sank wearily into an armchair.

“Well, at your age it isn’t at all to be wondered at, but we Avill see what a bowl of hot gruel Avill do, and then— My word,” continued Mrs Schwartz, “what a night outside. Why, our Eduard Avill be dead Avith cold on that great engine of his. There you go again, August! I think you had better put .some goose-grease on that throat of yours. Why, it almost sounded like a sob —that it did?”

“Never mind the cold, dear, that ivili get better some day. Coine, sit down by my side, and let us forget the night and its shadows, the world and all its troubles.”

“Troubles,” she said reproachfully. “Why, August, what troubles have we got?” “Of course, not, I —l forgot. You see I was thinking of something else then. But there, come and sit doAvn here, Lisbeth, and we will talk about the old days—the bright and sunny days when we went a-courting, you and me.” “It seems to me, dear, a.s if that cold of ycurs had got rigfet into your head. The idea of two olu people like us talking such nonsense. Now if it had been our Ed, for instance—Don’t turn your head away, August, and don’t fidget so. Why, wliat is that newspaper doing in your pocket?” “It is nothing,” he replied, hastily, pushing it out of sight. “It is from last week, it is ail about a football match, one of my comrades gaA-e it to me to read.”

“Thou I do not Avant to bear anything about it,” remarked Mrs Schwartz, decisively. “I will get that bowl of gruel ready and pack you off to bed. Remember you are tlie invalid to-night, August, so I av ill sit up for tlie boy to-night.” “No, no!” August cried, “that won’t do at all ! What would the doctor say? '.'oil know wliat be told you last Avinter, mother. Just yon leaA r e everything to me, that av:I1 be all right. I’ll poke the gruel and stir the fire —l mean. I'll see to it all.” “Was there ever such a wilful man,” asked Airs Schwartz, lifting- up her hands in feigned dismay. “Well, 1 suppose I Avill have to let you have your way'as usual. But don’t keep the boy up too late, August, he will be tired and cold when he gets home.” There Avas no reply from August to this last injunction. He appeared to be intent upon coaxing the fire into a fitful blaze that lit up liis rugged, wea-ther-worn face and touched Avith a ruddy hue his iron grey hair.

“He does not seem at all like himself to-night,” murmured liis Avife, as she stood watching him from the doorAvay. “I expect it is the cold that makes him so strange. They're nasty things to get rid of, too, at-his age.” And gently closing the door behind her, she slowly climbed tho creaking stairs. August sat motionless until the last footsteps died away; then, looking wildly around tlie room, lie tore the newspaper from liis pocket and flung it upon the table.

“My God! Hoav can I break the news? Hoav can I tell her that her only son lies dead —hidden away among the wreckage of that accursed accident ?

“It docs not seem real,” lie continued, pressing his hands to his head. “Somehow it is more like the echo of some fearful dream. And yet, how it all comes hack to me. The sudden silence in the factory this afternoon as the news came in. Then the cry of the newsboys as they raced along the street —‘Terrible accident at the rail-road!’ “They were very good to me, my comrades, as they gathered around with their sympathy. But all the while it was Burning itself into my brain that it was my hoy, mv Edward, who had misread the signals and dashed on and on to destruction.

“Ancb now I am to tell all this to her; to the one who has watched over and idolised him for thirty years —her only child. God help me! I can’t do it. I have been walking the.streets for hours until at last, tired out, 1. crawled home.”

Unheeded by him, the clock on the mantel ticked monotonously as the minutes flew swiftly by. Unnoticed by him the door ( quietly opened) and Ins wife came into the room, looked anxiously toward a vacant chair that- stood near the table. <; - “August,” she called in frghtoned tones, as she touched him on. the shoulder : “August-, wake up! Where i* our hoy? Why is hq pot here?” It was the test, the bitterest moment of his life; but even as lie slowly raised his head to point to the newspaper lying there before him, a strange light, came into his eyes, an eagerness to-his-face, for a cheery whistle sounded outside and a .well-known footstep was heard-in the hall. . . , “Why, Ed* my boy,” said his mother jbp; the sturdy ryoun#: m B* -kv - ;iujk.i ... 1

entered, “ Whci'-e in the world have you been?”

“I could not help it, mother,” he replied with a laugh. “They put me on another engine this morning and since then the accident has thrown us all behind.? “What accident was that?”

“Why, do you mean to say that yon have not told her, dad?” asked Edward in surprise, watching his father suddenly pick up a newspaper; from the table and throw it into the fire. “Well, you see, mother, the engine that I generally drive was given to another man. this morning, and it has been in a smash-up, but I thought you would know all about it. • They said they would let dad know that I had been shifted.”

Perhaps it was a woman's instinct that helped her to the truth, for with one swift glance at her husband, she threw her arms around his neck and whispered as she kissed him tenderly, “Why did vou hide it from me, August?”

“1 was afraid, Lisbeth, afraid! to speak,” he answered brokenly. “Here, what is the matter, mother?” demanded Edward, pausing in the operation of removing his hoots. “What on earth are you two whispering about?”

“Shadows,” said his mother, softly