Pretty Geraldine, the New York Salesgirl; or, Wedded to Her Choice

"Eyes that are closed to earthly sight,
Can never wake to weep;
Nor pain, nor woe, nor grief, nor blight,
Can move that slumber deep.

"So hearts of dust all griefs forsake,
They never break nor bleed;
The living hearts that throb and ache
Our tender pity need."

The newly made widow leaned against the berth where the dead man lay with his face hidden beneath the sheet, her face in her hands, sobbing in a subdued but heart-broken way. None of the other berths had been made up yet, and the few men in the car looked solemn and ill at ease. A gayly dressed mulatto woman, evidently the lady's maid, was whispering to the smart yellow porter.

Geraldine paused by the weeping woman with a timid glance that took in every detail of her appearance—the elegant curves of the stately figure in a fine cloth traveling gown, the glint of golden hair beneath the dark, close hat, the glittering rings on the hands that held the handkerchief to her face.

She whispered, shyly, to Standish:

"She is one of those grand aristocrats that I used to see at O'Neill's store. I'm afraid to speak to her. Some of them are so proud, so haughty, they can wither you with a look."

"Suppose we go back, then, to our seats," he returned, eagerly.

But something held Geraldine by the mourner's side, in spite of her terror of proud, rich women; and as a sudden low sob broke on the air, she started hurriedly forward with a gentle touch on the lady's arm, bending her face down to whisper, brokenly, out of the wealth of her sympathy:

"Oh, I am so sorry for you, I am so sorry for you! May God help you to bear it!"

The mourner lifted up a lovely face framed in golden hair—the face of a woman somewhere between thirty and forty—and met the glance of those sweet brown eyes swimming in sympathetic tears, and her heart seemed to answer the girl's words. With another heart-breaking sob, she dropped her face against Geraldine's shoulder, and let the girlish arms infold her like a daughter's clasp.

"Come away to a seat," she whispered, and led her away some distance from the berth.

Sitting side by side, they mingled their tears together, for it seemed to Geraldine as if she could feel, by some divine instinct, all the force of the other woman's grief.

"For what, if I were married to my darling Harry, and Death took him—oh, it would break my heart!" she thought, wildly.

Standish had followed and taken a seat just behind her, where he could listen to every word that passed.

Oh, how she hated him for his dastardly espionage, but she dared not openly revolt. She bided her time.

She felt with a keen thrill of pleasure how the strange lady clung to her in the abandonment of her grief, nestling her weary head so confidingly against her shoulder, and letting her arm rest around the girl's waist.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you," she whispered, kindly, and the mourner hushed her sobs and murmured:

"Tell the conductor to make arrangements to take—take—my poor husband through to Chicago, our home."

Standish beckoned the conductor back to the seat, and there was a colloquy for some time over mournful details. When he went away, the lady who had grown calmer, lifted her tearful face, and looked at Geraldine, eagerly, tenderly.

"Who are you, child, with that voice and face from the haunting past? What is your name?"

"I am Geraldine Harding!"

"Geraldine Harding! Oh, Heaven!" springing to her feet in strange excitement, her blue eyes glittering through their tears.

Geraldine did not know what to make of her strange excitement, so she waited, mutely, while the lady went on, breathlessly:

"Where did you live?—oh, I mean, tell me all about yourself! Oh, I am in such trouble that I cannot express myself clearly! I mean no impertinence, but I am terribly interested in you and in your past."

"There is not much in my past that could interest you, dear madame—only the simple story of a poor country girl who came to New York, with another girl, to earn her own living," Geraldine said, modestly.

"So young, so lovely! Yet thrown on the world to earn her bread!" murmured the lady, tearfully. She caught the girl's hand, holding it tightly as she continued: "Your parents, dear? Why did they let you leave them?"

"I was an orphan, madame."

"An orphan! Where was your home?"

"I lived in the country near New York, with a farmer, to whom my father took me when I was a delicate child. The farmer's name was Newell, and his wife, Malinda, had formerly been a servant to my mother. She gave me tender, motherly care, and raised me from a frail child to a robust girl. My father sent money for a while, then he died, and left me dependent on those people. They were poor and had a hard struggle to get along with their large brood of children, so I—I—wearied of the life, and ran away to seek my fortune in the great city."

"And your mother, Geraldine?"

"My father said that she was dead," she replied, simply.

"It was false! He, your cruel father, took you from me! I am your own mother, darling!" cried the lady, extending imploring arms.

CHAPTER XXXI.

FROM WANT TO WEALTH

"At sea—we're all at sea upon life's ocean,
And none can boast a never-failing chart;
Sail as we may, we'll meet with dread commotion,
And hidden shoals to terrify the heart.
We're all at sea; some favored ones, enchanted,
Float peacefully upon the placid tide,
While others with sad doubts and fears are haunted,
And ever on the roughest billows ride."

    Francis S. Smith.
Clifford Standish watched the scene before him with eager interest.

It was like the plot of a play, this touching union of a long parted mother and child.

In watching the interesting scene he forgot for a moment how it might affect his own interests.

The beautiful, sorrowful widow, with tears streaming down her pale cheeks, extended her arms to Geraldine, exclaiming:

"I am your own mother, my darling!"

Startling and surprising as this statement was to Geraldine, not a doubt of its truth entered the girl's mind.

On the contrary, her heart leaped with joy, for she had already felt herself drawn with inexplicable tenderness to the speaker.

And the moment that she held out her arms to Geraldine the girl sprang into them gladly, and the next moment they were embracing each other with ineffable tenderness, the grief of the widow comforted in a measure by the restoration of her daughter.