The Alchemists Secret | Page 2

story of failure to report.
"No letter to-night, mother."
"Never mind, father; it'll sure come to-morrow," and Martha would
sigh and clasp her hands in her lap.
Presently, by the movement of her lips he would know she was praying
for the absent one. He would lay aside his pipe, fetch his beads, and
together they would say the Rosary, begging the blessed Mother of God
to keep special watch over their child. She was the only one they had
left, four little white stones marking the resting-place of the four little
angels who had been permitted to remain with them for only such a
very short space of time.
Martha was sleeping now beside her babies and he was alone in the
world; for who could tell what had become of Sallie? She, too, might
be at rest in God's Acre. Sometimes he felt that she must be, or surely,
surely, some word would have come from her. She must have known
how anxiously they would watch for news of her, and certainly she
would not be so heartless as to keep silence all this long time.
Perhaps she had written and the letter failed to reach them. Well,
whatever the trouble was, Tony had long since given up all hope of
hearing from her, but, because of his promise to Martha, he still made
his nightly visit to the post-office in the village. Had it not been for that
promise he would certainly not take that long walk day after day, in
summer heat and winter storms, for hope had long since died in Tony's
heart. At least, so he told himself, but somehow the walk home always
seemed twice as long as the walk down, after hearing those depressing
words "No letter to-night, Tony."
Of late, the daily visit to the village had been almost more than the old

man's failing strength had been able to support. How often he wished
he had not been obliged to sell Lassie. She was the last of his horses to
go; the last, in fact, of all his possessions. There was nothing left to him
now but the old house, and that was in such a state of dilapidation as to
be really unfit for habitation. In the old days, his dogs and his horses
were better housed than he was now; in the old days, when his farm
was one of the most prosperous in that section of the country. It was
lonely indeed since Martha went away, but he was glad she had not
lived to see him brought to this pass. He was glad he had been able to
surround her with comforts up to the very end, though to do so he had
been obliged to sell timber-land, horses, cows, everything he owned,
one after another.
But Martha never knew; patient, suffering Martha, confined to her
room by illness for many years before God had sent her release from
pain. Thank God, Martha never knew; she had trouble enough without
worrying over their poverty. Her room was always bright, always
cheerful; her favorite flowers blossomed in the window, a fire of logs
burned cosily upon the hearth. The neighbors were kind in helping him
to care for her, in bringing her little delicacies to tempt an invalid's
appetite; fresh eggs, chickens, new lettuce, which Martha supposed had
come from their own farm.
It would never do to let her know that all their land was gone, all save
that upon which the house stood and Martha's flower garden which
stretched from her windows to the road. How he had worked in that
garden, cultivating the flowers she loved to see growing there.
Sometimes he would lift her from the bed and place her in the large
chair by the window, where she could watch him at his work; where
she could watch, too, the road that led from the village. Often, he
would glance up from his spading to meet her brave, cheery smile that
sweetened all his labor; oftener still, it would be to find her eyes fixed
upon that long, dusty line that wound over hill and valley, in and out
through orchards and corn fields, the road that led to the village and
thence to the city beyond. He knew her mind had gone out into the
wide, busy world, of which an occasional echo would reach them, gone
out in a vain effort to guess at the whereabouts of the girl who had

passed down that country road so many years ago never to return. To
the very end, Martha had never ceased hoping, never ceased praying for
the return of the wanderer, or at least for some word of assurance that
all was well with her.
By the time Tony reached the dismantled