“I must go for him,” she said. “He will perish, and it will be my fault.” She crawled out of bed, drew on her scanty apparel and worn shoes, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and went forth into the darkness, heroically facing the driving storm.
The morning came, clear, cloudless and beautiful. The earth was cold and frosty. A neighbor, going early to the village, found two lifeless forms lying by the roadway. Beside the dead man lay an empty black bottle. The girl’s white arms were clasped about his neck. Her soul had gone to intercede for him before the Mercy Seat on high.
Eugene J. Hall.
THE BEAUTIFUL.
Beautiful faces are those that wear—
It matters little if dark or fair—
Whole-souled honesty printed there.
Beautiful eyes are those that show,