Watch—Work—Wait / Or, The Orphan's Victory

by Sarah A. Myers

The slate roof had not less surprised him than what he now saw: the spot where two lowly graves, adorned only by flowers, had appeared for years without any monumental record, was now adorned with all that can be rendered by the living to the dead. A very high and handsome iron railing, on which climbing plants were trained, enclosed the little mounds, and a simple white marble pillar bore the names of George and Margaret Raymond. The flowers planted before William had left M—— had long ago vanished, and the spot, left to neglect, was overgrown with weeds; but now some kind hand had rescued it from wildness and planted it anew with rare flowers, which were beginning now to bloom in place of those dead. The sexton's wife with her watering-pot now came near. Many graves adorned in a similar way required the care of some one, and she received a regular salary for her attention to the flowers. The young man waited until she came quite close to where he stood, and then inquired, "Who has had these graves so carefully done up?"

"Who do you think would do so but the son of the good couple that are buried here?" answered the sexton's wife. "Little Bill Raymond, that went to New York to be a shoemaker, came back last spring and had this all done. Folks say he is well to do in the world, and better than all, he is as good a man as his father was."

A deep blush passing over the young man's face rendered its sun-burned hue yet deeper, but his eyes lightened with a joyful expression as he inquired with some anxiety, "Is he still in M——?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the woman; "he is staying with our old baker, Nicholas Herman; there, that is the house with the slate roof. Old Nicholas was very kind to his mother in her sickness and poverty, and when she died he took the poor child home. He used always to say if he lived to be a man he would remember him for it; and he has done so. There was a dreadful fire in the village last year, and old Nicholas Herman's house was nearly burned down. The roof was clear gone, but that was little in comparison to the damage done inside. Besides this, the old man had met with many losses; his son was away nobody knew where, and the baker lost heart, so that he could not get up spirit enough to set things to rights; and when he did he could not sell his bread as he used to, for other bakers had set up, and people always like to run to new places. Will Raymond, it seems, is a painter; and when he came here last summer, and found the old man in such trouble, he set to and painted him such a sign that there ain't the like of it far nor near. Why, the people stand in front of the house to admire it; and folks sometimes say that signs are of no use, but I know the sign brought the customers back. About two weeks ago the young painter returned, for old Nicholas expects his son George, who went west four or five years ago, and he and Bill Raymond were great friends, and he came on purpose to meet him. George knew nothing of his father's troubles, and old Nicholas said he could not do him any good, and it was of no use to make him unhappy. But won't he be happy when he comes home and finds all right?"

The sun-burned youth had listened attentively, not interrupting the speaker by word or motion; but tears, in spite of his efforts to restrain them, forced themselves from his eyes. Not daring to trust his voice, he shook hands with his kind informant, and leaving the place of graves, once more took the path leading toward the open gate at the foot of the hill. He had nearly reached it when, turning from the dusty street road, a young man entered the enclosure, and advanced up the narrow path until he came quite close to the traveller. They knew each other at once.

"William!"—"George!" issued at one moment from the lips of each; and with an embrace of sincere affection, the friendship of their boyish days was renewed, and now, in their budding manhood, to be more closely cemented.

William was indeed an artist. Mr. Stewart had found him possessed of genuine talent, and it was the delight of his generous heart to aid in the unfolding of his genius by every means within his power. Through his instruction, as well as recommendation, William had received better prices for his early efforts than are usually paid to young artists; but the first sum of any importance that he could call his own was applied to ornament the graves where his parents lay.

George Herman's return was a source of great comfort to his father, although he could not assist him in his business. He had chosen the carpenter's trade as a means of livelihood, and from at first working diligently with his own hands, he rose at length to the rank of an architect, and became a wealthy man.

One year after this William went to Italy with George Stewart, whose health required change of climate. There, in that beautiful country, so rich in treasures of art, he had full opportunity for improvement; and, indeed, he used his time to great purpose. It was, however, some drawback to his happiness that his young friend did not materially benefit by his sojourn in that land of genial sunshine. He rallied at first; but at the end of two years they were obliged to return, and George only reached his native land to breathe his last.

William's attention to his sick friend, and the ample testimony borne by that dying friend to his merits, rivetted the chain of affection, ever borne him by Mr. Stewart, more closely; and most truly did that good man often declare, that the "bread" he had "cast upon the waters" had been gathered, "after many days," most abundantly.