"If I Had Only Spoke Him Fair at the Last."
In the recent terrible colliery accident in England, by which so many families were bereaved, one little story came to light which conveys its own lesson. A tender-hearted woman who went round among the bereaved homes on a mission of consolation, found a wife whose grief seemed to her of a different nature from that of the others. Some of them mourned their bread-winner, the father of their children; and the cry of "What shall I do now?" went up from almost every desolate house. This one young wife uttered no cry. She only sat swaying herself to and fro, with no tears in her eyes, but with a look of set, white anguish on her face, a thousand times more pitiful than sobs and tears. The visitor could not bear to go away and leave her to her silent anguish. She lingered beside her and tried to comfort her. She spoke of the grief of some of the women, who were left helpless with large families to provide for. "That's not the worst," said the woman gloomily. "You mean that you could bear it better, if you had children to take up your thoughts?" "No, no!" the wife cried in a sort of despair; "nothing could help me now. Nothing ever can help me, but I could have borne it all, if I'd only spoken him fair at the end." And then at last, the story came. They had been married a year, she and Jim; and they both "had tempers;" but Jim, he was always the first to make up, because he had the best heart. And this very morning they had had trouble. It began because breakfast wasn't ready, and the fire wouldn't burn; and they had said hard words, both of them. But at the very last, though breakfast was not fit to eat, Jim had turned round at the door and said:— "Gi'e me a kiss, lass. You know you love me, and we won't part in ill blood;" and she had been in her temper still, and answered:— "No, I don't know as I do love you," and had let him go, with never a kiss and never a fair word; and now—and there she stopped, and awful, tearless sobs shook her, and the visitor could only say:— "Do not grieve so hopelessly." But the mourner's ears were deaf to all comfort, and the wailing cry came again:— "Oh, if I had only spoke him fair at the last!" It is not a common story, this. We quarrel with those we love, and part and meet and make up again; and death is merciful, and waits till we are at peace; and yet how possible is just such an experience to any one of us, who parts with some dear one in anger, or who lets the sun go down upon his wrath. But it is always the noblest nature, the most loyal heart, which is the first to cry, "I was wrong, forgive me."—Youth's Companion.