“Lest We Forget”

"Lest We Forget." BY WALTER J. SLOAN. Edith, from your home in the spirit land, will you forgive me for telling your life story? As I tell it, old memories haunt me, old scenes come back to my mind, scenes of pleasure, of doubt and of pain; even as your life was one of pleasure, happy thoughts, a false decision and then unhappiness, misery and death. As I tell this story a pain is in my heart, a pain for you, dear friend; and yet I feel that could you come back to this earth, you would whisper this story to some you know, for it is your story, and I tell it as you would tell it were we walking as we used to in the past. I have not forgotten your childhood home, nor your parents, who, I am told, still live; but it is years since my last visit to the old home, yet I know that your memory is held in love and sorrow. It was a good home, and they were true parents. It was with doubt that they let you leave the old home, but you were ambitious, you felt that the little country town did not offer, enough, and so you left it—for what? Because your father and mother had others depending on them, and you ought to work to relieve their burden, you told yourself. Yet your woman's nature asked for dress, for the finery that you knew your parents could not afford, and so you would get them by your own work. You left the old home, but you never forgot it, nor did you ever forget the teachings that you had received there. You came to the city. In memory I see you now as I saw you then, young, sweet, pure. And how glad you were the first

732 IMPROVEMENT ERA. time that we met in the city! You had a place to work, and were to be paid every week, money, your own, more than you had ever had at one time in your life was to be yours every week. You could have dresses, hats and other things which your girlish heart yearned for, the same as other girls had. And you had them, and you were worthy of all that you had, for you worked for them. And yet in the adornment of the outer self you forgot the inner self, the soul. Do I wrong you? Nay, lam but using your own words as you told them to me in later life. Seeing the glitter, which you thought was gold, of the city life, the old hame and its environments had no further charm for you. The boys at home who followed the plow and worked in the field were good boys, you told yourself, as you told me, but they were too slow, not up to "snuff;" none of them for you! They might be all right in their place, and would doubtless make good husbands for the girls who stayed at home and knew nothing of the pleasures of life; but for you, none of them; yours must be a city life with its pleasures and excitements. You were ambitious, young and good looking, and so you cast your net. Wealth and social position was your object. That love which makes life worth living in this world and which means far more in the great beyond, was not thought of. Into your life came a man. To your innocent mind the story was sweetly told. You trusted, though those who loved you most told you nay, for as you listened to the old, sweet story,you heard only one voice, that of the lover, and under the spell you forgot a life's teaching, that there is but one marriage, that death does not end it. As you listened to the story of love, the wondrous story old yet ever new, you forgot that Love unchecked is a dangerous guide, To wander at will by a fair girl's side. The old story, well told, won your heart. I seem to hear you now as I did when you told me of your choice. I seem to hear my voice as I said to you, "I wish you every joy and happiness that married life can bring to you," and yet it was said with a pain in the heart, a doubt in the mind, for I felt that unless the teachings of home were wholly forgotten, or could be entirely

"LEST WE FORGET." 733 thrown aside, the wish could only be fulfiled in a measure, a matter of a lew years. You were happy, and your friends rejoiced in your happiness, and yet those who knew you best pitied you, for they felt something that you did not feel or understand at that time. You thought, nay you said, that there would be no quarrel when children came, your children, to choose their God; your God should be their God, you told yourself, as you told me. The home teaching still lived. The years passed, the shouts of children filled the home, warmed your heart, made you love as you had never loved before, brought to your face a smile, to your lips a glad word, even when the body was, oh, so tired. Then came an hour in which the smiles, the joys were dead. Ah, the pain, the agony of those wakeful nights and days, of the constant watching by the bedside of your first born, and then—he, your husband, tried to cheer you, tried to make you forget, told you of those others who were left to comfort and who needed your mother-care. Nobly did you rise to the requirements, your voice was pleasant, your face wore a smile, though a great pain was in your heart. Alone in your room one night a thought came, an echo of the old home and what you had been taught, eternity? your child? like a flood the thought o'ercame your mind. Was he gone from you forever? and they who were left, when the time came to part with them, was it to be forever? The thought was maddening. The next morning you talked with him, your husband, tried to make him see as you saw, tried to make him understand your hope and faith, for you felt both as you had never realized them before; you tried to make him understand that there was a something after this world. He was kind and in his gentle way told you that this life ended all, that there was no life beyond, and in your tired mind and body you almost wished that you could believe as he did, though it was as fire to your mother heart. That night you prayed that the faith of your childhood, the teachings of your father and mother might not be shaken, and hope and faith and