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��JENNIE'S WEDDING CAKE.
��JENNIE'S WEDDING CAKE.
��BY HOPE HARVEY.
��" It can't be Jennie's ! " That is what I said this morning, as I saw the big slice beaming at me so cordially from its sil- ver cradle tucked daintily in with the white napkin.
" But it is Jennie's," I almost heard it say, "and here are her wedding cards, and here is her note, saying, ' My Paul and I are coming to see you, to-day.' So it is Jennie's, O unbeliever ! " repeat- ed the voluble brown cake.
I leaned back in my easy chair, and as the soft April wind blew in at the open window, bringing a new flush to the cheek of the invalid, and stronger beat to the heart, I thought of Jennie. "My Jennie," I always call her, for she has been mine through many changes which have come to both of us; she will be mine as long as I stay here, and she will be doubly mine in that future world where friendship and love are perfected and consummated. Shall I tell you of her? And yet, you will think it only a simple little story of the joy and sorrow of love and loss ; no more, nor so much — God help us — as comes into the life of many of us, were the tale written out.
Jennie came to us a stranger to all in the old Academy, but she won at once our school-girl love by her shyness and gentleness. If you think she was hand- some you are much mistaken, except that she wore the soul-beauty that always makes the possessor lovely. Beneath a forehead in no way remarkable, she had grey eyes, very inexpressive when her features were at rest, but lighting up or drooping most winningly with her quick, varying emotions ; a long, large nose, wide, thin lips, and a skin whose exqui- site delicacy every breeze and sun ray marred with freckles. My fastidious hearer exclaims, "'What a description for a heroine! " But I never intimated that she was a heroine, and I warned you, in effect, that the story was not ex- citing.
��But what is a "heroine?" May she not be one who bears and suffers and sacrifices in unceasing little ways all through the little minutes and weeks, until the long years weigh her in the balance and find her never wanting; until there rises to heaven self-abnega- tion like a tower? Yea, verily. Then my Jennie is a heroine, but she does not know it, dear heart ! She .never will know it until the angels tell her so some day in the city where the worthy walk in white.
Our school days passed on, tame enough, of course, but seeming to us full of thrilling event. We all had our pref- erences and loves, and Jennie's came to her in the form of a handsome, blue-eyed youth, one of the students, who paid his boyish court at her shrine, and then passed on to some new attraction. An arrow was left in the young heart, how- ever, which rankled and festered there for many a long month, until it was with- drawn by her own brave hand, when the wound gradually healed and she was the same quiet, sweet Jennie as before. Not just the same, either, for she was stron- ger and richer by a new experience. Ex- periences need not always be happy in order to bring health and strength, need they, my reader ? A scar must not neces- sarily sear. My Jennie knew that.
The years passed on, and for some time we met infrequently, although we corresponded regularly. It was plain from Jennie's letters that the soul-beau- ty was increasing, though in the midst of poverty and care, for she was nearly the youngest of a large family, who must have their start in life before her. There were sisters to be settled in new homes, and the family heart and family purse were stretched to the utmost to provide the simple dowry which seemed requi- site. Some of the brothers, with good talents and ambitions, must have a col- lege education. And Jennie bore her full
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