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The Gambler’s Wife.
BY I, AUGUSTUS JONES,
CHAPTER 1
Dark is the night!—how dark! No light, no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering she watches by the cradle side
who pledged her love—last year a bride.”
Lownexy she sat. Her cheek, on which the
Summer rose once reared its blushing throne,
had faded like the flowers. Her brow, which
the lily had marked in other days for its own,
was now, alas, a mirror, reflecting grief’s pen-
cilings.
The beaming eyes, that once was the index
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STREET & SMITH,
No. 11 FRANKFORT STREET.
of the soul within, had been dimmed by sor-
row’s tears, and were now leaden-like, luster-
less, and expressionless. Her voice, that once
was as fall of melody as the mournful sighing
of the Summer wind o’er the moonlit sea, now
trembled as its tones gushed forth from the
lips that once did shame the roddest hue of
sunset’s ruby light.
‘One year ago to-night, I became the bride
of Charles Ashton,” murmured Annie Lincoln.
“One year ago! Father in Heaven, oh, help
me now! They told me he was a gambler—
they prophesied too traly what my fate would
be, and still I cared not; for I loved him, and
thought Icould reclaim him. And, oh, I love
NEW YORK, MAY 12, 1866.
$4 00 PER YHAR.
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No. 21,
him still; aye, should they pass him by with
contempt or scorn, he may turn to Annie Lin-
coln and find within her breast a heart whose
love is his alone. Though I have endured
many hardships, and underwent many trying
scenes, still, with all his faults, he loves me, and
Iwould die for him. Hush, baby, hush. Go!
tosloep now, my little one, for mother has got
to sew. Poor, innocent one, thou, too, art
fading, day by day, like thy mother. The
nourishment thou art drawing from my aching
breast gives bnt little strength to thee. My
little one, the sleep that knows no waking will
be ours soon—the cold earth will lie heavy on
our breasts, and in Heaven, darling, we shall
be happy together. There is no hunger there,
my babe! No cold, no sickness, sorrow, pain,
or death; but all is one uneniing age of eter-
nal light, happiness, and love. And there,
baby, we will wait for poor papa.”
Tho wind wailed mournfully as it swept past
the casement, and rattled the blinds furiously,
the snow flakes came driving against the win-
dow. panes, and all seemed so cheerless and
desolate within and without. But ob, the
breaking heart in Annie Lincoln's bosom was
of itself stern desolation’s home. The fire
had died out. The candle was flickering in
the socket. There was a solitary cricket chirp-
ing its mournful song upon the hearthstone,
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