The Vermont transcript. [volume] (St. Albans, Vt.) 1864-1870, 1864-07-01

y
nation, and that the eye makes its
own beauty. But no one could have
thought her anything but pretty,
standing by the garden gate with her
apron full of wild flowers, and her
curls lifted by the wind, dancing
round her forehead like a swarm of
golden bees.
"My daughter Rose" said her faith
er, and she put her little white hand
into mine as n child might have done,
just rs simply and prettily, SO that it
was very hard for me to shalle it and
let it go instead of keeping it. But
there was somebody else to shake hands
also, and he, standing on the other
side Of Deacon Olmstead, put out his
long, lank fingers, in black silk gloves.
and performed the ceremony which he
always went through with when any
one offered to shake hands with him.
and which could not have been agree
able to anything but the village pump
"Alr. Bitterworth," said Deacon
Olmstead, waving his hand towards
my companion with impressment
MIR. Dove, and he glanced at me.
Who should say he is of no Importance
"Is tea ready, my dear ?
She replied that ten was ready. and
we went into the handsome, old-fash-
toned house, for we both were going
to take tea with Deacon Olmstead
and, moreover to spend the night be-
meath his roof, having come to W
on church business Deacon Olmstead
making point of always entertaining
two young ministers on such occasions.
The Rev Benjamin Bittorworth was
much older than |, and much more
important every way. had been late
ly called to a struggling little church
exceedingly unfortunate in the way Of
difficulties and debts, where the CON
gregation seldom paid any salary, and
always considered themselves in-used
by the minister, who. in turn, was
somehow always injured by person
age called Elder Bagshaw, and some
body was always accused OF misappro-
priating the church funds-I never
could discover what they were And
the Rev Silas Snow, having taken
French leave in great disgust, the con-
gregation had called for an enterpris-
ing young minister, and ] had been
selected. But for Benjamin Bitter
worth a warm nest had been ready,
and every one predicted him immense
success. His was a country church,
also, but it was rich one, and he had
friends and influence, and everything
which | had not. Deacon Olmstead
showed that he knew this by every
glance OF his eye and every tone of his
voice.
But Rose Olmstead who, her faith
er being widower was mistress OF
the house--exhibited no such PARTIAL
/ ty On the contrary, think She liked
me pest ana UnUuSh DUnJumln DIT
terworth, long and lank / hope il
was not envy that made me think 50
very plain, leaned across the table
to talk to her in his oily tones over and
over again, somehow she always re-
turned to our conversation as often as
she could, and made me very happy
with her girlish prattle
She knew the village which had
been my boyhood's home, and had
seen and spoken to Il sister of mine
dead years before, so we found many
thing in common. But even had We
had none, had we spoken in language
unintelligible to each other, | am sure
that to have sat besides Rose Ohm
stead, with her eyes looking into
mine, not boldly, only frankly, would
have been worth the most eloquent
words that ever fell from any Other
woman's lips.
1t was very happy evening foi
afterwards, in the cleaning, we Went
out upon the porch, and she took me
down to see the roses in the garden
and the honysuckle arbor over the
little seat where she sat every after
noonj at work, and we staid so Ions
that Deacon Olmstead came down af
ter us, and scolded Rose for wettina
her feet with the dew, and had some
thing of great moment to say to me
so that Benjamin Bitterworth Offered
his arm TO Rose to escort her through
the garden, while i walked ON behinC
with her father.
We went back to the porch after
that, and into the parlor, and soon
there We're family prayers and genia
goodnight But it being bright
summer evening, with all the windows
open, sitting at mine and looking a
the moon, heard some one singing
and knew that of all that houehold, i
: could be only Rose. 1t was a sac
song and sweet one-a farewell
with a plaintive fall in it that was very
touching, and { need not be ASHAMED
: to own it at seventy knelt down be
, side the window, and with my heaC
} upon my hand, shed tears, thinking
what if were that departing lover
and Rose Olmstead sung that farewell
, song to me. Do we never unconscious
, ly reach the future ? Sometimes
, think so.
AS we walked away to the stage tn,
next morning, Benjamin Bitterwortl
, wore queer smile upon his face, ant
rubbed his long black gloves as though
, something pleased him nightly. A
. last he said to me, in his oily tones
, with peculiar affection of accen
: which it had pleased him to adopt
- n