Dodgeville chronicle. [volume] (Dodgeville, Wis.) 1862-current, 1866-02-22
A CHECK FOR A CARPET.
BY LOUISA CHANDLER MoULroN.

WIN 0er Uu uCA .
arm. He looked down at her moment be-
fore he answered. She had been his wife
for five years, but her face was as sunny
and as girlish as when he first wooed her.
Her blue eyes had scarcely shed q tear in
all those years, except the lazy, luxurious
tears such happy little souls weep over the
ideal woes of story-book heroines. Her
monthly rose in the French window was not
pinker than her cheeks-her scarlet gera-
MUM was not brighter or redder than her
lips-and the pet canary chirping above the
blossom was no gayer or merrler than the
little bird-like woman who waited for John
Lanes answer He smiled as he looked at
her, and brushed back her soft, brown hair
with an unconscious tenderness
Yes, about the carpet, Annie. If l
thought we needed it, | would get it, Of
course But we use the drawing-room so
little. The carpet that is on it now is al
most as bright as it was the day we chose
it, and you know how pretty we both thought
it then"
The girlish young wife pouted her iainty
lip
"Wel, John, but it's been down FIVE
years, and its only nice because I've taken
such nice care of it. If I'd been careless
and let it get spoiled, you'd have got another
without grumbling, you know you would.
It's too bad, IL I've got to see things round
forever, just because Pm careful of them.
Don't you get tired of seeing the same things
always, john"
"Not easily, so long as they are the same,
fresh and bright as ever. l am not tired of
you, yeti"
She laughed, and her pink cheeks flushed
little
"But I'm not carpet. Ours Is only a
Brussels, you know, and did so want =
Wilton, like Mrs. Mayne's."
$50 Mrs. Mayne is the serpent in our
Eden? Well, Annie, give me till night to
think about it," and he bent toward her for
his goodbye.
After he had gone, she went into the
drawing-room, and took 3 survey of her
possessions. The carpet was that soft, many
shaded moss-like green, on which everything
looks so well. She confessed to herself that
it had more refined air than Mrs. Mayne's
large-fgured Wilton, which held your gaze,
like the eye of the ancient mariner, from
the moment you entered the room. But
then, she thought, she needn't buy great,
gaudy thing; and Wilton was really so
much more elegant, so much more in keep
ing with her rosewood and brocatelle. Then
she began busting some of her books and
ornaments.
While she stood there she heard the bell
ring, and a short parley at the door-a
child's voice, apparently asking for food,
and the cooks answer that to-day there was
nothing to spare. A sound in the young,
sad voice, a short of accomplishing hope
lessness, struck her, and she stepped down
stairs just as Bridget was about to shut the
door.
"Come back moment, little girl" she
said, in those gentle tones that John Lane
liked so well to hear.
The child turned, an eager light coming
into her face for moment, and then going
out Mrs. Lane was acting on impulse.
She almost always did; it was good thing,
therefore, that most of her impulses were
sweet and gentle and true.
Are you hungry" she asked, pityingly.
alt doesn't matter so much about me,
ma am, / could bear to be hungry, but
don't know what to do for my mother.
have tried to find place to work, but no
one will take me- They say child ten
years old is more plague than profit. Moth
err had to work so hard to keep us, and now
she's been sick n while, and she can't work,
and so we've eaten up everything. So
came out to see if anybody would give me
something for mother, and Pve asked at
every house in the street, and everywhere
they said just the same, and that they had
nothing to-day"
"Where do you live,-is it far? ?" Mrs.
Lane asked.
"0nly few steps, ma'am-three streets
off"
swell, then, I'll go home with you, and
see your mother. Come into the house,
while put on my bonnet, and Bridget will
give you some bread and butter and cold
meat"
Mrs. Lanes sweet young faco was full of
pity, as she hurriedly packed basket with
bread and tea and suger, for the sick mother.
Then she ran up stairs and tied on her pref
ty summer hat, and down again while the
hungry girl was finishing her breakfast.
"Come little girl" she said, what is
your name?"
Ellen Stanton; but ny father always
called me Nelly, and so does mother"
Sand is your father DEAD ?"
son, yes that's the way our trouble be-
gan. Father died, and mother wasn't used
10 hard work, and she had to work so hard
to keep the baby and me-"
Mrs. Lane asked no more questions, just
then. She was thinking more seriously
than she had ever thought in her life, re-
membering how she had been born to ease
and luxury, shielded all her days from care
how her deepest discomfort had been when
some other persons carpet was handsomer,
or their Indian shawl had deeper border
And now she was going where hunger and
sorrow were tenants. Had she been living
all this time for herself. She questioned,
with a sudden pang of terror and self-re-
proach, whether ever in her life she had
done really one unselish act-whether, if
the great harvest day were come, she would
have one sheaf to show TO the Master. She
had given of her abundance now and then,
of course, when charitable subscriptions had
been presented 20 her but she had thought
it bore and burden, not a privilege. o:
her own accord, what good had she ever
done-what man, woman, or child was there
TO rise up and call her blessed?
Here we are, ms'am," said the child,
breaking the silence
1t was a two-story, wooden house before
which they had stopped. They went up
stairs, and the little girl opened a door.
Mother" she said, 50 a lady has come
home with me to see you-a kind lady, who
has given me my breakfast, and brought
you yours"