The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1866-08-02

and down the stairs, and I had seen,
as | thought, the last of her. When
she had gone | missed her strangely.
/ went home when the church was
quite, empty. 1t had not been as hard
to bear as / had feared, and oddly
enough [ found myself thinking of
that little child's gypsy head, and those
beautiful long fringed eye lashes.
| wondered at myself, but it was
II should like to see the child
again I said, and as spoke I spied
"a crowd near tavern door upon the
road. 81 1i'1 .99a DIS
1t was poor place, and poor rough
people made up the group. But it
was. plainly no common quarrel or
drinking bout which had brought
them there, for their faces were all
grave and their voices suppressed. |
crossed the road. M
What has happened, friend?" |
asked of tinker near by.
"On1y a blind fiddler dropped
dead. he said. But there's a gal
there wild about it. 2 q ? nod
B And then / passed him and went
in. An old man lay upon the floor,
and across his body, a girl had flung
| herself. I knew the gypsy hair and
the brown neck, the scant cotton
dress and the sunbonnet, flung with a
handful of wild flowers upon the floor;
and [ bent over her, touching her
little dispairing head. sl. klf
My child, Il said, /" he is happier
than we are. = eihst Ht
And she looked up. sGadth
" He was all / had,' she said; " all,
all a4
So had I thought when Aletta gave
me back our betrothal ring. My
heart ached for her Iisaid no other
word, but I led her to an inner room,
while two men bore the dead man up
stairs She wept wildly, but my pres
ence seemed to comfort her. e.1t
After awhile she drew closer to me,
and, sitting on low stool, leaned her
head on my knee. Soon my hand
rested on it, and in an hour she had
sobbed herself to sleep.
said few words to the lady when
| arose to leave, and she promised to
attend to my orders, enforced by the
contents of my pocket book.
This girl sha'n go until [ hear
from you. Sir" she said Z" Indeed,
don't know where she would go.
She seems friendless, and such child
for her age. Thank you, Sir!'
And | went ON my way again, think.
ing not of Alicia, but of the dead fd-
dler' grandchild. This sun-browned
wait, so simple and SO ignorant, so
friendless and alone.
/ was young yet-not five -and-twe
ty-a bachelor, oand likely to be one
my life long | had no proper home
to take her to, and no friend to- aid
me. AT last, in my extremity, | thought
of Betty-old Betty, who had once
been my nurse, and who loved me as
she might her own son--and lin the
cleaning made my way to her good
home. / found her trimming her
vines in the bit of garden ground, and
had my usual kiss across the fence
even before the gate was opened.
+" I've been thinking of you, " she
said. 8 knew it was you as soon as
/ heard some one coming. Tisn't
every young gentleman that would
weary himself to see an old body like
me. Sit down, honey, and rest.
!" [ came to ask favor, Betty" |
said. ~
Just name it, Master BERTHE
viii you take boar6er, Betty?"
Bless me! In my two rooms?"
'"Only child, Betty" }
"a child Master Albertpf
| told her of the fddler's death,
and of the girl"
= have money enough, | said,
but no female relatives / can only
come to you" 4 85 "a J s.
You always were kind-hearted
from boy She said. ''I'll take the
little girl, Master BERTHE.
Then she put both hands on my
| shoulders. ST. '7e
you haven't fretted, have your"
Fretted?" I replied di'Why?"
NAY, why indeed =" said old Betty.
80 Better fish in the sea than were
ever caughtyet'' Then in a moment
more she added: " I've been to see.
wedding"
/ felt my face flush. Shall [ bring
the girl tomorrow, after her grand
father funeral?" I asked s
"When you please" said Betty.
But, Master Albert, what do you
mean to do with her? You are doing
all this in hurry Just think bit. ?
+" [ mean to adopt the child" /
said. $ 1t will make me happy to have
young thing to care for.
Betty laughed You'll have young
things of your own, please God, some
day, she said Why, at your age
life is before you
II shall never marry. Betty" I