Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1868-07-01

them herself. Then she d never had 10
pick up and put away her husbands, things
and he-well it would not be gentlemanly to
say it..
Out with it, sir Never spoil joke
for relations sake
And he wouldn't have caught Tartar,
but been happy old bach. Lord, but
how | wish | was. =
Are you in earnest, sir p
In earnest, madam
Then perhaps we'd better part
Part it is, then
The sooner the better, too.
My sentiments exactly, madam
To-day?
Why not p
Where will you go?
L? shant Co. | shall stay here
But you don't mean to say you're going
to turn me out of house and home. l
never would have believed that of yog,
George Graham
Its not | that's turning you out.
You're turning yourself out. Suppose yo~
stay yvu'so got IIoroy to pay The rent,
or run the affair. 1t costs something to
keep house, l can tell you. [ found it
out by bitter experience.
But where can go? You know |
havn't a relative left me-
You should have thought of that before
you proposed parting. 'Tis not my busi-
ness to hunt you up home
/ don't know whose else 1t Is. You
might do as much as that for your own
wife
For my wife I'd do good deal more.
But you are not my wife any more; only
the legal tie remains to be severed, and
I'll sue for a divorce at once
And disgrace us both p
But what can a fellow do ? Now I've
got used to having home, | want one, and
once free from you, there are dozens OF
girls thatll be glad TO take up with me,
careless, good-for- nothing scapegrace as |
am
And pretty life they'll lead you, too
1t can't be worse than what you've led
me the last six months. Zounds but
I've been a fool to bear it so long. Fret,
fret, fret, from morning till night. Thank
Heaven, it Is all over at last and he
whistled gaily.
You seem glad to be rid of me, sir
You've made me glad, madam He
put on his overcoat, drew on his rubbers,
and gathered up his hat and gloves. Was
he really going, and without his dinner?
When will you be ready to leave, mad
am? III order carriage at any hour
you name
You are an unfeeling wretch, George
Graham you are, and that's the truth.
You might, for decency's sake, give me
till tomorrow to pack up my things and
decide what TO do
You can have week, madam. if you
wish | thought you were in a hurry to
90. Yes, you may have week. Mean
time, I'll 90 to a hotel
And have the whole town talking about
us! Why can't you stay at home just as
Because never like to be in anybody's
But it is your own house, and-and-
if you ever had any regard for me, you'll
stay till-till I'm gone Her voice was
not quite as steady as it had been.
Well, I'll stay then But not now.
I'll come back tonight. You needn't sit
up for me- It'll be late when | get in, and
I'll take the spare chamber till you're
gone
The front door clashed after him in
another moment He was gone; gone
without his dinner gone, and not coming
back till nobody knew when, and then
going up stairs to sleep alone. They had
quarreled They had as good as parted.
They would be divorced. He could get
another wife and bring her home here, and
she-she would have to go out alone in the
cold, dreary world, and earn her own liv-
inc. She didn't know about divorces,
poor thing, to think of alimony. And all
this because he neglected to leave his
things in the hall, and she found fault
with him for the said neglect Careless
husband Fidgety wife. And because
he was careless, and she was fidgety, they
must live apart.
Mrs. Graham looked about her just then.
Everything was neat and orderly. There
was nothing to worry her. Nothing
There was everything And she sat down
and cried yes, cried; she who had been
so resolute and defiant only ten minutes
before But that resolution, that defiance
had been born of anger, and the anger was
all gone now. How sorry she was she'd
been so cross to him, for she had been cross,
real cross, wickedly cross. What if he
had tossed his things any way and every
way? 1t was mans trick, and-and-
here she sobbed outright, he never had a
mother to train him. Poor fellow, he'd
been knocked around from pillar to post
all his life till he got married, and now
he would have to knock around again, for
of course he couldn't get married right
T.,
housekeeper, and she'd worry the life out
of him, and when he did get married, could
he ever find one who'd love him as she
had and did the love was there yet,
yelling and overfowing.
She went into the kitchen, hardly know
ing why; driven perhaps, by the force of
habit There stood the table, laid for
dinner and so neatly; the cloth white and
in its creases, the plates and glasses shin
ing brightly the knives and forks polished
to almost silver whiteness. She gave it
one look and mechanically opened the
stove oven. The chicken was browning
nicely; George liked roast chicken better
than fricasee, so she had cooked it in that
way. The potatoes and turnips were dane
ing merry jigs in the pot, and the tea
kettle was softly humming The mince
pie stood on the hearth warming itself
quietly and exhaling spicy odor that was
tempting even to dyspeptic stomach.
Such nice dinner, and no one to eat
it | wish-I wish-I hadn't been so
cross to him. [ began it and kept it up,
too he wasn't cross at first; he held out
till | made him mad. 0, dear l wish,
1 do wish it didn't worry me to see things