Sunbury American. [volume] (Sunbury, Pa.) 1848-1879, 1872-02-03

l.
enough, Robert six children that have
played around my knees, sleep yonder be-
hind the old meeting house, and to bear
and nurse, and then TO lose-there's none
knows what that is but Just them that's
borne it, and God that made mothers with
mothers hearts. I've had troubles that
creature comforts wouldn't help much ; and
yet don't despise this worlds good things.
You havn't any graves when you feel as if
your heart was shut in and smothered, and
for being tired and moping l do think
there's virtue in a.good cup of tea
Her patience and gentleness touched
him. lie drew up his chair to the table,
where his father was sitting, and answered
her in softer tone.
Il 'spose you're right, mother, but Pm
not just myself, tonight
Then he ate his supper in silence, and
after it was over, sat for few moments,
thinking silently. At last be took courage,
and opened the subject of which his mind
was FULL
Father, Henry Robbins is wanting n
place Don't you think, with you to over
seer him, he could do the work on the
farm this summerp p
| Mrs. Maxwell did not speak, but the
saucer she was wiping fell to the floor with
a sharp crush. For full minute it was
lnc only SOullu WHICH DTOKc lDe STIFFNESS.
At last the old man answered.
Il don't know, Robert-maybe he could.
| never liked to have any strangers, work
ing on the old place in my time. L did it
all myself till you were old enough to help
me, and everything has prospered under
your hand, Robert. Still, maybe Henry
Robbins could, maybe he could. Did you
! think of leaving, Robert p
Il don't feel satisfied, father, to be far
mer this small way. L want to do some
thing more with my life. You could hire
q man to do all for twenty dollars month,
and l want to see what l am worth some
whore elsc.'
Then there was another long silence.
The mother finished washing up her dish
es, and came and sat down between her son
and husband her face very white and her
hands shaking little. After awhile the
old man reached on, - .~o'- ""N Vf '"e
trembling hands IN his own.
mustn't blame Robert, MOTHER he
said, trying'to speak cheerlully. What he
feels isn't unnatural Other young men
say the same. Only it's come sudden.
DON'T think we blame you, Robbie. It's
all fair and right-only sudden
Robert got up and went up stairs, his
hothor's poie silence, his nnthet IS attempts
at cheerfulness seemed more than he could
bear. He went away to his own room, and
sat down by the window. Over across the
meadows light was burning. He knew
it was the lamp III Maud Du Pays pnrlor.
Was she worth all this that he was making
these two old people suffer ? Was he sure
she would ever love him as they did Was
he sure that she would love him at all. And
in this untried life, this great world where
so many failed, how did he know that he
would succeed What was he going to
do? How vague all his purposes were
just dream, born of a soft spring night,
and Maud Du Pays fair face. And for it
he was going to 0verturn the whole fabric
of his life. No, he would not be so mad.
This summer, at least, should 90 on as be-
fore. He would take time to consider. BY
! Autumn he should know better what he
could do, and whether he could bear to
/ leave that old father and mother-so many
/ OF whose treasures the churchynrd already
! held, and whose all he was. He began to
/ think that this very fact, that he was their
/ all, laid on him an obligation not to be
avoided that no success purchased at sell
1 fish expenditure. would be worth having
/ At any rate, he would wait. And SO sleep
came to him, aud the morning brought him
peace and calmness, and seemed 10 give
him back his old self again.
will you see Henry Robbins to-day,
anxiety he strove to conceal.
Not to-day, not at present. Ny plan
was sudden, as you said, too sudden to be
wise. l have given it up for a time, at
least l will carry on the place while
longer.'
The old mans face cleared, but he did
not speak. only Robert Maxwell's mother
got up and silently Kissed him. No young
lips could have been more iond-could any
DC more dear?
Two months after that news came to
him of Maud Pays betrothal to her cousin
the city-bred young man whom he had
seen riding beside her in the May twilight.
This was an unexpected blow something
which, knowing the man was her cousin
he had never feared. The news sank deer
into his heart with dull, dumb pain. She
never would have cared for him, then
never had 1t was well he had never gone
away and left those two who did love him
to mourn. After ALL perhaps the existence
of plowing and planting was all lie was
good for Fate had placed him rightly
guaged his capacities better than he could
have done himself So he settled back into
his old grooves with n grim resignation
which was not yet content. Still he felt
himself at odds with the lite which did no
offer him what he wanted. When Autumn
came and it was time for him, if at oil, Il
make the changes he had planned in thC
spring, he was surprised to feel that the in
clination to make il was gone. Some heal
ing mystery, call it Of nature or of grace
God knows, had been at work in his soul
and unconsciously to himself through thu
, long summer days, and swift short summer
nights, nc had been learning the sweetness
of duty, pure and simple-duty done tor III
own sake. He had begun to ask himsel
not what he wished to do, but what ht
ought TO do, and he felt that in the very
, fact of his being to those two who loveC
him as their all on earth, God hat
, called him to certain duties, on which Ii
would never again feel tempted to turn hi
, back. Reconciled at last TO the appoint
meut of Heaven, he was at peace also with
his own soul, and a new light came into his
eyes, new vigor and manliness into hi
life. He could think of Maud Du Pays il
these days without pain. There would al
ways be a tenderness in his heart for her
the tenderness good man feels for the ones
: beloved, but whether she was his or ano
theirs, he could reckon her loss or gair