The Bloomfield times. [volume] (New Bloomfield, Pa.) 1867-187?, 1872-08-06
Mr.. Woodbridge's Investment.
BY HELEN FOREST GRAVES.

Il vember sunset was staining all the
hills with its lurid glare-the wind, mur-
mering restlessly among the dead leaves
that lay heaped over the wood paths, SEEM
ed to mourn, with almost human voice.
But the autumnal melancholy without,
only served to heighten the cheerfulness of
the roaring wood fire, whose ruddy glow
danced and quivered over the rough rafters
of Farmer Woodbridge's old kitchen,
sparkling on the polished surfaces of plat
ters and glimmering brasses, and sending
streams of radiance through the uncurtain-
ed windows out upon the darkening road.
" Yes,-as l was sayin' afore," observed
the old farmer, rubbing his toil-hardened
hands together, and gazing thoughtfully
into the fire, "it's been capital harvest
this year. l would't ask for no better.
Eth, wife, you jist pick out some O. them
yaller pppin apples, and put 'em in Jes-
sie's basket when she calls arter it,"
"Won't the little 'uns do as well? cal
culated to keep them pippins for market;
Squire Berton says thery're worth"
81 don't keer what they're worth, in
terrupted the farmer, as his helpmate, a
spare, angular woman, with face plough
ed with innumerable little lines of care,
fingured the yellow checked apples dubi-
ously. Il tell you what it is, Ketury-
folks never loose anything by doin' kind
thing. never could make you believe
that, unless the pay comesright in, in hard
cash Now here's Jessie Moreton, as like
ly gal as ever breathed, teachin' school
day in and day out, and her marm sewin'
to hum earnn' livin' by hard work
born ladies, both on 'em. Don't you sup
pose these apples II be worth more to them,
if you give em with kind word, than
they would be to that pesky, tight-fsted
agent up to Hardwiche Hall, if he gave a
dollar bushel?
"Charity begins to hum;'' said Ketury,
jerking out the supper-table, with an odd
twist of the face. Not but what Jessie's
well enough-but you'd better scratch your
pennies together to pay up the mortgage,
foreclosing on you. And them pippins is
just so good as so much money. There
they be, anyhow, in the basket-one of
your investments, l guess -
"One of your investments then, if you
like to call it so, Ketury," said the farmer.
with good humored laugh, banishing the
annoyed expression that had overspread
his face when she alluded to the mortgage.
"Come long Jessie, my gal," he added
cheerily, as light touch sounded on the
door latch. "Here's the basket, all right
and some of them golden pippins tucked
in tot, Maybe they'll tempt your mothers
appetite"
Jessie Moreton was slender, graceful
girl of about seventeen, with satin-smooth
bands of chestnut hair, parted above low,
sunny forehead, large liquid eyes, and
cheeks which Farmer Woodbridge always
declared "set him to thinkin' of them
velvet lookin' Jarsey peaches that grew on
the trees down in the south medder" She
took up the little basket with graceful
smile that went even to the hinty heart of
Mrs. Ketury.
80, Mr.. Woodbridge, how kind you
always are to us If l were only rich-if
could only make some return
"Don't you say word about that are"
said the farmer rubbing his nose very
hard. "Jest you run hum as fast as you
can put, for it is getting most dark, and
the November winds amt no ways healthy
as ever heerd on. And say, Jessie, if it
rains tomorrow so you can't go to school
handy, just stop here and I'll give you a
lift in my Wagon"
"Dear Mr.. Woodbridge" soliloquized
Jessie Moreton to herself, as her light foot
steps pattered along on the fallen leaves,
how many times have had cause to thank
his generous heart And TO think he should
be so distressed about the mortgage by the
agent at Hardwiche Hail."
She paused for a moment to look up to
where the stately roofs and CANDLES of the
Hall rose darlly outlined against the GRIM
son that still burned stormily in the sky.
On commanding height, and nearly hid.
den in trees, many of whom still retained
their brilliant autumn foliage, it seemed
almost like an old baronial castle.
"There it stands" she unused, shut III
and silent, year after year; its magnificent
rooms untenanted; the flowers blossominl
ungathered in its oonservatories. Since
Mr. Hardwiche died-twenty years since
mamma says--the family has been ava!
and now the only surviving heir is travel
In, M ona lnows where wonder if h