Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1872-11-15

| was hpN i"PNhN'hb 'O' NN -
must occupy some responsible position up
on the road, and could therefore, have made
no mistake in the matter.
No one else, however, either inside or
outside Of the car, seemed TO partake Of my
alarm. The cars were slackening their
speed, blu that was because we were APP
proaching station, and had not intend
ed getting out of the cars until 1 had reach
cd the end of my journey, but had been so
startled by what I had seen that could not
sit quietly in my scat.
got out with the rest of the passengers,
| but did not follow them to the hotel. l
stood upon the platform gazing up and
down the track uneasily, but could see
nothing at all that could awaken apprchen-
sion. The one-eyed conductor was no.
where TO be seen, though 1 watched the
road, in the direction where we had passed
him, for some time, expecting every mo-
ment TO see him come in sight. A porter
| trundling wheelbarrow, passed me- and
of him | ventured to inquire.
as there anything the matter with the3
engine or track ?"
"Not as know on" he answered grufly,
and passed on.
was still terrible uneasy l was certain
that l had not been mistaken in the man or
the signal the latter, especially, remem-
| bered-a forward motion with both hands,
as if directing the cars to back. could
recall distinctly the face and gestures of
the conductor who had explained it to me,
and also his words, "If ever you see that
signal given prepare for flying leap for
the probabilities are you will soon have to
take it = and the longer dwelt upon what
had witnessed the more convinced did
become that the signal had not been given
carelessly.
went into waiting room to sit down
until 1 could determine what it would be
best for me to do. felt most invincible
repugnance to returning to the cars and
continuing my journey; the excitement
and worry made me sick and faint, and
felt that ran great risk OF becoming i'll
before I reached my journeys end. even if
there was no other danger to be dreaded.
What if I should stay over at Lancaster
until the next day, and telegraph to father
to come to me there? And at the same
| instant remembered that there was in
my travelling satchel, in The little outer
pocket, where it had rested undisturbed for
two years, the card which the old Quaker
lady had given me, bearing the name and
address of her daughter, who kept a board
| ing-house. That remembrance decided me;
if l could find lodging at that place would
remain over night at Lancaster.
Summoning driver to me showed him
the card, and asked him if he knew the adj
| dress.
"Certainly, num-" he said promptly;
take you there in Ten minutes; Mrs. FL
woods boa riding house; quiet place, but
excellent accommodations
Thus assured, entered his carriage and
he fulfilled his promise by setting me down
after a short drive, in front of an unassum-
| ing, two story frame house, whose quiet,
elderly appearance made. it look unlike q
boarding house. A Aboarding-housei it proved
to be, however, and in the landlady, Mrs.
| Elwood-who came TO me after had wait
| ed awhile in the darkened parlor-I traced
at once a strong resemblance to my old
Quaker friend, as convinced me l had
| found the place | sought.
As she was leading me up stairs TO my
room, ventured to state that had met
her mother two years before and formed
| travelling acquaintance. Mrs. Elwood's
| pleasant smile upon hearing this encourage
ed me to ask if her mother was living with
her. adding that l should he pleased to re-
new the acquaintance if she was. The re-
ply was in the affirmative.
"You will meet her at dinner. which is
served at two, and she will be glad enough
to have chat with you, I'll venture to
say"
| wrote out my telegram to father, and
Mrs. Elwood promised to have it attended
to at once for me; after doing everything
that kindness could suggest, she left me to
the rest was beginning very much to feel
the need of. A tidy-looking little maid
ca me to me when the dinner bell rang TO
show me the way TO the dning-room
and there the first person l saw was my
little old lady, already seated near the up
per end of a long table.
She bow ed and smiled when she saw me,
but we were too lar apart to engage in any
conversation. After the meal was over she
Joined me, shook hands very cordially, and
| invit ed me to come and sit with her in her
room. l was glad to accept the invitation,
for in my loneliness the kind face of this
| chance acquaintance seemed almost like
| that of a friend and soon in one of the ca
siest ow-cushioned chairs in one Of the
choicest of old lady apartments was seat
ed, talking more cheerfully and unreserv-
edly than had talked since my baby died.
expressed some surprise that she had
recognized me so promptly, to which sho
replied:
81 had always good memory for faces,
though names / am apt to forget when
my daughter spoke to me about thee,
| could not at all call thee to mind, yet as
soon as thee entered the dining groom, re-
membered thee"
"And yet do not look much like did
two years ago." said sadly.
"That is true, my dear, thee has altered
very much. 1 almost wonder now that l
should have recognized thee so promptly.
"Thee has seen trouble, fear" she adj
ded, gently touching my black dress.
eyes" 1 said, 81 have had both sickness
and death TO battle with / neither look
nor feel much like the thouehtless happy
bride whom you met two years ago"
SIS it thy husband who has been taken
from thee?"
"Oh, no! nor l cried, the ready tears
rising to my eyes; 81 don't think l could
have lived if had lost him. 1t was my
baby that died-that was hard enough the
dearest little blue-eyed darling you ever
saw-iust ten months old"
MY old friends face betrayed her sympa-
thy, as she sat silently waiting for me to
regain my composure. After little she
said, signing:
at is hard to lose a child, whether young
or old. can fully sympathize with thee
in thy be, eavement, for |, too, have lost
son since last saw thee, though / wear no