The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1874-03-05

1HE place. Don't yOu think, with
4 you 70 oversee him, he could do khe
work on the farm fhis summer p
Mrs. Osgood did not speak, bnt the
cup she was wiping fell to the floor
with sudden crash. For fun min
ute il was the only sound which broke
the stillnes.
At last the old man answered.
81 don't know JOhn-may be he
could. / never liked to have any
strangers working on the place in my
! time. / did IL ell myself till y0n were
old enough to help me, and every
thing has prospered under your hand,
John. Still, may be James McCor-
mick could. Did you think of leaV-
ing, John?'
II dop'4 feel satisfied, father to be a
farmer IN this small way. ] want to
do something more with my life. You
could hire man to do all the work /
do for twenty dollars q month aud
want to see what am worth some
where else"
Then there was another long silence
The mother finished washing up her
dishes, and came and sat between her
husband and her son; her face was
very white aud her hands shaking :
little. After while the old man
reached ont and took one OF her trem-
bling hands in his own.
I'VE must not blame John, mother,
he said, trying to speak eheerfully.
ssWhat he feels isn't unnatural. Other
young men say the same. Very few
OF them are coAtehted noW-a-days to
live their fathers lives over aqains
Only it comes sudden. Don't think
we blame you boy. It's all fair and
right, only sudden.
John got up and went up stairs
His mother pale silence, his fathers
attempt at cheerfnlness, seemed more
than he could possibly bear. He went
away to his own room and sat down
by the window. Over across the
fields light burned steadily. He
knew it was the lamp in Aneeline
Wilmarth's parlor. Was she worth
all this, that he was making these two
old people suffer2 Was he sure that
she would love him as they did Was
be sure that she would love him at
ell And in this nntFied life, in this
great world where So many failed,
how did he know that he should sue
caed What was he going to de
How vague all his purposes were
just dream, born of soft spring
night, and angie Wilmarth's 3 fair face.
And for it he was going to overkurn
the fabric of his whole lifei
No, he would not be so mean. This
summer, at least, should go on as Be.
fore. He would take time to consid-
er. BY autumn he should know bet-
ter what he could do, and whether he
could bear to leave his old father and
mother-iye of whose treasures the
held, and whose all he
Was-qnite alone. He began to think
that this very fact that he was their
all, laid on him an obligation not to be
evaded, that no such-=success purchas-
cd at such expenditure would be
worth having. AT any rate he would
wait. And so sleep came to him, and
the morning brought him strength,
aud calmnese seemed to give him back
his old self again.
ssWiH you see James Mccormick
to-day p his father asked at break
fast, with an anxiety he stroyc to corr
ceal.
John smiled cheerfnIIy.
g Not to-day, father, not at present.
My plan was sudded, as you said-tOo
sudden to be wise. / have given it
up, for time at least, I will carry
on the place for awhile longer"
The old mans face cleared, but he
did not speak only John Osgood's
mother got mp silently and kissed
him. No young lips could haYe been
more fOnd-couId any be more daar
Two weeks after the news came to
him of Angeline WilmaFth's bethoth.
al to her cousin-the city-bred young
man who had been riding beside her
in the May twilight. This was an nn-
blow, something which,
knowing the man was her cousin, he
had never feared. The news sank in
to his heart with dull dumb pain
She never would have cared for him.
then-neVer had. Il was well he had
not gone away and left those who did
love him to mourn. After all, per-
haps this existence of plowine and
planting was alI he was good for.-
Fate had placed him rightly, and had
gtiag his capacities better than he
could have done himself. So he set
tied back into his old grooves with a
grim resignation that was not yet con-
tent. Still he felt himself at odds
with the life that did not offer what
he wanted.
When autumn came, and il was
time for him, If at all, to make the
change planned in the spring, he was
surprised to find the inclination to
make it gone. Some healing ministry
to call it, of nature or of grace, God
knows what had been at work in his
soul and, unconsciously to himself,
not what he wished, but what he
ought to do; and be felt that the very
fact of his being on earth, God had
called him to certain duties on which
he would never again turn his back.
Reconciled at last to the appointment
of Heaven, he was at peace also with
his own soul and new light came
into his eyes, new vigor and man
hood into his life. 4@
He could think of Angeline Will
marth in these days without pains
There would always be in his heart
for her the tenderness 3 good man
feels for women once beloved, but
whether she was his or another's he
could not reckon her loss or gain
among the 'aIl things he was content
ed to leave with heaven"
He had heard in the summer that
she was to be married on Christmas,
but he heard no more about it after
wards. Her preparation was going
on, he supposed, but he seldom saw
her, more than a passing good day,
since her engagement.
One afternoon in November, he
brought home from the village post
Office bundle. of paper, his Boston
daily among them. Sitting by the
fire and turning them over, bis eyes
were caught by the heading in large
letters:
ANOTHER CASE OF DEFALCATIoN.
He began to read the article with
the kind of half careless interest peo-
pie in the country feel in the excite
ment of the city, which cannot touch
them personally; but suddenly he
started up. cIutching the paper tight,
and atraining his eyes over it as if he
doubted his own vision. The name
of the defaulting and runaway bank
teller was Angie Wilmarth's cousin.
Thank Heaven that no mean selfish-