Spirit of the age. [volume] (Woodstock, Vt.) 1845-1913, 1875-06-02

tied
'If you please y; here is the first
weeks rent
The cobbler took it, scrawled out q
receipt, nodded and left his dodgers to
themselves. Seated again on his
bench, meditatively, he scratched his
grizzled chin and contemplated the
six coins in his horny palm.
"Two bobs week lost to-day !!
he remarked. "Jerry, you miser, how
could you do it,"
The cobbler'S dodgers proved very
quiet. They did not interfere with
their landlord, and he, apparently, did
not interfere with them, His rent
was paid to the day,
They rarely spoke, save exchanging
the ordinary morning and evening sa-
lutions when the daughter went
through the shop. The mother never
left thc'house. But Jerry, like most
cobblers, was a man of observation,
and he made such comments as the
following:
"She's beauty, she is ; but awful
white and sad. It's my opinion it's
hard times with them upstairs"
Then, when the girl went out earl
ier and came home later, even with a
sadder, more depressed expression,
he said 'I'Il tell you what it is, Jer-
ry shes seeking work and doesn't
get it !"
One evening, few weeks after
Mrs. Weston and her daughter rent
ed the cobbler's apartments, the
latter entered the shop later than US.
ual.
The yellow lamp was hanug dismal
ly, and Jerry, boot on his knee, was
hard at work. After the customary
salutation the girl was passing on,
when the cobblers voice arrested
her.
81 say, your mothers i'll, amt she p
he asked nursing his knee with both
arms.
"Yes, Mr.. Crayshaw, I'm sorry to
say she has been for some while all
ing. She-she-" and the young
voice trembled with tears-''is very
weak"
Then you must give her lots to
eat, " responded Jerry, staring out of
the window. "The best thing tor
weak people is nice roast foul and a
bottle ofwine. Why don't you give
them her q
81 wish | was able, or even to pro-
vide her less expensive danties but -
but and the tears fell fast-"I can
not."
"Ah, that's the fault, you see, of
having no money. Good evening"
He resumed his work, and the girl
scarcely cheered by this little episode,
went, with heavy heart, upstairs.
Mrs Weston was 50 i'll, she was ly-
ing on her bed. The candle was in
the room, and in the parlor gate
burnt a few sparks of fire, over which
was a small saucepan. On the table
was tea tray and portion of pre-
vious days loaf. L. was such de-
pressing welcome home after the wea-
ry day that with difficulty the poor
girl could control her emotion.
"ls that you, Glare ?" inquired the
widows feeble voice.
"Yes, mother"
"Come to me, my child"
Clare pressed her white hands to
her bosom, made an effort, and passed
Into the bedroom. But the mothers
first words beat down all her noble
souled, heroic self-repression.
Clare, dear, you had better success
to-day ?"
The girl dropped on a chair and,
burying her face in the coverlet, burst
into paroxysm Of weeping.
"No, mother" she sobbed hysteri-
cally, ''it's the same old, old story; l
can get nothing. What shall we do ?
l feel heart-broken."
"Clare, Clare, my child" calculated
the mother, fondly embracing her,
''do not you give way What, indeed
will become of us then =? My brave,
brave girl, do not weep thus T.
"Pray, let me, mother (; | shall be
better after it."
She, apparently, was right. for at
the end of few moments she loo ked
up calmer her tears ceased.
"There," she smiled 81 am better
now. "1t's good to give away at
times, you know. At least, one cant
help it. and our lot is SO hard but we