Smyrna times., 1875-07-28

10 DC Tlcn Wuell she WAS young, DuC SHe |
was real bright and learned then, very
learned, for a rich mans daughter. Her
father died, they lost their fortune, and |
Widow had to work for her living. She |
came here, and Widow has actually been
principal of our village high school for the
last seven years. There never was woman
held the place before, and there never was
a man who filled it half so well. Her
graduates make the best wives and the
best schoolmistresses in the country
School-mistresses always make good wives,
Sam. | used to be a school-mistress my
self"
"Ycs,'' said Sam. "Modest you know"
"And Widow has dono an immcasurble
lot OF good among the girls here. She has
made them like herself, as far as they've
sense enough to be like it-brave, strong,
like her, Sam. She supports her mother
out of her earnings, and-and dresses like
lady too" said Sams cousin, adding the
last as the climax of all praise.
~ don't like paragons," said Sam.
"Awful tiresome."
"At any rate, you're in no danger of
being taken for one yourself" replied the
sharp little woman. "YOu had the world
before you, and we were all so proud of you,
and had such high hopes of you. You
were going to be famous poet, reform
preacher, and the Lord knows what, and
you've not been any of it. When you die
| shall have this label tackled across your
coffin lie began life a poet, full of grand
hopes and aspirations, and he ended by
being slovenly old bachelor, who made Il
fortune in the brick pressing business"
cousin Mary, let's start to the camp
meeting"
At the camp ground, Sam Harrington
and little Mrs. Gerty sat among the devout
part of the congregation, and listened to
the sermon like old folks When it was
over, and they had all left the wooden
benches, a tall, pale lady, with lustrous
black eyes, and dark, wavy hair, stood up
facing them. An aged lady with silvery
hair and sweet, placid face leaned on the
others arm, and the younger lady carefully
) supported her feeble steps.
"That's Widow and her MOTHER" whis
percd Sans cousin. " Isn't she loyely?'
Sam looked. The fine, delicate face wa.
the least bit faded and tired-lool<ing, bu
, /, not bit sourcd or gloomy. Oh, no! no
=, the least. 1t was clear, true facc-fine
strong and pure, like steel or silk, or some
: thing of that sort. Little Mrs Cert,
: caught the school-mistrcss hand.
: "Widow!' said She, this is Cousin San
Harrington, rich, slovenly, old bachelor
, l wish you'd take him off my hands. San
! Miss Kildare"
> "W-h-a-t" screamed he, crazily.
, "Don't hurt my arm so. What did yo
:, do that for? said Mrs. Gerty.
- Mr.. Harrington and used to kno
each other long ago, when I was young,
: said the school-mistress, calmly, but wit
an inefIable look in her dark, softly-fringe
eyes. " | met Mr.. Harrington fifteen yea
ago, at a camp meeting. | have never sec
N. him from that day to this"
!. Then she moved on in a calm, gracef
. way, with little spot of quivering sunshil
= glancing across her gray dress as she passe
=, And tho very first thing Sam HarringtC
- did was to look sheepishly down at /
:. dusty old boots, while his face rcdden,
,d slowly with the memory of an old flam
or He laid his hand upon Mrs. Gertys arm.
~ ''Cousn Mary, you said awhile ago that
H., used to be a poet and an enthusiast, wi
10 bright hopes and great aspirations, and
80 had all ended in my being a useless, slove
ly old bachelor, who got rich at pate
81 brick making. That woman knows why
"Then I'm sure you wronged her me
IL, than she wrOngcd you. She is the true
best, brightest woman l ever knew. l
-, wonder if you are the man she nea
broke her heart about, long ago? l
II. heard whisper of that, I'm sure. y
:. were always too hard and unforgivi
6 Sam"
as Little Mrs. Gerty, romantic as &
md watched them narrowly. Were the
on. flames kndling into life again? Sol
itb times little Mrs. Gerty thought they
elv never died entirely out, from the heart
dis. either. Sam Harrington began to bli
is q his boots and button his Wristbands.
.ort One summer moonlit evening Alice
dare sat in the porch of the little cottag
his which she lived with her mother. She
,ole looking down the avenue of trees in fl
towards the west, where the sun was 81
no ing in the glowing sky. Sam Harring
came slowly up the walk and joined he
{ of the porch.
nch, "Widow Kildare" he said, 81 have c.
to bid you goodbye"
self Have your" said Widow. She We
ome not ask a word more.
ired eyes, must go back to my mi
nnds raking. Bricks, you know, and clay,
and furnaces and things. / meant to be a
,,si, when used to be in love with you tif
years ago. Now am a brickmalIer."
And Used to be- That was what she
-ou'd stayed an old maid for. Her heart
,ooP like lead i'm her bosom, but she smiled