Connecticut western news., 1876-07-14
NO ONE TO LOVE.

There had been a summer shower; roof, window, garden, were washed to dazzling polish, and the wonderful liquid couleur de rose of the moment poured over all an air of enchantment. The slender young woman in deep mourning whom the stalwart proprietor of the vehicle lifted down like feather accepted her dreaded destination with smile.
 How lovely l' were the first words that escaped her lips; and they were appropriated as @ fitting compliment by rustily clad man, who seized the little gloved hand vigorously in his horny palm, and "hoped ha saw Miss Thatcher quite we'll"
 "Supper's bin ready this half hour," was the laconic and not aaiable saluta- tion of Mir. Seaman's spouse, who re- ceived Louisa in the porch.
 "An' the boys is gone fishin', you see," said the host. When solon's to hum from grammar school, Ezri's sure to iine him, an take day of"
 After tea, served in narrow, white washed anteroom to the stiff, funereal parlor, where Miss Thatcher was bid |" take off her things" the young lady begged to be shown to- her own room, and was led up stairs to 1ow-wind lowed bedroom, carpeted with braided rags, and furnished with reddened pine and calico counterpanes. The luggage had been pushed in with mental ejacula- tion: 's What on earth can distrio' schoolma'a am want with two big trunks9" and the audible information: I've filled your pitcher. Here's candle. The git-up bell Il ring at six"
 With as slight preparation as might be, the overwearied girl-homesick to her hearts core-crept into bed. .-r She awoke with 8 start. The room was quite dark; cool, damp mountain wind rushed through the open windows. She lighted match and glanced at her watch. Only nine o'clock, and the | world still wide awake. A burst of hilarious laughter arose from the kitchen | below, where the returned fishermen were scaling their fish. From the house beyond the orchard came the tinkling of 8 piano, and thin, sharp female voice practiced gingerly song just then come into vogue:
 "No one to love, none to caress, l
 "My serenade," thought Louise, as she tried in vain to recompose herself to sleep. "Could any words express me better ? An orphan, without brother or sister, pehniless, nearly friendless, the one being that I loved and adored gone from me forever. No one to love, none to caress.' Gould anything be truer of me than that 2"
 The village schoolchildren were en, chanted with their new teacher. She was gentle and firm, interesting and companionable. There was not sunny day all summer when some of them did not come after school to take her with them to Red Cedar pond, the holiday rendezvous of the country round.
 If the afternoon proved rainy, an6 this juvenile escort failed, Miss Thatch CT, wrapping herself in waterproof, and taking book with her, would go dow1 the orchards steep bank to the old mill } She made friends with Tim, the miller's boy, and Bill Bowles, the miller, anG "the old deacon," the prehistoric pro prietor of the premises, who had no failed day these fifty years to look in rain or shine, to see if things was tx rights"
 She found love of corner where through the cracks under the grea beams, she could see the water wildl, |. rushing, and where she could hear, il it's grand excitement, the grind ant whirl, the boom and splash, of the mat flood whose sound up on the hill yonde assumed such drowsy monotone.
 "You be so fond of readin', miss, said Tim, the miller's boy, "m mebb . you'd take shine to curus book we'v got ere. There wus time when all tn visitors to Red Cedar pond cum dow to take look at it.; but it's grown rust } like. A hand-writ book, miss-a mar scrip sum folks calls it. It b'longs, yo might say. to Bowles' mill, for it wu left with the old deacon,' to be kep till called fur, an wus writ by the curt sest spesmin of human cretur; but h died afore my time. I'm stranger these parts. wus reared twelve mile
 back"
 "And no one has called for th book ?"
 "Not yit," said Tim, mysteriously-
 "not yit. Folks is too sup'stitiou
 There be sum who say it never will |
 called fur till c the old deacon lies asid
 O the cretur who writ it. He died sut
 din, an wus buri'd up in the deacon . buri'l lot. An sum say he wusn
 buri'd, but is gone sea wage, an - come back an sum say he's been see
 round Bovles' mill moonlight night
 But you needn't be scared, miss. TT
 book is nat'ral harmless. An if yo
 say so, I'll git it fur you this mint, al when you're through readin' ont, I
 put it back"
 ! Up to the rafters he climbed nimb ! by certain footholds not very visibl z and brought down, with flying lea
 that startled Miss Thatcher to her fe ]. in nervous apprehension for his safet: dusty volume, which he gallant . wiped upon his coat sleeve and offere'
 An autobiography, not so very ol'
 for it's closing date was 1847. Four hui
 dred pages of yellow letter pap
 stitched together by the dozen sheet
 and finally bound in wrap of blae
 leather. Written in 8 fine, pointe
 hand, difficult to read at first, but ono 4 mastered in it's idiosyncrasies, legible
 ease. And having this peculiarity C | alrnost everv mace mixed in the tex