Port Royal standard and commercial. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1874-1876, 1876-07-27
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 I" were the first words
that escaped her lips; and they were
appropriated as Citing compliment by
q rastily clad man, who seized the little
gloved hand vigorously i'll his horny
palm, aud chopped he saw Miss Thatcher
quite well.
"Supper's bin ready this half hour, u
was the laconic and not amiable saluta-
tion of Mr.. Seaman's spouse, who re-
ceived Louisa in the porch.
eau the boys is gone fshiu, You
see," said the host. When Solon's to
hum from grammar school, Ezri's sure
to jine him, an take day of"
After tea, served in narrow, white
washed anteroom to the stiff, funereal
parlor, where Miss Thatcher was bid
g take off her things" the young lady
begged to be shown to her own room,
and was led up stairs to low-windowed
bedroom, carpeted with braided rags,
and furnished with Redeemed pine and
calico eounterpanes. The luggage had
been pushed in with mental ejacula-
tion: What on earth can distric'
schoolma 'am want with two big trunks?'
and the audible information: "Ive
filled your pitcher. Here's candle.
The git-up bell II ring at six"
With as slight preparation as might
be, the overwearied girl-homesick to
her hearts core-crept into bed.
She awoke with start. The room
was quite dark; a cool, damp noun. ain
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
wlre scaling their fish. From the house
beyond the orchard came the tinkling OF
a piano, and thin, sharp female voice
practiced gingerly song just then come
into vogue: d..
"No ono to love, none to caress,
Travelling alone through Gfe's wilderness. v
"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, penniless, nearly friendless, the
one being that / loved and adored gone
from me forever. mo one to love, none
to caress.' Could anything be truer of
me than that p
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. and
this Juvenile escort failed, Miss Tbatch-
er, wrapping herself in waterproof, and
taking book with her, would 60 down
the orchards steep bank to the old mill.
She made friends with Tim, the miller s
bog, and Bill Bowles, the miller, and
"the old deacon" the prehistoric pro-
prietor of the premises, who had not
failed day these fifty years to look in,
rain or shine, to see /" if things was to
rights"
She found love of a corner where,
through the cracks under the great
beams, she could see the water wildly
rushing, and where she could hear, in
its grand excitement, the grind and
whirl, the boom and splash, of the mad
flood who's sound up on the hill yonder
assumed such drowsy monotone.
"You be so fond of readin', miss,
said Tim, the miller's boy, "mebbe
You'd take shine to Gurus book we've
90. ERE. There wus time when all the
visitors to Red Cedar pond cum down
to take look at it; but it's grown rusty
like. A hand writ book, miss-a man
scrip sum folks calls it. It b'longs, you
might say, to Bowles' mill, for it wus
left with the old deacon, to be kept
till called fur, an wus writ by the curu
sest spesmin of human cretur; but be
died afore my time. I'm stranger II
these parts. I wus reared twelve mile!
back"
"Aud no one has called for tht
book ?"
"Not yit," said Tim, mysteriously-
"not yit. Folks is too sup'stitious
There be sum who say it never will b.
called fur till the old deacon lies aside
O. the cretur who writ it. He died sud
din, an wus buri'd up in the deacon
buri'l lot. An sum say he wusn'
buri'd, but is gone a sea v'yage, an i
come back an sum say he's been seet
round Bowles' mill moonlight nights
But you needn't be scared, miss. Tn
book is nat'ral harmless. An if yol
say so, I'll git it fur you this mint, an
when you're through readin' ont, II
put it back"