The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1876-06-09
MY GEORGE.

1 have been asked to tell the story;
but, if tell it at all, it must be in my
own way. I'm an old woman now, and
II 1 ramble and maunder at times, why,
perhaps you would do the same if you
were sixty years old. 1t wasn't necessary
to see through milestone to see that
one of the girls loved him with her whole
heart, while the other-but there 1
have got into the middle of the story,
and haven't told you the beginning yet.
There wasn't any great harm in Ida
l believe that thoroughly-but the child
was too much of a kitten to know her
own mind. Pretty9 Oh, yes, very
pretty, even to my old eyes; just the
sort of beauty that old age likes, with
plenty of light and color about it-great
soft dark eyes, and heaps of dark tan
gled hair, and the bloom of the damask
rose on her soft oval cheeks. She was
good little thing in the main, but fam
ciful and highty and capricious as will
o'-the-wisp, and with a whole storehouse
of romance treasured up in her foolish
little brain. 1t was really as good as a
play to see that dainty, luxurious little
creature sitting there in her silks and
laces, talking about self-sacrifce and the
pleasure of working and economizing
for the man one loved. Work and econ
omy, forsooth and she knew about as
much of either as mollusk does of alge-
bra. Not that L know what mollusl1 is
heaven forbid but it seems to be
the fashion now to talk the most of what
you understand the least. Yes, Ida was
q nice little thing, bright and good
natured, and generous Ill an impulsive,
open-handed way; but, bless you'll she
had about as much power of loving in
her as kitten. She could like people
and be fond Of them, and all that sort of
thing, as long as everything was smooth
and pleasant but at the first touch of
adversity-puff her little rush-hght of
love was out with q Whit, instead of
burning up clearer and stronger and
fercer for the blast, as it ought to do if
it were the right sort.
What is the use of being hard upon
the child, though, for what she could no
more help than she could the mole upon
her cheek, which troubled her so Love
is gift and a talent, like any other.
Some people have it and some haven't,
and whether it is gift to be prayed for
or not is a question my poor old brain
cannot pretend to settle. 1 believe in it
yet, old as l am, and 1 believe in insani-
ty, but it's precious little I've seen of
either the one or the other They say
we are all crazy, more or less, only in
most people it never comes out very
strong, and perhaps it's the same with
love. l suppose most of us have more
or less of the commodity lying loose
about us ready to be squandered on
anybody that comes along. People in
general are satisfied to dribble it out,
here little and there q little, until it is
all gone, and nobody the better for it
or the worse. Once in while, though,
you come across somebody who has
boarded up the whole stock, and kept it
intact until the one comes along who
claims it all. Is that the better way9
I'm sure 1 can't tell. 1t all depends
upon who comes in for it at the end.
George was one of that kind, think;
a little mite of a creature, with none of
Ida's brightness or bloom about her,
but taking, in her way, too, with the
look of quiet resolution about the square
chin and firm little mouth, and the
wistful, yearning spirit that seemed al
ways peeping out of the blue-gray eyes.
Soft brown hair, and fair, quiet little
face that could wake up and sparkle
with life when anything stirred or
amused her-that was George. And
both of the girls thought they loved
him, though what there was about him
that was so wonderfully attractive 1 never
could see. A good-looking young fell
,~1, ko11 a,,I
brown mustache, and clear frank look
In his brown eyes. You see hundreds
as good as he is every day, and what
here was about him We'll, well, girls
are mysteries, and very different from
what they were when 1 was young.
Then we didn't consider it proper to
talk, or even think, about such things.
We took the good the gods gave us in
that line, and were thankful; or, if we
didn't choose to take it. we went without,
and never vexed our heads about any
"naight haze 6eenS." That's what / did,
and I'm none the worse for it now. Per-
haps, though, if Georgie's father
But that is all over and done with long
ago. Sometimes l think, though, that
that may be the reason 1 love the girl so
well-.better, yes, certainly better, than
Ida, though she is my own niece.
But here L am maundering on about
my own views and my own thoughts and
my own feelings, and haven't told you
who they all are yet. Ida, you see, is
my niece-Ida Merton, my brothers
only child. George is George Gresh-
am, distant connection of Ida's, who
lives in the house, but supports herself
by giving music lessons. Such patient,
plucky, indomitable little mite as she is,
trudging out in all weathers, and coming
back pale and tired, but with never q
complaint from her firm little lips, and
always with a bright smile and a cheer
full word for "Aunt Jeanie, as she, too,
calls me. 1 believe the child really does
love me; and does Ida, only hers is a
different sort of love. You feel that if
you were away, Ida would love a stick,
or stone, or anything that might hap
pen to be in your place; but George
would never forget you-never. The
young man is Mark Drayton, and he is
only clerk in my brothers store; but,
for all that, he is of good birth and
breeding. The wheel of fortune has
TRANCE ups and downs, and he was glad
enough of the place vhen Mr. Martor