The Weston Democrat. [volume] (Weston, W. Va.) 1875-current, 1876-01-31

which settles down upon some peop4o
very early.
Strangers, too, began to tako nc for
the head Of tho family; and once, in u
new neighborhood, the butcher alluded
to "my wife," l found out that hc
meant my mother, and only wondered
that it was not dear old grAnnic.
She was eighty, grandfather ninety,
and they died ono bright autumn day,
before prosperity camo to US, died with
in an hour OF each other-for grannie
Just said "I think I'll lie down bit,
now Lcmuel don't need me. I'm very
tired"
Then she kissed me, md said :
"You'vo been n good boyto your grand
pa, Edward. You'll have That to think
And when next We looked Mt her she
was dead, with her cheek upon her hand
like sleeping child.
So two were gone, and We were sadder
than before. And then Jean, my eldest
sister, married at sixteen o physician,
who carried her off to Hindostan in her
honeymoon.
And We could mono OF us feel tho we'd.
ding happy thing.
But prosperity did come ut last. l
had worked hard for it, and anything n
man makes his sole object in this life he
is very sure to attain.
Wo wero comfortable Ah,
what a word that is after years OF strug-
gle At last We were rich. But by that
time I was fye.and-forty-a large, dark,
middle.agcd man, with afaco that looked
to myself in the glass as though it were
perpetually intent on figures. Tho girls
were married. Dick had taken to the
sea, and We saw him once year or 80,
and Ashton was ut homo with mother
and myself-the only really handsome
member OF our family, and Just two-and.
twenty. And it was on his birthday, l
remember, that that letter came to me
from poor Hunter-the letter which be-
gan: "When these lines reach you, Ned
Sanford, I shall have my six feet OF earth
= all 1 ever owned or would il I had
lived 10 be n hundred"
We had been young together, though
hc was really older thnn and We had
been close friends once, but q rowing
fit had seized him, and We had not met
for years. I knew he had married n
young Kcntish girl, and knew no more ;
but now no told mo that she was dead,
and that his death would leave daugh-
ter IN orphan.
"She is not quito penniloss," he
wrote ; :" for her mother had little in.
come, which, poor as l was, l was never
brute enough to meddlc with, and it has
descended to her. But l have been n
rolling stone, gathering no moss, all my
life, and We never staid long enough III
one place to make friends. Will you be
her guardianl it is dying mans last
request -
And then he wrote somo words,
coming from his heart, knew, which,
being Of myself, I cannot quote even
herc-I could not think that deserved
them.
And the result OF that letter, and Of
another from the lawyer who hGd Annie
Hunters little fortune in charge, was
that ono soft spring day found me on
board OF steamer which lay ut rest Of.
ter her voyage in the protecting arms Of
Liverpool, with two little hands in mine,
and pair Of great brown eyes lifted to
my flcc, and a sweet voice choked with
sobs saying something Of "poor papa" !"
and of how much ho had spoken Of me,
and OF the lovely voyage, md the green
graves left bchiud; and J, who had gone
to meet child and found woman,
looking at her and feeling toward her ms
had never looked upon nor felt to any
other.
Not to Elsie Hall. 1t was not the
boyiSh love dream come again.
Analysing the emotion, | found onlyn
great longing to protect md comfort
her-to guard her from every pain and
ill and 1 said to myself : "This is as
father must feel to a daughter; can be
parent to George Hunters child in
every truth" And I took her home to
the old house and to my old mother. l
thought only Of those; somehow, l
never thought OF Ashton.
Shall 1 ever forget how she brighten.
ed the sombcr rooms How, rs her
sadness wore away, she sang to us i'll
tho twilight How strangely n some.
thing which made the return home, and
the long hours of tho evening seem no
much brighter than they had ever been
before, stole into my life I never went
to sleep in church now; I kept awake to
look ut Olive Hunter-to listen to her
pure contralto as she joined in the sing.
ing. Sometimes caught her eye, her
great unfathomable brown eye. for sho
had habit Of looking at me. Was she
wondering how face could he so stern
and grim I l used to ask myself.
Ashton used TO look nt her also. He
had been away when she first came to
us, and when he returned sho was n
grand surprise to him.
"Oh, how lovely she is |" he had said
to me.
"She is very pretty" 1 replied.
Ashton laughed.
"May l never bo m old bachclor II it
brings mo to. calling such q girl very
pretty" he said; and l felt conscious
that my check flushed, and felt angry
that he should have spoken OF me thus,
though ] never cared before.
They liked each other very much
those two young things. They were
together great deal. A pretty picture
they made in the Venetian window i'll
tho sunset. He n fair-hcNded, blue
eyed, Saxon looking youth; she so ex-
exquisitely dark md glowing.
Every one liked her. Even my old
clerk, Stephen Hadley, used to say her
presence lit the Office more thnn dozen
lamps, the nearest approach ton poetical
n,,oaoh rs ,rh;oI, oIj gtoNban 1roa nvOr