The weekly herald. [volume] (Cleveland, Tenn.) 1876-1888, 1877-07-05

made me do 1t; but Ii was as IL some body
had hidden me; and without a word ol
thought but that it must be done, | rar
to the fire, gave the saucepan poke
and sent the soup blazing up the chin
ney. As 1t flzzled up, the thought oI
her anger came over me; knew moi
what did but uttering wild cry OI
fear, | rushed TO the nearest door, and
it was the best parlOr. The next thing
| remember is crOuching behind the
gentleman, who had started up and
stood in the door, as Mrs. Williams came
forward with two knives, which had
been lying on the window sill, IN her
hand.
Pooh, never mind the spilling of the
SOUP" said he, understanding at once
what | had done, which indeed was
easily seen. "You would not be angry
at the child for that; she could not help
it, dare say. | can dine without 1t.
You don't know me, Mrs. Williams" "
he continued, coming a step nearer
where she stood, still looking at me
with deadly glitter in her eyes.
"Don't l." said she, and think she
was trying which one Ofthe knives was
the sharpest.
"Well," said the gentleman, "you
may know me to be Edward Winstanely,
you don't know that | married your
daughter, and brought her home lady.
| never meant to act the villain with
her. We were privately married, but
while the old man lived it had to be
kept secret, and we knew you would
not keep it. This is why come to-day
to surprise you; but you will come to
Winstanely park to give us your bless
ing. BY Jove, ma'am, you're not going
to faint?"
She had staggered back against the
wall, her white lips set, and her eyes
growing CLASSY. He and |, and half a
dozen of the servants. whom my scream
had brought in, ran to help; but she
pushed us away with desperate effort,
darted up stairs, and we heard her lock
herself in her own room. The whole
house was terribly frightened. What
Mr. Winstanely thought, do not know,
but he asked me no questions, and never
seemed to suspect anything about the
spilled soup. He left note for Mrs.
Williams, and went off with his servant
| a little before sunset. We all went about
our business, for work never Stacked
in that house on any account, and the
evenings coach was expected. Just be-
fore it came, Mrs. Williams bell rang,
and the hOusemaid said she wanted me.
When | came into the room she was
sitting at the desk, looking like herself
again, but her face was still white, and
she had her long, knitted purse full of
guineas in her hand.
MARY" said she, "you are good
girl-take this and go howe-I'll take
care that you get no blame"
"I want no money, ma'am," said /,
"but I'll go home if you'll let me, and
never say word except to my father
and mother"
She held out the purse once more, and
then pointed to the door, but could say
nothing; it must have been hard pull
for her proud spirit. | got out of the
room as quick as could, threw on my
hat and cloak, and got into the coach as
soon as 1t came up, leaving my trunk
and all behind me.
My father and mother were nightly
surprised when it set me down at their
door in Chatford, just as the clock
struck twelve-they were still more as
tonished when told them what brought
me home. My. father first called me
brave, good girl, and then advised me
not to be proud about 1t because it was
the work of Providence, and we were
bound on all hands to keep such story
quiet about Farmer Dickson's relation.
The story was kept between me and
them; but my homecoming got wind,
and Farmer Dickson came in great
furry to know why Mary had left her
good situation. My mother would not
have reflections cast on her child, so
she told him in the parlor, and what he
said, don't know, because the door
was shut fast; but he came out rubbing
his hands and clapped me on the back =,
saying: "By jingo, you are fine girl,
Mary, and if Harry don't finish that
business, III make you to be Mrs. Dick
son myself"
think have not much more to tell.
Harry did finish the business. There
were soome people in our village that
never got over the wonder of it; but
am proud to say that the Dickson family
did not lose by me, for ten years after
Mrs. Williams died In her inn, aud left
her property in equal shares between
me and her daughter, Lady Winstanely.
She had never gone to the Park but
once, and then she would neither, eat,
drink or sleep in the house, but saw her
daughter and her grandson, now heir
to the estate, and then went straight
back to the Golden Sheaf. She never
took another girl to stay with her, and
what she said about my leaving, never
heard. The maids had story among
them, and they always stuck to it, that
went on account of something that
came down the chimney, and frightened
Mrs. Williams out of her senses. They
said one thing which l am inclined to
think might be true-that she never
liked to make eel soup after that, nor
cared to look at red pepper.
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