Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, 1878-05-02
Am 0rigiual Storg.
Written for the Yorkville Enquirer.
MARY EUSTACE ;
TRUST BETRAYED.
CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XIV.
About ten days after Mary's remova! to the
little village of Springville, (for such was the
name in which her new abode rejoiced,) she
set out one afternoon to take solitary walk.
She had, that morning, received letters from
home which filled her with disquietude. Mrs.
Banding had written in doleful strain, Ia
menting over her absence, especially as the
calamity of illness had fallen upon their
household. Maurice had, in some way, over
tasked his strength, and Injured his wounded
sde He was now suffering great pain, and
forced to keep his bed, and her whole time,
(Mrs. Blanding's) was taken up in nursing
him. Adelia had written, also, and not pleas,
antly and the effect of the two epistes was by
no means enlivening upon Mary's spirits. She
had, therefore, escaped from the young Clives,
whose foudness for her society was sometimes
a little inconvenient, in order to gain an op'
portunity for reflection. She felt almost as if
it was her duty to 60 back to Mosslands at
once, under the altered circumstances, and
vet she shrank from doing so, if it could pos
sibly be avoided. She was so occupied with
these perplexing thoughts, that she did
not observe some black clouds gathering
above the hills, but continued to stroll
absently along, until a distant roll ofthunder
startled her. Then looking up, she perceived
that storm was evidently approaching,
and quickly turned to retrace her steps. She
had, however, walked considerable distance,
and before she bad gotten halfway back,
large drops of rain began to fall, while the
thunder. claps grew louder and more frequent
and lightning. flashes played, with unpleasant
vividness, about her path. Mary was dread
fully afraid of lightning. And to add to her
distress, no house appeared any where in
sight. She ran on breathless, casting, as she
went, vain but despairing glances around, in
the hope of discovering some refuge, when
suddenly voice accosted her. 1t called out
in friendly tones
miss Miss You'd better turn in here,
and stop awhile until the rain is past.
A pleasant looking, ruddy country lad,
blushing at his own temerity in accosting her,
stood at little gate, half hidden in thicket
of bushes, at the entrance of a narrow path,
leading apparently into wood for nothing
was visible around and beyond it but trees.
Without hesitation, however, she accepted his
advice, and turned in," and directly found
herself in front of a neat brown cottage, quite
hidden from the road, but with a pretty
clearing around it, adorned With grass and
shrubs. A girl was lounging in rush-bot'
toned rocking chair in the piazza, the broad
sloping shed of which protected her from the
rain. She jumped up as they ascended the
steps, and turned as red as the boy had done,
at sight of the stranger.
"See here, Kate" said the latter, stamping
his muddy boots upon rough mat placed
there for the purpose, "this lady's got caught
in the rain take her in to mother and let
her dry herself If she's as wet as am che
needs it,"
Without making any reply, the girl opened
the house. door, and by motion, invited Mary
to enter. Crossing little hall, she ushered
her into cheerful sitting room occupied
by three persons an elderly woman and q
young one, both knitting woolen hose, and a
youth in soldiers garb, extended on a chintz
covered sofa, with one foot swathed in band
age. The old lady Immediately rose and
came forward, exclaiming in sympathy with
Mary's plight
"Why, you're awful wet, my dear I'm
right glad you stopped in. What pity you
hadn't got here q little sooner! Dear me,
I'm afraid you'll catch your death of cold.
Emily, ha at you got something you can lend
her till these things dry p
This question was addressed to her elder
daughter, who, in pleasant voice, replied
that she reckoned if the young lady would
come up to her room she could find some
things for her to put on. Mary, however, as
sured her, with many thanks, that it was only
her out covering that was wet.
"Then give Emily your shawl and hat, and
let her hang 'em up by the kitchen fire. And
your shoes-come now, I'm sure your shoes
must be soaked, for the road is awful muddy
Just round here
Mary acknowledged that they we're; but
being stout, serviceable walking boots, they
had, fortunately, protected her stockings
which were quite dry. "Em'ly'' fetched
pair of slippers, which were some sizes toe
large, and insisted on helping her unlace her
boots. She seemed excessively good-natured
and Mary was quite prepossessed by the frank
kindly faces of the whole group. She sa'
down in a rocking chair which they placed
for her, thankful for the refuge and the rest
and general conversation ensued. in which
she learned that the name of her hostess was
May6eld, that she was widow, and Gran" q
farm, with the aid of her youngest boy, Sam
that her eldest son, James, (the one on the
sofa, was home on furlough, having received
a wound in his ankle, and that it was his frs
furlough since the beginning of the war
He had been fighting in Virginia, his mother