The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1878-09-28

""uid not nave been lesseDed had you
caught sight of him, by the Pickering can
die III his upper window, sitting there mo-
tlonless with an eye on the gate below
Perhaps he expected Rebecca back after
her gift. do not know.
- She's one of the town poor, is old Bet
sey,' said Rebecca, meekly, and had
said 1t meekly year after year, striving to
allure the vagrant old woman into feeling
at home ON the charity list of the good
town folk, and to rest her aching old bones
in the town poor house. But old Betsey
was not to be trapped.
If one must be poor and ragged at
least let one have plenty of fresh air leis-
ure. says old Betsey. ITO be n pauper
and drudge both is 4 little too much.
And to be preached to and prayed over and
hedged IN right and left, and to scrub work
house floors and scour work house knives.
all for a bit of bread-bah, that is all I'M
bearable, says old Be,sey. Struggling her
bony shoulders under her ragged shawl,
and setting out warily on her everlasting
tramp. She is an incorrig ible vagrant,
utterly irreclaimable. Perhaps Rebecca
thinks 4 half tiedged thought like this
when she finds her prey has escaped her
and is fairly on the road again
On the road again, untamable, ragged,
hungry. and free. She walks at rapid,
uneven pace, her thin shawl iluttering in
the wind. her untidy slippers Tapping at
her heels. 1t grows dusk as size steals
along; the road is dreary with cloud and
shadow, and with a hooking moon that
CLEANS out now and then, lodging viciously
after this gray old ghost of woman fit
ting below. There is a white object there
ahead of her-something tall and queer,
with a round white head. The vagrant
swerves minute out of her way, survey.
ing it furiively. Then she puts forth her
claw-like hand and clutches greedily Re-
becca' S sweet, dainty loaf.
Aha. what good providence is here,
All, can it be that Fate should come for
once in a way, with sweetness and luxury
IN her hand for an old pauper, and night
and darkness to devour it in. Bewilde
with pleasure, old Betsey hugs the dainty
under her faded shawl
There is a crash then, as if the heavens
were falling; a shout that curdles her
thievish blood; rough hand is laid upon
her with wise like grasp. Law and Justice
seem TO have come down bodily upon the
i.
has been watching from his window. His
hand is raised to strike the thief-the thief
with vagrant and yagabond written all
over her; in her vulphine eyes, her long
blue nose, her skinny, claw like hand.
The woman shrinks back, covering, gainst
the gate post, with wheczy cough; the
old shawl falls away from her face. Out
comes the moon, and sails along with a
sinister ray pointing right down on the
shivering, crouching figure and on the
countenance that for one instant upturns
toward the assalant.
My Cod" cried Timothy. And that
is all. His hand falls at his side, lie turns
and walks back to the house, leaving the
wretch to her plumber.
The wretch is a mere animal, after all
haunted animal, it is true, with all the
greed and cunning of such. She makes
her way somewhere with her prize-it
doesn't much matter where. But there
comes up storm At midnight, 4 binding,
blood chilling storm. that might make the
veriest tramp thankful for shelter Old
Ware, sitting motionless in his upper
chamber, hears the rafters shake overhead
lie listens: perhaps he is afraid the ola
house will come down over his head The
Wind raves and shrieks about window and
doorway. lie gets up by-and by, and lift
ing the dripping sash, looks out into the
road. He sees nothing; no boys will rob
his melon patch tonight, and no bcggar
come whining to his gate. Afar of, where
the road circles toward the south land old
Betsey has crawled into shelter of u way
side barn. No, there is nothing To be seen
anywhere about. Timothy shuts the win
dow with shudder, and crawls to bed.
\ week after this. Rebecca. sweet and
tintiess as a snow drop, stops at the gate
once more.
"old Betsey my poor old vagrant, left
us last night neighbour" she says. 1.-THE
blankets and pillows thee sent were a very
great charity, but she needeth eur charity
no more"
''No more" repeated old Ware, vacan;ly.
"a She died last night answers Rebecca,
and her lips tremhles little.
There is no reply. Rebecca does not
break the long, long pause. She is used to
the old mans MOODS. Finally she sets her
face TO the road again; it is getting late.
L" lebecca, says the old man, abruptly.
placing his bony hand upon hers. Rebec-
ca, you-you needn't put her in the Pot.
ter's Field. She mightn't rest easy, you
know
Il have no such superstitions, friend"
said Rebecca, smiling sweetly. alt can
make very little difference TO her now
where She rests, poor nameess wanderer."
a. She had name once, says Timothy,
standing erect, with strange flush on his
face. y bright and beautiful woman
once was my wife, Elizabeth Ware"
\ long and weary winter has passed:
summer has frightened and faded; the
autumn twilight is settling softly on bloom
and barrenuoss, as old Ware stands at his
gate once more, looking down the road.
In his hand is something wrapped in white,
which he sets upon the gate post as a gray
clad, graceful figure comes walking up the
road.
:" Rebecca," he says, ~ return your nap
kin
Nay says Rebecca, recognizing her
own initials" nay, friend, have all
ABUNDANCE
"Open it, interrupts the old man, alb
rupiiy. The gentle Quakeress is used to
humuring his moods, and rs she unties the
linen, diamond ring rolls glittering out
upon its edge. There is a box of shining
triukets within and a small gold watch.
They were all hers once in the old