Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1878-08-02

stration
II am on my way to see old Betsey," says
Rebecca, quietly extending her hand and
placing the loaf on the gate post. "Shes
one of the town poor-or rather one of the
| Lords poor, think, for she doesn't belong
to this township. Poor old Betsey!'
One might have imagined that old Ware
gave Il sort of start just now, as if an invisi-
ble electric shock had struck him. He was
not used to hearing sympathetic talk of any
l kind. 1t tried his nerves, probably.
zone of the wretched yagrants that are
pauperizing the community, wandering hither
and yon, growled Timothy.
''Ay, ay, neighbor," says Rebecca softly
and wistfully "a hard time they have Of it,
poor things And this many year has she
been wanderer and n vagabond on the face
of the earth, has poor old Betsey." She takes
the white-covered loaf abscntly with her
large, shapely hand, looks up and down the
road with thoughtful gray eye, sighs softly,
and goes her way, leaving loaf and napkin
Gaping the gate post. And there you might
have seen it at night-fall, and long after night
fall, if you had chanced that way for hadn't
Timothy told the woman he didn't want it ?
| and was he the man to demean himself by
removing it after that? And your speculat-
ing on the singular stubbornness of the hu-
man heart would not have been lessened had
you caught sight of him, by the Pickering
candle in his upper window, sitting there mo-
tionlcss with AN eye on the gate below. Per-
haps he expected Rebecca back after her gift.
| do not know.
shes one of the town poor, is old Bet
sey," said Rebacca, meckly, and had said it
meckly year after year, striving to allure the
vagrant old woman into feeling at home on
the charity list of the good towns-folk, and
to rest her old aching bones in the town
poor-houso. But old Betsey was not to be
trapped
If one must be poor and ragged, at least let
one have plenty of fresh-air leisure, says old
Betsey. 10 be pauper and II drudge both
is Il 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 n bit of bread
bah that is all unbearable, says old Betsey
Struggling her bony shoulders under her rag
ged shawl, and setting out warily on her ev-
erlasting tramp. She is an incorrgible va
grant, utterly irreclamable Perhaps Rebec-
ca thinks half-Aedged thought like this
when she finds her prey has escaped her and
is fairly on the road again.
On the road again, untamable, ragged, hun
CRY, and face. She walks at a rapid uneven
pace, her thin shawl fiutterng in the wind
her untidy slippers tapping at her heels. 1t
grows dusk as she steals along the road is
/ uIthGN VIII ClOuu ana huhuON, ana Win a
mocking moon that CLEANS out now and then
dodging viciously after this gray old ghost of
woman fitting below. There isa white OBJ
! ject there ahead of her something tall and
queer, with round white head The vagrant
swerves n minute out of her way. surveying
it furtiyely Then she puts forth her claw
like hand and clutches grcedily Rebecca's 5
sweet dainty loaf.
Aha what a good providence is here All I!
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! Bewildered with pleasure, old
Betsey hugs the dainty under her faded
shawl.
There is crash then, if the heavens
were falling; a shout that curdles her thiev-
ish blood rough hand is laid upon her
with vise-like grasp. Law and justice seem
to have come down bodily upon the maraud-
or but it is only old Ware, who has been
watching from the window. His hand is
raised to strike the thief-the thief with va
grant and vagabond written all over her in
her vulpine eyes, her long blue nose, her
skinny clnw-like hand. The woman shrinks
back, covering, agablst the gate post, with a
| wheeZy cough the old shawl falls away from
her face. Out comes the moon, and sails
along with sinister ray pointing right down
on the shivering, crouchng figure and on the
countenance that for one instant upturns to-
ward the assailant.
MY God" cries Timothy. And that is all
| His hand falls at his side, he turns and walks
back to the house, leaving the wretch to her
plunder.
The wretch is a mere animal after all "A
hunted 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, a 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 The wind raves and shrieks about
window and doorway. He gets up by and by
and lifting the dripping sash, looks out into
the road He sees nothing no boys will rob
his melon patch tonight and no beggar come
whining to his gate. Afar of, where the
road circles toward the south land, old Bet
sey has crawled into the shelter of way-side
barn. No, there is nothing to be seen any
where about. Timothy shuts the window
with shudder and crawls to bed.
A week after this, Rebecca, sweet and tint
less as snow-drop, stops at the gate once
more.
"Old Betsey, my poor old vngrant, left us
last night, neighbor," she says. The blank
cts and pillows thee sent were n very great
charity, but she needeth our charity no
more"
mo more :" repeated old Ware, vacantly.
She died last night" answers Rebecca,
and her lip trembles a 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's getting late
''Rebecca,' says the old man abruptly,
placing his bony hand upon hers-"Rebecca,
| In hap u,
She mightn't rest easy, you know"
Il have no such superstition, friend" said
Rebecca, smiling sweetly. 1T can make
very little difference to her now where she
rests, poor wanderer."
She had name once" says Timothy,
standing erect, with n strange flush on his
face. "A bright and beautiful woman once
was my wife, Elizabeth Ware"
A long and weary winter has passed n
| summer has frightened and faded the au-
tumn twilight is settling softly on bloom and
baTenness, MS 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 n gray-clad
graceful figure comes walking up the road.
''Rebecca,' he says, II return your nap
kim"
May" says Rebecca, recognizing her own
initials-''nay, friend, l have an abun-
! dance"
"Open it," interrupts the old man, abrupt
ly. The gentle Quakeress is used to humor-
ing his moods, and as she unties the linen, a
diamond ring rolls glittering out upon its
! edge. There is box of shining trinkets
within and n small gold watch.
They were all hers once in the old times, 4"
says old Ware, huskily, "before she left me-
You may keep 'em for her sake, an ye will 4"
He pauses; there is no answering movement
from Rebecca. "Or," he adds, with irrita-
tion and sudden energy, "I'll just heave 'em
overheard when quit here for good and all
Yes, I'll quit here for good and all. never
had no home nor no friends-she spoiled all
that-and l may as well finish it out that
S-way."