The Kenosha telegraph. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1860-1888, 1878-12-26

and had no place for him in his bust
ness, but knew of an opening, and
would establish him in it, in Western
city. rs it Betty's wish?" said Will.
And he refused the proffer, and one
evening, catching Betty's hand, as he
bid her good-by, and lifting it to his
lips with kiss that burned in upon it,
he left the place, and buried himself, I'M
known, among the Southern mountains
with some focks of sheep.
One might suppose that Betty would
have been satisfied then. Not she.
She was as restless as bird. Perhaps
she missed the pleasure of having Will
behold her conquests; perhaps she
missed the adoring slave; perhaps she
missed the constant, tender service. A
month afterward, when Mr.. Valerino
drew his lessons to close, and betook
himself to other fields vexing and
notifying her, it may be, but not
grieving her particle-she certainly
missed the old friendship and
sympathy, the kindness in which
she could confde and with which
she could advise; and little Betty
Wilmarth's black lashes were wet
with tears that she could not account
for, and that surely she never dreamed
she should be shedding because Will
Maunder was away. She had reason,
presently, to miss that kindness to some
purpose. Her father was that same
year thrown from his wagon; and he
lay but partly conscious for weeks after
ward, and for months he never left his
room nor quite recovered his intelli-
gence. In those weeks and months I'M
faithful clerks and bookkeepers en-
riched themselves and impoverished
Mr.. Wilmarth and when he finally re-
covered, it was to the wreck of what had
once bid fair to become great fortune.
" If Will Maunder had been with me-"
said Mr.. Wi]marth, strangers and
hounds would have had no chance to
fleece mel"
It was true. Betty heard it with
shiver. She had thought as much many
a time, yet had put the thought away;
but now, her father declaring it so
seemed to make the fact sure. And
why was not Will with her father? For
no reason but that she had in reality
driven him away.
If crying would have brought him
back, Will Maunder could have sailed
to Betty on food of tears; but, tears
being useless, Betty scorned to shed
them. She had no idea where he was,
except for the vague rumor that spoke
OF him as sheep-raising somewhere in
the Carolinas. If she had, having sent
him off in her prosperity, she could not
call him back in her calamity. So she
braced herself to bear her trials as she
might, and to bear them, as she some
times said to herself, in a way Will would
have approved; and she laughed bitterly
at herself to think of the sentimental
idiot she had been, and of the innocent
young Italian on whom she had poured
out the burden of her vain fancies and
her clear dark cheeks redeemed redder
than their wont at thought of the light
in which the clear-headed Will must
have held her infatuation.
And then the long war broke out,
and in all it's course no word of Will.
She was sure that his blood must be
stirred. She looked for his name in the
bulletins, in the promoted, in the dead
and missing, in the discharged, in the
forlorn-hopes; she longed to do some
thing for him, now that it was impossi-
ble-to encourage him, to help him, if
she could only once find his name. She
never did. And when at last peace was
declared, there came through the OBJ
scure channels in which all such news
runs, not verified, and yet too au-
thentic for disbelief, the report that he
had been a conscript of the Confeder-
ates, had fallen in his first battle, and
had died in hospital.
And her act had killed him! Betty
Wilmarth sat down that day in despair
For what had she been born, when, out
of her insignifcance, she had wrought
such evil as this? A murderess-that
was what she was! The murderess, too,
of the best friend q woman ever had.
BY a whim, mere whim, she had
brought disaster and ruin on her family
she had brought a strong man down
to his grave.
And then, her thoughts getting too
much for her, Betty would start up and
walk for miles. to walk off the horror
that oppressed her; the horror that
made life seem not worth living; that
made life seem impossible to live, and
yet did not dare to die. Nothing was
any pleasure to Betty now. Her faith
er's affairs had frightened; they had
retaken their old house; her mothers
health was restored; the girls had come
from school, content and happy, and
ready to take Retty's scepter where she
dropped it. But she was pleased for
their sakes-for herself it made no diff
ference. The color had forsaken her
sweet cheeks at length; her eyes were
dim with her long crying; she sat for
hours together staring straight before
her, conscious of nothing whatever but
that she had been the death of Will
Maunder.
How she missed him now at every
turn the ready smile. the tender word