The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1878-04-24
BY HUGH WILSON AND c. BENET.

| TarKer SIG Balu suo Coul1u Couuto-
nance no such thing as my sayin' no,
and I'd never have such another chance
the longest day I lived. Then I'd
never had no one to do for me before, and
he gave me such lot of things, and I
did 30 like to look nice and pretty like
ladies do, and So did. And then,
somehow, when it was all over, and I
had to 20 off with him, it come to me
all of a sudden what I'd done, and how
my whole life was a-going to be just the
same thing always, and he was always
a-going to be there, and I know the
girls laughed at us behind our backs,
and Louisa Brooks called him Spindle.
toes,' and yet I'd got to stay by him and
never 60 any where else, or be any
thing else. And it all come over me,
and it was awful I hadn't ever
realized it before" And she looked
with piteous eyes into Miss Mallow's
face, who stroked her hand gently, but
wisely made no answer as yet.
"I 'spose folks do call this pleas
ant place." she went on, after little
pause, "but it don't look pleasant to
me. I amt used to country, or to being
alone all day. There was two hundred
of us at the asylum, and at Miss Park
er's we was close to the town, and could
see folks a-passing and hear wagons.
It's so still here I can hear myself
think almost, and the wind makes noises
in the chimney, and lie awake at night
and listen. It's like voice, and it says,
'Alcne alone alone 7 and groans, and
frightens me awfully."
"I don't think it says that" e1claim-
ed Miss Mallows, with sudden inspira-
ton. cit says, "A home home! a
home 7 That's what wind always seems
to me to say in homely old chimneys
like these" Then she thought to her.
self, Shall I? or sha'n't n I hate
preaching, and I hate meddling but
there's q chance to do bit Of good,
maybe, and-yes, I'll risk it.
"Now listen to me, DEAR" she went
on, aloud, softening her voice as if to a
child. "This is what I think about
your position. 1t seems to me that you
are just at the point when you must
decide for yourself whether you'll be a
happy woman or an unhappy one for
the rest of your life."
"How? What do you mean ?"
"Why, you were lonely girl, you
know, with no real home of your own,
and here O good man has come along
and taken you into bis. He loves you
dearly now, and you have q great deal
of influence over him, and can do pretty
much as you like now; but how long
will that last if you go on crying and
being unhappy and showing how little
you care for him 2"
"I don't know" whispered the bride,
family.
"Then you are married, you know.
You have given a promise, and must
keep it, even if it makes you sorry.
Promises are solemn things. But I
think you can keep it and be happy too.
And it strikes me you have chance to
do a most beautiful thing"
"What is that ?" wonderingly.
"To make up to a good man who
loves you for hard, hard thing ip his
life. Think how dreadful it must al
ways have been for your husband, with
his clever mind and fine face, to feel
himself in one respect inferior to the
! stupidest laborer who worksin his fields.
It must have hurt him cruelty always,
and if he were not sweet-hearted per-
son by nature, it must have made him
hard and sour. Now, for the first time,
;, something delightful has come into his
life. He has married you, and it seems
to me such'a chance as few women have
to be able to be 30 much to any one as
YOU can be to him. And don't think I
want't preach but God always blesses
those who try to do right, and if you
make your husband happy, / think He
will bless you and make you happy too.
I !. Her eyes ran over rs she ended her
little speech -
aFelicia p. sounded from below
/" Felicia, we ought to be- going"
IL. "Must you go?" cried Mrs. Dalrym-
pie, sitting up in bed. "Thank you ever
so. You've done me heap of good.
I'll never forget you--never. Oh
what's your name2"
! Felicia-Felicia Mallows. Good-by,
dear; and don't: forget that the wind II
the chimney never says alone when
two people who care for each other are
together" Then they said good-by. 81
shall come again if I can before
leave" declared Miss Mallows. Ole
Sally, coming up to hasten her move
ments, was astonished to see the two ex
change kiss.
"Why, what ever has she done fol
tie cretur?" she muttered, as the pony
wagon rolled away. "She looks twice
as alive as she did afore they came"
We drop a tiny seed into the ground
or we watch winged messenger detacf
itself from the parent plant and Aoa
away on it's separate errand, and we art
scarcely conscious that with the act {
new sequence Of energies and possibili
ties began, and the world is the richel
for fresh point of growth. Felicis
Mallows had no chance for another visi
: to the Dalrymple farm that autumn
and it was two years before she saw i
again, during which time the image o
the oddly circumstanced little brid'
faded into dim distance, as images vii
in this overcrowded world. Anothe
visit to Patunxet revived it into sudde1
life.
"Whatever became of that ittl
neighbor of yours who married a young
girl? ?" She asked Mrs. Leno1. "I
was when I was last here. She wa
sick. Don't you recollect our going
there?"
"Yes, now that you recall it, do
and the unconscionable time you stait
mp stairs in her bedroom. I believe sh'
is we'll. Her baby was baptized few
Sundays ago."
"Have they baby?"
eyes; a little girl. By-the-way-'
Mrs. Lenox was called off, and did no
finish her sentence. Next day Mis-
Mallows borrowed the pony wagon for
solitary drive.
"I want to see my little friend, Mrs
Dalrymple," she explained; "and sup
posing her to be upstairs, you nigh
get tired of old Sally"
"Thank you, my dear, I should
; You are welcome to the pony"
; It was September as mild as June
and when Miss Mallows drove througl
the farm gate, she saw it's mistress sit
ting in the porch, her sleeping baby il
it's wagon beside her, and her sewing il
her hands. She dropped it with star
of Joy when she caught sight of he
guest.
els it you!" she cried "Oh, I an
so glad !'
Is there any flattery. equal to that
} "you"