The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1879-08-06
BY HUGH WILSON AND W. G. BENET.

clothes won't" she says, ruefully. II
you only knew the time and thought
I have spent on that dress, Cyril. It
was made out of three old ones. and cost
absolutely nothing, except time and
pains; yet it was fresh, and pretty, and
becoming. And my hat matched it pre-
cisely-straw-color and blue, you see !;
and Obi" cries Nell, as she catches
sight of herself in the glass.
l have not had the heart to tell her
that the hat is an even more hopeless
wreck than the dress. Such forlorn,
battered, dissipated-looking object it is,
with one wheat ear perking up jocosely
over the left ear, and one forget-me-not
dropping 6ejectedly over the right eye,
that even Nell herself is forced to laugh.
"It is hopeless, sighs Nell; and just
hen the whistle sounds, and we realize
that the last chance of the picnic is
over. 1.-THE end of an unlucky day."
says Nell, as the sun touches the horizon
1t is not quite the end. though, for the
evening mail is s-still to come in. 1t
brings paper for me and letter Tor
Nell, both of which bear the same post
mark. open the paper while Nell is
still studying the direction of her letter,
after the manner Of all of US. The first
thing upon which my eye fallsis para
graph around which some careful hand
has drawn broad black lines.
"Aunt Jane is dead!" I exclaim; and
then. rs I look at the date of the paper,
add, Buried too, by this time"
Nell looks up with start.
AUNT Jane!" she cries. And my
letter is from Fanny Blatchford, who
lives next door to her"
She studies the direction no longer,
but tears the letter hastily open.
Just what we might expect, coming
on this day." she says at last. "Say
what you will, Cyril, it is an unlucky
day" - ..,. ,o+.o,
contains the news that l suppose it does"
I say, gloomily.
How the dim years stretch away be-
fore me as I speak-the years that it
will take DR.. Castor to build up his
practice, the years that it will take me
to build up mine; and all the time the
dear little girl, of whom Nell knows
nothing, waiting patiently in the
shadows Of the old New England hills!
wrench myself away from such
thoughts with an effort, and listen to
what Nell has to say.
Isn't it shame?" she is saying,
when I come to myself. " If we never
loved Aunt Jane, it was because she
never gave us a chance; and if she
never cared anything for us, at least we
were her only living relations. We
could hardly have expected her to re-
member US in her will, suppose; but
the least she could have done, for the
CT edit of the family, was to die without
one. Then we should have had it in the
course of nature and law. But to 60 and
leave it all to this man"
"What man?" l ask, for, rs I have
said, my thoughts have been wandering
while Nell talked.
II don't know" Nell says, consulting
her letter again. Fanny does not men
ton his name; perhaps she did not
know it. They say that your Aunt,
Miss Rumsey, has lett all her money to
the son of q man whom she Tilted, when
she was young. No doubt she aatteied
herself that it was touch of "pOetic
Justice" but must say I think the plain
prosaic Justice ot>leaving it to her rela-
tions would have been nearer the right
thing Of course it is all left to some
Cresus, to whom it will be but a drop
in the bucket" says Nell, bitterly.
"That's the way things always 60 in
this world, while We Oh, Cyril, why
don't you say something? Isn't it too
bad, and isn't this an unrhcky day?"
II suppose it is," I say, moodily. II
confess I cannot see how we are to find
any good in this"
We spend our evening gloomily
enough, in spite of our efforts to cheer up
and forget. I read little to Nell from
dear old ELLA" and we try a game of
cribbage, of which Nell soon tires. At
nine o'clock we bid each other good
night in sheer despair.
We are little more cheerful over the
breakfast table. Things cannot look
quite so bad by the mornings light rs
thcy did in the evenings shadows. Nell
laughs little as she ventures hope
that to-day willnot be quite such chain
of misadventures as yesterday proved,
and l forbear to rebuke her. Bridget is
bringing in the hot cakes in install
ments, and as she sets the plate contain
ing the third batch upon the table. we
notice that she is looking at us curiously.
Evidently she would fain speak, but
respect restrains her tongue.
"Whet is it, Bridget ?" Nell asks
kindly.
Then the Irish tongue breaks bounds.
"Sure, miss" she cries. can haven't
ycz heard ? An wasn't it "a blissid thing
| intirely that ye tore yer dress an cudn't
20 to this picnic-bad cess to it and its
like! The milkman was just afther
tellin' me all about it. livery wan O.
thin !-niver wan saved-the purity
dears! Och, wirra. wirra"
Bridget is on the point of breaking in
to genuine howl, but Nell's words,
quick and eager. nip it in the bud ::
"What do you mean, Bridget What is
it? What have you heard ?"
Bridget's tale is not easy to under
stand, diversified as it is by comments,
and embellished with interjections. By
dint of painful and skillful question
ings, however, we elicit the truth at
last. That truth concerns the picnic to
which but for Nell's accident we should
have gone. This picnic was gotten up
Dy Slllall parry VI Hlelluo iioin Jul "" u
town. We were to have. gone by rail to
a spot five miles distant. there pick up
DR.. CASTOR, and transfer ourselves to a
huge wagon which was to meet us. This
part ofthe'programme seems to have been
carried out. in spite of Nelps and my
detection. The excursion came to an
abrupt conclusion. however; for, barely
half mile from the station, the horses
took fright, ran violently down a steep
hill and upset the wagon ut the bottom.
Two of the occupants were killed out
right. so Bridget reports, but who they
were she cannot say. Of the rest not
one escaped without injuries more or
less severe.
looked at Neil. She was white to
the lips, and her eyes looked big and
wild.
Another incident of your 'unlucky
day which turns out the best OF good
luck" 1 say, not having as yet taken in
the full sense of the catastrophe.
Aren't you rather glad than other
wise now that you pulled down the
wardrobe?" .,
"Cyril!" cries Nell in a shrill voice,
which hardly recognize as hers: How
| L. -l,Jo ,poro Ei1la6 Ol1t-