The Newtown bee. (Newtown, Conn.) 1877-current, 1879-10-01
I" Yes but / am not. !"


tl,istles, and slowly resume her walk
homeward. When we came tp the lane
where our paths separated, sie put up
her little arms to be taken and kissed.
before leaving me, as she sal /, . to come
back no more.
Be good to yourself Eddie and
next winter, if any little lonely Adelinas
come cold and frightened to the old red
school-house yoiider, he kind to them as
you were t. me"
Something chokei in my throat, and I
could not say word but kissed her
more than once and after she lla slip
ped from my arms and was twenty rods
away. I sat down and cried like a hai,y.
because i was never to sec AdelIna
again.
It wns not long before the rumor was
rife in the neighborhood that Mrs. La
grange had married middle-aged city
millionaire, aud that the young widow
and her child had found new protector
III place of the one death had taken from
them.
Years fitted BY was twentv-four ;
l hal fought through the great rebellion
entered the army private aud come
out OF it n capt lin, shattered in health,
and utterly depleted in pocket, to find
myself Mt home again, i'll and altogether
distrustful of fortunes smile.
In my frequent walks to the villnge
post-office, [ often passed hy the o.d
red school lhonse. and never without q
sigh of regret for the many happy, care
free days spent within its battered walls.
Among the letters handed to me one
morning was one postmarked New York,
that, through the fundamentally of a
friend of mine, whom he was anxious to
serve, the undersigned, MIR. Maxwell,
had been induced to extend to me COM
mercial opening at the liberal salary OF
two thousand a year, to be increased if
merited. There was fortune for me in
the offer, and I accepted it with alac-
rity.
| MIR. Maxwell, rich New York Tner-
,hant, from the first took lively interest
| in my aivancement. The unknown
| friend I could not account for in any
other way than by supposing him to be
\ some soldier comrade whom / had be-
friendei in the past.
Within month I was fairly establish
ed ut my new post of duty, aud succeed
ell in pleasing Mr. Maxwell SO well, that
at the beginning of my second year he
sent me to Europe in the interest of the
house. When / returned, was given a
weeks vacation, which I spent among
the breezy hills of my old country home,
passing the pleasant September days in
tramping through the woods and fields
aud by-ways that were the chosen haunts
of my boyhood.
was Just turning the curve iii the
road where the Cauada thistles grew.
and SO lost in my walking reverie. that 1
wss almost opposite lady standing in
their midst before / was aware of her
presence.
Il am glal you still love the old
scenes, Mr. Durand," she said, without
expressing the least surprise.
/ was sstonished. Here was a lady
who, to OF the best Of my knowledee. had
nliliarly as il we had known each other
all our lives.
"Names are treacherous things, and
if I were ever so fortunate as to have
known yours, L am guilty OF having
forgotten it," replied.
"Men forget easily, am told; but
had hoped TO find you an exception to
the rule"
A very awkward silence on my part
ensued. She took pity ON my evident
| embarrassment, aud continued:
" Has your battle with the world en-
tirely driven from your recollection all
the old school faces ?"
Her voice dropped to its OLD sweet,
clear, winning cadence, thrilling my
whole being with delight.
ddetipd 20
1 caught her hand, and, before L know
what was doing, had carried it to my
lips and kissed it.
"Ex use me" stammered "but ]
Am so glad to see you. and you seem
lust the same little girl / kissed here
wears ago-iut a bit taller, not a bit old
er-only Adeliua, always lovely aud al
ways loved.
Then tol.l her all about myself, how
prosperous [ was, and the strange man.
nef in viii Ia had been brought to the
notice of my kind employer. When ]
had finished, she merely said, III her
simple way:
81 know it. /"
"Yuu appear {, know every thing
Do you know Mr.. Maxwell ?"
"He is my father"
"And my unknown friend"
, "AieliIia."
I staggered back, in my soul ashamed
that should owe every good in life
every thing-to woman who owed M
nothing but the poor favor of once hav
ing united for her a wretched black-and
, white worstel hood. / turned away
, cut to the heart, but she put up a de
, tanning hand.
Don't 60, Mr.. Durand--that is, don
90 feeling hurt for it would make m
' very unhappy if you were to go ava
! angry with me-"
, . Unnappyl What am I, that pai
to me should render you unhappy? 7"
anewered, hittary.
Z II knew no other way in which to eS
q pres my gratitude.
: !" Gratitude for what?" The question
I was rudely abrupt. but she took no nc
tice of my ungracious speech.
! "Gratitude for the kindness given m
! long ago, and which / have missed eve
: since the day we parted here by th
q roadside"
3 . "Are You conscious of what it is yo
i are saying, Adelina ?"
Perfectly"
4 How am / to understand yor
" words?"
; "That leave to y. ur good judgment.
- she smiled, lowering her eyes.
: She had an instant illustration OF m
"good judgment in the way / impri
= oned her two little banls in both
q mine, and kissed the sweet mouth for j
a whispered promise.
4 / walked home with Adelina-O,
happy and when ASKED her hand
n Mr.. Maxwell, he said:
!. ~ have anticipated ur request
n keeping yon under my eye for mo
, than two years. Adelina is the best a,
"a truest girl in he world, but / belle
~ you to be as worthy of her as any mi
y a. living, and give her to you confide
A. that you know how to prize the treas q
l.. you have won"
"a And so, MT long thereafter, I marie