Litchfield enquirer., 1879-07-24

brothers. It made him ache to think of DOrO. thy, with feeble mother, the boys as wild as preachers sons proverbially are. and the old farm running down on her hands; the fence all needed mending, and there went Reuben Barton, now, careering over the fields in chase of stray yearling His mothers house was big, and lonely, and empty; and he flushed as he thought of the ''One ewe-lamb" he covet- cd, out of Friend Barton's rugged pastures. As he raised the gate, and leaned to watch the water swirl and gurgle through the 'trunk," sucking the long weeds with it, and thicken- ing with it's tumult the clear current of the l stream, the sound of voices and bleating of sheep came up from below. He had not the farming instincts in his blood; ;-the distant bleating, the hot June sunshine and cloudless sky, did not suggest to him sheep -washing;- but now came boys voice. shouting, and cry of distress, and he remembered with a l thrill, that Friend Barton used the stream for | that peaceful purpose. He shut down the gate l and tore along through the ferns and tangled grass till he came to the sheep-pen, where the bank was muddy and trampled. The prison- | CTS were bleating drearily and looking with 1 longing eyes across to the other side, where | those who had suffered were now straying and cropping the short turf, though the lights and | shadows of the orchard. There was no other sign of life except 1 broad hat with brown ribbon, buffeted about 1 in an eddy, among the stones. The stream dipped now below the hill and the current, still | racing fast with the impetus he had given it, l shot away amongst the hazel thickets which crowded close to the brink. He was obliged | to make a detour by the orchard, and come out at the s'mil-head" below "a black, deep pool, with an ugly ripple setting across it to | the 'head-gate." He saw something white clinging there and ran round the brink. It i was the sodden fleece of the old eve which had been drifted against the "head- gate" and | held there to her death Evesham, with sickening contraction of the heart threw off his jacket for plunge when Dorothys voice called rather faintly from the willows on the op- posite bank.
 ''Dont jump! I'm here," she said. Eve sham searched the willows, and found her seated in the sun just beyond, half buried in a | bed of ferns.
 II wouldn't have called thee," she said, shy ly, as he sank, pale and panting, beside her, "but thee looked-I thought thee was going to l jump into the mll-head !'
 II thought you were there Dorethy!'
 ''1 was there quite long enough. Shep pull ed me out; was too tired to help myself much." Dorothy held her palm pressed against her temple, and the blood trckled from be- heath, streaking her pale, wet cheek. | "Hes gone to the house to get me a cloak. | l don't want mother to see me-not yet" she said.
 ''Pm afraid you ought not to wait, Doro- | thy. Let me take you to the house, wont you? Pm afraid you'll get deadly chill" | Dorothy did not look in the least like death. She was blushing now, because Evesham would think it so strange of her to stay, and yet she could not rise in her wet clothes, which clung to her like the calyx to bud. 'Let me see that cut, Dorothy, please !''
 s'Oh, it's nothing. don't acish thee to look at it |"
 ''But I will Do yo1 want to make me your murderer-sitting there in your wet clothes, with cut on your head?"
 He drew away her hand. and the wound, in- deed, was no great affair, but he bound it up deftly with strips of his handkerchief. Doro. thy's wet curls touched his fingers and clung to them, and her eyelashes dropped lower and lower.
 'I think it was Ue'y stupid of thee. Didn't thee hear us from the dam ? Pm sure we made noise enough"
 ''Yes, I heard you when it was too late. heard the sheep before, but how could I inn agne that you, Dorothy, and three boys as big as cockerels, were sheep washing? It's the most preposterous thing ever heard of '"
 'Well, I can't help being a woman, and the sheep had to be washed. think there ought to be more men in the world when half of them are preaching and fighting"
 'If you'd only let the men who are left help you little, Dorothy!'
 ''I don't want any help 1 only don't want to be washed into the mill-head''
 They both laughed, and Evesham began | entreating her to let him take her to the house.
 ''Hasn't thee coat or something I could put around me until Shep comes ?" said Doro- thy. ''He must be here soon.' | tIYas I've Uat iaokat hora comauhera He sped away to find it, and faithless Doro- thy, as the willows closed between them, sprang to her feet and ran like startled Naiad to the house.
 | When Evesham, pushing through the will | lows, saw nothing but the bed of wet, crush ed ferns and the trail through the long grass where Dorothy's feet had fled, he smiled grim ly to himself, remembering that "ewe-lambs' are not always as meek as they look.
 That evening Rachel had received letter from Friend Barton, and was preparing to read it aloud to the children. They were in the kitchen, where the boys had been helping Dor | othv, in desultory manner, to shell corn for | the chickens but now all was silence while Rachel wiped her glasses and turned the large sheet of paper, squared with many foldingst to | the candle
 She read the date, "London Grove, 9th month, 22nd.-Most affectionately beloved"
 
 the children with tender smile ''It's spelled | with a small b."
 | ''He means thee," said Dorothy laughing | ''Thee's not such a very big beloved.' There was moments silence 'I don't know that the opening of the letter is of gener- al interest,"" Rachel unused, with her eyes trav- | cling slowly down the page. ''He says: In regard to my health, lest thee should concern | thyself 1 am thankful to say have never en- hotta cip | quainted with my inf1rmities of body, and I earnestly hope that my dear wife and children l are enjoying the same blessing. C I trust the boys are not deficient in obe- dience and helpfulness At Sheppard's age I had already begun to take the duties of a man upon my shoulders.
 Sheppard giggled uncomfortably, and Dero- thy laughed outright.
 ''Oh! if father only kneo how good the boys | are! Mother, thee must write and tell him about their 'helpfulness and obedience Thee can tell him their appetites keep up pretty we'll they manage to take their meals regu- larly, and they are Glac0ys out of bed by eight o'clock, to help me hang up the mi king stool!"
 "Just wait till thee gets in the mill head again, Dorothy Barton! Thee needn't come to me to help thee out! 7" ''Go on, mother Don't let the boys inter- rupt thee!"
 Well, " said Rachel rousing herself "where was I? Oh, when 1 was Sheppard's age' Well, next come some allusions to the places where he has visited, and his spiritual exercis- es there. don't know that the boys are quite old enough to enter into th;syet. Thee'd bet ter read it myself, Dorothy. Pm keeping all fathers letters for the boys to read, when they are old enough to appreciate them"
 ''Well, think thee might read us about bp' stand q great deal more than thee thinks we can!' said Shep, in an injured voice. 'Reu- by, he can preach some himself! Thee ought to hear him, mother. It's almost as good as meetin'!"
 II aoondered how Reubv spent his time!" said Dorothy, and the mother hastened to in- terpose.
 "Well here's passage that may be inter- esting: On sixth day attended the youths meeting here,-a pretty favored time on the whole. Joseph [that's Joseph Carpenter; he mentions him aways back had good service