Litchfield enquirer., 1879-04-10
THE DRAGONS GUEST.
BY MRS. NJ. 5. HOLLlSTER.
CHAPTER 1

One evening aUou6 nf1y years ago, beacon Dawson and his daughter Mary were sitting before blazing walnut logs in their low rafter. ed kitchen. The days work was ''done up, , as Aunt Betsey, their servant, heusekeepel and friend, said; and, indeed, every article from the bright turned -down brass candlesticks on the high mantle to the pewter on the dres ser had the shining complaisant expression of hard earned rest Aunt Betsey herself, sitting by little table drawn close to the huge fire place, with the talloW candle closely trimmed, her spectacles on her bible, and sharply clink- ing her knitting needles, wore the triumphant expression of Marshal Of the first Empire after field day MT. Dawson, gray haired, sharp featured, but kind eyed New Englander, sat at the family table boring over the Far mers almanac just under the looking glass, with picture of Napoleon riding blue horse on the bridge of Lodi above it. Occasionally the Deacon stopped reading to look somewhat anxiously at Mary just opposite him. who was SO engrossed in a thumbed. threadbare copy of Ivanhoe as to be unconscious that her curls almost touched the guttering candle. How could she think of that little spark while Front de Boeuf was roasting the poor old Jew Mary was pretty enough to gladden. the heart ot any father and he looked at her tenderiy while his eyes glistened as he recalled another Mary who used to sit beside him, but who had lain fer many years in the dreary graveyard over the hill. When our practical ancestors could do nothing else with barren spot they gave it to God as His acre, consientously de- posting their dearest, year by year, between the rocks, and turned up their fallows for corn and potatoes. Aunt Betsey was not too busy counting her gray yarn stitches and the tur- keys and chickens she was mentally beheading for Thanksgiving, to see Marys danger and ho;, cs, o.,,3 ly that the girl dropped the book on the floor, and one of the detached leaves fell into the coals. ''Oh what shall do? I must know about Rebecca!" she exclaimed, rushing to the fire and seizing the precious fragment in her hand, but only to burn herself as the paper crisped to ashes. 'I would rather have burnt all my hair off than lose that leaf," she said. angrily. "Why, child. 'taint none of it trew, you know-and there goes my seam stitch .''
 "lt is true-all fiction is true in a sense whe it portrays human passions as Scott does'
 ''Scott write that 'ere mess? I thought he was the Commentator man." Aunt Betsey answered, lookin posed. The Deacon smiled, and Mary, ashamed of her pet, laughed too while she rapidly turned the loose pages, ex- claiming joyfuly, "Rebecca is saved This is Sir Walter Scott, aunty, not Dr. Thomas Scott"
 Presently timid knock at the door made Aunt Betsey say, ''Guess it's Prudence Smith acomin to see Ws," accenting the pronoun strongly and looking hard at the Deacon, who turned a leaf stoldy. Miss Prudence was a tall, limp spinister whom the neighbors ac- cused of wishing to be Mrs. Dawson No. 3. She was woman whose whole life is one de- precation. Her propitiatory voice, always agreeing with you, aggravated you more than contentious one, and her every motion set your offensive weapons jingling. Aunt Bet sey ierked a chair towards her, while Mir. Dawson remarked it was a cold evening, knowing that New England weather was the only thing severe enough for Prudence to reprobate. 'Yes, tis cold, but the suns ben kind of warmth today"
 'His regular business, ain't it, Miss Pru- dence p
 ''The sun don't dew some critters any good" muttered Betsey. Cant git back bone enough into a worm to make him stan up straight knowing nothing of the dstnc- tion between vertebrates and articulates.
 five brought you letter, Mir. Dawson--I mean, Miss Clark gave it to me to give you. Perhaps it's for Mary, she added, deprecating- ly holding the the letter in her hand upside down
 ''Didn't you look at it to find out?" Mir. Dawson inquired.
 'T-I casually glanced at it, and hearing it was for this house, spoke to you fust."
 Putin the Deacon fust is only nat'ral, ain't it," said Betsey. Prudence did not see the sarcasm but disclaimed any preferences for anybody or anything, and Mir. Dawson cut her short, saying Mary, here's a line from lost his wife, is dreadful lonesome, ben sick, and wants to come bere for while. He says he wants cold country air"
 ''We'l give him enough of that, anyway, eff we can't cook and sarve his vittles decent, as his mother said Once,"
 "Never mind about that now, Betsey. Wife was kinder fond of his mother if they didn't always gee together, and I want the young man we'll treated in my house; eh, Mary ?" looking at her inquiringy.
 ''I hate widowers. They always trade on their aff1iction." Then, seeing the palned look in her fathers face, she added, Il mean young men-not dear old dads like you.'
 ''Widowers is alters interestin'," Whispered Prudence.
 "Yes, when they need comfortin'," snapped Aunt Betsey. Il suppose, Deacon we'll hev to set in the parlor nights and hev waxcandles round like Irish wake"
 ''Maybe he'sa good fellow, Mary''-ignor- ing Betsey's remark-''and Pm sorry for him."
 "Yes; man was born ter trouble as tie sparks fly upward" Prudence whispered ten derly, looking at the Deacon.
 ''Yes, they air when women air round a. purpose to stir up the fire. Shall we use the best chany for tea every night, Mary ?' Betsey inqulring anxiously.
 'Perhaps not every night, but at first to show him he's an honored guest," sine replied. The old woman put her knitting down and looked at Mary keenly. II hope she ain't a-goin' ter pity him too much, she thought
 MT. Dawson, how long is it sense Mis- Mansfield dicd?" asked Prudence, folding her hands as she did at funeral to express resignation. a.
 Most three years"
 .'Suppose Mis- Mansfield died with hope 2" sighed Prudence
 "She died with yellow fever," read Mary from the letter, looking over her fathers shoul- der, her eyes unconsciously smiling