Litchfield enquirer., 1879-07-24

which gllmmered across the dust, and fell up- on DorethY's white neck.
 ' The wheel was humming quick measure, and Dorothy trod lightly back and forth, the wheel-pin in one hand, the other upraised holding the tense, lengthening thread which the spindle deveured again.
 Dorothy, thee looks warm m:-can't thee sit down moment, while talk to thee:"
 'ls it anything important mother? 1 want to get my twenty knots before dinner;" She paused as she joined long tress of wool at the spindle. ''Is it anything about father?"
 "Yes, it's about father, and all of us."
 q know," said Dorothy, stretching herself back with sigh. "He's going away again!"
 "Yes, dear. He feels that he is called It is time of trouble and contention every where, ,-'the harvest truly is plenteous, but the laberers are few"
 ''There are not so many 1aborers' here, mother, though, to be sure, the harvest-"
 Dorothy, my daughter don't let spirit of levity creep into thy speech. Thy father has striven and wrestled with his urgings. I've seen it working on him all winter; he feels now it is the Lords will"
 ''I don't see how he can be so sure" said Dorothy, swaying gloemily to and fro against the wheel. 'I don't care for myself, Pm not afraid of work, but Usee's not able to do what thee does aa0a0, mother. If have outside things to look after, how can help thee as 1 should The boys are about as much depend ence as flock of barn swallows!'
 'DOn't fret about me, dear the way will open. Thy father has thought and planned for us; have patience while 1 tell thee Thee knows Walter Evesham's pond is small and his mill is doing thriving business ?"
 ''Yes, I know it!" Dorothy exclaimed. 'He has his own share, and ours too-most of it !"
 "Wait, dear, wait! Thy father has rented him the ponds to use when his own gives out He is to have the control of the water, and it will give us little income, even though the old mill does stand idle"
 "He may as wei take the null, too. If fath- CT IS away all summer it will be useless ever to start it again. Thee'll see. mother, how it will end if Walter Evesham has the custom and the water all summer. I think it's miserable for young man to be so keen about money"
 'Dorothy, seems to me thees nasty in thy judgements. l never heard that said of Wal ter Evesham. His father left him with capi- tai to improve his mill. It does better work than ours we can't complain of that. Thy father was never one to study much after ways of making money. He felt he had no right to more than an honest livelihood. I don't say that Walter Evesham's in the wrong. We know that Joseph took advantage of his oppor- tunities, though 1 can't say that 1 ever felt much unity with some of his transactions What would thee have, my dear Thee's discouraged with thy father for choosing the thorny way, which we tread with him but seem no better satisfied with one who consid- CTS the flesh and it's wants ?"
 ''l don't knaOao, mother, soh0t want for my self. It doesn't matter, but for thee 1 would have rest from all these cruel worries thee has borne so long,"
 She buried her face in her mothers lap and but her strong young arms about the frail, ,toil bent form.
 ''There, there, dear. Try to rule thy spirit, Dorothy. Thees too much worked up about this. They are not worries to me. 1 am thankful we have nothing to decide, one way or the other-only to do our best with what is given us, Thee's not myself, dear. Go downstairs and fetch in the clothes, and don't hurry; stay out till thee gets more composed"
 Dorothy did not succeed in bringing herself into unity with her fathers call, but she came into fuller realization of his struggle. When he bade them goodbye his face showed what it had cost him, but Rachel was calm and cheerful. The pain of parting is keenest to those who go, but it stays longer with those who are left behind.
 Dorothy, take good care of thy mother!" Friend Barton said, taking hls daughters face between his hands and gravely kissing her brow between the low parted nipples of her hair.
 Yes, father, she said, looking into his eyes. The knows Pm thy eldest son.
 They watched the old chase swing round the corner of the lane, then the pollard willows shut it from sight.
 ''Come, mother," said Dorothy, hurrying her in at the gate. ''Pm going to make a great pot of mush, and have it hot for supper and fried for breakfast, and warmed up with molasses for dinner, and there'll be some cold with milk for supper, and we shan't have any cooking to do at all.'
 They went sound to the kitchen door. Ra- chel stopped in the wood shed, and the tears rushed to her eyes.
 Dear father! How he has worked over that wood, early and late. to spare us p
 We will not review Dorothy's struggles with the framework and with the boys. They were an isolated family at the mill house; their peculiar faith isolated them still more, and they were twelve miles from meet ing, and the settlement of Friends at Stony Valley. Dorothy pride kept her silent about her needs lest they might bring reproach up- on her father among the neighbors, who would not be likely to feel the urgency of his spiritu- al summons.
 The summer heats came on apace and the nights grew shorter. It seemed to Dorothy that she had hardly stretched out her tired
 
 low, attic bedroom, before the east was streak ed with light and the birds were singing in the apple-tree whose falling blossome drifted in at the window.
 One day in early June Friend Barton's flock of sheep-consisting on nine experienced ewes, six yearlings and sprinkling of close-curled lambs whose legs had not yet come into mature relations with their bodies-were gathered in little railed inclosure, beside the stream which flowed into the ''mill-head" It was supplied by the waste from the pond, and when the gate was shut rampled easily over the gray slate pebbles, with here and there fall, just forcible enough to serve as a douche- bath for a we'll grown sheep. The victims were panting in their heavy fleeces, and their hoarse, plaintive tremolo mingled with the rip pie of the water and the sound ofyoung voices in frelic. Dorothy had divided her forces for the washing to the best advantage. The two elder boys stood in the stream to receive the sheep, which she, with the help of little Jimmy, caught and dragged to the bank.
 The boys were at work now upon an elder ly eve, while Dorothy stood on the brink of the stream braced against an ash sapling, dragging at the fleece of beautiful but reluc- tant yearling. Her bare feet were incased in pair of moccasins which laced around the ankle; her petticoats were kilted and her broad hat bound down with ribbon; one sleeve was rolled up, the other had been sacri- feed in scuffie in the sheep-pen. The new candidate for immersion stood bleating and trembling, with her fore feet planted against the slippery bank, pushing back with all her strength, while Jimmy propelled from the rear.
 'tBoysl" Dorothy's clear voice called across the stream. Do hurry! She's been in long enough, now! Keep her head up, can't you, and squeeze the wool hard! You're not half washing! Oh, Reuby thee'll drown her! Keep her head up!"
 Another unlucky douse and another half smothered bleat, Dorothy released the year. ling and plunged to the rescue. ''Go after that lamb, Reuby!" she cried, with exasper- ation in her volce. Reuby followed the year ling which had disappeared over the orchard slope, upsetting an obstacle in it's path which happened to be Jimmy. He was now wailing on the bank, while Dorothy, with the ewe's nose tucked comfortably in the bend of her arm, was parting and squeezing the fleece, with the water swirling round her. Her stout arms ached, and her ears were stunned with the