Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1880-02-05

Aid yourself, and God will aid you.
-IJ.F. WALLER, in Cassell's Magazine.
TWO CROSS WORDS.
Lucy, if you mean to sew On this
button, do wish you'd do it-I can't
wait all day."
Tom didt speak bit cross, only en-
phatic; but was out of temper that
morning, and my head ached badly from
sitting up late the night before. Tom
had gone to a superior the second
time since our marriage, given by some
of his bachelor friends, and had come
home the worse for it. 1t had provoked
me intensely. So l had followed him
to bed in sullen silence, and awoke none
the better pleased after my sleep, ON the
morning alluded to. To make the mat
ter worse. Just as he spoke to me about
the button, the knife with which was
cutting bread for his lunch. slipped, in
fiicting deep cash on my hand and the
baby aw0ke, and set up her sharp cry
from the cradle, and all in one and the
same moment.
"Yeu can wait as long as / did last
night, reckon" l replied sharply, real
ly angry at last. "Don't hurry mel
do all can, and more than am able to
do with one pair of hands,"
Tom dropped his button and turned
toward me with startled "Why, Lucyp
"Don,t Lucy Ine," retorted, throwing
down the bread, and catching up the ba-
by, while the blood streamed from my
hand over her white gown. you've
done enough-you'ye broke my heartl l
wish had never seen you'll wish l
was back again with my father and
mother"
broke down with burst of hysteri-
cal tears, and seeing the blood on my
hand, Tom came over and knelt down
beside me. aWhy, Lucy he said, his
voice and eyes full of tenderness, "you've
cut your hand. Why didn't you say so2
Here, give me the child while you bind
it up-see how it bleedsi"
He held out his hand for the baby, but
/ sf1atched her away and went on sob
bing -rs
Don't cry, Lucy" he continued, stro-
king the hair back from my forehead
~please don't; / knewI've done wrong,
dear-but didn't mean it. L fell in
with some of the old boys, and they per-
suaded me against my will. But itSthe
the last time, Lucy-the last time
Why didn't turn to him, then, and
help and encourage him? Because my
mean, tyrann0us temper got the better
of my woman's heart.
"Oh, yesi" said sneeringly, at is easy
enough to make fine promises told
me the same thing before. How can
you expect me to believe you row?"
Tom was spirited and quick tempered
great, lOying-hearted men always are
He sprang to his feet like flash, and,
before / had time to speak or think, had
left the room. l tossed the child into
the cradle, and rushed to the door, but
it was too late, he was gone. 1 Just
caught a glimpse of him turning the
corner.
went back to the little breakfast
room; how blank and drear il looked,
and what sharp, stinging thorn there
was in the very core of my heart!
loved Tom, and he loved me. We had
been married only eighteen months, and
this was our first quarrel. / sat down
with the baby in my arms, needless of
my morning work, and fell to thinking.
All the old, happy days came back, and
the one in particular when we sat in
Dumberry Wood. 1t was in the Au-
tumn, and all the world seemed in a
blaze of gold, as the sun slid down, and
the squirrels chartered overhead drop
ping a ripe nut, now and then, into my
lap, as l sat there, with the last rose of
Summer in my hair, knitting purse for
Tom.
Lucy" he had said, as l wove in the
last golden stitches, you've knit my
loye-my very life in that purse. Tell
me now, before you finish it, how is it |
to be? am l to have you and--oh!
won't think of it even, Lucy, it would be |
too dreadfulr'
"No, Tom,' / answered, "you are to |
have the purse, and the hand that knit
it, too"
Poor Tom, he cried then just like
little child-he, the bravest man in the |
village.
mo fault in him, only little too |
wild, too fond of gay company; but you
must tame him, Lucy, as your mother
did me-"
That was my fathers advice on our
wedding day. My heart smote me dread
fully as l recalled it to mind that morn
ing. Had done my duty? Had fol-
lowed the example of my mother, who
never let fail an uDkind word?
But Tom would be home to his dinner.
The thought brought me to my feet. l
did my work briskly, and went about
cooking just such dinner as l knew
he liked. The plum-pudding was done
to perfection the baby in clean slip,
and myself all smiles to receive him
when the clock struck one. But he
didn't come.
L put by the untasted dinner and pre-
pared supper, and lit bright fire in the
little parlor. He should have pleasant
welcome But he did not come. Eight,
nine, ten o'clock, and put by the un-
tasted supper, and baby and | went up
10 the nursery to wait and watch. How {
the little thorn in my heart pierced and {
rankledl Tom had broken bis promise,
and my unkindness was the causel |
else raLg in my ears through |
,he long hours.
About two o'clock, heard noise be- t
ow and went to the window. There
was a man on the porch; l could see
lim in the dim light
"Toin, is that your I asked softly, t
putting out my head. n
"Yes; open the door, Lucy; quick, the t
,olice are after me" t
My heart sunk. The police after him tt