The Redwood gazette. [volume] (Redwood Falls, Minn.) 1873-1940, 1880-08-26

called out, Win 0OOs rs we RODE past.
"Was you ever in her house?" asked
Stephen, pointing over his shoulder
with his whip.
ooh! yes" answered eagerly.
"She's one of my very dearest Friends"
"Oh, no! didn't know that. Sorter
queer, amt she?"
Nothing more was needed to draw
me out. My shyness vanished, and the
praises of Mrs. Weeks were only inter-
rupted by our arrival at our front gate.
mex time you come, I'll show you
the barn. Good-by." And Stephen
drove away.
My fear of meeting Mrs. Witheridge
again was considerably soothed by
Stephens parting promise. He was as
good as his word. That wonderful
barn! 1t stood opposite Deacon With
eridge's house, thereby cutting it of
from q glorious sweep of hills. Yet it
may have been as well for Stephen and
me to enjoy the landscape at the rear
door of the barn as for Mrs. Deacon
Witheridge to close her front-parlor
blinds upon it all her married life.
Here, at any rate, Stephen and l
found plenty to talk about. My heart
was won at once by the patience and
good-nature with which he answered my
endless questions. l followed him
about as he worked, till a shrill voice
called from the house: g Your milk is
waitin' for you. You mustn't be hinderin'
Stephen"
Stephen stoutly maintained that l was
no hinderance; and many time after
that heightened my call till late in the
morning.
Never mind, Maria" said nv grand
mother, eff she does stay a good while.
She can't come to any harm up at Dea-
con Witheridge's."
Stephen and I had many talks to-
gether, and had become very good
friends before our conversation took a
personal turn.
why don't you go to SCHOOL," I
asked, one day.
81 can't" he answered, and went on
shoveling.
"Why not? Won't your father and
mother let you?" persisted.
~ amt got any father and mother.
l come out of the poor-housc.'
I instantly saw my mistake; but l
could think OF nothing better to say
than "Ohr'
II amt goin' to die there, though;
not if l can help it," he continued,
shoveling with desperate energy.
care you going to get rich?" But l
stopped suddenly. "Why, Stephen,
what's the matter? Your face is all
white," cried
He leaned heavily on his shovel and
nut his hand to his forehead.
= "Tm all right now. guess l put in
a little too hard" He went on work
ing; but lifted his shovel slowly and
heavily, bending all the strength of his
slight frame TO the task. Suddenly,
who should emerge from behind a
patch of corn but Deacon Witheridge
himself.
oval, sir! Smart kind of working
I call this. Why, Teller like you don't
earn his salt"
Stephen answered nothing; but made
a weary effort to shovel faster. The
Deacon frightened me, and I did not
dare to stay longer:
When reached home 1 wentstraight
to my mother.
Mamma" 1 burst out, "didn't
Stephen ever have any father or
mother?"
"Stephen? Stephen? Oh! yes.
Deacon Witheridge's boy. Poor fell
low! When he was a little bit of a
baby, dear, they found him on the poor
house steps. They took him in and
kept him till Deacon Witheridge want
ed boy to bring up. am afraid the
little fellow has had rather q hard
time" she added, half to he rself.
l could think of nothing that after
noon but Stephens story. My knowl-
edge of the world was entirely obtained
from Sunday-school books. II hap
pened that first, then, my mind was
filled with an enhancing tale. whose
plot l distinctly remember. The hero
was founding, whose deliberately.
embroidered clothing gave no clue to
his origin. He fell into the hands Of
monsters in human shape, from whom
he suffered untold prosecutions. The
heroism of the early martyrs was moth
ing compared with the lofty endur-
ance of this young saint. At last his
so-called parents fall into deep disgrace,
and in the midst of the grand catas-
trophe our hero is discovered to be the
son of a neighboring Duke, from whose
palace ne had been stolen by revenge
full nurse. Now. as revolved this tale
in my mind l was struck with the
marked resemblance between the for
tunes of its hero and of mine. NV
imagination seized the meager facts OF
Stephens story and wove them into a
romance, whose reality l did not for a
moment doubt. Some day, felt as
sured, fine carriage would draw up
before Deacon Witheridge's front-door
and beautiful lady, in a black velvet
dress Chat was one of the points in
sisted upon), should alight and claim
my hero as her long-lost son. had nc
very definite idea where this lady
would come from, or what would aft
erward become of her; but her sudden
appearance seemed necessary dra-
matte situation. I dwelt, with a delight
which savored of the malicious, on the
establishment and chagrin of Deacon
and Mrs. Witheridge, when they dis.
covered that Stephen was a millionaire,
It suited the purpose of my story to
paint this worthy couple in the blacklist
colors. Hard, unsympathetic and grasp.
ing, they certainly were; but am glad
that they are to this day serenely un.
conscious of the atrocities laid at Their
door.
Day after day labored upon my lit
tie romance, till it began to seem very
real to me. l made various additions
and improvements, and finally de-
termined that when it had all come to
pass, 1, too, would write a book and
tell to everybody the story of my
hero.
wonder If my mother knew what a
wild little brain mine was, and what
visions were fitting through it, as she
called to me from the head of the
stairs that we were all out of eggs.
90! want you to 60 right up to Dea-
con Witheridge's for some. -
Having dispatched my errand with
Mrs. Witheridge, 1 inquired for
Stephen.
SSCAo~lo~9 VlYl.A l. .