Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1880-04-21
After Forty Years.
now HAPPINESS cAxE BKTTEn LATE THAN Ssvr

nobody to pluck them, must have owned
that it could not be so in her case.
Down the lane, coming towards her,
walked gentleman. He was tall and broad,
his hair was gray and his hat was gray
and his summer suit was gray; his beard
was gray also. He, oddly enough, was
shaded off into another sort of dove.
The green trees were all about them both,
the green grass beneath their feet. The |
roses nodded over the fence. II these had
been two young people instead of two old |
people, one might have fancied it lovers |
rendezvous, but they were old OF course
there could be no romance about them.
In the middle Of the lane, shaded by great |
chestnut trees, stood an old house. Honey |
suckle draped the porch There was an
old-fashioned sweep in the we'll 1t was
altogether thing of the past--no modern
cottage OF architectural mysteries. 1t was
so old-fashioned that it must have been the
same when these two people were young.
Yes, when their parents were born doubt
less it stood, by no means new house, Just
as it stood now.
The pretty old lady in brown reached the
gate of this house first She lifted the latch
and stood looking down the road, thinking
that it must be that the handsome old gen.
tleman in gray had lost his way and would
inquire of her, for the lane was no thorough
fare, because of fence, and a gate, and
sign, with "All persons are forbid to tres
pass upon these grounds" nailed upon it..
The old lady's father had put up the sign
the day after the peddler had stolen all his
| pears. No neighbor minded it, but stran-
gers did. So the old lady waited courte-
ously to tell the stranger that he might take
the short cut through the orchard if he chose.
ale walks like somebody know. Who
can it be 7" she asked herself. Then she
suddenly blushed, and looked prettier than
| ever.
On came the old gentleman in his gray
coat, and as he looked at the old lady he
doffed his gray hat.
| Madam" he said, "this is where Mr..
Edward Carney used to live, know. Does
he live here now?"
But the old lady looked at him with a
sudden start. "Oh I" she cried, and added,
"No, he does not 1t is his tombstone that
you can see under the great willow in the
highest part of the cnurchyard," she said
pointing through the trees. " He was eighty
when he died" She was not looking at
him now, but at the flowers in the borders
at her feet.
"Mr. Carney was a widower when | knew
him, and had but one child-a daughter"
said the old gentleman in gray. "She is
| living ie che rnt'"
"Yes," said the old lady.
"But she cannot be Miss Carney, still,
said the old gentleman.
"But she is," said the old lady, and looked
him in the face again.
Their eyes met. Hers were brown and
his were gray.
"People alter out of knowledge in forty
years." said she; "aud how on earth |
came to know you, don't know, for you
look like your own grandfather, Mark
Turner"
"Ask the old gentleman to walk in, then,
Miss Carney" said he "for he ought to be
more weary than he used to grow on the
same road lifetime ago, coming from the
mill, you remember, Priscy, every Sunday
evening"
She turned. He followed her. They sat
down in the parlor-one on either side of the
polished table. Over it, between the win
dows, hung the looking-glass with its mar
row gilt frame. The bookcase filled the
recess.
On the mantel-piece were some shell flow
ers under glass. There was the stiff sofa
with the black cushion like slice of a
Huted column; there were six chairs to
match, and the claw-footed sideboard. Al
|
Miss Carney standing in the middle of the
floor with her long black hair in curls about
her shoulders, and blue ribbon around hel
,, taper girls waist.
Now he looked at her, and she was really
old and stout, but somehow she seemed tt
be nobody else but Priscy Carney.
She saw him looking from the furniture
Z to her face, and interrupted his thought.
"Yes," she said, almost angrily, ais it no
stranger There are the bits of wood ant
glass and china, just as they used to BE-
There are the oak trees, only finer ant
greener. The very grass and flowers nigh
be the same; aud here am l., old, faded ant
lonely, and my handsome, bright-eyed fathe
dead and in his grave, and all l care TO
: gone. wish | were gone also. | thinl
. people who have not seen each other 10
forty years need not seek each other again
;, | wish they would not come to me after be
. O. ing all the same as dead for forty years. |
: is precisely like seeing ghosts" She looke'
'' as though she wanted to cry.
l' "Poor old ghost" said he, "whom no on
e wants TO see-not even those who promise,
! to remember him forever"
!. "Forty years is much worse than forever,
= said she, "and fifty-six is terribly unrc
mantle age"
: "Yes, it is," said he "but it is goo
age enough for ghosts. By the way, do yo
= like ghost stories ? Let me tell you one."
"Once there was ghost-now l think O
: it, he wasn't always ghost he was bo
u u once-the son of miller down by the waite
y side. He worked in the mill and was whit
; as ghost should be most of the time bu
q . he was happy and gay, and many thing
y happened as he liked. One of them wa
@ when certain rich farmer in the neighbol
hood came to the mill. The grain his sci
wants brought in the great wagons, but h'
the farmer, used to drive to the mill wit
n his little daughter in the gig beside hin
n She was pretty child, with long curls, an
4 her eyes were big and brown.
a "She made pretty picture in her whit
!. dresses and bright ribbons, and she cam
n when she was so young that she used to hol
a her hands out to this boy and cry, Com
!, here, little boy. Show me where the flou
. siffs from
= "For that was what she liked to see bes
i. the -four sitting through the fine muslin
!. Every week she used TO come until tn
miller sent his boy away to school. Whe
y he came home again she was girl OF sia
y teen, pretter than ever, and she remeu
!, bered asking him to let her see the flou
- silt, and she talked to him while her fathe
was attending to his business; and the day
when she did not come the boy cared nothin
y for, and the days that brought her wer
s marked and picked out as blessed days.
"After awhile he got over the shyness tina
:. kept him from going to see her, and went
u and she was not displeased. She was tn
u mistress of the house, for her mother die
a young. She used TO make tea for him, an
o after tea her father would put his hand
, kerchiet over his head and fall into a naE
Then they used to whisper together. Lon
a after the poor boy came to be ghost he r'
h membered those evenings, when he was
y bright-cheeked young fellow, the son of
u rich miller, and had the hope of marryin
d the girl he loved before his eyes.
;, "Iie thought the girl loved him as we'll a
be loved her. aud he had no fears Of th