The Russellville Democrat., 1881-03-10

woman Tn Kindly whisper; ana then, speaking loud and cheerily, "Yes, he's doin' splendid now" she continued, ian don't need nothin' but to keep quiet, less it mought be wild cherry bftters, f we had 'em. Wy, two weeks ago, he was jest plain skin and bones. His own mother wouldn't "a knowed him."
 q seed my shadder on the grass one day" the man called out with grim ehuckle, ''an' it skeert me"
 He did not speak again, except in an undertone to the restless child, during the hour or more that we plodded along to- gether; but the woman was talkative, and we gleaned from her, by easy degrees that they had been living in new New Mexico, and were now on their way back "to Gods country" east of the plains, "eyerlastingly put out" as she expressed 1t, win the greasers an their lazy, trifiin' good for-nothin' ways" She had lost one husband there, "shot by sneak in Apaches," and married another, and there Cutie had been born; and they mixed goats there, and tied pigs to stakes, and had no society and no rain; and so on and so on. Its jest too onery to talk about" she exclaimed, and then went on talking about it faster than ever; and only our arrival at the ranch cut short her fluent and sneering disclosures.
 At sight of us, Aunt 'Cinda came hur- rying forward. For pity's sakep she said, and waited to be told what it all meant We repeated briefly what we had gathered concerning the travellers, not emitting the baby, and laying some stress upon the mans illness.
 "A sick man?" answered Aunt 'Cinda. Fetch him right in. An the baby, too, an the woman-all of 'em." she insisted, and turned to lead the way, murmuring to herself in pleased manner, Good ness gracious, a baby"
 The sick man rose with sudden effort and sat upright. The dusk had thicken- ed and the stars were coming out, and the path to the door of the cabin, along which he cast yearning look, was be- ginning to lose itself in the proximate and dusty sage brush, "I guess I'd bet ter stay in the wagon" be observed; 'therell be too many of us." And then glancing skyward, its goin' to be q purity night" he added, and dropped back upon his pallet.
 Aunt 'Cinda hesitated, listened, faced about, and slowly returned. The mother had just climbed down from her uncer- tain seat, and was holding the baby in her arms while she clumsily adjusted her skirts. With a soliciting gesture, but without speaking, Aunt 'Cinda took the child, and, stepping aside, turned its lit tie surprised face to the stars and gazed upon it fixedly-wishing it were hers, we imagined. You cunnin' little darlin'," !" she said, directly, and handed it back in the same peculiar impulsive manner. Then she moved forward q few short paces, and stood, with bowed head very close to the wagon. The sick man must have heard her, for immediately, almost, he was sitting up again, leaning out over the wagon-side. Her face, as she lifted it, touched his; there was fiuttering instant's pause; she grasped his hand;
 If you ain't Aaron McMillan, you're his ghostw
 We hastened to them. She had an arm about his neck, now, and his head was upon her shoulder In the starlight he looked to be sleeping.
 Don't you know me, Aaron?" she said fervently; "oh don't you know mel"
 The man opened his eyes with curi- ous start, and regarded her minute like one amazed:
 "They told me-you was dead-'Cin- dy" He spoke slowly, in choked and wavering tone, and made motion as if to lie down again.
 But ain't dead, Aaron" urged Aunt 'Cindy, tightening her hold upon him, and stroking his temples; q ain't dead don't you see? I'm right here by you, an holdin' your han. come away out here to meet you, Aaron. Aint you glad to see me? It's been SO long. Don't be mad at me, Aaron, don't. I couldn't stan it to stay there, wher' ev'ry step l took got lonesomer and lonesomer, an it 'peared to mes if you got furder and furder off, But l knowed you'd come back; and sometimes, Aaron, some times"
 "Stop, 'Cindy, stop" he interposed with startling abruptness. You don't know what a fix I'm in"
 But she did know-had we not told her, could she not see-that he was very ill, and weak, and nervous; and he seem ed to guess her thought, for in the next breath he said:'"I don't mean the sick ness;' and then pointing a finger in the direction of the mother and child he added; That's my baby, yender 'Cindy."
 He waited for her to reply; he looked up into her face imploringly; but she said not word. Surely she had heard him; did she not understand? He wait ed moment longer Then he glanced again at her face, again pointed to the mother and child, and suddenly, with woe begone but blunt and cruel force exclaimed:
 "Cindy, I-I'ye-got another wife"
 She did not scream, poor woman, nol faint, nor stir. The voice of the child broke the stiffness, at length, with q quick, impatient call, like the chirp of q hungry bird. And then Aunt 'Cindy carefully released her arm from about his neck, and turned her head away, and hid her face with her hands, and sobbed
 'Oh, Aaron, Aaron, Aaronw
 The sight was not one for strange ol | accidental eyes, and we retired, my com panion and l, to respectful distance | What more was said, we could not know but they conversed there together fol several minutes, the three of them-no angrily nor loudly, but very earnestly | and two or three times we detected tho shrill voice of the child's mother above | the others, as if in special entreaty. 0u hearts involuntarily went out to Aun 1 'Cinda; and yet there was the shrinkin, mother with her baby; and there was tn, sorely beset and helpless Aaron, also 1 The stars glittered sharply, but coldly 1 the advancing night made the landscap, sinister and spectral. We did not no 1 tice the sick man get out of the wagon 1 but presently he camo toward us, On either side of him walked one of tn, women, supporting him-and Aun | Ia, s,I |, oh