Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-11-23

you will, but not john" And so An
stice called the one Benoni, the son of
my sorrow, and the other Asher, be-
cause of her happiness that had been re-
stored to her with him. And little Ash
aud Ben, as they presently were known,
grew and thrived, end ruled the house
hold with rods of iron. What pretty
little darlings they we're, rolling round
the floor in their dimpled play, their
curly yellow heads in the sun; their
dark fringed eyes, their fathers eyes,
dancing with mirth and mischief; their
rosy faces so veIvet-soft and sweet. An
stice would catch on to her heart, and
drop him for the other, and 60 back to
the first, and hardly let him alone at all,
in the swelling ecstacy of her love, but
tor the kicking and struggling and loud
voiced protestations that they set up;
but Margaret would only pause III her
work. and follow them with wistful eyes,
wondering if this was the way their
father looked at their age, and silently
thanking Heaven, that, if the father had
been taken, it had, at any rate, given
them each other.
They needed each other, the little fell
lows, as they increased their days. They
had nobody else. It was long since
Anstice had kept a servant, and,
although the old furnishing remained
in other rooms, the small family lived
chiefly in the narrow quarters of two,
opening into one another. Neighbors
were scarce in that hill country.
Children did not exist at ALL The only
person in reach WAS the man round the
side of the mountain, who managed An
stice's little farm for her. There was no
school, of course (the nearest was down
in the valley, ten miles away; no church
any nearer; wayfarers did not fare that
way; no soldiers marching through ban
ne~ed streets with music: no streets; no
other torchlight procession than that of
the eternal stars; nothing to break the
calm monotony but the mailcoaoh, that
once DAY could bbe seen, mere speck,
winding down the distant highway. But
all made no odds to the children. The
day was not long enough for their
pleasure. They knew nothing Of any
world outside of their kites and balls and
gardens and birds nests in the lovely,
swift summers; their snow forts and
snow-shoes and sleds in their long
winters. If it had not been for their
perpetual longing and yearning for what
was not, Greta and Anstice might have
felt something like reflection of their
happiness in looking at them.
"Do other little boys have fathers ?''
asked Ash, one day.
"Only when they don't have broth
ers," answered Ben.
But fathers are nice to have" rea-
soned Ash. "Don't you remember the
tart the minister over at Bareback
brought us? And he said his little boy
had one."
eyes. It had raisins in it. Raisins
are so good !"
"But [ think I'd rather have a
brother" urged Ash. "The brother
there next dav, and the raisin isn't.
"Hear the darlings," said Austice.
"They will be father and brother both
to each other. Oh and they viii have
need of H. !"
| For poor Anstlce's age was even more
troubled than her youth had been. Then
she had seen, piece by piece, the sub
stance of the old estate depart. farm by
farm, field by field. For two genera
tions, except to SOW and reap the few
acres lett the home-place, her people
did nothing but to sell their patrimony,
till, at length, it had reached a point
where all the fertile glebe was gone and
there was nothing left to sell. The Por-
ter place had kept them alive so many
years, the Green property SO many more.
When her father went to college, the
big bills, too. When he was buried, the
great funeral cost the barley-fel s.
The long acres down in the valley had
furnished her and John with food and
clothes, after her own husbands death
from mountain fever. And then there
was no remnant of it at all, but the
home place, that any one would not take
SO much as a mortgage on: and it was
when she mortgaged that that John, in
desperation, went away to sea.
Anstice had depended on the rent of
two Or three little outlying spots to pay
| the interest on the mortgage; and now,
this cruel year, they had been deserted
by their tenants, who had left the sterile
heaps of stones and moss for the rich
western lands. and there were no other
tenants to take them. She had no
money, and, come to the last part of
November, the mortgage would be fore
closed, and she and Greta and the boys
would be turned loose upon the world
without a dollar. Greta could work,
may be; but she herself and the little
lads-there was not even the poor-house
before them. Up in that hill country
the abject poor were so few that they
were farmed out and boarded from place
to place. And that was the end of all
the Purcell wealth and Purcell hope.
Death wonld have been a kind thing to
old Anstice in comparison.
She used to lay awake in the nights
thinking over the possibilities. The hor-
ror of them grew upon her. She would
start up and pace the floor, and, hinging
something on, would run out, as if to
get help from all outdoors stars,
the wind, the sky-and end by wonder
ing, as she leaned over the parapet OF
the old stone wall, if it would not be
best to put an end to themselves at once
down the precipice below her.
"When [ think of it," said she, as
| (xrpfa 70 fotoh ho,.