The news and herald. (Winnsboro, S.C.) 1877-1900, 1881-07-26
TRI-W WEEKLY EDITION.

gallery, with tiny nosegay, which she
offers, and says
"Let me pin this Oh your coat. It
may keep You in good hl,mor."
"How did you know I was angry, or
i'll q bad humor?"
"Look at that chair" and she walks
over, picks mp my fallen chair, sets it
down straight with thud, and with all
air of intense anger, stamping her pretty
foot, she says, ""rhere now p
Then, breaking into ringing laugh,
she trips away
After she leaves am still standing on
the gallery, leaning against post, whip
ping myself with my riding whip, when
out i'll the road in front Of tho house
whom do L see but Pappooso on Dan
galloping Wildly down the road If the
horse is tired there is no danger what
ever; but if ho is not, and gets the least
bit excited, he will kick her. 7 start to
stop her, but she has passed in O minute
J. go i'll to see her mother. She only
says:
"Don't fret yourself. If anybody on
earth can ride him she can."
An hour afterward she is brought in
limp and helpless and bleeding from a
wound in her forehead.
A plain room, with plain paper decora-
tions. A cheerful tircsidc, an old
fashioned hearth, and cozy arm chair
i'll which L an seated alone. No, not
quite alone; for on downy couch over
against the window pane, where she first
stamped her pretty feet, lies my little
Pappoose, pale and thin and sad. She is
sleeping now, her loose hair, like
shadowy covering, hides the fringed
eyelids, and one fair arm is thrown over
her head. Outside it is showing, cold
and bitter. Her mother has left me to
watch her moment. She has beon
very low, Dan having thrown her on q
rock and almost crushed her tender
skull. ''Concussion of the brain," the
doctors said. Five days we have
watched and waited and she is still
unconscious.
Tho weary hours we watch over our
loved ones, i'll or dying, nre the most
miserable of our lives. How we tremble
Mt the senselcss glance of the eye, the
glow or pallor of the check, the wild
mlltterings of discontinued dreams of
delirium
But to-day the WEAKNESS passed away
rs l hoard Pappoosc turn on her couch
and say:
"Mr. Walter I"
Quick MS thought I an by her side,
and her hand is in mine.
"Where is mamma?"
"She is down stairs little Pappooso."
'Why are you watching me?''
"Because I love you, Pappoose."
"Won't mamma do it?"
eyes, she has just left you. You
don't care for mo staying with you, do
You?
"How long have you boen here p
"Only few minutes"
"You had better go away. 7 nm
WE'LL"
I go out in the cold. T can't under
stand it. believe Pappoose loves mo,
but she is so artless and childish in her
manner, that cannot tell. For some
reason dare not ask her. feel hurt,
and yet know not why. Her mothor
asked me to remain in the room few
minutes while she was sleeping. Was it
maiden modesty, or does she dislike me?
l walked up the street with the snow
drifting in my face, Il north wind twisting
my hair into curls with its cold fierce
ness. Two men in front of me, mufiied
up in warm ulsters, are talking rapidly
as they hurry through the cold One Of
them snys:
She's good one. That young fellow
Bascom thinks he has got it all his own
way; but wait till he goes and she'll
come back to me quickly. Laura loves
mo better than anybody else in tho
world"
My name is Walter Bascom, and Pap
posses name is Laura. Ny jealous fancy
makes the application Immediately. r
follow them up, and stop the first ac-
quaintancc meet to ask the names of
the two men. Ono is n gambler, the
other, who spoke of Laura, is the keeper
of n variety theatre in the town; his
nnme is Joyce.
Maddcned with pain and anguish, I
retraco my steps. l find Laura sitting
up in bed, much better. She is not un-
kind, but says:
Mr.. Walter, I bog your pardon 1
am very grateful for your Kindness to
me-"
81 am feeling mean, and T say:
81 would be glad to see you looking
so well, but it seems Mr.. Joyce would
be better pleased"
How tho dear, tender face, the piteous
wall come back to me after the lapse of
years. She droops over like flower cut
down. Her breathing is faint, and we
can see the pulsations through tho
recent wound.
Poor little Pappoosc! She never spoke
again. She is doad now and never
knew and never shall know whether my
unkindness killed her or not.
It seems like n dream from which /
have awakened. The village is but
memory, the chmrchyard where Laura
lies myth !; and L,,lie, who is my wifo
now, kisses tho sadness from my brow
and says:
"It was dream, Waltcr-a lotus
dream"
Served Him Right.