The true northerner. [volume] (Paw Paw, Mich.) 1855-1920, 1881-06-10

He hdgeted, and wiped his bald head so
much, and uttered so many exclama-
tions, that I finally asked him what he
had come across to agitate him 80.
"a most affecting story, my dear
Jack, " he replied, "most affecting"
"It must be, judging by your man
ner."
eff it would not disturb you, Ishould
like to read it aloud"
81 shall be very glad to listen to it,
Tom. My book is rather dry"
Excuse me If l read it badly. 1t
was always difficult for me to get through
well with anything that affected me. 1
shan't even attempt the dialect with
which it abounds."
He cleared his throat, turned himself
in his chair SO as to face me, and read
slowly, in a nervous voice:
In one of the outskirts of Edinburgh,
where the homes of the middle classes
mingled with the novels of the poor that
had formerly occupied the site, lived a
family by the name of Compton. The
husband was builder. Though his
trade was fairly lucrative, the thrifty
wife let her spare rooms to dodgers, in
order to exc out his income.
They had an only child, daughter
named Annie, 16 years old. Her unusu-
al beauty rendered her exceedingly at
tractive, but she was everywhere more
beloved for the sweetness of her dispo-
sltlon than for her loneliness. Her
modesty and kindness perpetuated the
admiration inspired by her personal
charms. Among those who became
strongly attached to her was an old
woman known as Mother McNavit, who
lived in a howell adjoining. She was
past 70, childless, friendless and desti-
tute. She earned q meager livelihood
by the labor of her aged hands. Her
sharp tongue and uncannny behavior
had alienated general sympathy and at
tention, and she dwelt alone, hating the
world which had at last withdrawn what
little kindness it had ever shown to her.
But the poor old heart was not so un-
feeling as the world thought it. or as
she herself wished it was. Ii had sim
ply been bruised and neglected till its
soreness made it angry and defiant
toward all that approached.
All but one. The beauty and gentle
ness of Annie had come upon it so tel
derby that its sensitiveness aud hostility
were disarmed, and it chung to the child
with an unnatural strength as the only
object it loved in all the desolate world.
The forlorn creature had once had chill
dren of her own, but she had buried
them all. She fancied that Annie looked
like her daughter Hetty. If she had
lived, she said, her poor old mother
might not be so forsaken now; but the
sweet BARN could not have been kinder
or dearer to her than was her Hetty-
Annie, God bless her for SO she min
gled their two names together.
The devoted love of the helpless old
woman was returned by as warm an
affection on Annie's part. Her pity was
touched by the forsakenness and desti-
tuition she saw the fondness with which
she was caressed and idolized awoke the
deepest sympathies in her nature, while
the constant association of her name
with that of the dead daughter finally
impressed her with the feeling that she
stood i'll the same relation to the be-
reaved mother. With nature as sim
cere as Annie's, to feel thus was to man.
fest her sense of filial love in every pos
sible way. So marked and unremitting
were her attentions to the object of THIS
strange affection that her parents and
more intimate acquaintance were won't
to address her sportively as Mother
McNavit's child. The epithet did not
offend her. Her love was too earnest
and respectful for her to be ashamed or
annoyed by any allusion to it whatever.
If the nickname produced any effect at
all upon her, it only strengthened the
tie that existed between her and the
desolate old woman.
At the date of this story the smallpox
was ravaging Edinburgh. The disease
was of an unusually violent type, and
the greatest CONSERVATION prevailed
throughout the city. One day Mother
McNavit was ailing. The frightened
neighbors summoned physician, who
told them she was stricken with the con-
tagion. They informed her that she
must be removed to the hospital. The
intelligence appeared to inspire her with
mortal terror. She begged and prayed,
them to leave her where she was, but
they paid no heed to her supphcations.
As a last favor she asked that before she
was taken away they would let her see
her Hetty-Annie. When Annie was
told of this desire, in spite of her natural
timidity and the circumstances of her
friends, she went to the friendless bed
side. The poor terrified old creature,
upon beholtling her, exclaimed wildly:
"Oh, Hetty-Annie, daughter, if you
ever loved or pitied me, show it now /
They're going to take me to the 'spital.
Don't let them Don't let them For
mercy's sake, don't let them F."
Wouldn't it be better for YOU,
mother?"
"My God do you say that. too, Het-
ty-Annie? And all this while 1 have
thought of you as my child. They've
all forsaken me, and you are going with
them. God will desert me next then
there can be no more disappointment. "
There, there, mother dear, don't
cry" said Annie, fearlessly and tenderly
pressing her lips to the burning cheek
in her eagerness TO console the poor old
women :" I'm not going to forsaze you.
1 merely asked if the hospital was not
better place for you because they all
said SO. !"