The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1881-07-25

quantity wrinkled like The althered outside
of dried butternut, there was heartsome
smile playing over it, and the little, dark
eyes twinkled with kindly humor. She
| looked so old that he could not guess at her
age; she had long spindling arms and
| crooked back; on her wise old head she wore
| "a stiffy starched white cap ornamented with
| a wide ruff1e. Her gaze was fixed on thered
| embers, though she occasionally glanced
contentedly at Paul.
''It's singular I didn't see you when 1 first
came in" he said at last, anxious to begin
conversation and not knowing exactly how.
II suppose you didn't see me, but | am al
ways here" she said in piping voice that
reminded him of cricket's chirp, merry,
yet plaintive and suggesting sadness.
"And do you live here all the time and all
alone?" he asked pityingly. r. s.
"You do not understand. l am the spirit
of the old house, and have always lived here
and always shall, till the timbers fall down
and the roof drops in a ID the house dies,-if
such an existence as mine can be called liv-
ing in your meaning of the word, Alack it
did not use to be so wearisome, though your
coming cheers me up little. You look like
one who lived here once" she added ami
matedly,
81 expect you could tell a curious story of
the house and its residents if you chose"
began Paul, cautiously. Il
The old woman, or more properly the spir-
it, nodded her head rapidly three or four
times, pursed up her shrunken lips and then
smiled knowingly. 1t was evident she pos
sessed the garrulity of age.
81 should be a thousand times grateful if
you would allow me the honor to listen to
your tale Nothing charms me so much as
to hear quaint stories, and it must be dou-
bly, fascinating when the recital is by par
ticipant conveying the impressions of deli
cate, sensitive being,' he continued, casting
about for the proper title wherewith to ad-
dress her.
If she had been a real woman the cum
ming compliment could not have told better.
"For the sake of the one you resemble, I
will tell you the story of my life, the tale Of
the old house," she said complacently, set
Ting herself as for a long talk.
"The house has always belonged to the
Champney family. Old Doctor Champney,
as he was known throughout the country
far and wide for many years, built it. He
was young Doctor Champney then, just
married and came here with his bride to set
tie and practice medicine. Ah those were
merry times! For long time the Doctor
had no practice worth mentioning. but they
were always contented and hopeful, and the
mistress went chirrupping about the house
as gay as a bird from morning till night.
Mornings, the Doctor would harness his
white horse into the old two wheeled chaise
and drive furiously away, sometimes return
ing in an hour or two and sometimes stay
ing away all day. This patientless driving
they considered it the surest and easiest
method of convincing the public of his great
ability and converting it to a faith in a large
and growing practice. }5
But this ingenious procedure after while
became unnec essary and was discontinued.
The Doctor went flying about on actual
pressing errands, and in time became the
good angel of many score of homes. His
own house grew noiser and merrier apace.
Almost every year there was little child
until there we're nine, and every one see.s-
ed dearer than the last. The Doctor grew
gray as time rolled on, and the mistress,
who had always been delicate, became pale
and STOPPING. The children gre up strong
and robust.
But what brave soul the Docto was
One stormy Winters night he was sent for,
to visit a sick boy The way lay over
drifted, nearly impossible road. A horse
and sleigh was out of the question, he must
90 on horseback. He arrived at the house,
nearly persisted with cold, and saved the
child from death by membranous croup-so
the mother always declared-and coming
home the horse fell and threw him, break
ing his leg. On his hands and knees he
crawled two miles through the drifts, reach
ed home, and set his leg himself!
Well, he died at last with the harness on
from over-work and exhaustion, one autumn
when half the people in the country were
down with the typhoid fever. The mistress
soon followed, for she could not live with
out him, and sad and doleful days followed.
Twas plain enough that the house would
never be the same again, and sometimes it
seemed that the good cheer and heartsome-
ness had gone out of it forever. But after
the children, now men and women, had one
by one gone away, and the loneliness seemed
well nigh uncomfortable, what should the old
est son do but get married? They had a
grand wedding in this very room, and hoped
for return of the joyous, simple, loving
life of DR.. Champney and his wife.
But l soon made dreadful discovery. It
was that young Mr.. Champney was not fond
of his wife ard had wanted to marry some
one else whom he still loved and from whom
he had been separated by silly quarrel.
His wife found miniature and lock of
hair and some old letters; she accused him
and they quarrelled openly. The poor thing
grew querulous, petulant and complaining.
She was consumed with jealousy. Her
health failed and her beauty faded. The
husband had not his fathers broad, warm
hearted, generous nature. He treated his
poor, jealous wife with acontemptuous cold
ness that made my old heart ache for her.
Little Phillis was her only comfort, and he
was beautiful boy, so that I used
to wonder that love for the moth
er did not creep into the fathers heart
along with fondness for her child.
Little Phil worshipped his mother and
would leave his play to stand gazing in her
face and smoothing her hair. He took no.
tice Of everything and he knew that all was
not as it should be with his father and
mother. Dear mamma, love you, and 1
will ask papa to love you too; now please
don't cry any MORE he would say, wiping
the tears off her white, thin cheeks with
his chubby hands.
But the poor girl faded and pinned and
sickened. One night the husband seemed
more morose and gloomy than usual Her
inquiries elected no explanation Of his de
spondency, but gossiping neigh
Dor furnished the key. The husband
of the woman he had always loved was ly-
ing at deaths door, she would soon be free,
and he, fool that he was, he thought bitterly
might have been free but for her, his wife
whom he hated worse than ever now. Ard
she read it all in his face, and wild with
rage, tainted him with it.
You would like to be rid of me so that
you might be free to marry her, she cried
is it not so? do you dare to deny it2 COM
turned furiously upon him in her despair.
He gave her look of contempt and uttered
words that made her heart culver. 4 have
no need to deny it, I would like to be rid of
you, that l might be free to-. marry herr
I never can forget the look the poor crea-
ture gave him as she took little Phil up from
the settee where he was sleeping and turned
to leave the room. At the door she looked
at him again with heart-break in her eyes.
May God forgive you, l never can, for you
have turned me off, she said.
1t was wild, stormy night, a night like
this She put Phil in his bed and went out
into the driving rain, the wild ind and the
darkness. Her heart was breaking, her rea-
son nearly gone. Towards morning her 4
husband found her cold and drenched, lying
moaning under tree. Alarmed at last, he
brought her in tenderly. But tenderness
was too late now, the delirum of fever set
in, and though he watched devotedly every
minute at her dside, and though | relent-
ed toward him and forgave him and hoped
she would, she never spoke kindly to him
again and no CLEAN of recognition for him
ever shone in her wild eyes.
He could not endure TO stay in the
house after she was gone and little Phii's
grief vas more than he could endure I
want my mamRa, l want my mamma. he