The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1881-09-14
with which my wife's forethought
had provided us.

ragged old woman. I try to pour a little
brandy down the poor old throat, but
the teeth are so firmly clenched that l
cannot.
"Get her home as quickly as may be,
sir; the mistress will know better what
to do for her nor we do, if so be the poor
creature is not past help" says John,
turning instinctively, as we all do in
sickness or trouble, to woman's aid.
So we i%mprovise Il sort of hammock
of the blankets, and gently and tenderly
the men prepare to carry their poor,
helpless burden yer the now
II am afraid your mistress will be in
bed" I say, as We begin to retrace our
steps.
"Never fear, sir" says Donald, with
a triumphant glance at John, "the mis-
tress will be up and waiting for us.
She kens Laddie dinna bring us ont in
the shaw for naethiug."
"Ill never say nought about believ-
ing a dog again." says John, gracefully
striking his colors. "You were right,
and 1 was wrong; but to think there
should be such sense in an animal
passes me"
As we reach the avenue gate I dis
patch one of the men for the doctor,
who fortunately lives within n stones
throw of us, and hurry on myself to
prepare my wife for what is coming.
She runs out into the hall to meet me.
"Well% she asks, eagerly.
eve have found a poor old woman"
I say, "but we do not know whether
she is alive or dead"
Nv wife throws her arms around me
and gives me a great hug.
"You will find dry things in your
dressipg-room, DEAR" she says, and this is
the revenge she takes on me for my sEep-
ticism. The poor old woman is car
ried upstairs and placed in q warm
bath under my wife's d. e~ction, and be-
fore the doctor arriveE she has shown
some faint symptoms of life; so my
wife sends me word. DR.. Bruce shakes
his heal when ne sees her. "Poor old
SOUL" says he, chow came she out on
such a fearful night? 7 doubt she has
received a shock which, at her age,
she will not easily get over"
They manage, however, to force a
few spoonfuls OF hot brandy and water
down her throat; and presently a faint
colos hickers on her cheek, and the
poor old eyelids begin to tremble. My
wife raises her head and makes her
swallow some cordial which DR.. Bruce
has brought with him, and lays her
back among the soft, warm pillows.
81 think she will rally now," says
DR.. Bruce, as her breathing becomes
more regular and audible. "Nourish-
ment and warmth will do the rest, but
she has received a shock from which, l
fear, she will never recover" And SO
saying, he takes leave. =
By.and-bye I go up to the room, and
find my wife watching alone by the
aged sufferer. She looks at me with
tears in her eyes. Poor old soul,'
she says, 81 am afraid she will not rally
from the cold and exposure"
I 90 round to the other side of the
bed and look down upon her. The aged
face looks wan and pinched, and the
scantv gray locks which lie on the pill
low are still wet from the snow. She
is a very little woman, as far as / can
Judge Of her in her recumbent position,
and T should think had reached her al
lotted threescore years and ten.
"Who can she be?'I repeat, won.
deringIy. "She does not belong to
any of the villages hereabouts, or we
should know her face, and 1 cannot
imagine what could bring a stranger
to the moor on such a night"
As I speak a change passes over her
face; the eyes unclose, and she looks
inquiringly about her. She tries to
speak, but is evidently too weak. My
wife raises her and gives her a spoonful
of nourishment, while she says, sooth-
ingly: "Don't try to speak. You are
among friends, and when you are
better you shall tell me all about your
self. Lie still now and try to sleep"
The gray head drops back YEARLY on
the pillow, and soon we have the salts
faction Of hearing, by the regular res
piration, that our patient is asleep.
"You must come to bed now, Jes-
sie," T say. 81 shall ring for Mary,
and she can sit up the remainder of
the night"
But my wife, who is a tender-hearted
soul and a born nurse, will not desert
her post, so I leave her watching and
retire to my solitary chamber.
When We meet in the morning l find
that the little woman has spoken a few
words, and seems stronger. "Come in
with me now" says my wife, "and let
US try to find out who she is" We find
her propped into a reclining posture
with pillo S, and Mary beside her,
feeding lur.
How are you now," asks Jessie,
bending over her.
Better, much better, thank you,
good lady," she says, in a voice which
trembles from age as we'll as weakness;
'and very grateful to you for your good
ness"
hear at once, by the accent, that she
is English. care you strong enough
to tell me how you got lost on the moor,
and where you came IRON, and where
You are going ?' continued my wife.
"Ah l was going to my lad, my poor
lad, and now l doubt whether l shall
ever see him more !" says the poor soul,
with a long sigh Of WEAKNESS.
"Where is your lad, and how far have
you come"
"My led is a soldier at Fort George,
and I have come all the way from Liver
pool to see him, and give him his old
mothers blessing before he goes to the
Indies" And then, brokenly, with long
pauses Of WEAKNESS, the little old
woman tells us her pitiful story.
Her lad, she tells us, is her only re-
naming child. She had six, and this
the youngest, is the only n who did
not die Of want during the Lancashire
cotton famine. H grew up a fine,
likely boy, the comfort and pride of his
mothers heart, and the stay of her de-
clining years. But . "strike" threw
him out of work, and unable to endure
the privation and misery, in a fit Of des-
per.tion lie "'listed." His regiment
was quartered at Fort George, and he
wrote regularly to his mother, his let
tiers getting more cheerful and hopeful
every day, until suddenly he wrote to
say that his regiment was ordered to
India, and begging her to send him her
blessing, as he had not enough money
to carry him to Liverpool to see her.
The aged mother, widowed and child
less, save for this one remaining boy,
felt that she must look on his face once
moro before she died. She begged from
a few ladies, whose kindness had kept
her from the workhouse, sufficient
money to carry her by train to Glasgow,
and from thence she had made her way,
now on foot, now begging a lift III a
passing cart or wagon, to within a few
miles of Fort George, when she was
caught in the snow-storm, and, wander
ing from the road, would have persisted
in the snow brt for Iaddie.