News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1882-12-28
given you such thingss Will he ever

''John is my husband, the father of
my baby; father of the two God gave us
and took again; cannot leave him, you
know"
81 know nothing of the kind" cried
the gold-witch. "You are my niece.
my own sisters child; your John,
whoever he may be, is no kinsman of
mine; want nothing of him: you say
two of your children are dead; so will
the third one be in this reeking atmos-
phere; it is sufocating me already. You
have no right to kill your child, no right
to refuse him a chance such as he viii
never have again. As for your John,
you may send him $1,000 tonight. He
IS man; they are all alike; he had
rather have the money than you"
These last two arguments were strong
ones and illness and poverty had made
Annie weak There was more feeble
resistance, more golden promises and at
last she yielded.
Strange and bewildered enough she
felt when the prancing horses stood be-
fore the great uptown hotel where obse-
quious walters stood on every hand.
,''Now rest" cried the gold-witch whose
will and word seemed law unto others.
So Annie rested. The bed was white
and downy; there were laces and ribbons
fiuttering around it; but in spite of the
softness and whiteness the child that lay
on her bosom wept and walled with a
low, heart-breaking cry, and at last the
baby, who up to that day had never
spoke any word, or tried to speak, opened
its little quivering lips and called out
loud and clear:
Papa Papap'
Itwas as though the voice of God spoke
to the heart of the mother. She sprang
from the bed and folded her worn old
shawl about herself and boy. Close be-
side the door sat the gold-witch, soundly
sleeping. With bated breath, and noise
less footsteps she stole by the old wo-
man. Down the grand stairway, and
through the lofty halls she sped, looking
either to the right hand nor to the left.
She reached her home at last, dark and
dismal as to outward surroundings, bright
with the memory of former joys, sacred
to the memory of former sorrows.
The fire was out, the hearth was dark.
A moment later and glad flame leaped
and sparkled, the sleeping baby was left
while his mother converted few boarded
silver pieces that were to have bought
her dress into tea, sugar, crackers, hot
rolls, and while the fit of recklessness
was strong upon her, pint of cranber-
ries for old times sake. Her shopping
how Annie, as it were, flew
home
How that despised turkey was forgiven
for having passed through old Huxley's !
hands, and tucked into an oven as warm
and comfortable as any heightened
turkey could desire How the potatoes
danced and tumbled, and at last abso-
lutely burst themselves with pride at be-
ing allowed to participate in this most
luxuriant repast How the cranberries
cracked and sputtered in their loud de-
mand for sugar How light the rolls
were and how strong the tea
After the dinner was well under way,
Annie had time for a vigorous putting to
rights of the disordered room, time even
to make the baby sweet and clean, as she
was herself IN very best dress, the pretty, |
empress cloth that had |
borne with some degree of gentility the |
wear and tear of the last four years. So
John came home to a tidier wife, a |
3weeter baby, a neater room and a |
yrander dinner than he had dreamed of |
IN all the years in which he had been
Sliding down hill with such discouraging
rapidity.
Then Annie asked pardon for her un-
kind reception of the brown and luscious
turkey, and received it, with her pretty
head hidden on his willing shoulder, and !
while in such safe retirement, managed |
o confess and receive pardon for the |
sins also. If you will believe
t, these poor young married people were
o taken up in forgiving and making love
o each other that they never heard their |
)aby cry, and it was a great surprise
When at last they came to themselves, to
zee their small child in the arms of nice |
I'D lady in a nice black dress, who was
Kissing and crying over it, much as its
or aunt might be supposed |
o do.
'tYou blessed child, said the old lady,
ooking at Annie, 'you are all mother,
20 you are, dear 1 have been hunting
or You ever since your Uncle Samuel |
lied; he never would forgive your poor !
mother for running off with the scamp
hat abused and deserted her, and left !
ler at last to die in the poor-house Your |
was an angel, dear, and chung to |
MIN always-would never leave him, al |
though We offered her home and you !
also, if she only would.
"Ah she was a blessed woman and |
YOU are like her, DEAR" with another
Deaming smile. ''You will forgive the
Did woman" she went on, ''for this |
trick. / wanted to know if |
you were like your father or mother;
you cannot tell how glad I was when [
heard you running off; almost stran-
yled myself holding my breath for you
% get by me, so soft and still. If you
lad stayed I would have given you
money, Annie, and all promised, for
7ou are my sisters child; but could |
never have given you the whole heart of
owe that is aching for you, dear"
Just then Annie threw herself into the
arms and kissed the CULVER
ng lips, while the wrinkled, ringless
myers patted her soft hair, oh, so
ovingly
"Of all the days of my life this is the
est, said the old lady at last, " and
hank God for ii"
"Amen !" said Annie.
And amen p said John.