Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1882-03-03

to get up after he's down"
'No !" said the deacon, in curiously in
terrogatory tone.
"No," the other replied growing warmer as
he spoke; land, then, you don't know what
temptations such as myself have, either, and
you've never had to go through what l have
thrown out 10 shift for myself, for my
mother died when ] was a child, and my faith
er-"
"Your father 2" said the deacon, inquiring-
ly, as the other stopped abruptly.
'Do not speak of him !" he said vehement
ly, as he arose and walked to and fro. cts
little enough have to thank him for. Like
father, like son = that's what l have to re-
member him by, for I've heard nothing else
about him since l can remember. He was
bad enough, / suppose. | never saw him,
and | don't know maybe, after all, he wasn't
as bad as 1 was told, he added, in a softer
tone.
The deacon followed his nervous move
ments with curious gaze, not little sur
prsed at his vehemence
"I'm not one to judge you too severely,
young man, said he, as the other reseated
himself. Whats your nameI Z"
Amos Sethwel," the other replied, and
raising his eyes, saw the descon's fixed upon
him attentvely. And it may have been mere
fancy on his part, but as the ftful camp fire
hared up brightly for moment, he thought
a curious spasm contracted the right line Of
tue deacon's mouth. 1t was only for an in
stant, for the deacon quickly averted his eyes
and turned them upon the peaks above geam-
ing softly in the light Of the rising moon.
Along silence ensued The young man gazed
despondently in the fire, the deacon absently
at the cleaning peaks-so absently that it was
plain he saw them not. Far beyond their
snowy domeR his thoughts had wandered
back to his native town, and party of wild
young men. And, though it had been long
ago, il seemed but yesterday az he saw them
dsperse, and followed the footsteps OF one re-
turning home-followed him as he entered
the empty house, and saw him take up lit
tie note lying open on the table which told
him that his wife, driven to despair by his
dissolute ways, had left bis home for ever,
and that henceforth their ways lay separate,
for never did she wish his unborn child
brought under his evil influence.
Perhaps it had needed some shock, sharp
and sudden like this to check the downward
course of his life and rouse his better instincts
He was not one, however 70 steer middle
course-he must be one thing or the other
and, as be shook the dust of his native village
from his feet, SO also he cast away the shack.
les Of his ill-spent life, and became instead a
cold, silent man, shut up in his shell Of stern
self-reliance And so be had remained through
many q weary year of wandering to and fro,
until he was now q lonely and morose old
man.
Perhaps the sight OF this younger man, al
ready started on the downward path where he
had been before perhaps something more
than all these, stirred the well of loving kind
ness hidden so deep in the deacon's rugged
breast that no sign Of it ever reached his i'm
passible face. For, when he at length spoke,
it was in tone very different from his usual
harsh one.
Amos, go into the tent and lie down on
my blankets. l will join you presently"
Deacon, said the other, slowly as be
arose, II didn't expect any such kindness
from you, of all men. II thank you"
and, breaking of, he hurried into the tent.
Long after the campfire had burned TO
ashes, the deacon still sat beside it with his
head in his hands and his eyes fixed on moth
ing The gray burrO once or twice nibbled
softly at his sleeve, but, elieting no attention,
grazed slowly of Then upon his reverie
broke the hurried breathing Of the sleeper in
the tent. Glancing in, he saw him lying on
the bare ground with one arm under his
head and his face half.covered by one slim
hand Moved by sudden impulse, the dea-
con arose, raised the sleeping head and placed
his pillow under it, and covered him with a
blanket with touch so gentle that he never
stirred in his deep repose.
1t was late when the tired sleeper felt a
hand upon his shoulder the next morning,
and starting up, saw the deacon bent over
him.
II see you have rested we'll Come, now,
and have some breakfast he said, in kind.
ly voice.
Their meal being concluded. the deacon
again addressed him, speaking slowly as il
in pursuance of some preconceiyed purpose.
Amos, mine is and has been a lonely life
for many year. 1t is hard life, also; but
such as it is | will ask you to share it with
me-"
"Do you really mean to give me a show,
deacon ?" asked the other, with a frightening
face.
II do, said the deacon, simply. Here's
my hand upon it, )" and, extending his hand
he held the slim one of the young man in al
earnest grasp.
From that day forward the twain worked
together on the rugged hillside. The deacor
never alluded to the cause of their meeting
but day by day, set the force of an example
of patient, persevering labor-an example
the other was not slow to follow. The dea
con noted this with silent satisfaction, ant
noted also how the healthful exercise in the
bracing mountain air filed out the hollows il
the younger face, and erased its marks oi
dissipation.
Gradually the two were drawn together by
| a strong bond of affection-all the stronger
perhaps, from its quiet undemonstrativeness
for the young man became imbued with tn,
silent ways of the solitary old man, and ua
consciously fell into them himself.
Yet there we're times when, sitting at nigh
| by the fire before the little tent, the two
spoke of the results of their labors and thei
hopes of "striking it, and of how, in tina
event their future lives should be shaped
For it was tacitly understood they were to b,
spent together. At such times, too, thu
young man often spoke of his past dwelling
with curious pertinacity upon the father Ia,
had never seen, and always ending by saying
in a softened voice, "He mightn't have beer
so bad, after ALL" To these retrospecton
the deacon always listened in silence, sitting
before the fire in his old musing way, anC
falling into fits of abstraction which lasteC
long after the other had ceased speaking
Amos, said the deacon one evening, "
am expecting the final payment on the Greer
Mountain Boy II ought to come on tn
coach day after tomorrow, and as we ar
running short in the grub line, suppose W
go to the city, get the money, and lay in
new supply"
| 'As you WILL deacon the other repned.
And so in the morning they set out, drivinl
the burrO before them. Towards evening, a
they drew near ''the city," Amos began to be
tray signs of uneasiness.
"Deaoon" said he, at length, ''you hav
never thought it might get us both into trou
BILE if 1 was seen in the city after-what
told you that first night, you rememberp
True, boy" the deacon replied, as h
stopped still 81 had forgotten about it,"
''it would be best, think" Amos oontin
ued, indicating the spot with his hand as h
spoke, "for me to camp tonight in this httl
gulcn off the trail. You can go on to tn
city and will await your return in the morn
ing"
So they separated and the deacon went o.
alone. It was late when he arrived; the eX
press office was still open, however, pendin
the arrival of the coach, then due. Afte
having waited vainly for its coming for som
a IL