Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1882-08-07

swooning in the dust.
$50 you are at last awake" said
she, laying her cool, moist hands on
my temples-"awake and the fever
all gone. You must feel much
BETTER
l could only look Eyes" with my
eyes.
sNow, don't want you to talk.
You are my patient and you must
mind me-
"But where am II"
In spite of all orders / must ask
that question, for fear the vision
might fade.
'sYou're safe enough in our house
mothers and mine. / told you we
were poor, but you would faint right
before our door,"
"I'm very sorry" l said, peni-
tently.
9Hum That don't help. Do
you know how sick you've been?'
L protested my entire ignorance.
"WeIl, you've had fever, and
been wild sometimes" she informed
me, "But now, lie still until 1 get
you something to eat.
| AS she said this, she got up from
the little rocking chair in which she
had been sitting.
"NO, don't go!' l caught her by
the sleeve. II don't want anything
to eat, and | do want YOU"
She sat down again with a little
laugh.
"Tm afraid you don't know just
what you do want" she said, pleas
antly.
eyes l do; l want you. You
won't 60 will you?" My voice sound
ed very anxious in its weakness.
"Not without mother calls me.
Now 60 to Sleep
She settled the white coverlet
about me very carefully.
Chow did you get me herew /
asked presently.
Zone of the station men helped
me; and you were terribly heavy, if
you hadn't had anything to eat
lay back on my pillow and watch
ed her sitting there in the stiffness
of the room. 1t was a picture sweet
enough for any man-more than that
to me, for l had scarcely spoken to
woman for long year, excepting to
receive harsh answers.
The sun that came streaming into
the window, piercing here and there
the network of vines, went slowly
down, casting long shadows across
the floor, and l fell asleep.
How those two women did watch
over and care for me during the days
that followed-days in which l got
better very slow-the old gray-head-
ed, matronly mother and her little
girl! What delightful, dainty little
meals they cooked me with their own
hands And then one would fan
and talk with me in the long summer
afternoons.
One day, when the mother was
out, l told my little nurse my whole
history, concealing nothing, and
watching the changing emotions of
her face.
"You have told me every thing
but your name," she said, when 1
finished.
"That is simple enough" l repli-
ed. was sitting up now, in the
great old-fashioned rocking chair.
"It is George Gray. And yours?'
"Florence O'Neil. My father was
killed on the railroad several years
ago and the company gave us this
house, and we watch to flag the
trains if the bridge should not be
safe; the water in the river rises very
high sometimes.
She said it all very simply as if
such a life was old and common
enough to her.
The daughter of a railroad labor
er, and loved her-and / was only
a tramp.
''Not very elevated" you think.
Perhaps not, in the social scale, but
our hearts might he as true, our
love as great.
In the days which followed, and
their tender care, | grew rapidly bet
ter, until at last could frame no ex-
cuse for remaining longer. But
nothing could now tear me away
from the girl who had saved my life
whom / knew but too well loved.
/ never said one word of love to
her, for l was only a tramp, and my
love was too honest, too sincere, to
give its object needless pain.
Deep in my heart had resolved to
work up to something more worthy
of her, more worthy of myself. But,
meanwhile, l could not altogether
leave her, and finally, through their
influence with the men upon the road, !,
men who had worked with O'Neil, /
received position. 1t was only
that of brakeman upon the night ex-
press. Not much, you think. Per-
haps not to you, my scofing friend,
with your credit at the bank, but it
was every thing to me. 1t was my
first step upward, and | believe /
was prouder in that brakeman's cap
than ever was in my first gold and
4