Arizona weekly enterprise., 1882-02-18

"Excuse me if read it badly. It was always difficult for ne to get through we'll with anything that affected me. I shan't even attempt the dialect with which it abounds."
 He cleared his throat, turned himself in his chair so as to face me, and read slowly, in a nervous voice:
 In one of the outskirts of Edinburgh, where the homes of the middle classes mingled with the novels of the poor that had formerly occupied the site, lived family by the name of Compton. The husband was builder. Though his trade was fairly lucrative, the thrifty wife let her spare rooms to lodgers, in order to eke out his income.
 They had an only child, daughter named Annie, Is years old. Her unusu- al beauty rendered her exceedingly at tractive, but she was everywhere more beloved for the sweetness of her dlspo- sition than for her comeliness. Her modesty and kindness perpetuated the admiration inspired by her personal charms. Among those who became strongly attached to her was an old woman known as Mother McNavit, who lied in a hovel adjoining. She was past 70, childless, friendless and desti- tute. She earned meager livelihood by the labor of her aged hands Her sharp tongue and uncannny behavior had alienated general sympathy and at tention, and she dwelt alone, hating the world which had at last withdrawn what little kindness it had ever shown to her. But the poor old heart was not so un- feeling as the world thought 1t, or as she herself wished it was. It had sim ply been bruised and neglected till it's soreness made 1t angry and defiant toward all that approached.
 All but one. The beauty and gentle ness of Annie had come upon 1t so ten derly that its sensitiveness and hostility were disarmed, and 1t clung to the child with an unnatural strength as the only object 1t loved in all the desolate world. The forlorn creature had once had chil- dren of her own, but she had buried them all. She fancied that Annie looked like her daughter Hetty If she had lived, she said, her poor old mother might not be so forsaken now; but the sweet bairn could not have been kinder or dearer to her than was her Hetty- Annie, God bless her l-for so she min KleQ Iu6lI bMO udul6S tOSGtUST.
 The devoted love of the helpless old woman was returned by as warm an affection on Annie's part. Her pity was touched by the forsakenness and desti. tuition she saw the fondness with which she was caressed and idolized awoke the deepest sympathies in her nature, while the constant association of her name eith that of the dead daughter finally impressed her with the feeling that she stood in the same relation to the be ieaved mother. With nature as sia fest her sense of filial love in every pos sible way. So marked and unremittine were her attentions to the object of this strange affection that her parents and more intimate acquaintances were won't to address her sportively as Mother McNavit's child. The epithet did not offend her. Her love was too earnest and respectful for her to be ashamed ol annoyed by any allusion to it whatever. If the nickname produced any effect al all upon her, 1t only strengthened the tie that existed between her and the i desolate old woman.
 At the date of this story the smaI-po1 was ravaging Edinburgh. The diseas. was of an unusually violent type, anG the greatest consternation prevailed throughout the city. One day Mother McNavit was ailing. The frightened neighbors summoned physician, whC told them she was stricken with the con tagion. They informed her that sht must be removed to the hospital. Int intelligence appeared to inspire her witt a mortal terror. She begged and prayed them to leave her where she was, bu they paid no heed to her applications As last favor she asked that before sht was taken away they would let her SCI i her Hetty-Annie. When Annie was told of this desire, in spite of her natura timidity and the remonstrances of he friends, she went to the frlendless bed side. The poor terrified old creature upon beholtling her, exclaimed wildly:
 "Oh, Hetty-Annie, daughter, if yor ever loved or pitied me, show it now They're going to take me to the 'spital Don't let them Don't let them Fo mercy's sake, don't let them !"
 Wouldn't it be better for you mother?"
 "My God do you say that, too, Het ty-Annie? And all this while I hav thought of you as my child. They'vt all forsaken me, and you are going witt them. God will desert me next thel there can be 10 more disappointment
 "There, there, mother dear, don cry," said Annie, fearlessly and tenderl, pressing her lips to the burning cheel in her eagerness to console the poor olt woman "I'm not going to forsake you I merely asked if the hospital was no better place for you because they al said so.
 "Yes, they all say it; and they al think the grave would be still bette place for me. I'm willing to go to m, grave, but not from the 'spital no from the 'spital I can die here alon just as well, and it won't break m heart as 1t would to be sent to the 'spital Oh, Hetty-Annie p she cried, wildl clasping her withered arms about tn girls neck, "there is no one but you t take my part; for sweet Jesus sake don't let them take me to the 'spital l''
 Annie quieted her with endearin names and caresses, and laid her gentl back upon her pillow.
 "You shall not go to the hospital mother; you shall not die here alone you shall not die here at all if I can say you"
 "Her manner was very calm, but he features were deadly pale. She com menced quietly arranging the things i the little room, as If she had take charge of it. Turning to neighbol she said
 "Fm not going home again unt Mother McNavit is well. Please as mother to send me the things I sha need"
 When expostulated with by her pal ents and friends, she only replied:
 Here is poor, terrified, friendles human being, who clings to me frant