The Colfax chronicle. [volume] (Colfax, Grant Parish, La.) 1877-1981, 1882-08-19

member that, you're safe from me.
Forget it, and l shall keep silence no
longer"
With rough laugh he turned and left
me standing alone; then slowly re-
mounted the rocky path with heavy
weight at my heart and prepared myself
for what could say to the girl who was
waiting for my return above. She stood
watching me from the porch, where the
roses were growing in their wild beauty,
and could see wondering sort of look
in her face as came near her; but she
never spoke a word or asked a single
question. / was bit out of breath after
my tug uphill, and as what had to say
wanted all the calmness and quietness |
could muster, waited silent for time;
then took her hand in my withered one.
"Amice, my LASS said, 'Tve known
you since you were a wee thing toddling
about here, and seen you grow up into
the woman you are with near as much
pride as your own father could do, and
on the strength of that old friendship /
want you to make me a promise
No answer, only she held her head a
bit higher, and looked me straight in the
face unflinchingly.
"Willyou grant an old whim, Amice?''
1 said again.
IL must wait until hear what it is
first. Paul?" she replied.
"Well, it's this. I've a strange fancy
to be one of the guests at your wedding.
Amice, and the promise l want from you
is this: five days before your marriage
send mo word tn come to il
She laughed merrily, her old uncon-
scious laugh, that somewhat hurt me to
hear.
80, you silly old Paul." she said,
blushing slightly, ''is that all you've
been making such a mystery about?
Well-yes, promise.
looked at her earnestly.
"Amice," l said, ssyou have given
me your promise, and l trust you. What
ever persuasion you may get to the con-
trary, you give me your honest word
that old Paul. the peddler, shall come to
your wedding?"
'Yes," she said, 81 do, Paul, really
and truly"
Only few months passed away before
the summons had been fearing came.
Amice was going to be married and
wrote to bid me come to the wedding.
There were few railways in those days,
remember, SO had to start on foot and
walk day and night in order to reach
cambridge in time, and heavy jaunt it
was, for was not so young as used to
be.
Many greetings met my ears, and
many laugh was raised at my sorry
appearance, for looked travel-stained
and weary enough / warrant.
At last reached the little lych-gate
leading into the old churchyard, and
there my spirit almost failed me, for on
the ground lay the pretty flowers that
the children had thrown before the bride
as she walked up the path. But, nerv-
ing myself for what was before me, 1
entered the open door almost unnoticed.
Then saw Amice as she stood in her
soft gray gown with her beautiful head
dropping on to her breast. only
looked at her, say, and the sight gave
me courage; no man living should harm
her while lived to prevent it, but my
task was a hard one for all that. Step
ping forward through the little crowd of
villagers that looked on, open-mouthed,
to see me, made my way toward the
group in the chancel:
ssStopr' l called out aloud, holding
up my hand; ''this must not 60 on"
ssFor what reason am to stop" said
old Parson Leigh, who was a-marrying
them, startled by my voice, and not
knowing how to act.
Because" said, covering my eyes
with my hand to shut out Amice's face
from my sight " because that man is
my son, and he's married already"
sis this truep'' says Parson Leigh,
his voice shaking little with the sorrow
he felt.
Its just downright lie, SIR" he
said, simply enough, "and / am ready
to prove it. My fathers here to speak
for himself, and heaven knows why any
one should want to come between Amice
and me like this"
looked up bewildered as the man
spoke, and then in an instant the awful
mistake had made flashed across my
mind; this was not the man / had seen
coming up to Ben Ryder's house at all;
this was not my son, but younger man,
and differentin every way from that poor
wandering fellow. For a minute some
thing seemed to come into my throat and
prevent me from speaking. But pres
entity the words came: 81 withdraw what
Isaid entirely, sir, and Ihumbly ask your
pardon for the mistake made, which /
will explain later on"
Outside the cottage / stopped, and
beckoned the two out into the golden
sunlight.
s'Amice," said humbly enough, 81
have to ask your pardon for my behavior
toward you and yours this day. The
man who lodged at your fathers house
was my son. and it never entered into
my stupid head that it might be another
soldier who was counting you. 1 only
thought of him. and, knowing his ways,
made up my mind to have you from him,
though he were dozen times my son.
He has never caused me anything but
trouble since he was lad, and such