The Northern Pacific farmer. [volume] (Wadena, Minn.) 1878-1885, 1882-03-23
FOR LOVES SAKE.

greetings when his identity was recalled to
their minds. His OLD sweetbearts were oil
either married or engaged, and, oppressed
by the dignity of present or coming matron-
hood, would flirt no more. Some were
even dead. All these things saddened him.
and the happy boyhood of three short
years ago seemed to be centuries away.
Il really do feel dreadfully DID," he said
to his cousin Amy as they sat together in
the dusk, "quite patriarchal. Unjust have
known Adam and Noah, and been q person
al friend of Abraham, only I've forgotten
all about them. Everything here is so al
tered; place and people seem changed COM
pletely. AS remember myself three years
ego, was rather favori here, and now
nobody seems to remember or to take any
interest in me. / suppose it is stupid,
though natural, to expect to find things as
you left them.
And do you find me changed1" asked
Amy.
More than anybody or anything else."
Not disagreeably, I hope9"
Not disagreeably, at all. Quite the con-
trary. You were girl when left, and now
you are woman-and very pretty woman
too, Amy"
"Ah" said the girl, with laugh and half
sigh, "you are not changed, see."
Il am afraid I am, though" answered
John. The three years that have made
woman of you have made man of me
One is man at three and twenty, sup
poser"
Il suppose So" said Amy, with another
sigh. ''Ah, the dear old days! We shall
never see them again, Jack"
We may see happier, Amy, though they
will be spent apart"
He could not see the painful look upon
his companions face as she looked toward
him through the gathering dusk, and in his
distraction, did not notice her quickened
b eathing.
Why should they be spent apart" she
asked presently. Gould not your work be
done as we'll here as in London?".
"Quite as we'll. Perhaps better"
Then why not stay? Oh Jack, don't re-
fuse! The house and farm are my own
now uncle has gone. You know how well
come you are. have more than can
ever want. Mr.. Sampson says the last
years income was over six hundred. What
can I do with all that? Stay here, Jack,
and let US revive old times"
"No, Amy. Don't think mo proud or
ungrateful. But I must not be a pension
er even on your bounty, and that is what
"Jack!" said the girl, in panied tone.
That is what it would be, Amy; there is
no other word for it. No; must go back
to London and work. I can see my way tc
get bread and cheese now, and shall get
something better, I hope, in little tim g +"
The girl rose from her seat and paced the
room.
Jack" she broke out passionately, Il
cannot bea1 it. When think of you toll
ing and shaving for bare life in London
while I live in comfort here, and every
crust eat and every thread wear bought
by money that should have been yours, I
feel as if should 60 mad with shame and
anger: 1t is shameful! What right had
yourf ther to beggar you to make me rich?
I can't live here, and I won't. I'll 60 away
and work as you do"
you are far to sensible, Amy, I am sure,
to do anything so ridiculous. And whatever
may have been my fathers feelings regard
ing believe he did the best thing pos
s:ble in leaving the farm toyou. Nothing
but poverty would ever have made work
l am of some use in the world as it is.
ard shall be more some day."
The girl returned to her seat, and was
silent for some little time. Then she asked {:
Tell me your plans, and your life in
London"
"There is not much to tell. My plans are
simply to 60 on working till I can get a
comfortable living for myself. My life is
happy enough. have at least learned the
great secret that the man who works is hap
pier than the man who doesn't. + like my
work, and I think shall succeed in it,"
What do you mean by succeedi"
Il think shall make little name for
myself and be we'll thought of by my fell
low workers in time, and that shall be
able to lead my own life in my own way"
Your ambition is more modest than it
used to be, Jack"
"Yes, answered Jack, with sad smile,
a good deal more modest. I don't know
anything better that could happen to man
who suffered under too high notion of
his own abilities than to be thrown on his
resources in the London press world.
One. can't turn corner without coming
self. A man who starts with such ambi-
tons as I had when I started, and who
keeps them after such three years expe-
rience as have had, is pretty likely. I
should say, to be worthy of his own opinion
Have you many friends in London?"
II believe I havo as many frie nds:
Amy, as any man who ever lived; real
friends, I mean. / shall never be able to
repay the kindness I have received from
some of them. They are splendid fellows.
Most of them might be more moral, and
all of them might DO more industrious;
bot they could not be more generous,
more helpful, more happy in their friends
success. 1 believe firmly, Amy, that if
you want friendship and all the virtues it
breeds, you must come to Bohemia for
them. don't want to disparago respecta
bility, but it does seem to me that directly
a man begins to pay income tax he loses
his sympathies."
II have heard that theory BEFORE" said
Amy. @But you may find friendship out
side Bohemia, Jack. don't know that my
sympathies have degenerated ct all, although
I pay income tax, or at least Mr.. Sampson
pays it for me-" "You will never be any
thing but what you always have been, Amy
the dearest girl in the world"
Simple and chivalrous soul as he was he
could not have conceived more cruel tor
ment than the tone of voice and form OF
words wherein he spoke. Gratitude and
tender regard and playful affection were all
expressed there, and yet the tears welled
up in the girls heart as she listened, and,
but that they were held resolutely back,
WOulQ nave ulmmou tno eyes tnaC Te6aOeO
their idol through the fast gathering gloom.
She was silent, fearing to trust her voice
md Jack, too, held his peace for little
time.
You were always my confidante in the
old time. Amy" he said presently. "A
man must have somebody to tell his secrets
to, at least must, and should like to tell
you little story"
She waited, more than ever afraid 70
speak, and he went on, taking her silence
for consent:
you have heard Of Mrs. Farnaby, the
authoress? A friend of hers took me to
one Of her evening receptions and intro
duced me, and she was kind enough to give
me standing invitation for the season. II
was the one house that was opened to
me in London. and cannot tell you how
de.s those evenings were to me, and how
they stood out from the rest of the dreary
week. One night found myself seated
next to a young lady whom had not seen
before. She struck me particularly by rea-
son of strong likeness saw, or fancied I
saw to you. spoke to her on some com
monplace topic, and W. fell into CONVEX
~. Al -