Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1883-04-20

! over in Rye and gone to Housekeeping Abby
Weaver had tied up n few little notes and
keepsakes in a neat parcel, and laid them
away out of sight Then she went on with
her work She was a plain, Trustworthy look
ing girl, with no show about her-as different
as possible from the one her rocreant lover
had married. She was pretty, with an en-
| traucing little air of style about everything
she wore. Abbie had seen her go by few
times in n iaunty velvet jacket and killed pet
! ticoat, her fair round face with its fringe of
! fluffy blonde hair smiling up at her husband
| out Of Il bewitching little poke. Then She
| had gone and looked at herself in her poor
glass, taking in the old black alpaca, tine plain
! common face With the dull hair combed back
| from her forehead
mo wonder!" she said can Tm glad it's
SO, for don't think the Lord can blame him. 4"
Sarah Reed had found double trial in the
breaking of of the engagement. In the
first place, she had liked Abby. Iu the sec
ond place, this new matrimonial arrange
ment had taken the darling of her heart from
under her immediate supervision. II he had
married Abby Weaver, he would have lived
either in the light house, as he had done all
his life, or in her mothers cottage. But
nothing could suit his pretty city lady but to
live in Rye. The bare idea Of the light.
house terrified her.
Sarah Reeds frame of mind had not i'm
proved since the marriage.
One afternoon, q few weeks after the young
couple had set up housekeeping, an uneX-
pected deficiency in some household stores
sent Jackson Reed to Rye where the nearest
markets were. It was the middle of the af-
ternoOn when he went, and there was storm
coming.
Don't worry, Sarah, his last words were,
an I'll be back by five to light the lamp.
ha - oh ~ fheV /
reckon, ef it keeps on this way, ef it is
June"
She sat at her window with her knitting
after he had gone, and watched the clouds
roll up. She had taken a fancy lately to a
landward window, the one with the poor lit
tie garden patch under it, and the rose bush
which never blossomed. The bush really
looked wonderfully thrifty, considering it,
many drawbacks to growth. But it was in a
sheltered corner, and had all the warmth aud
mildness that could be had in the bleak place.
II was three feet high or so, hardy little
Scotch rose. There certainly seemed no rea.
son in nature why it should not blossom, but
blossom it never had Mrs. Reed never
looked at il now for buds. She never even
glanced at it to-day she only looked out un-
easily at the darkening sky and knit on her
stocking She was always knitting stockings
in fact, it WAS all the kind Of work she could
do and she had never been an idle woman
with her brain or her fingers. So she knit
stout woollen stockings for her husband and
William Barstow from morning till night.
Her husband kept the house tidy and did the
| cooking, and he was as faithful at it as wo-
man. No one looking at the room in which
| Mrs. Reed sat would have dreamed that it
| was not the field OF action of tidy house
| wife. 1t was plain. rather cheerless kind
Of a room. There was q large-hgured, dull
| coored ingram carpet on the floor, there was
a shiny table, and some flag -bottomed chairs,
and stid hair. cloth sofa. few shells on
the mantolshelf, a lamp mat that Abby Wea.
yer had made, and framed wreath which
| had lain on William Barstow's fathers cOtfiu
were all the ornaments. Take a room like
that and SGT it on q rock in the ocean, with
tue wind and the waves bowling around it,
and there is not anything especially enliven-
| ing about 1t.
Mrs Reed had been rather good looking in
| her YOUTH aud was even rather good-loOk-
ing now She had bright, alert blue eyes
and pretty soft gray hair. But there was an
air Of keen unrest about her which could jar
| on nerves like strdent saw. In repose she
would have been a sweet old woman. Now
| she looked and was, as people say, hard to
| get along with. Jackson Reeds light burn
| ing meant more to the Lord, perhaps, than it
| did to the sailors
At FIVE o'clock the storm was fairly there,
| and the old light house keeper had not come
home. A heavy tempest twilight was set
| Ting down, and it was almost time the lamp
was lit.
Six O'Clock came, aud il was darker yet,
and still she sat there alone, her knitting drop
| ped in her lap. Seven O'Clock, and her old
| husband had not come. 1t was quite dark
now, and terrible night, hot and pitchy, and
full of mighty electric winds and fires and
| thunders A conglomerhte roar came from
| the ocean as from q den of wild beasts. Sud
denly an awful thought struck the wretched
| old woman at the lighthouse window, and
| swift on its track rushed another still more
| awful. The first was, her husband had had "A
turn somewhere on that lonely road from
| Rye Turns, as she called them, jackson
Reed had had once or twice before, but they
had never interfered with his duty. He had
fallen down insensibo, and lain so for two or
three hours. This was what had happened
TO him now. And the second thought was
| her darling William Barstow was out on
that dreadful sea, and there was no light TO
guide him to port. Strange that she had not
thought before Yes it was Tuesday. Was
| it Tuesday? Yes the very day that he was
going down to Lockport with Johnny Sowcr.
| He was out on that sea somewhere in boat,
which could not live in it a inmate. Yes, il
was to-day he was going. He and his pretty
| little wife were talking IL over Sunday night.
She was lamenting, hqlf in sport aud half in
earnest, over the lonesome day she would
have, and he promised to bring home a new
bonnet to console her. Yes, it was Tuesday,
and Jackson Reed had told Abby Weaver
about it yesterday-that was Monday. He
had forgotten that she was go longer so in
terested in Willie Barstow's movements. And
when he told his wife what he had done she
scolded him for his thoughtlessness.
Yes it was Tuesday, and he was out OF
that sea, and there was no light lit. Nothing
to keep him of these terrible rocks that the
light had been set there to show. In thu
morning he would be thrown dumb and oolC
whore she could almost see him from he
window. 1t would be with him as it hac
been with his father aud grandfather, anC
maybe with his wife as it had been with hi
poor young mother. All the strong, batfied
but not suppressed nature of the woman as
serted itself with terrible force.
"Oh, my darling! my darling my dar
ling !" she shrieked, in voice which was il
itself both prayer and curse. You ou
thar, an all the love in your mothers hear
can't light ye home Oh, the black waite
rolling over that beautiful face, an thos
laughing blue eyes that looked at me whe
you was a baby an those black curls Nv
brushed, an those lips I've kissed-puttir
out that lovin' soul o, Lord Lord Lord !
, Hes been good boy" she went on in
curious tone, as if the mighty ear of the in
exorable God she had half believed in wa
become now reality to her and she wa
| pouring arguments unavailing though the
might be- into it-"he's been a good boy
never any bad habits, an what's worse tina
bad habits, never any little mean actions
There's Abby Weaver l know but look /
the face of the girl he's married. 0 Lord
love is the same behind a homely face an
. handsome one. But while you keep on makil
folks that think roses is prettierthan potatoes
an pearls than oysters, the love that lool
? out of a pretty face will hold the longest al
the strongest. He want to blame-O Lore
A he wan't to blame. Abby was good gir
? but you made this other one as pretty as
a pictur'. He want to blame, Lord, he wan
o to blame. Don't drown him for that
0 amt right TO drown him for that. U Lord