St. Landry democrat. (Opelousas, La.) 1878-1894, 1883-05-12
:, William Barstow, had

Reeds nephew, William Barstow, hat
been engaged to marry the daughter
Abby her name was; but a month ago
he had brought a wife home from thu
city. He had rented prettylittle tene
ment over in Rye, and gone to house
Keeping. Abby Weaver had tied up :
few little notes and keepsakes in nea
parcel, and put them away out of sight
Then she went on with her work. She
was a plain, trustworthy looking girl
with no show about her, as different al
possible from the one her recreant lover
had married. She was pretty, with az
enhancing little air of style about every.
thing she wore. Abby had seen her &c
by few times in a jaunty velvet jacket
and Killed petticoat, with the fair rounc
face with its fringe of fluffy blonde hail
smiling up at her husband out of be.
witching little poke. Then she had
gone and looked at herself in her poor
glass, taking in the old black alpaca, the
plain common face with the dull hair
combed back from her forehead.
No wonder said she. "an' Tn
glad it's SO, for / don't think the
Lord can blame him.
!. Sarah Reed had found a double trial
in the breaking off the engagement.
In the first place, she had liked Abby.
In the second place, this new matri.
monial arrangement had taken the
darling of her heart from under her i'm
mediate supervision. If he had married
Abby Weaver, he would have lived
either in the lighthouse, 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 lighthouse terrified her.
Sarah Reeds frame of mind had not
improved since the marriage.
IL One afternoon, few weeks after the
young couple had set up housekeeping,
an unexpected deficiency in some house
hold stores sent Jackson Reed to Rye,
where the nearest markets were. 1t was
the middle of the afternoon when he
went, and there was a storm coming.
Don't worry, Sarah,' his last words
were, "an' I'll be back by five to light
the lamp. 1t IL be pretty near dark
enough for it then, reckon, eff it keeps
on this way, eff it is june
She sat at her window with her knit
ting after he had gone, and watched the
storm roll up. She had taken fancy
lately to a landward window, the one
with the poor little garden patch under
it, and the rose-bush which never bios
somed. The bush really looked Won
derfully thrifty, considering its many
drawbacks to growth. But it was in a
sheltered corner, and had all the warmth
and mildness that could be had in the
bleak place. Itwas three feet high or
so, hardy little Scotch rose. There
certainly seemed no reason in nature
why it should not blossom, but blossom
it never had. MIS-. Reed never looked
at. it now for buds She never even
glanced at it to-day; she only looked out
uneasily at the darkening sky. and knit
ON her stocking. She was always knit
ting 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
wooden 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 to it as a woman. No one
looking at the room in which Mrs. Reed
sat would have dreamed that it was not
the field of action of a tidy housewife.
1t was plain, rather cherries kind of
a room. There was a large-fgured,
dull-colored mgr ain carpet on the floor,
there was a shiny table and some flag
bottomed chairs, and a stiff hair-cloth
sofa. A few shells on the mantel-shef,
a lamp-mat that Abby Weaver had
made, and a framed wreath which had
lain on William Barstow's fathers cof-
fin were all the ornaments. Take a
room like that and set it on q rock in the
ocean, with the wind and the waves
bowling around it, and there is not any
thing especially enlivening about it.
Mrs. Reed had been rather cookbook
ing in her youth, and was even rather.
now She had bright,
alert blue eyes, and pretty soft gray
hair. But there was an air of keen un-
rest about her which could jar on nerves
like. a strident saw. In repose she would
have been sweet old woman. Now,
she looked and was, as people say. hard
to get along with. Jackson Reeds
light burning meant more to the. Lord,
perhaps, than it did to the sailors.
At five o'clock the storm was fairly
there, and the old lighthouse keeper
had not come home. A heavy tempest
twilight was settling down, and it was
almost time the lamp was lit.
Six o'clock came, and it was darker
yet, and still she sat there alone, her.
Knitting dropped in her lap. Seven
o'clock, and her old husband had not
come. It was quite dark now, and a
;errible night, hot and pitchy. and full
If mighty electric winds and fires and
,hunders. A conglomerate roar came
rom the ocean as from den of wild
beasts. Suddenly an; awful thought
y ~ 4 a