The Brookhaven leader., 1883-05-10

had lost her faith, and straightway h'
was fired with holy ardor to do some
thing for her spiritual benefit. But ever
his tonguey confidence and Ingenious
ness could CLEAN but little satisfaction
from his interviews with the rheumatic
and unbelieving old woman.
mo, Mr.. Pendleton," she used to say,
shaking thin rheumatic hand, with an
impressiveness which her hearer might
have copied advantageously in the pull
pit, at amt no use. You kin talk
about seem with the spirit, an wOr-
shippin' with the spirit; anybody needs
a little somethin' TO hold on with the
flesh; when it's all spirit it's too much
for mortal bein' to comprehend, an
the Lord knows amt never had much
of anything but spirit. l amt never
had any evidence, so to speak; 1 amt
never had a prayer answered in my life.
II 1 have, I'd Jest like to know how.
You saw, mebbe, they've been an
swered fest the same, only in different
way from asked for. II you call it
answerin' prayer to give one thing when
YOU ask for another, | don't. An I'd
ruther not believe thar was God than
to believe He'd do a thing like that.
That's Jest contrary to what He said
about himself an the bread an the
stone in the New Testament. It's worse
to think He'd cheat anybody like that
than to think He amt anywhar, accord
in to my mind. No, Mr.. Pendleton, a
human bein' needs little human evil
dence once in while to keep up their
faith, an l amt never had any. I'll
Jest let you know how it's been a leetle.
Here am, an old woman, an me an
Jackson's lived here on this rock for
forty years. An thar's been things
I've wanted different, but l amt never
had 'em-things that I've cried an
prayed to the Lord for-big things an
little things-but never got one. Eff
the Lord had give me one of the little
things, it seems to me that | might have
got feeling that He was here.
Forty years ago, when Jackson an
me was Jest married an set up house.
keepin' here, thar was an awful storm
one night, an my father an my brother
was out yonder in it. staid on my
knees all night prayin'. The next
mornin' their two darlin' bodies was
washed ashore. NY brother had only
been married a few months-the sweet
est, lovingest little thing she was. l
prayed to hev her spared. She died,
an left her little baby"
but YOU had him for your own, did
YOU not?n interrupted Mr.. Pendleton,
desperately. He has been a comfort
to you. God has displayed His love and
mercy in this ease in sparing him to
you"
MIR. Pendleton-and the rheumatic
hand went up again" amt never
asked to hev him spared to me; eff l
had it would hev been different. amt
got through yet. Thar's been lots of
other things, big ones, that might jest
as well not speak of, and little ones.
Look at the bridge! I'll ventur' to say
that you shook in your shoes when you
came over it. an wouldn't be sorry this
minute eff YOU was safe back. Whenev-
er jackson goes over it my heart is still
an cold till he comes back, for fear he's
fell through. I've prayed to the Lord
about that. Then-you may think this
little thing-but thar is Jackson's gar
den. He set out rose-bush in it fifteen
year ago. Well, it amt died. Thar
amt ever been rose on it, though. An
it seems to me sometimes that if thar
should be Jest one rose on that bush
that | should believe that the Lord had
been thar. You wouldn't think I'd been
silly enough to pray about that. hev.
It's fifteen year, an thar amt never
been a rose thar. No, Mr. Pendleton,
it amt no use. You mean well, but it
lays with God eff He's anywhar, to show
Himself in way to me that can get
hold on.
So the pretty, rosy-faced young min
lister would go away, picking his way
cautiously over the unstable bridge,
after somewhat nonplussed prayer,
which Mrs. Reed, incapacitated from
kneeling by her rheumatic knees, had
sat and listened to grimly.
The Bar Lighthouse was three miles
from Rye. A sandy, desolate road al
most as billowy as the sea stretched
between. The only house in the whole
distance was little brown one Just at
the other side of the bridge. The Wea-
vers lived there, a mother and daugh-
ter. They supported themselves by
sewing for a shop in Rye. Jackson
Reeds nephew, William Barstow, had
been engaged to marry the daughter
Abby her name was; but month ago
he had brought wife home from the
city. He had rented pretty little tene-
ment over in Rye. and gone to house.
keeping. Abby Weaver had tied up
few little notes and keepsakes in a neat
parcel, and put them away out of sight.
Then she went ON with her work. She
was plain, trustworthy-loo girl,
with no show about her, as different as
possible from the one her recreant lover
had married. She was pretty, with an
enhancing little air of style about every
thing she wore. Abby had seen her 90
by few times in jaunty velvet Jacket
and killed petticOat, with the fair round
face with its fringe of fluffy blonde hair
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.
mo wonder" said she. IAN I'm
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.
] IWNN. II. i