Northwest enterprise. [volume] (Anacortes, Wash. Ter.) 1882-1887, 1883-08-25

lTOIu iuc. OISou IL, dllC Slittii hcOP
silence no longer"
With a rough laugh he turned
away, and left me standing alone;
then l slowly remounted the rocky
path with a heavy weight at my heart,
and prepared myself for what l could
say to the girl who was waiting tor
my return above. She stood watch
ing me from the porch, where the
roses were growing in their wild
beauty, and l could see wondering
sort of look in her face as l came
near her; but she never spoke word
Or asked a single question. Twas a bit
out of breath after my tug up hill,
and as what / had to say wanted all
the calmness and quietness l could
muster, l waited silent for time;
then took her hand in my withered
one.
"Amice, my lass,' l said, "I've
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 l want you to
make me a promise"
No answer, only she held her head
bit higher, and looked me straight
in the face unhinchingly.
"Will you grant an old within,
AmiceY | said again.
II must wait until l hear what it is
first, Paul?" she replied.
"Well, it's this. I've strange
fancy to be one of the guests at your
wedding, Amice, and the promise 1
want from you is this; five days be-
fore your marriage serd me word to
come to it,"
She laughed merrily, her old un
conscious laugh, that somehow hurt
me to hear.
"Oh you silly old Paul." she said,
blushing slightly, sis that all you've
been making such mystery about?
Well-yes, l promise"
1 looked at her earnestly.
"Amice," [ said, you've given me
your promise, and l trust you. What
ever persuation you may get to the
contrary; you give me your honest
word that old Paul, the peddlar, shall
come to your weddingW
EYES," she said, Il do, Paul, really
and truly"
Only a few months passed away
before the summons had been fear
ing came. Amice was going to be
married and wrote to bid me to come
to the wedding.
There were few railways in those
days, remember, so 1 had to start on
foot, and walk day and night in or
der to reach Sandridge in time, and
a heavy jaunt it was, for l was not SO
young as used to be.
Many greetings met my ears, and
many a laugh was raj Ell at my sorry
appearance, for l looked travel
stained and weary enough l warrant
At last l 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 nerving myself for what
was before me, l entered the open
door almost unnoticed. Then l saw
Amice as she stood in her soft gray
gown with her beautiful head droop-
ing on to her breast. | only looked
at her 1 say, and the sight gave me
courage; no man living should harm
her while I lived to prevent it, but
my task was a hard one for all that.
Stepping forward through the little
crowd OF villagers that looked on,
open-mouthed, to see me, l made my
way toward the group in the chancel.
"Stopp / called out aloud, holding
up my hand. "This must not go onP
"For what reason am / to stopP
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"
lis this true?" says Parson Leigh,
his voice shaking little with the sor
row he felt.
Its just downright lie, sir" he
said, simply enough, "and l am ready
to prove it. My fathers here to
speak for himself, and Heaven knows
why any one should want to come be-
| tween Amice and me like this"
l looked up bewildered as the
man spoke, and then in an instant the
awful mistake l had made flashed
across my mind; this was not the
man 1 had seen coming up to Bon
Ryder's house at all; this was not
my son, but a younger man, and diff
ferent in every way from that poor
wandering fellow. For minute
something seemed to come into my
throat and prevent me from speak
ing. But presently the words came:
II withdraw what l said entirely, sir,
and I humbly ask your pardon for
the mistake / made, which / will ex
plain later on
Outside the cottage l stopped and
beckoned the two out into the gold
en- sunlight.
"Amice," / said humbly enough,
II 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 my head that it might
be another soldier who was counting
you. l only thought of him, and,
knowing his ways, made up my mind
to have you from him, though he was