The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1883-11-01

up IN shop. Inc chances are mar
rowing fast Suddenly came an idea.
I'm do it, said Molly; and what it
was, the advertiser told next morning:
WANTED, by an American girl, who is a
good plain cook, situation to do house,
work in small family. Country preferred.
Address Nj. P, Advertiser office, Boston.
Well, the answers fairly poured in. 1t
seemed as though all womankind had
been waiting for ian American girl
who is good plain cook" but Molly
resolved to be critical, and waited. In
the meantime, seeing that a way was
open, she dressed herself in her best
and went shopping. She chose to pat
ronize Rush & Crush, where her high
and mighty airs gave unbounded salts
faction to the clerks, with whom she
was favorite. She sailed up to the
print counter with great dignity, turned
the goods over, pulled the corners cross
wise, after the fashion of women shop
pers, deprecated the patterns, ETC., but
finally bought print for three dresses,
gingham for aprons, etc., to the amount
of So, and counted out with great maj
esty the three trade dollars.
''Oh, Molly, you know we can't take
them," said the clerk. Molly turned to
Mr.. Rush, who, sauntering along with
his eyes on their side of the store, was
taking in the whole proceeding.
'Mr. Rush." she said, Il took these
here the other day, and now the clerk
refuses them"
Mr.. Rush was grimly amused at her
audacity, but instead of answering her
turned to the grinning cash-boy in wait
ing, and snapped: Cash, what are
you waiting for? Take the goods ana
money this instantr'
The youthful Mercury disappeared
like a spirit, and Molly felt somewhat
as her great grandfather did at Con-
cord.
Monday morning brought letter
which seemed promising, and which
read as follows:
WHEATsFIELD, n. H., June miss NJ.
T. We need domestic, and prefer one
of our own nation. The family consists of
myself and wife and hired man. My
wife is feeble, and the domestic would
have to take charge of everything. We
would pay SO a week to the right person.
If you feel capable for the place, and can
bring recommendation, we should like to
have you come as soon as possible.
Then followed some directions about
trains, and the whole was signed in
plain, homely fashion, ''Yours, Bethuel
Harlow
''Wife feeble" mused Molly; sswell,
she won't be poking around the kitchen
all the timen (another flash of the Con-
cord spirit). Domestic" not ''ser-
vant'' or ''hired girl That suited.
The result was that few days later
Molly, armed with a letter from her
minister, was set down, the only passen-
ger, at Wheatsfields station.
Squire Harlow, waiting for the "good
plain cook" was smitten with great
misgivings at the sight of the stylish
young lady, for to his eyes, accustomed
to the dress of Wheatsfeld' daugh-
ters, the simple gray suit with its grace
full drapery seemed the height of ele-
gance, and he was not reassured by the
question of the station agent: ''Got
company from the city, amt YEP" But
it was too late to retreat, and soon ola
Dan'l was pulling them steadily toward
home. The Squire said little, but
glanced at the girl occasionally from
under his shaggy eyebrows. 1t was a
fair, honest face, which freshened with
every nile in the sweet evening air, and
the gray eyes took in everything, from
the chipmunk on the wall to the locust
trees with their fragrant, dropping clus-
ters.
"Want a piecep" said the Squire, as
they drove under one. Her face was
answer enough; and stopping old Dan'l,
the good man cut a cluster and dropped
it in her lap. She thriftily took off her
new lisle-thread gloves 70 take it, show
ing hands so white that the Squire
groaned internally. Those hands wash
his dishes and scrub his floors? Was
this young lady, who was prettier and
better dressed than any girl in Wheats-
fields, his domestic? He shook his head
slightly, chewing a bit of the locust.
Molly ventured few questions about
the family, and heard the story of what
was always uppermost in the Squire s
mind-the story of the lost daughter
Mary, one of the victims of New Eng
lands scourge, who had faded away
three years before, since when 'Miss
Harlow had sorter pined." 1t was a
pathetic little story, told in the laconic
New England way, but the brown,
knotty hands worked unsteadily on the
lines, and the Squire's eyes had far
away look, rs though toward the coun-
try which held his Mary.
Presently they drove up to a comfort
able house, with an air of plenty about
the large barn and wide porch, over
which grew white lilac. Molly found
her mistress a little woman, with faded,
gentle eyes, and soft, slow voice. She
looked at the girl kindly, and held out
her hand. After giving her few di-
rections, and telling her where to find
things, she added to her husband, ''Tell
John to carry her trunk to the east
chamber" This apparently was some
thing unusual, for the Squire opened
his mouth as though to say something,
but being man of few words, shut it
again, and went out:
Molly, following her trunk, found
herself in q small room, with bright
rag carpet on the floor, white curtains
looped away at the window, homemade
linen towels w.Jh knotted fringe on the
little table, an old fashioned chest of
drawers, and a low, four-posted bed
with valance and patchwork counter
pane. The room was neat, but had an
unused look, and Molly wondered if the
tribe of girls of which the Squire had
made mention had marched through it;
but, too tired to think long, she un.
packed her small wardrobe, said hel
prayers, and knew nothing more until
morning, when trilling OF birds and a
ray of sunshine on her face woke her
to her first dav of service as ''domes-
TIC" While making her simple toilette
she gave many quick glances at the bill
lows of apple blossoms under her win
dow; and something born of the light
and fragrance and music was reflected
in her face as she took her way to the
kitchen. The wood and kindlings were
near at hand, the fire started off brisk
" with cheerful air of encouragement,
and then Molly considered her bill-of-
fare. There was salt mackerel, eggs,
stale bread, the inevitable salt pork,
doughnuts and pie, and a pan of cream
whose yellow, wrinkled surface bore
testimony to the Squire's Jersey.
That maekerel won't be fried, said
AI f