Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1883-08-16

Sarah Reeds frame of mind had not
improved since the marriage.
One afternoon, few weeks after the
young couple had set up for house
keeping, an unexpected deficiency in
some household stores sent Jackson
Reed to Rye, where the nearest markets
were. 1t was the middle of the after
noon when he went, and there was a
storm coming.
were, sam I'll be back by five to light
the lamp. It'll be pretty near dark
enough for it then, | reckon, ef it keeps
on this way, eff it is June.n
She sat at her window with her knit
ting after he had gone, and watched the
storm roll up. She had taken a fancy
lately to a landward window, the one
with the poor little garden patch under
it, and the rosebush which never bios
somed. The bush really looked won
derfully thrifty, considering it's 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 GER
tainly seemed no reason in nature why it
should not blossom, but blossom itnever
had. Mrs. Reed never looked at itnow 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 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 woolen 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 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 tidy
housewife. 1t was plain, rather cheer
less kind Of room. There was large
figured, dull colored ingram carpet on
the floor, there was a shiny table, and
some flag bottomed chairs, and stiff
hair cloth sofa. A few shells on the
mantelshelf, lamp mat that Abbey
Weaver had made, and framed wreath
which had lain on William Barstow's
fathers coffin were all the ornaments.
Take a room like that and set it on a
rock in the ocean, with the wind and
the waves bowling around it, and there
is not anything especially enlivening
about it.
Mrs. Reed had been rather cookbook
ing in her youth was even rather good
looking 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
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. 1t was quite dark now, and
terrible night, hot and pitchy, and full
Of mighty electric winds and fires and
thunders. a conglomerate roar came
from the ocean as from den of wild
beasts. Suddenly 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
turn" somewhere on that lonely road
from Rye. ''Turns, F" as she called them.
Jackson Reed had had once or twice be-
fore, but they had never interfered with
his duty. He had fallen down insensi-
Bile, 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 he was going to Lock
port with Johny Sower. He was out
on that sea somewhere in boat, which
could not live in it a minute. Yes, it
was to-day he was going. He and his
pretty little wife were talking it over
Sunday night. She was lamenting, half
in sport and half in earnest, over the
lonesome day she would have, and he
promised to bring her home new bon
net to console her. Yes, it was Tues
day, and jackson Reed had told Abby
Weaver about it yesterday-that was
Monday. He had forgotten that she
was no longer so interested 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
on that sea, and there was no light lit.
Nothing to keep him off these terrible
rocks that the linht had haar aat thara