The Brookhaven leader., 1883-05-10

why IL should not blossom, but blossom
IL never had. Mrs. Reed never looked
at Il now for buds. She never even
glanced at Il 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 il 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
room. There was a large-fgured.
dull-colored ingram carpet on the floor,
there was shiny table and some flag
bottomed chairs, and stiff hair-cloth
sofa. A few shells on the mantel-shclf,
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
good-looking now. She had bright,
alert blue eyes, and pretty soft gray
hair. But there was an air of keen I'M
rest 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 ii was darker
vet, 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" as she called
them, jackson Reed had had once or
twice before, but they had never inter-
fered with his duty. He had fallen
down insensible, and lain so for two or
three hours. This was what had hap
pened to him now. And the second
thought was her darling. William Bar
stow 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 down to
Lockport with Johnny Sewer. He was
out on that sea somewhere in boat,
which could not live in it 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
bonnet 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 Bar
slows movements. And when he had
told his wife what he had done she
scolded him for his thoughtlessness.
Yes, it was Tuesday, and he was out
on the sea, and there was no light lit.
Nothing to keep him off these terrible
rocks that the light had been set there
to show. In the morning he would be
thrown dumb and cold where she could
almost see him from her window. 1t
would be with him as it had been with
his father and grandfather, and may be
with his wife as it had been with his
poor young mother. All the strong,
batfied, but not suppressed nature of
the woman asserted itself with terrible
force.
"Oh, my darling! my darling! my
darling!' she shrieked, in voice which
was in itself both prayer and curse.
''YOu out thar, an all the love in your
mothers heart can't light We home!
Oh, the black water rollin' over that
beautiful face, an those laughn' blue
eyes that looked at me when you was a
baby, an those black curls I've brushed,
an those lips I've kissed-puttin' out
that lovin' soul! o, Lord! Lord! Lord!
He's been good boy" she went on,
in curious tone, as if the mighty ear
of the memorable God she had half be-
lieVed in was become now a reality to
her. and she was pouring arguments,
unavailing though they might be, into
it-"he's been good boy; never any
bad habits, never any little mean ac-
tions. There's Abby Weaver, l know;
but look at the face of the girl he's
married. o Lord, love is the same be-
hind homely face an a handsome one.
But while you keep on maxim folks
that think rosies is prettier than pota-
toes, an pearls than oysters, the love
that looks out of a pretty face will hold
the longest an strongest. He mt to
blame-O Lord, he wa mt to blame. Alb
by was good girl, but you made this
one as pretty as a pictur'. He want to
blame, Lord, he wa mt to blame. Don't
drown him for that 1t amt right to
drown him for that. o Lord! Lord!
Lordr'
She sat there shrieking in a strained
weak voice, half in prayer, half in ex-
postulation. The wind rose higher and
higher, and the sea Numbered louder
and longer. A new terror seized her.
If her husband should recover from the
bad turn which she suspected he had
L 4 Il L =