Northwest enterprise. [volume] (Anacortes, Wash. Ter.) 1882-1887, 1883-07-07

ther John felt very badly for having
caused such pain.
You sang beautifully, my childp
He tried to change her thoughts. Il
don't think l ever heard any one sing
SO beautifully before. They must
have taken great pains to teach you
so we'll"
She smiled.
"Oh, I've sang in the choir at home
ever since 1 could speak, | think.
Papa was wealthy once, and he liked
music so much that l had the best
teachers. But l like church music
best of all; it takes you so far off
that you can't feel sorry for anything.
It's like having wings to fly away"
"Who are you travelling with?"
asked the sexton.
"Oh, Cousin Nan and her husband.
They are my only kinsfolk in the
world. Good-by, 9r," holding out
her hand. "The church did me so
much good to-day! You see, we've
been travelling SO long, and never
had chance to get to church before
God somehow seems so far off when
we don't 60 there. l know l ought
not to say this, but then s'pose I've
had so much trouble since we left
Virginia, and, besides, am not a
good girl. Cousin Nan says I'm not"
with sad little smile.
Father John was too much inter
ested in his new acquaintance to part
with her Immediately. He walked
on, chatting by The way. Her simple
history was soon learned The father,
losing all his property by disastrous
speculations, determined to begin
life in new place and among now
people. He sickened and died on
the road, and was buried in desert
ed field. The girl did not say much
of the Cousin Nan, on whose protec-
ton she had been thus thrown, but
the old man soon CLEANED that she
was harsh taskmistress to poor lit
tie orphan Alma
'She doesn't like me-" the girl said.
81 s'pose / do give her trouble, and
when we started she didn't expect to
have the charge of me. She's poor,
too, and it's hard on her"
She started off at half-run, but
the old man kept up with her, deter
mined to get a glimpse of this terri
BILE Cousin Nan, and perhaps save the
girl flom reproof, or worse.
"Oh, they've left mep cried the
girl, wringing her hands. (which
way have they gone? Let me follow
themw
But which way had they gone?
Three roads branched from the main
road, all leading for some distance in
the same direction, and all equally
travelled. There were fresh wagon
tracks on two of them, and Father
John shook his head, not knowing
what to advise.
"What did they mean by starting
without you?" he cried, angrily.
"Oh, they didn't know!" bursting
into tears. after breakfast l climbed
up into the back of the wagon and
fell asleep, and the church bells
wakened me. knew Cousin Nan
wouldn't let me go if asked, 80 1
slipped out of the wagon and thought
I'd go to church and be back before
they missed nae. They think I'm
asleep there yet. They never do call
me until they're starting. They
won't miss me till tonight, when
they stop to camp and get dinner.'
"Then they'll be sure to come back"
said Father John, soothingly. Just
stop crying, and come home with me
and get some dinner. / live. all by
myself in little house by the church.
Come, Alma! You'll be safe with
your friends tomorrow"
"Never! neverp she cried, throw
ing herself on the ground in a pas
sion of grief. They'll never trrn
back for me. They'll be glad to lose
me. But they're all I have in the
world though they are 30 cruel"
They walked together to his tiny
little house, and lucky was it for the
child that in her extremity she had
fallen into such kind hands. Many
years before Father John had lost
wife and children. Since then he
had lived alone, or as much alone as
an old man beloved by every man,
woman and child in that community
could be.
He did his best for Alma. but all
efforts to trace the wagons farther
than the next town proved unavail-
ing. About two months later a letter
came from Cousin Nan to the post
master at Oak Hill, asking for in
formation of the lost child. If there,
she was to try and get a situation
with some one until her relatives
could come, or send for her, which
could not be until next Spring. II
was a cold, unfeeling letter-no mes
sage to Alma. She was alluded to as
if she had been a parcel Of little
value accidentally left behind, which
would be sent for at some convenient
season.
Never mind, little one," said Fa-
ther John, patting the girls head
"Them that wrote that letter are moi
going to trouble their heads about you
You're happy as the day is long here
you fill the place of my own dead
little Bessie, and this is going to be
your home until the old man dies, OF
you choose to leave him. Are you
not willing7"
She bent down and kissed his
hands, for she could not speak.
Two years rolled by, which brings
us to the night before Easter. i
Alma had been delicate as q child
aho was now waata6 tn a franaparen,