Phillipsburg herald. [volume] (Phillipsburg, Kan.) 1882-1905, 1883-01-18

such as you never even dreamed of, rich
dresses, food and Jewels; has your John
given you such things?" VIII he ever
give them to you?''
''John is my husband, the father OF
my baby, father of the two God gave us
and took again; cannot leave him, you
know"
81 know nothing of the kind, cried
the gold-witch. ''You are my niece, my
own sisters child; your John, whoever
he may be, is no kinsman of mine; [
want nothing of him; you say two of
your children are dead; so will the third
one be in this reeking atmosphere; it is
suffocating me already. You have no
right to kill your child, no right to re-
Ffuse him a chance such as he will FEVER
have again. As for your John you
may send him a thousand dollars to-
night. He is q man; they are all alike;
he had rather have the money than you. -
The last two arguments were strong
ones, and illness and poverty had made
Annie weak. There was more feeble
resistance, more golden promises, and at
last she yielded.
Strange and bewildered enough she
felt when the prancing horses stood be-
| fore the great uptown hotel where OBJ
sequious walters stood on every hand
''Now rest,''' cried the gold witch,
whose will and word seemed a law unto
others.
So she rested. The bed was white
and downy; there were laces and ribbons
| iuttering around it; but, in spite Of the
softness and whiteness, the child that
| lay on her bosom wept and walled with
low, heart-breaking cry, and at last
the baby, who up to that day had never
| l.
opened its little quivering lips and called
out loud and clear:
''Papa! 'papar'
It was as though the voice of God
spoke to the mother. She sprang from
the bed and folded her worn old shawl
around about herself and boy. Close
beside the door sat the gold-witch,
soundly sleeping. With bated breath
and noiseless steps she stole past the old
woman. Down the grand stairway and
through the lofty halls she sped, looking
neither to the right hand nor to the left.
! She reached her home at last, dark
and dismal as to outward surroundings,
bright with the memory of former joys,
sacred to the memory of former sorrows.
| The fire was out, the hearth was dark.
A moment later and glad flame leaped
and sparkled, the sleeping baby was left
| to its fate while his mother converted a
few boarded silver pieces that were to
have bought her a dress into tea, sugar,
crackers, hot rolls, and while the fit of
recklessnesS was strong upon her pint
of cranberries for old times sake.
Her shopping completed, how Annie,
asst were, flew home! How that despised
turkey was forgiven for having passed
through old HuXley's hands, and tucked
into an oven as warm and comfortable
as any heightened turkey could desire!
How the potatoes danced and tumbled
and at last absolutely burst themselves
with pride at being allowed to participate
in this most luxuriant repast! How the
cranberries cracked and spurted in their
| loud demand for sugar! How light the
rolls were and how strong the tea!
After the dinner was well under way,
Annie had time for vigorous putting to
rights of the disordered room, time even
to make the baby sweet and clean, as
she washed herself, in very best dress,
the pretty, old-fashioned Empress cloth
that had borne with some degree of
gentility the wear and tear of the last
four years.
So John come home to a tidier wife, a
sweeter baby, aneater room and grauder
dinner than he had dreamed of in all the
years in which he had been sliding down
hill with such discouraging rapidity.
Then Annie asked pardon for her I'M
kind reception of the brown and luscious
turkey, and received it with her pretty
head hidden on his willing shoulder,
and while in such safe retirement, man
aged to confess and receive pardon for
the mornings sins, also.
Hyou will believe it, those poor young
married people were so taken up in for
giving and making love to each other
that they never heard their baby cry,
and it was great surprise when at last
they came to themselves to see their.
small child in the arms Of a nice old
lady in q nice black dress, who was
kissing and crying over it, much as its
grandmother or aunt might be supposed
to do.
''You blessed child" said the old
lady, looking at Annie, ''you are all
mother, so you are, dear! l have been
hunting for you ever since your Uncle
Samuel died; he never would forgive
your poor mother for running away
with that scamp that abused and desert
ed her, and left her at last to die in the
poor-house. Your mother was an angel,
dear, and chung to him always-would
never leave him, although we offered
her home. and you, also, if she only
would. All! she was blessed woman,
and you are like her, DEAR" with an
other beaming smile. You will for
give the old woman she went on,
''for this mornings trick. [ wanted to
know if you-were like your father or
your mother; you cannot tell how glad
l was when heard OF you running off;
I almost strangled myself holding my
breath for you to get by me, so soft and
still. If you had staid 1 would have
given you money, Annie, and all I
promised, for you are my sisters child;
but could never have given you the
. whole heart of love that is aching for
you, DEAR Just then Annie threw
herself into the Outstretched arms and
kissed the quivering lips, while the
wrinkled, ringless fingers patted her
soft hair, oh, so lovingly!
''Of all the days of my life this is the
best" said the old lady at last, ''and I
thank God for it,
"Amen!' said Annie
And ''Amenr' said John.
; He Took Coffee.
Coffee! coffee! Did you ask if I