Frostburg mining journal. [volume] (Frostburg, Md.) 1871-1913, 1884-06-28
claimed Mrs. Evans. in feeble alarm,

reused herself with an effort, tied her
sunbonnet strings with an energetic
jerk and marched straight out of the
house, the Cyclops Courier III her hand.
Mrs. Evans stared after her moment.
Then she tapped her forehed signif-
ficantly, muttered single word, and
went complacently on topping her
gooseberries. Dorothy sitting still by
the vine-wreathed window, twisting
the bright circlet round and round ON
her slim brown finger, started as Miss
Abigail banged the garden gate be-
hind her and hurried up the path.
A heavy tread on the stairs and the
door, was flung wide, and she stalked
into the dainty chamber, all pink
SILICA and snowy dotted muslin, like
herald of war.
''Dorothy!"s she said in quite anawful
voice.
"Aunt!" cried Dorothy, rising.
"Look here Read y
She held up the paper, and waved
her arm with tragic gesture of COM
mand.
Dorothy glanced at the paragraph
pointed out and read as bidden.
And this is what she read:
The social exodus has begun. Among the
names of the pleasure-seekers leaving this
evening on the steamship Asia, to summer on
the continent, we notice those of Paul A.
Carlisle and wife.
Dorothy looked at the paper blank
ly, then she began to read it over
again.
"Welf9" questioned Miss Abigail
sternly.
The girl stood up white to the very
lips and trembling little.
"There's some mistake!' she said.
Miss Abigail gave a distrustful
snort.
"If there is," she said, "we've made
it He's a scamp, my DEAR" and then
waxing emphatic, "a double distilled
scamp"
"You mustn't speak so! said
Dorothy, striving to swallow the great
lump in her throat. ut is--some
other Mr.. Carlisle"
YES" Knocked Miss Abigail scorn-
fully, "rery likely! Do you think there
are two men with exactly the same
name-down to the middle initial
whose departure would be worth
chronicling in the Cyclops Courier-do
you9' --.-r.-
But Dorothy sprang to the door, and
ran down the stairs, and out into the
shadowy old orchard like thing pur-
sued.
And there she flung herself down on
the smooth, short grass, dry-eyed,
white-lipped, half mad with soaring,
incredulous pain.
And up in the room she had Just
left, hard-featured Miss Abigail sat
down in Dorothy's particular beribbon-
ed rocker, and fnging her blue apron
over her face, cried for very sympathy.
The day wore on. The sweet, walm
August day. And she still lay crush
ed and faint under the big apple tree.
The Courier was dated the l5th-this
was the 18th. City papers were old
when they reached the little village.
He had been gone two days-but then
he hadn't gone! There was some mis-
take, she kept telling herself over and
over. though in her innermost soul she
didn't think there was.
Within, Miss Abigail went around
the house with Il very stern counte-
nance and very red eyes.
"I'll make some strawberry puff
balls for SUPPER" she decided grave
ly. "She was always fond of puff balls
and maybe they'll comfort her some J"
But then Miss Abigail had never been
in love herself, and it takes more than
strawberry puff-balls to cure some
heart aches.
The soft, purpleish dusk lay over the
farm, when Dorothy felt a light touch
on the shoulder.
"Come into supper, child. You'll
catch your death O. cold"
She rose up slowly.
81 am not going into the house,"
she said, Il should smother"
Miss Abagail held forth the tempt
ing bait within, and shook her head
in sorrowful foreboding, as utterly
disregardful, Dorothy walked away.
Down at the gate she paused-the low,
wide, green gate where she had so often
stood to listen for the ringing foot
steps coming up the country road.
SO often but now-never again!
Despite the pain of remembrance she
found herself recalling every dear
word, and look and thought of the
dear summer days. She had been
something of bookworm all her
life, and flashed to her brain
and then burned the rebellious cry of
Othello:
My heart is turned to stone l strike ii
And it hurts my hand