The Mineral argus., 1884-11-27

neI mar FL L MOhA0 w
to tell it, Mirandy, he says hesltatlng.
"Yes, 1 will tell you," she answers
quickly. "Imeant to have told you long
ago, but, at first, l put it off, and after
ward-somehow-I couldn't"
And then, with eyes on the ground
and little but trembling hands clasped
before her, she tells her story, how
Fitzgerald was the uncle of her little
charge-their mothers brother; how he
had Travelled with them all in Europe;
how he had persistently sought her So
ciety, and how she had at first tried
to repulse him; how at last, one
night in Venice, he had asked
her to be his wife, and she, loving him
dearly, as indeed she had done all along
consented; how they had been too
very, very happy; how he had said that
he was too poor to claim her for a long
time vet. and babe her wait patiently
until the time should come: how they
had parted in London, aud then how
she had heard three times from him IN
the first six months, the last letter
from New York-promising a speedy
visit; how she had answered 1t, and
after months had written again, and
how no answer had come, not even a
line, not a word, in all the long months.
And this is all. She does not speak
of the sleepless nights and the weary
ing days, of the feverish eagerness for
post-time, and the hopeless blank when
it had passed-the quick bounding OF
her heart at every strange step, and
the invariable sickening recoil which
has followed, of the u~ncongenial com
panions and surroundings which have
made these things doubly hard to bear
of all this she is silent. She tells her
story quietly and steadily, and the dea-
con listens without a work.
BY and by he says slowly: Give bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, of
goin' on a trip omewheres-jist you an
me..together. Would We like it Miriam
dy?"
She looked up in surprise, puzzled
at his manner and almost wounded that
he seems to take so little interest; then
seeing that he is waiting for an answer,
she says, trying to feign cheerfulness:
Eyes, father, very much. is 1T to
Jacksonville? ?" naming a place some
fifty miles distant, beyond which the
deacon's little journeys seldom extend.
"N-no," says the old man, hesitating-
ly, ~"we1l:go East, Mirandy. What
would We say to New York;" 30,
father, mol" she cried, turning away
and hiding her burning face in her
hands. "Not that couldn't"
aye don'tneed to act so, Mirandy, he
says, gently. Would 1 ask We to do
anything We hadn't oughter do? Well
go ter yer Aunt Libby's, my pretty
she'll be right glad to see ye for yer
mothers sake" Then in a low tone and
h~urriedly. "Thar's many things might
hev happened-maybe he went away an
never got yer letters-thar's no tellin'
pears as ifTwonld be more comfort
able like to know fer suFe-sn' thar's
that new reaper | was wantin, p" raising
his voice, "Tll be dead sure to get a bet
ter bargain up to New York. L kinder
hated dom the Job in Jacksonville
faint much of a place, anyhow. Kin We
be ready i'll the mornin, MiraRdyl !" And
the deacon assumes an air of pleased a
t~icipation. Miranda's heart throbs wild
ly ;she tries in vain TO crush the unreason-
ng Joy which fills her. and gives, against
her will, lightness and buoyance to heI
steps and brightness to her dark eyes.
She spends the first part of the night in
hasty preparations, and afterwards
with no thought of sleep, sits at the
open window OF her room, her head
buried in her hands. dreaming, perhaps
less of the future than of the past.
In the gray dawn of the next morn
ing father and daughter are already
on their way, and the evening of the
second day finds them in New York
Aunt Libby receives them with oper
arms, and to Miranda the evening
passes like a dream. Long afterwards
little scraps of conversation and anec.
dotes of her dead mother came back tt
her, and when she tried to recall then
more fully the stuffy, third-1oor parlol
of a second-class Brooklyn boarding
house rose before her, and she saw
again Aunt Libby's angular figure ant
kind, searching black eyes.
In the morning she wakes late from
heavy, dreamless sleep, and goes dow
stairs to find the deacon preparing TO
a day in the city. He calls her aside
and, without a word, she puts into hi
hand a scrap of paper upon which sh'
has written the address Fitzgerald CAV
her. Her hand trembles a little as sh'
does so, but otherwise she is outward,
calm and composed. The deacon CLAN
ces at her with a look of tender anxiety
which soon changes to relief. "Thatt
right, my pretty, he says, true grit
what does it, Mirandy, under all sar
c~umstances." And then Aunt Libb,
comes in, and the deacon remarks tina
he is "as like as not to hev a 'tarnatiol