Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1884-10-15

| ~
who has snorted contemptuously at the idea
of call this fuss bein made for that Mi.
randy" Mrs. Tiffany, however, is in q
high state of suppressed excitement herself,
as are also the girls. Ag has purchased the
gayest bouquet to be had at the Corners
(blue satin and yellow feathers with the
express and declared purpose of "takin' the
shine out of Mirandy's furrin' fixin's,'' and
Liz has spent the greater part of three days
in perfecting a certain wonderful arrange
ment OF her molasses- candy colored locks,
which arrangement is declared by her
friend, Miss Price, who has lately visited
Chicago, to be the 'flatest European style"
| 1t is a fearfully hot afternoon, and there has
been no rain for a fortnight. The little
grass plot is brown and dusty, the sun beats
down freely on the yellow, sandy patch.-
Inside the house an early supper is set out
or the table; flies are buzzing about the
gauze cover which protects some sticky
looking "preserve " and big bumblebee,
which has come in through the window and
tumbled into the pewter milk jug, has man
aged to get out of it again. much to his own
astonishment. and is slowly travelling across
the table, leaving little drippings of cream
to mark his progress. Mrs. Tiffany, her
cork screw curls gathered into knot be-
| hAhu OoS Othl, uOl ol-CfCo GuChCd WOIi up w
the elbow, displaying liberal expanse of
red arm, is standing in the door. Liz, at
tired in a pink gown and profusion of
cheap jewelry, is lolling on the horsehair
sofa reading dime novel.
And the deacon brings Miranda home.
| K x Il
Slowly and YEARLY the days have become
weeks, the weeks months, and the months
have heightened into years, and two years
have gone by since Miranda's homecoming.
1t is again an evening in June, and the dea-
cons palm leaf hat is used vigorouely to
beat off the mosquitoes and he and Miranda
stroll down the quiet, deserted, path
Father she begins suddenly, 81 want
you to do something for me-" ''Now, that S
kind O. cur 'ous," remarks the deacon, 'tfor
1 was jest a thinkin', Mirandy, what thar
was I could do fer to make yer happier. -
"Why father !" she cries, with little at
tempt at laugh, "what was put it into
your head to imagine that I'm not happy?
Such silly old father! p ''N[randy, says
the deacon, quietly, 'sI've knowed it for a
long time-Pve knowed on it for months an
months. Did ye think l couldn't see the
look thet's bin a CROWN in yer eyes? Did
ye think didn't know my gal was fret
tim ?'
go don't say that, don't say that p she
cries, with sharp pain in her; 81 didn't
know you noticed-I have tried, have tried
so hard"
'Thet's whar it is. Mirandy," says the
deacon, tenderly. "You hev tried, and l
can't abear to see yer tryin' to be happy
Don't ye try, Mirandy; don't ye, now Thet
was what killed yer mother" And the dea-
con sighs. ''Some folks" he continued,
oracularly, 'kin be happy agin sarcum-
stances, and some folks can't. 1t warn't
in her natur, Mirandy, and it ain tin your Il.
Don't yc try, my pretty; don't ye try
"Father, father" she sobs, and suddenly
buried her quivering face upon his shoulder.
The deacon gently strokes her hair. "Ef
t'would do ye any good to tell it, Mirandy,"
he says hesitatingly. eyes, I will tell
you," she answers, quickly. 81 meant to
have told you long ago, but at first put it
off, and afJerward-somehow- couldn't"
And thep, with eyes on the ground, and
little hot trembling hands clasped before her,
she tells her story, how Fitzgerald was the
uncle of her little charges mothers
brother-how he had persistently sought
her society, and how she had at first tried
to repul>e 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 very, very happy; how he had said
that he was too poor to claim her for long
time yet, and babe her wait patiently until
the time should come; how they had parted
in London, and then how she had heard
three times from him,,in the first six months
the last letter-from New Yorx-promising
a speedy visit; how she had answered it, 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 wearying days,
of the feverish eagerness Of past time, and
the hopeless blank when it has pasSed-Oi
the quick bounding of her heart at every
strange step, and the invariable sickenine
recoil which has followed, of the unconge-
NAL companions and surroundings which
have made these things doubly hard to beal
|-ofall this she is silent. She tells her story
quietly and steadily, and the deacon listens
without word.
: By and by he says slowly: 'I've bir
thinkin' for some time, my pretty, of gcin
on trip somewheres- you and me to-
gether. Would you like it, Mirandy?"
She looks up in surprise, puzzed 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 tC
feign cheerfulness: eyes, father, very
much. Is it to Jacksonville ?" naming a
place some fifty miles distant, beyond which
the deacon's little journeys seldom extend
"No," says the old man, hesitatingly,
"we'n go east, Mirandy. What would ye
say to New York;"
and hiding her burning face in her hands.
| ssNot +I,,t T oouldn3t ,,
eye don't need to act so, Mirandy, he
says gently. ''Would l ask ye to do any
thing We hadn't oughter do? Well go tc
yer Aunt Libby's, my pretty she'll be very
glad to see ye for yer mothers sake" Then
in low tone, and hurriedly: "Thar's many
things might hev happened maybe he went
away and never got yer letters-thar's nc
tellin'-'pears as if 'twould be more COM
Portable like to know for sure-an' thar's
that new reaper was wanting" raising his
voice; cpl be dead sure to get better bar
gain up in New York. kinder hated doin'
the job in Jacksonville; tain't much of a
place anyhow. Kin ye be ready in the
mornin', Mirandy?" and the deacon assumes
the air of pleased anticipation. Miranda IS
heart throbs wildly; she tries in vain to
crush the unreasoning joy which fills her,
and gives, against her will, lighlness and
bouyancy to her steps and brightness to her
dark eyes. She spends the first part Of the
night in hasty preparations, and afterward,
with no thought of sleep, sits at the open
window of her room, her head buried in her
hands, dreaming, perhaps, less ofthe future
than Of the past.
In the gray dawn of the next morning,
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 open arms, and to Miranda the
evening passes like a dream. Long after
ward little scraps Of conversation and anec-
dotes Of her dead mother came back to her,
and when she tried to recall them more full
ly the stuffy, third door parlor of a second
class Brooklyn board house rose before her
and she saw again Aunt Libby's angular
figure and kind, searching black eyes.
In the morning she wakens late from a
heavy, dreamless sleep and goes down stairs
to find the deacon preparing for day in
the city. He calls her aside and without a
word she puts into his hand scrap of pa
per upon which she has written the address
Fitzgerald gave her. Her hand trembles a
little as she does so, but otherwise she is
l@..I