, 1884-09-16

furrin, hxin's.n and Liz has spent the great
part Of three days in perfecttng n certain won
derful arrangement OF her molasses candy col
ored locks, which arrangement is declared by
her friend, Miss Price, who has lately visited
Chicago, to be tho --latest European style.H
1t Is IA fearfully hot afternoon, and there has
been no rain for a fortnight The little
grnss plot Is brown and dusty, the sun beats
down iercely on the yellow, sandy path.
Inside tho house an early supper Is set out on
the table. flies are buzzing about the wire
cau1e cover which protects some sticky-look
Ing ~pnserve," and a big bumblelac, which
has come ia through the window and acct.
dentnily tumbled into the pewter milk jug,
has managed To get out OF IL again, much 10
his pwn as~tonishment. and Is slowly travelling
acruss tie table, leaving little drippings OF
ereani to mark its progress. Mrs Tiffany,
her corkscrow curls gathered in IA knot be
hind one eur. her sleeves tucked we'll up to
"a. elbow, displaying liberal expanse Of rud
arm, Is standing on the doorstep; Liz, attired
ia a pink gown and a profusion OF cheap jew
elry. is lolling on the horsehAir sofa reading
Il lime novel
And the deacon brings Miranda home.
. .
Slowly and YEARLY the days have become
weeks, the weeks months, and tho onths
have lengthened into years, and two years
have gone 10y since Miranda's home coming.
IL Is again an evening in June, and the dea-
cons palm-loaf hat is used vigorously To beat
of the musquitoos as he and Miranda stroll
down tho quiet, deserted path. Father"
she begins suddenly, Il want you 10 do some
thing for mo-" snow, that's kind O. curious"
remarks the deacon, "for 1 was just a-think-
in, Mirandy, what thar was l could do fer
to make yer happier" why, father she
cries with "A little attempt at a laugh, what
has put II into your head 10 imagine that I
am not happyi Such a silly old fntherlr
"Mirandy, says the deacon quietly, .rve
knowed IN It fer a long time; I've knowcd on
It for months an months. Did ye thmk |
ouldn sec the look thet's bin a grown In
yer cyesi Did ye think l didnitk know my gal
was frettin'fi
@Ol don't say that; don't say thatl7 shc
cries, with sharp pain in her voice. Il didn't
know you noticed-I have tried, l have tried
SO hardfn
~Thet's whari it is Mirandy,n says the dea-
con, tenderly. "You hev tried, and l can't
abear TO see ye tTyin' TO DO happy. Don't
ye try, Mirandy; don't ye, now. Tibet was
what killed yer mother And the deacon
signs. Some folks" he continues, orncu-
larly, kin be happy agin circumstances, and
some folks can't. 'Twarn't in her natur,
Mirandy. and 1t amt in your'n. Don't We
try, my pretty, don't ye try"
aFather, fatheri' she sobs, and suddenly
burics her quivering face upon his shoulder
The deacon gently strokes her hair 'Ef
would do you any good to tell it, Mirandy =
hesays, hesitatingly. "Yes, WIN tell you, " she
answers quickly. Il meant TO have told you
lJng ago, but at first / put it of, and aftor-
ward-somehow-I couldn't
And then, with eyes liked on the ground
and little hot trembling hands clasped before
her, she tells her story, how Fitzgerald was
the uncle OF her little chnrgos-their mothers
brother; how he had Travelled with them all
in Europe; how he had persistently sought
her society, and how she hnd at first tried to
repulse him; how at last, one night in Won
ice, hc 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 be had said that he was too
poor to claim her for n long time yet, and
babe her wait patiently until the time
should come; how they had parted in Ion
don, and then how she had heard three times
from him in the first six months, the last let
ter-from New York-promising a speedy
visit; how she had answered IL, and after
some months had written again, and how no
answer had come, not even IA line not a word,
In all the long months.
And this is all. She does not speak Of tho
sleepless nights and the wearying days, Of the
feverish eagerness for post-time, and the
hopeless blank when II had passed-of the
quick bounding OF her heart at every strange
step, and the invariable sickening recoil
which has followed, of the uncongenial 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 deacon listens without a
word.
By-and-by he says slowly, ave bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, of goin' on
a trip somewheres-jIst you an me together.
Would you like it, Mirandyf'
She looks 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
10 feign cheerfulness: "Yes, father, very
much. Is it TO Jacksonvillel' meaning a
place some fifty miles distant, beyond which
the deacon's little journeys seldom extended.
"N-no," says the old man, hesitating,
"we1l-wem q east. Mirandy. What would
ye say TO New York;
20 father. mol she cries, turning away and
hiding her burning face in her hands. "Not
that couldn't
"Ye don't need to act so, Mirandy,r he
says, gently. Would l ask ye to do any
thing ye hadn't oughter dot Wen 90 ter
yer Aunt Iibby's, my pretty; she'll be right
glad to see yer fer ye mothers sake Then
in a low voice and hurriedly. Thar's many
things might hev happened-maybe he went
away an mover got yer letter-thnr's no
tellin'-poars as it 'twould be more comfort
ahlc-like to know fer sure-an' thar's that
new reaper I was wantin, ~ raising his voice,
an be dead sure to get a better bargain ur
in New York. | kinder hated doin the job.
H.. I..1r.awaul.. Ne.T.N .-..l "
how. Kin ye be ready in the mornin', Mi
randyf7 The deacon assumes an air Of
pleased anticipation. Miranda's heart throbs
wildly she tries in vain to crush the unrca
soning joy which fills her, and gives ngains
her will, lightness and buoynncy to her steI
anil brightness TO her lark eyes. She spend
the first part Of the night I'm hasty prepare.
tons, and afterwards, with no thought Of
sleep, sits at the open window of her room,
her head buried in her hands, dreaming per
haps less OF the 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 next day tinds
them in New York. Aunt Libby receive
them with open arms, and to Miranda the
evening passes like n dream. Long after
wards little scraps Of conversation and anec-
dotes Of her dead mother came back to her,
and when she tried 10 recall them more full,
the stuffy, third-ioor parlor of a ~second-clas
Brooklyn boarding-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 a day in the
city. He calls her aside, and, without a
. word she puts into his hand a scrap Of paper
upon which she has written the address Fitz-
gerald gave her. Her hand trembles a little
as she does so, but otherwise she is outwardly
calm and composed. The deacon glances at
her With "A look or tender anxiety,
Mr., f. N. Chase, Director Of the Iowa
| State Roard If A nrtculturo saw. t.NVh;lo