The Columbian. [volume] (Bloomsburg, Pa.) 1866-1910, 1884-02-01

pichShuj dh Jue lDIu knOWS dlu u
ever had any evidence, so to speak;
amt never had prayer answered in
my life. If have, I'd jest like to
know how. You say, mebbe, they've
been answered jest the same, only in a
different way from what l asked for.
Ef you call it answerin' prayer TO give
one thing when you ask for another, |
don't. An I'd ruther not believe He'd
do thing like that That's Jest con
trary to what he said about Himself,
an the Bread an the stone, in the New
Testament. It's worse to think He'd
cheat anybody like that than to think
He amt anywhere, accordin' to my
mind. No, Mr.. Perdeton, a human
bein' needs little human evidence
once in a while to keep up their faith,
an l amt never had any. I'll Jest let
you know how it's been a leetle Here
! am, an old woman, an me an Jack
son lived here on this rock for forty
year. An there's been things I've
wanted different, but / amt never had
'em-things that I've cried, and
groaned, an prayed to the Lord for
big things an little things, it seems to
me that l might have got a feeling
that he was here.
"Forty years ago, when Jackson an
me was just married an set up house
keepin' here, thar was an awful storm
one night, an my father an my broth
er was out yonder in it. l staid on my
knees all night, prayin'. The next
mornin' their two darlin bodies was
washed ashore. My brother had only
been married few months--the sweet
est, lovingest, little thing, she was. She
began to pine. l prayed to have her
spared. She died, an left her little
baby
"But you had him, for your own, did
you not p interrupted Mr.. Pendleton,
desper ately. "He has been a comfort
to you. God has displayed His love
and mercy in this case in sparing him
to YOU
"Mr. Pendleton" and the rheumat-
ic hand went up again-'1 amt never
asked to have been different. / amt
got through yet Thar's been lots of
other things, big ones, that might
jest as well not speak of, an little ones.
Look at that bridge! I'll venture to
say that you shook in your shoes when
you came over il, an wouldn't be sorry
this minute eff you was safe back.
Whenever Jackson goes over 1t my
heart is still and cold till he comes
back, for fear he's fell through. I've
prayed to the Lord about that. Then
you may think this little thing
but thar is Jackson's garden. He set
out rose bush in it fifteen years ago.
Well it amt died. Thar amt never
been rose on it, though. An it seems
to me sometimes that if thar should be
only just one rose on that bush, that |
should believe that the Lord had been
thar. You wouldn't think I'd been
silly enough to pray about that. l hev.
It's fifteen year, and thar amt never
been rose thar. No, Mr.. Pendleton,
it amt no use. You mean well, but it
lays with God, eff He's anywhere, to
show Himself to me in a way that |
can hold on
So the pretty, rosy-faced young min
lister would 60 away, picking his way
cautiously over the unstable bridge, af-
ter somewhat nonplussed prayer,
which Mrs. Reed, incapacitated from
kneeling by her rheumatic knees, had
sat and listened to grimly. The Bar
Lighthouse was three miles from Rye.
A sandy, desolate road, almost as bill.
lowy as the sea, stretched between.
The only house in the whole distance
was a little brown one, just at the 9TH
er side of the bridge. The Weavers
lived there, a mother and daughter.
They supported themselves by sewing
for shop In Rye. Jackson Reeds
nephew, William Barstow, had been
engaged to marry the daughter-Abby,
her name was; but month ago he had
brought wife from the city. He had
rented pretty little tenement over in
Rye, and gone to housekeeping. Abby
Weaver had tied up a few little notes
and keepsakes in neat parcel, and put
them away out of sight. Then she
went on with her work. She was a
plain, trust-worthy-looking girl, with
no show about her, as different as pos
sible from the one her recreant lover
had married She was pretty, with ar
enhancing little air of style about ev
erything she wore. Abby had seer
her 60 by few times in jaunty BLACK
velvet jacket and killed petticoat, with
the fair round face with its fringe o.
fluffy, blonde hair, smiling up at hel
husband out of bewltching little poke
Then she had gone and looked at her
self in her poor glass, taking in the ole
black alpaca, the plain, common face
with the dull hair combed back from
her forehead.
"No wonder" said she, San I'm glat
its so, Tor don't think that the Lore
can blame him."
Sarah Reed had found double tria
in the breaking off the engagement
In the first place, she had liked Abby
In the second place, this new matrimo
nial arrangement had taken the dar
ling of her heart from under her imme
date supervision. If he had married
Ably Weaver, he would have live,
either in the lighthouse, as he had don
all his life, or in her mothers cottage
But nothing could suit his pretty cit
lady, but to live in Rye. The bar
idea of the lighthouse terrified he,
Sarah Reeds frame of mind had no
been improved since her marriage
| One afternoon, few weeks after tn
young couple had set up housekeeping
an unexpected deficiency in some house
hold stores sent Jackson Reed to Ry,
where the nearest markets We're.
was the middle of the afternoon whe
he went and there was a storm con
ing
"Dont worry, Sarah" were his Ia,
words, san I'll be back by to ligt
the lamp It'll be pretty near dar
enough for it then, reckon, eff it keeI
on this way, eff it is June
She sat at her window with her kni
ting after she had gone and watche
the storm roll up. She had taken
fancy lately to little landward vii
dow, the one with the poor little ga
den patch under il. and the rose hus