Millheim Journal. [volume] (Millheim, Pa.) 1876-1984, 1884-01-10
FATE AND THE FUTURE.


l can almost see It yet the long
winding turnpike road leading up the
hill to the school house, dotted on eth
er side with white cottages, with fringe
of silver naples that formed sort of
arcade, from the town pump in the
valley to the tall red house where, year
in, year out, with the exception of Sat.
urday, grim old Mr.. Nickelby Glasgow
held undisputed sway over an infan-
tile domain which recognized but one
rower superior to his, and that the
birch rod, which he welded alike re-
gardless of jacket and wearer yet he
was a good well.meaning soul, this Mr..
Nickelby Glasgow, take him before
nine O'Clock or after four, and 1 trust
he rests well in the genial shade of the
very trees he plundered to facilitate ed
ucation.
The old school house stands at the
head of the hill yet, and the boughs of
the silver NAPLES interlace as tenderly
as they did on the day that Mary
Throne and I walked up the turnpike
road for the last time. Let me see it
must be ten years ago, for I was six
teen and she was year Younger. /
remember that I carried her satchel,
auu that she trudged along very close
at my side. talked very soberly Of 60
ing away, and she cried very softly be-
hind brown veil.
''Going away % she repeated after
me, with a pitiful attempt at indiffer
ence.-"Going away =! When and
where ?"
"To-day, Mary" I made answer.
"You know there is no home for me
here since mother died-no home for
me any where except the one l shall
make for myself and-aud you, Mary"
She stopped and leaned against the
trnnk of maple, and looked at me
half quizzically from the shade of the
brown veil; she seemed to be laughing,
bnt there were tears in the laugh, and
tears were trickling down her face.
''But where are you going ?" A
pause between every other word.
''I cannot tell you, but to some place
where there is a chance fora poorboy (;
and it seems to me that ought to go
a long distance from here to find
that
She was still leaning against the
tree, looking up at me.
"Are you SO very poor then ?" she
queried. 1 remember laughed at her
question, and she accepted the laugh
in reply, and continued, "Ah, yes, you
are, know, and it is terrible t. be
poor, is it not 20
Il trust you may never know just
how terrible it iS," said.
l saw her hand fumbling at the pock'
ct Of her dress by-and-by the hand
was withdrawn, and 1 saw that the fin
gers were pressed tightly over deli
cate silken purse, on which her mono
gram, an. t." was quantity embroid-
cred in a bright shade of floss.
''Here, Bob, take this," she said,
pushing the purse into my reluctant
palm. ''It isn't much, but it will help
you. Now don't refuse, unless you
want to make me angry
did not refuse perhaps did
wrong in taking it, but it certainl y
would have b9en a greater wrong had
denied her wish. Feeling, however,
I was wrong in accepting the purse, the
only chance saw to retrive myself lay
in making return of some kind. Ny
store of worldly effects was meagre, but
| had ring which in her youth my
mother had worn. 1t was "a quaint de.
vice of Etruscan gold, curiouSlJ
wrought, and of marvellous beauty il
not worth. She had given it to me
just before she died, as she laid hel
hand on my head and bade me he true
to myself and her.
''Take this, my son." she had said
sand some day when you haye found
girl sweet and good whom you may
love even better than you do me, AM
say that in heaven will watch owe
you both and wait for your coming"
Surely had found the ''sweet, gooC
GIRL" and slipped tie ring from m
finger and kissed it, then laid it in Mar
US hand.
'It was mother's," I said. ''Wea