The Kimball graphic. (Kimball, Brule County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1905, 1884-10-17
,erald PAGES the room a few moments,

awful, YOU know. We had far better
cut it short He takes both her hands.
She is quite calm and passive now. 1t
seems to her that all feeling has left
her. Through intease suffering she has
almost passed into inconsistencies of
pain; her face is white and still. Fitz-
gerald looks at her curiously. "Miran-
da, listen" he says gently, "we can
write, you know" A little CLEAN of
eagerness passed over her face. "Yes,"
she answers. 81 had not thought of
that" Then the strange, cool apathy
returns. She lets him hold her in his
arms and press his lips upon her brow
withouta sign or word. She hears him
say that he will surely come next year."
she sees the puzzled look with which he
regards her, she says "Good-by" in ar
odd, hard sort of voice, which sounds
strange to her own ears, and then-itis
all over and she is alone.
A little more than two weeks later
the deacon stands on the little wooden
platform of Romulus station waiting for
an incoming express train. His scanty
gray locks are combed carefully over
his sun-burned neck; the palm-leaf hat
has been discarded in favor of a very
stiff, very high, very uncomfortable
beaver; the one suspender is hidden by
a Sunday coat of supernatural black
ness and shininess. Altogether the
deacon is "gotton up smart" according
to Mrs. Tiffany, who has snorted con
tc%mptuously at the idea of "all this fuss
bein' made for that Mirandy." Mrs.
Tiffany, however, is in q high state of
suppressed excitement herself, as are
also the girls. Ag has purchased the
gayest bonnet to be had at the Corners
(blue satin and yellow feathers), with
the express and declared purpose
of "takin' the shine out of Miriam
dy's furrin' fixin's," and Liz has spent
the greater part of three days in perfect
ing wonderful arrangements of her
molassos-candy colored locks which ar
rangement is declared by her friend,
Miss Price, who has lately visited Chi
cago, to be the --latest European" style.
1t is a fearfully hot afternoon and there
has been no rainfor a fortnight. The
little grass plot is brown and dusty, tho
sun beats down tiercely on the yellow,
sandy path. Inside the house an early
supper is set on the table, flies are buz-
ENG about tie wire-gauze cover which
protects ONE sticky-looking "pre-
serve" and a big bumble-bee. which
has come in through the window, and
accidentally tumbled into the pewter
milk-jug, has managed to get out of it
again, much to his own astonisllmrnt,
and is slowly travelling across the table,
leaving little dropplngs of cream to
mark his progress. Mrs. Tiffany, her
cork-screw curls gathered into a knot
behind one ear, her sleeves tucked we'll
up to the elbow, displaying o liberal
expanse of red arm, is standing on the
doorstep, Liz, attired in a pink gown
and q profuslon of cheap jewelry, is
lolling on the horse hair sofa reading q
dime novel.
And the deacon brings Miranda home.
Slowly and YEARLY the days have be-
come weeks, the weeks months, and tho
months have heightened into years, and
two years have gone by since Miranda's
homecoming. 1t is again an evening
IN June, and the deacon's palm-leaf hat
Is used vigorously to beat off the mosque
tos as he and Miranda stroll down the
quiet. deserted path. Father, she began
suddenly, | want you to do something
for me-" "Now, that's kind o~'cur'ous,"
remarks the deacon, "for | was Just a
thlnkm,' Mirandy, what thar was could
do fer to make yer happier" "Why,
father" she cries, with a little at.
tempt at a laugh what has put it
into your head to imagine that + m
happy? Such q silly, old ia
'.Mirandy," says the deacon,
quietly, Give knowed on it fer long
time--I've knowed on it fer months an
months. Did ye think I. couldn't see
the look thet's bin o CROWN in yer
eyes? Did ye think i didn't know my
gel was frettin'?"
ooh don't say that, don't say thatl"
she cries, with a sharp pain in her voice;
/ didn't know you noticed-I have tried.
1 have tried so hard,
"Thet's whar it is, Mirandy," saws
the deacon, tenderly. "You hey tried,
and l can't abear to see we tryin' to be
Don't We try, Mirandy; don't
We, now. Tibet was what killed yer
mother" And the deacon signs.
Some folks" he continued, oracularlv,
'kin be happy agin' circumstances, and
some folks can't. Twan1 in her ma
Mirandy, and it ain't in your'n.
We try, my pretty; don't We try"
Father, father!" she sobs, and sud
denly buries her quivering face upon
his shoulder. The deacon gently strokes
her hair. EFF t'would do We any good
to tell it, Mirandy," he says hesitating.
Yes, I will tell YOU" she answers
quickly. II meantto 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
was the uncle of her little
,harge-their mothers brother; how he
had Travelled with them all in Europe;
how he had persistently sought her So
,iety, and how she had at first tried
% repulse him; how at last. one
light i'll Venice, he had asked
Ter to be his wife, and she, loving him
as indeed she had done all along
consented; how they had been too
very, very happy; how he had said that
was too poor to claim her for a long
lime yet, and babe her wait patiently
until the time should come; how they
nad parted in London, aud then how
she had heard three times from him in
5he first six months, the last letter
New York-promising a speedy
visit; how she had answered it, and
months had written again, and
now no answer had come, not even a
inc, not a word, in all the long months.
And this is all. She does not speak
If the sleepless nights and the weary
ng days. Of the feyerish eagerness for
oost-time, and the hopeless blank when
It had passed-the quick bounding of
her heart nj every skranna stor nna