The Delaware ledger. (Newark, Del.) 1879-19??, 1884-11-08

tur', Mlrandy, and II amt In your n
Don't ye try, my pretty, don't ye try"
"Father, fatherI' she sobs, and sud-
denly buries her quivering face upon
his shoulder. The deacon gently strokes
her hair. "Eft'would do you any good
to tell it. MIrandy," he says hesitating-
ly. "Yes, 1 will tell you," she ans
weres quickly. 81 meant to have told
yeu long ago, but at first l put 1t off, and
afterward-somehow-I couldn't.
And then, with eyes fixed on the
ground and little hot trembling hands
clasped before her, she tells her story,
how Fitzgerald was the uncle Of her
charges-their mothers brother and
how he had travelled with them all in
Europe /; and how he had persistently
sought her society, and how she had at
first tried to repulse 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 a long
time yet, and bade her wait patiently
until the time should come how they
had parted In Londen. and then how
she had heard three times from him in
the first six months, the last letter
from New York-promising speedy
visit how she had answered it, and
after some months had written again,
and how no answer had come, not even
line, not word, In all the long
months.
And this is all. She does not speak
of the sleepless nights and the weary
ing days, of the feverish eagerness for
post-time, and the hopeless blank when
it was 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 aud 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 word.
By-and-by he says slowly: "I've bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, of
goin' on trip somewheres-just you
an me together. Would you like 1t,
MirandyP"
She looked up in surprise, puzzled at
his manner and almost wounded that
he seems to take 80 little interest; then,
seeing that he is waiting for an answer
she says, trying to feign cheerfulness :
"Yes, father, very much. Is it to
Jacksonville ?" meaning small place
some fifty miles distant, beyond which
the deacon's little journeys seldom ex-
tended.
''N-no;'' says the old man, hesitating,
"we1l-we'll go east, Mirandy. What
would you say to New York;"
80 father, nol'' she cries, turning
away and hiding her burning face in
her hands. ''Not that-I couldn't.
"Ye don't need to act go, Miranda
he says, gently. "Would ask ye to
do any thing ye hadn't oughter dof
Wen go to yer Aunt Libby's, my
pretty she'll be right glad to see yer
fer yer mothers sake" Then in a low
voice and hurriedly. "Thar's many
things might hev happened-maybe he
went away and never got yer letters
thar's no tellin'-'pears as it 'twould
be more comfortable-like to know fer
sure-an' thar's that new reaper l was
wantin'." raising his voice, "I'll be
dead sure to get a better bargain up in
New York. kinder hated dom the
job in Jacksonville 'taint much Of
place, anyhow. Kin you be ready in
the mornin', Mirandy ?" The deacon
assumes an air of pleased anticipation.
Mlranda's heart throbs wildly, she tries
in vain to crush the unreasonable joy
which fills her, and gives against bel
will, lightness and bouyancy to her
step and brightness to her dark eyes.
She spends the first part Of the night
in hasty preparations, and sfterward:
with no thought Of sleep, siJs at the
open window of her room, her head
buried in her hands, dreaming perhaps
less of the future than of the past.
In the gray dawn of the next morn
ing father and daughter are already Oh
their way, and the evening of the next
day finds them in New York. Aunt
Libby receives them with open arms
and to Miranda the evening passes like
dream. Long afterward little scraps
of conversation and anecdotes of .hel
dead mother came back to- her, anC
when she tried to recall them NOR
fully the stuffy, third.hoor parlor of ,
first-class Brooklyn boardlng-house ros,
before her, and she saw again Auu
Libby's angular figure and kind, search
ing black eyes.
In the morning she wakens late from
heavy, dreamless sleep, and goes dow
stairs to find the deacon preparing fol-
day in the city. He calls her aside
and, without a word she puts into hi
hand scrap of paper upon which sh
has written the address Fitzgerald CAV
her. Her hand trembles little as sh
does so, but otherwise she is outward
calm and composed. The deacon
glances at her with a look of tende
; anxiety, which soon changes to relief
"That's right, my pretty" he says
"true grit's what does 1t, Mirandy ,unde
all circumstances. And then Aun
Libby comes in, and the deacon re
marks that he is ''as like as not to hav
5 a tarnatlon lot of bother about tina
reaper, and mebbe he won't git bacl
afere supper time" Aunt Libby pre-
$ misses to show ''Miranda round" An
soon the old man leaves them.
: Some how or other the day, whic