The Northern Pacific farmer. [volume] (Wadena, Minn.) 1878-1885, 1884-10-23

(blue satin and yellow feathers), with
the express and declared purpose
of "takin' the, shine out of Miriam
dy's Turin fixin's," and Liz has spent
the greater part of three days in perfect
ing wonderful arrangements of her
molasses-candy colored locks which ar
rangement is declared by her friend,
Miss Price, who has lately, visited Chi
,ago, to be the --latest European" style.
It is fearfully hot afternoon and there
has been no rain for fortnight. The
little grass plot is brown and dusty, the
sun beats down fiercely on the yellow,
sandy path. inside the house an early
supper is set on the table, flies are buzz
zlng about tie wire-gauze cover which
protects some looking ''pre-
serve," and big bumble- bee, which
has come in through the window, and
accidentally tumbled into the pewter
milking, has managed to get out of it
and is slowly travelling across the table,
leaving little dropplngs Of cream to
mark his progress. Mrs. Tiffany, her
cork-screw curls' gathered into knot
behind one ear, her sleeves tucked we'll
up to the elbow, displaying liberal
expause of red arm, is standing on tho
doorstep, Liz, attired in a pink gown
and profusion of cheap jewelry, is
lolling on the horse hair sofa reading a
dime novel.
And the deacon brings Miranda home.
Slowly and YEARLY the days have be-
come weeks, the weeks months, and the
months have heightened into years, end
two years have gone by since Miranda's
home coming. 1t is again an evening
in June, and the deacon's palm-leaf hat
is used vigorously to beatpff 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 ocurious,"
remarks the deacon, "for I was just a
thinkin, Mirandy, what thar was could
do fer to make yer happier" "Why,
father" she cries, with q little at.
tempt at laugh what has put it
into your head to imagine that r m
not happy? Such silly, old ia
ther!" ''Mirandy," says the deacon,:
quietly, GIVE knowed on it fer long
time-I've knowed on it fer months an
months. Did ye think couldn't see
the look thets bin CROWN in yer
eyes? Did ye think didn't know my
gal was frettin'?"
"Oh don't say tnat, don't say that!"
she cries, with sharp pain in her voice;
didn't know you noticed-I have tried,
have tried 50 hard"
''Thet's whar it is, Mirandy," says
the deacon, tenderly. "You hev tried,
and can't abear to see We tryin' to be
happy. Don't ye try, Mirandy; don't
ye, 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. T'want in her ma
tur, Mirandy, and it amt in your'n.
Don't We try, my pretty; don't ye try"
Father, father!" she sobs, and sud-
denly buries her quiverihg 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, will tell you," she answers
quickly. "Imeant to 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
Fitzgerald was the uncle of her little
charge-their mothers brother; how he
had Travelled with them all in Europe;
how he had persistently sought her So
ciety, and how she had at first tried
to repulse him; how at last, one
night in Venice, he hai asked
her to he his wife, and she, loving him
dearly, as indeed she had done all along
consented; how they had been too
very, very happy; how he had said that
he was too poor to claim her for long
time yet, and babe her wait patiently
until the time should come; how they
had parted in London, aud 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 months had written again, and
how 40 answer had come,- not even q
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 had passed-the quick bounding of
her heart at every stre7ge 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 dea-
| con listens without work.
By and by he says slowly: '*Pve bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, OF
goin' on trip somewheres- fist you an
me together. Would ye like it Miriam
dy?"
She looked 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 to feign cheerfulness:
Eyes, father, very much. Is: it to
Jacksonvi]le?" naming place some
fifty miles distant, beyond which the
deacon's little journeys seldom extend.
"N-no," says the old man, hesitating-
~, "we1l,,go East, Mirandy. What
would We say to New York;" 20,
father, nor she cried, turning away
and hiding her burning face in her
hands. mot that couldn't
aye don't need to act so. Mirandy, he
says, gently. Would Z ask ye to do
anything ye hadn't ougbter do? Well
go ter yer Aunt Libby's, my pretty !;
she'll be right glad to see We for yer
mothers sake" Then in q low tone and
hurriedly. "Thar's many things might
hev bappened-maybe he went away an
never got yer letters ;thar's no tellin'
| pears as if would be more comfort
able like to know fer sure-an' thar's
thatnew reaper was wantin,'" raising
his voice, "I1l be dead sure to get bet
ter bargain up to New York. I kinder
hated dom the job in Jacksonville;
faint much Of a place, anyhow. Kin ye
be ready in the mornin, MiraHdy!" And
the deacon assumes an air of pleased an
ticipation. Miranda's heart throbs Wild
~ ;she tries in vain to crush the unreason-
ng JOY which fills her. and gives, against
her will, lightness and buoyance to her
steps and brightness. to her dark eyes.
She spends the first part of the night in
hasty preparations, and afterwards,
with no thought of sleep, sits 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
on their way, and the evening of the
second day finds them in New York.