The sun. [volume] (Morris, Stevens County, Minn.) 1882-1895, 1884-10-23


odd, hard sort of voice, which sounds
strange to her own ears, and then-itls
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-burped neck; the palm-leaf hat
has been discarded in favor of very
stiff, very high, very uncomfortable
beaver; the one suspender is hidden by
q Sunday coat of supernatural black
ness and shininess. Altogether the
deacon is "gotton up smart" according
to Mrs. Tiffany, who has snorted con-
temptuously at the idea of "all this fuss
bein' made for that Mirandy." Mrs.
Tiffany, however, is in 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
molasses-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.
It is fearfuuy hot afternoon and there
has been no rain for fortnight. The
little grass plot is brown and dusty, the
sun beats down fercely 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 sticky looking ''pre-
serve," and a big humble bee, which
has come in through the window, and
accidentally tumbled into the pewter
milking, has managed to get out Of it
again, much to his own establishment,
and is slowly travelling across the table.
leaving little droppIngs of cream to
mark his progress. Mrs. Tiffany, her
cork-screw curls gathered into knot
behind one ear, her sleeves tucked well
up to the elbow, displaying liberal
expanse of red arm, is standing on the
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, and
two years have gone by since Mirandas
home coming. It is again an evening
in June, and the deacon's palm-leaf hat
is used vigorously to beat off the mosquI-
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
thinkin,' Mirandy, what thar was could
do fer to make yer happier. "Why,
father" she cries, with little at.
tempt at laugh "what has put it
into your head to imagine that T m
not happy? Such a 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 I couldn't see
the look thet's bin CROWN in yer
eyes? Did We think I didn't know my
gal was frettin'?"
ooh don't say that, don't say that"
she cries, with sharp pain in her voice;
didn't know you noticed-I have tried,
I have tried so hard"
.'Thet's whar it is, Mirandy," SAYS
the deacon, tenderly. ''You hev tried,
and I can't abear to see ye tryin' to be
happy. Don't We try, Mirandy; don't
We, now. Thet was what killed yer
mother" And the deacon signs.
"Some folks" he continued, oracularly,
'kin be happy agin' circumstances, and
some folks can't. T'wanb in her ma
tur, Mirandy, and it amt in your'n.
Don't 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. "Ef t'would do We any good
to tell it, Mirandy." he says hesitating.
eyes, I will tell you," she answers
quickly. "Imeant to have told you long
ago, but, at first, 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
L repulse him; how at last, one
night III Venice, he hal asked
her to be 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 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 had passed-the quick bounding of
her heart at every strange 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: 'I've bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, of
goin' on trip somewheres-jist you an
me.together. Would We 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
naming a 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;" go,
father, mol" she cried, turning away
and hiding her burning face in her