The Eaton Democrat. (Eaton, Ohio) 1875-1903, 1885-02-26

was W. aiuis lIOIu ueT SHINING DfOWu uctu
to her willing feet! He was a man of few
earesses, hut by and by he went over to
her and laid his rough hand gently on her
head: and said: "Father'J good little girl"
Then, as though frightened at this II n
wonted exhibition of affection, he gathered
the milk-pails together and hurried out.
The touch and the words eased the heart
ache a little, but that night, lying with
wide wakeful eyes liked on the square of
moonlight on the floor, Lois said over and
over, ''The Dunns live to be ninety, ''The
Dunns live to be ninety" And h was
only twenty. How could she bear this for
seventy years?
But nature is kind to the young, and Lois
had forgotten her trouble long before an.
other pair of eyes closed in the old farm
house.
Joshua Dunn pondered long and sorrow
fully. He had not been father and mother
both fer twenty years without having his
perceptions sharpened where his child was
concerned, and rendering David Prices
frequent visits, and certain loiterings in
the old porch, and sundry tender glances,
it was not difficult to connect Lois sober
face with the young mans going away.
In his inmost heart he was thankful that he
was not called upon to give her up; but
something must be done to cheer her.
Ii only her mother were alive. But he
must do his best alone.
She should have some new dresses: she
must have young company; he would take
her up to the village Oftener. But alas for
the tender planning! The next time
Joshua Dunn went to the village he was
carried there and laid beside his young
wife.
. 1t had happened very suddenly. He had
gone out to the barn in the morning, and,
not coming in to breakfast, Lois had gone
in search of him, and found him lying I'M
der the feet of a horse he had lately
bought, the good, kind face trampied out
of recognition.
Well, we can live through a great deal,
and after the first bewilderment was over
Lois took up her old duties again.
Joshua Dunn had been a well-to-do man,
and everything was left to Lois. There
was to be no anxiety about ways and
live, with all the brightness of life gone.
Grandma Dunn, in the face of a real sor-
row, stopped f~retting for awhile, and Lois
had a faint hope that their mutual loss
might bring them nearer together; but
after a few weeks things fell back in their
old courses, her grandmother repining
and u~pbraiding, and Lois caring for her in
a cold, mechanical way.
Then the keen New England conscience
awoke. Was this the spirit of self-sacri-
fice1 Had she given up her love merely to
do the work a hired servant might do, and
with the same feelings? Was she not cheap
ening her sacrifice by Withholding part of
the price?
So the lonely girl goadedherself until by
prayers and tears she grew into a softer
frame of mind, and the silent Indifference
with which she had borne her grand
for the poor cross-grained nature. If
Grandma Dunn noticed the change she
gave no sign; but it made life more tolera-
Bile to Lois. At the best, time dragged very
slowly at the old farmhouse. The MORN
ings were bearable, for the care of the
house kept her busy; but in the long sum-
mer afternoons, when her grandmother
dozed in her chair, and in the long winter
evenings, when she sat alone by the fire,
she grew to have the feeling that they had
lived in the same way for a hundred years,
and would live on and on indefinitely.
But after ten years had worn away a new
interest came into her life. One day a
paper from Boston strayed up to the red
house on the hill. Lois did not know that
the paper held a highrank in the literature
of the day, but she felt the difference be-
tween it and their county weekly. One
little story pleased her especially. 1t did
not abound in Opponents, murders and
highly-wrought situations, like the weekly
stories, but ran along as naturally as one
friend might talk to another, and the
thought came to her, why couldn't she
write a storyr
So one afternoon, when Grandma Dunn
was safely off in her nap, Lois sat down in
the shady porch and wrote her first story.
1t was only the story of q life which had
been lived in her own village. There was no
attempt at fine writing, no romance, no
tragedy-unless the story of a broken heart
is always a tragedy-but the story was
told so simply and tenderly that it seemed
like a quiet brook running at twilight be-
tween banks of fern and alder, until it is
lost in shadow.
Boston paper, and the editor, a man of
quiet tastes, read it himself, then took it
home and read it to his invalid wife: aud
the result was that in a few weeks Lois re-
ceived a paper addressed in a strange
handwriting, and in it her little story; and
not only that, but a letter camec containing a
check and a few words of praise. With a
heart lighter than it had been since her
fathers death, she took the paper and let
ter to her room. She turned the check
over and over-her own money, the first
she had ever earned, and earned in such a
delightful way! Then she read and re read
her story, and wondered how it sounded to
others. She looked the paper over to COM
pare it with other stories, and ii familiar
name caught her eye, and there, among
the marriage notices, she read this: "In
this city, on the 10th inst, by Rev. Daniel
Simpson, Mary, only daughter of Roger
Leonard, of this city, to David Price, of
Cleveland, Ohio.
She held the paper u few minutes, then
folded it smoothly and laid it away. Her
brief sunshine had clouled over.
After awhile, urged by her loneliness,
she took up her pen again: aud in all the
years that followed she found it a refuge
and comfort, not only to herself, but to
others; for her writings, though often
crude, had a simplicity and naturalness
which touched other hearts; and besides
the modest money return there came to her
once in awhile a letter from some stranger
with words Of kindly appreciation.
One day, when her grandmother was
unusually restless, Lois, to entertain her,
brought down her first story and read it to
to her stories without suspecting the
author, and her blunt criticisms were
amusing and sometimes helpful. Hump
she said, at the end of this one: 'that
woman had sorter the same life as MISSY
Peters-she that was a Shepley: only
nobody would think of putin MISSY in a
story-a poor, shifless thing. If she'd "a
had less book-larnin' and more common
sense, Job Peters's folks would "a liked
her a deal better, and she wouldn't IA been
badgered to death by 'em." Then, with
sudden i~rrelevancy: aye ought to hev
about the house. Ye'd Ia lone better to
LEI taken that David Price that used to
hang round here. Somebody was a-teIlin'
of me the other day that he was reel fore
handed out to Ohio. But CELLS never know
what's best for 'em." And she went off
AAoo Gil illoiO - luSs
For a moment Lois felt a wild impulse to
tell her grandmother why she had not
married David Price, to lay open before
her the long years of loneliness, the starva-
ton of heart, which had been endured for
her sake; but the lifelong habit of reticence
was not easily broken, and the words died
without utterance.
: Afterward she was glad of this silence
for that night the querulous voice stopped
suddenly, and the chain that had bound
Lois for twenty years was broken. She
was free. But what was freedom worth to
her? The zest was gon out of life; she had
grown away from her old friends and made
no new ones: there was no tie to bind her
to H~illsborough, and she felt the full extent
of her loneliness when she realized the fact
that she had no ties in any place in the
wide world. But she could not stay in her
old home; SO after awhile she sold the farm
and moved away to a small town near
Boston, guided in her choice only by the
fact that from this town had come some of
the friendly stranger letters. Here she
settled herself in a comfortable home, and
faced resolutely the thirty or forty years