Audubon County Republican. [volume] (Audubon, Audubon Co., Iowa) 1885-1894, 1886-09-09

| Il must nave one minutes SOBER Talk
with you"
Anybody can be sober; I'd rather be
frivolous" with twinkle and dim
pie.
''You must promise not to 60 driv-
ing with anybody while am gone"
More dimples. Don't ask too
much"
"And you must write to me-"
81! write! / can't writer'
"Then print it in big letters. And
one thing more, Maysie," his voice fall
ing to whisper. "a kiss
He passes his arm firmly around her
slender waist.
Just one, darling, to remember till
come back!' His face is close
to hers, the soft, peachy cheek tempt
ing him beyond his strength. you
never yet gave me kiss" he muir
mers.
But the virginia. instinct is strong
in Maysie, and she draws away from
him. ''Why should I?' she says, re-
provingly.
Then / shall take one," he says,
boldly.
mo, you dare not!' she replies, and,
indeed, he would be brave man who
would steal a kiss with the sweet aus
terity of that youthful look bent upon
him. But in another moment she melts
"Please forgive me. can not" she
says, shyly, and at this minute, while
both are blushing, he with dark-red
flush and she with wild-rose bloom,
from fence corner appears Maysie's
small brother Bob.
"Ho" says the newcomer, derisive-
ly, 'f l couldn't drive straighter'n
you I'd put my head to soak! And
mother says she guesSes you waited
for the cloth to be made, you've been
so long"
This gentle reminder hastens them
homeward. At the door Hartwell only
pauses to whisper:
II shall write from New York.
Good-by, sweet and is gone in an in
slant.
The long, bright summer days pass,
by; seven of them have passed over
Maysie's head, but not without a sign
from Hartwell. Soon after his de-
parture came letter and a parcel,
both addressed to Maysie's mother.
The parcel contains saShes and breast
knots of scarlet, far handsomer than
often seen at the farm. and two dainty
fans. The letter begs the lady to ac-
cept the gifts for her two eldest
daughters and allow them to be worn
at Bess' graduation. So soothing is
this epistle to the matron's feelings
that her only comment is:
well, never! | sh'd think woman
picked out them fans"
At the end of the week comes an
other letter, this time to Maysie her
self. 1t says briefly that the writer
has closed his business, and is about
to turn to the country; it mentions
the date of his probable arrival, and
adds that he is sincerely ser friend,
John Hartwell. Maysie reads it again
and again, and finds written between
the lines what no other could; and
after learning it by heart she lays it
carefully away among her few girlish
treasures.
Bright and cool dawns the day of
days--the day of Hartwelrs return.
Early in the afternoon Maysie takes
her seat in the narrow, vine covered
porch, and at her mothers command
attacks the men ding basket, which
holds an enormous quantity of rents
and fractures; but mending has no ter
rors for Maysie this afternoon. Hour
after hour slips by and no Hartwell APP
pears. Gradually the song dies from
her lips, the light from her eyes.
Silently she gathers up her finished
work and puts it away, sick with a
gnawing disappointment.
"But he will come this evening""
she thinks, hopefully.
The sun is setting when the farmer
comes YEARLY from the field to the even
ing meal, and resorts to bench out
side the kitchen door; here stands n
bright tin basin, yellow soap, and u
pail of fresh water, and near by hangs
clean, course towels. Maysie's father
and mother are untraveled and unedu-
Gated, but their home is pervaded with
the very essence of all refinement
namely, the most exquisite purity and
cleanliness. He smooths his iron gray
lock before passing into the cheerful,
orderly kitchen, and, sinking into the
| old arm chair, which has stood at one
particular window for century, he
says:
Heard there's been a bad accident ="
"Where?" chorus his wife and
daughter.
Half mile down the railroad"
"When" again the chorus, with
Maysie's voice left out.
This mornin'; engine jumped the
track; four men killed and lots wound
ed" relates the farmer, while his wife
and Bess exclaim, and Maysie stands
helplessly feeling her breath escape in
audible gasps, and not daring to ask if
Hartwell was known to be on the train.
But the narrator's voice drones on, af-
ter an instant's pause, with the fateful
words:
THAT Teller Hartwell was in the car
that caught fire. They say you wouldn' t
a known him if it hadn't been for his
clothes"
'Oh, mercy" means Maysie. A
great roaring sound seems to fill her
ears; she sways and waivers, her moth
er turning just in time to save her from
falling. But Maysie's strong young
frame does not long yield to faintness;
she sips the cold water they offer her,
and presently steals away like ,