The Penn's Grove record., 1886-02-13

Nbul KS P1DAAAoAbS HNJ ~f N 80
could seek out his friend and take coun-
sci.
A trusty counsellor that green one
Of the pastrycook's, a loving heart in
side its plain case, a true and stead
fast friend. Oil there are good hearts
IN this world of ours that men call so
bad, staunch hearts and kindly, ready
to sorrow for %another's grief, ready to
lend a helping hand to the fallen.
With this friends help, a home was
found for the child, and burial for its
mother; with his help Johns hands
were strengthened and his will con-
irmed to care for the orphan as a sis
ter, with his help, efforts were made to
find out the mill-Owner, but they were
unsuccessful.
We let the years pass on, while the
ragged books give place to better ones,
secondhand, but good and clean; while
the lodging is changed, and John March
has passed, with his friends help, from
an errand boy to a clerk in a merchants
office. But John was restless "a bad
sign, said his friend. Not so. He had
"a WAol w ~ dhlOuSoG ChO hlduuLdCLul
ers; he had heard of Wanted a clerk, y
in a mill.owner's counting-house; and
his friend, knowing his meaning shook
his head in compassion for a hopeless
case.
He got the clerkship, however and
then his little sister was taken from
the cheap schools where she had been
hitherto, and placed IN a higher one.
Johns wants were few, and little SUI
feed for them. His first interview
with his new master was not in the
counting-house but in his owndrawing
room, a gorgeous place, where luxury
and riches stared at him as an intruder
and asked what he wanted there. And
the great chief of the firm, a white-hair-
ed man, morose and gloomy, questioned
him, and read his reference and testi-
monials. Such a cloud hung about the
man, such a heavy, oppressive air there
was in the rich hangings, and the mas
sive splendor OF the pictures and mir
rors, that a weight passed from the
clerks heart as he left the room and
breathed the fresh air outside.
But it needed all Johns hopeful
spirit to make light work of this. The
very business seemed to have no life III
it; the counting house labored under a
cloud, the books, the stools, the win
dows themselves looked dead; nothing
was alive but the mice, and even they
seemed to scamper about more softly
when the head himself entered.
John worked on steadily in the cloud
now and then going to see his little
sister in her school; and the mill-owner
cold eye marked out his habits with ap-
prevail. He rose: he dropped the word
clerk for manager. He talked a little
with his chief and with others; he was
observant and thoughtful, taking note
of things which would seem to have no
interest for HIM.
1t was strange how, looking from
time to time upon the mill-owner in his
dead atmosphere, and working on in
the cloud, the idea rose in Johns mind
and grew up tin it presented itself to
him as a tangible fact, that his search
was ended here, his aim attained. So
strong was this conviction, that if his
principal had suddenly SAID IN his ear
the words to verify it, he would have
felt no surprise, but have taken them
as natural and words of course. And
sitting there, working out his idea,
while his fingers were busy, no wonder
filed his mind when there luttered
down before him, from leaves SO little
akin to it, a scrap of paper yellow and
musty, and the delicate lines traced on
it faint with age.
CIV OV,lu hau fAv fprrixranDcG IF VnI
would but believe this, my dear father
1 ask nothing more; | love you so much
l feel so deeply how wrong l have been.
Only take off the heavy CONSCIOUSNESS
of your displeasure-only say you for
give"
There lay the conviction which had
been growing within him, verified
Then John March left the counting
house; house roofs lowered down about
him, grey in the evening light; men and
woman talked, and he heard them, and
it seemed as if in all the great world
none had so hard a thing to do as he
had.
1t was ten years now since the hol-
low-eyed woman lay quietly back in her
rags to rest IN the cherries lodging,
and Sohn March went again to see his
little sister. He stood with her on the
hearth, her hand in his and her head
on his shoulder; for she called him
brother, and knew no better. He drew
back his hand and put away the stray
curl that fell across her cheek, asst had
done that night ten years ago.
Emmy, little one"
Eyes John"
"'You are old enough, now, TO leave
school," She nodded, gravely, but did
not speak. 81 must take you home
"Where is that?"
~ have something to tell You,
Emmy"
She looked at him, wonderingly,
smiling a little at his grave seriousness.
But lie raised her head from his Shout
der, still gravely looking into the lire.
Emmy, l am not your brother.
She drew back from him then in
earnest, pale and red by turns, half
hoping he TESTED with her.
at is true" said John.
"What are you, thenr''
Nothing. | am nj relation to you. "
"No relation! Nothingl Oil John"
Tears gathered slowly in her eyes as
she looked at him; they rolled down
her cheeks and fell silently, Still look
ing away from her, he put out his hand
but Emmy did not move.
mo relation-nothingl And you
have been so good-all | have in the
world. | cannot bear it,"
"You do care for me, then?" said
John.
Care for you" she replied. "OhI l
do, I do. Ought not l to care for you
my brother? Let me call you my
brother"
"Call me your friend, " said John,
holding out his hand, and clasping fast
the little one placed in it.
"But l want my BROTHER" said
Emmy. "How car do without my
brother?"
He passed his hand over the brown
head gently; he bent down and kissed
her forehead tenderly as a brother
might do.
"Come, then, Emmy, said he.
"Where?" she inquired.
"You must trust me-" said John.
49, I'M II -.. - I Aa..a "a