The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1886-01-06

/ w &C 4tAa u ROA 49,
I'D like to say word to you,
said Bladburn.
With little start of surprise, |
made room for him on the fallen
tree, where l was seated.
" mayn't get another chance" he
said. You and the boys have
been very kind to me, kinder than |
deserve; but sometimes I've fancied
that my not saying anything about
myself had given you the idea that
all was not right in the past. want
to say that | came down TO Virginia
with a clean record"
"We never doubted it in our
hearts, Bladburn."
If | didn't write home" he con-
tinued, sit was because / hadn't
any home, neither kith nor kin.
When | said the old folks were dead
l said it. Am | boring you? If |
thought | was
No, Bladburn. l have often
wanted you to talk to me about
yourself, not from idle curiosity, L
trust, but because | liked you that
rainy night when you came to camp
and have gone on liking you ever
since. This isn't too much to say,
when heaven only knows how soon
| may be past saying it or you lis
tening to it."
That's it." said Bladburn, hur-
riedly. That's why l want to talk
with you, I've fancy that | shant
come out of our first battle"
The words gave me a queer start,
for l had been trying several days to
throw off singular presentiment
concerning him-a foolish PRESENT.
ment that grew out of a dream.
"In case anything of that kind
turns up," he continued, I'D like
you to haye my Latin grammar
here-you've seen me reading it.
You might stick it away in book
case, for the sake of old times. 1t
goes against me to think of it, fall
ing into rough hands and being
kicked about camp and trampled
under foot.
He was drumming softly with his
fingers on the volume in the bosom
of his blouse.
didn't count to speak ofthis to
living soul, he went on, motiOning
me not to answer him, "but some
thing took hold of me tonight aud
made me follow you up here. Per-
haps if told you all, you would be
the more willing to look after the
little hook in case it goes Ill with me.
When the war broke out | was
teaching school down in Maine, in
the same village where my father
was schoolmaster before me. The
old man when he died left me quite
alone. | lived pretty much by my
self, having no interests outside OF
the district school, which seemed i'll
manner my personal property.
Eight years ago last spring a new
pupil was brought to the school, a
Slight slip of a girl, with sad kind
of face ana quiet ways. Perhaps it
was because she wasn't very strong,
and perhaps because she wasn't
used over well by those who had
charge of her, or perhaps it was be-
cause my life.was lonely, that my
heart warmed to the child. II all
seems like dream now. since that
April morning, when little Mary
stood in front of my desk with her
pretty eyes looking down bashfully
and her soft hair falling over her
face. One day | look up, and six
years have gone by,-as they go by
in dreams, and among the scholars
is tall girl of sixteen, with serious
womanly eyes, which | cannot trust
myself to look npon. The old life
has come to ad end. The child has
become a woman and can teach the
master now. So help me Heaven, |
didn't know ,hat l loved her until
that day.
Long after the children had gone
home | sat in the school-room with
nv face resting on my hands. There
was her desk, the afternoon shadows
falling across it 1t never looked
empty and cherries before. | went
and stood by the little chair, as l
had stood hundreds Of times. On
the desk was a pile of books, ready
to be taken away, and among the
rest a small Latin grammar which
we bad studied together. What lit
tie despairs and triumphs and hap
py hours were associated with it |
took it up curiously, as if it were
some precious dead thing, and turn
ed over the pages, and could hardly
see them. Turning the pages, idly
so, | came to leaf on which some
thing was written with ink, in the
familiar girlish hand 1t was only
the words Dear John" through
which she had drawn two hasty
pencil lines-I wish she hadn't
drawn those lines !" added Bladburn
under his breath.
He was silent for minute or two
looking off toward the camps, where
the lights were fading out one by
one.
"I had no right to go and love
Mary. l was twice her age, an awk-
ward, unsocial man, that would have
blighted her youth Twas as wrong
as wrong can be. But never meant
to tell her. / locked the grammar
in my desk and the secret In my
heart for year. l couldn't bear to
meet her in the village, and kept
away from every place where she
was likely to be. Then she came to
me and sat down at my feet penitent-
ly, lust as she used to do when she
was a child, and asked what she had
done to anger me; and then, Heav-
en- forgive mel ! told her all, and
asked her if she could say with her
lips the words she had written, and
she nestled in my arms all trem-
bling like bird and said them over
and over again.
When Mary's family heard of our
engagement there was trouble. They
looked higher for Mary than a mid
dle-aged schoolmaster. No blame
for them. They forbade me the
house, her uncle's; but we met in
tho VILLAGE and at the neiphbors'