The Warner sun. (Warner, Brown Co., Dakota [S.D.]) 1885-1???, 1886-09-10
~Father, fatherl" she sobs, and sud

her hair. EFF t'would do We any good
TO tell it, Mirandy, he says hesltatlng'
"Yes, 1 will tell you," she answers
quickly. "Imeant to have told you long
ago, but, at first, I put it off, and after
ward-somehow-I couldn't" .
And then, with eyes on the ground
and little but trembling hands ctasped
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 persiStentlv sought her So
cietv, and how she had at first tried
to repulse him; how at last, one
night in Venice, he had 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 a long
time vet, and babe her wait patiently
until the time should come; how they
had parted in London, and then how
she had heard three times from him IN
the first six months, the last letter.
from New York-promising a speedy
visit: how she had answered it, and
after months had written again, and
how no answer had come, not even a
line. not a 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
ii had passed-the quick bounding of
her heart at every strange step, and
the i~nvariable 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 a work.
By and by he says slowly: GIVE bin
thinkin' fer some time, my pretty, of
goin' on a trip somewheres-jist you an
messtogether. 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
Jacksonville? naming a place some
fifty miles distant, beyond which the
deacon's little journeys seldom extend.
"N-no," says the old man, hesitating-
", "welIgo East, Mirandy. What
would We say to New York;" 80,
father, nor she cried, turning away
and hiding her burning face in her
hands. "Not that couldn't"
Eye don'tneed to act so, Mirandy, he
says, gently. Would I ask We to do
anything ye hadn't oughter do? Well
go ter yer Aunt Libby's, my pretty;
she'll be right glad to see We for yer
mothers sake" Then in a low tone and
hurriedly. "Thar's many things might
hev happened-maybe ne went away an
never got yer letters-thar's no tellin'
pears as if would be more comfort
able like to know fer sure-an' thar's
that new reaper l was wantin,'" raising
his voice, "I1l be dead sure to get a bet
ter bargain up to New York. I kinder
hated dom the job in Jacksonville;
faint much of place, anyhow. Kin We
be ready in the mornin, Mirandy!" And
the deacon assumes an air of pleased an
ticipation. Miranda's heart throbs Wild
ly she tries in vain to crush the unreason-
ng Joy which fills her, and gives, against
her will, lightness and buoyance to her
steps and brightness to her dark eyes.
She spends the first part of the night In
hasty preparations, and afterwards,
with no thought of sleep, sits at the
open window of her room, her head
buried in her hands, dreaming, perhaps,
less of the future than of the past.
In the gray dawn of the next morn
ing father and daughter are already
on their way, and the evening of the
second day finds them in New York,
Aunt Libby receives them with open
arms, and to Miranda the evening
passes like a dream. Long afterwards
little scraps of conversation and anec.
dotes of her dead mother came back tC
her, and when she tried to recall them
more fully the stuffy, third-foor parlol
of q second class Brooklyn boarding
house rose before her, and she saw
again Aunt Libby's angular figure ant
kind, searching black eyes.
In the morning she wakes late from
heavy, dreamless sleep, and goes down
stairs to find the deacon preparing 70
a day in the city. He calls her aside
and, without = word, she puts into hi
hand a scrap of paper upon which sh
has written the address Fitzgerald CAV
her. Her hand trembies q little al sh
does so, but otherwise she is outwardE
calm and composed. The deacon CLAN
ces at her with q look Of tender anxiety
which soon changes to relief. "That'
right, my pretty he says, "true grit
what does it, Mirandy, under all sar
cumstances.p And then Aunt Libb
comes in, and the deacon remarks tina
he is "as like as not to hev q 'tarnatio
lot O. bother about tibet reaper, and met
be he won't git back afore supper time.
Anpt ISG1<v ~rrrx,nna - 0rL~~~ Nfs~~-1