The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1886-09-01

ms nat ana lett the house.
Cav after him, Hugh!' cried my aunt
adding quickly. Ma, stay! Maybe tits bet
ter TO let 'un be. Oh. Hugh, Hugh, he never
been the same man since our Annie went
fra haner'
And the tears streamed down her worn
cheeks as she spoke, and her voice was
broken
Don't fret, aunt.' said, gently. I'm
sure Annie is all right-:ndeed, you know
from her own letter that no harm has-come
to her."
I'm nawt fretting for Annie, it's for faith
err was the reply. Il dawn't knaw what
there De upon his mind, but he's tarrible
changed; and what be warst, he won't speak
OF even TO me; but keeps it like a canker-
worm, a-gnawng and eating out his life
were watching him just nav, and knaw'd
well what were passing through 'un's mind. I"
"What?'
First he saw thee dressed and start, and
! thought haw his Annie, too, would be sitting,
! ready for church o Sundays; and then the
bells sounded, and all the happy time cam
back upon poor fathers heart oh, Hugh
If you and Annie had been different to one
another, father would ha' been happy still.
| but l don't blame 'ee lad-it were no fault
o. yournF'
Aat thVb-h 6AAN QAtftNA LIZ III WSANIs
there was In a manner certain affectionate
reproach.
Aunt" said, i would cut of my hand
to put things right; but Annie never cared
for Inc, and +"
paused awkwarlly, knowing well that
had never loved my cousin
The Lawd will punish herr cried my
aunt bitterly. ''Fll ne'er forgie her! II she
had stayed at hame like a decent lass, It
would all ha' come right i the end. But she
went WI scarce ward, and wherever she
be. the Lawd will punish her?'
NAY. nay" said, rising and putting my
hand on my aunts shoulder, don't be hard
on poor Anniei She'll soon come back, and
then all will be explained"
My aunt's manner changed again, and the
tears streamed from her eyes anew.
'Oh, Hugh, my lad. think you our lassie
/ will eUer COON back?''
''Of course. Twas but a lass whim for
change; she'll sooH tire and return. Pm sure
no harm has happened TO her, and she was
! always kind and loving
Saw she were, Hugh. saw she wereI
! Hugh, viii ZEE speak to father. and try TO
| cheer 'un?'
/ nodded then STOPPING, kissed my aunt
| on the cheek. The Sabbath bells still rung
| from the distance, clearly and sweetly. The
| sun looked in through the window. and
| sunbeam trembled on the paven floor.
| Shall you gaw TO church, lad?' asked my
amt, as | moved to the door.
/ Not to day." l replied. I'm going for
| walk on the moor"
She looked at me keenly, and saw that
she guessed my secret; for the truth was,
was hoping and praying TO meet with Made
line With heavy sigh. she turned away,
and began removing the breakfast things.
Once outside, breathed again. 1t was
calm, beautiful, sunny day, with Just touch
of frost in the clear sparkling air. Far away
the sea shone like silver.
hesitated moment, then walked down
the road toward the lodge gate-toward the
very spot where, years before, had first met
George Redruth. No one was about; Sab
bath stiffness lay everywhere; and the faint
sound of the far-off bells only rendered it
deeper.
paused at the gate, and looked up the
avenue. There was no sign of any one.
longed to walk right up to the great house
and inquire for her 1 sought; but lacked
the courage. What was |, common over
seer of the mine. to 90 following the foot
steps of proud lady? If 1 could meet her
by accident, good and we'll; but did not
wish even her TO suspect that was 50 anx-
ious for the meeting.
SIZE 10
doubtless George Redruth was in her COM
pany. / fretted at the thought, and turned
away. At last weary with waiting deter
mined to seek forgetfulness In long walk
across the moor, such as had told my aunt
/ had intended to take.
Quitting the road, / followed path which
led right over the open moorland in the di-
rection of the sea. The air was full of light
ness and sweetness; but my spirits by this
time had sunk to freezing point As to for
getting the one object of my thought. that
was simply impossible. Ny soul was full of
one image, which went with me at every
step l took.
l had wandered about mile when / per-
! ceived, by the side of lonely moorland tarn
one of those dark turf-stained pools which
cast back the light like polished ebony, and
are often mysteriously deep-the figure of
man. he was sitting on a fragment of rock,
and looking at the water.
Coming up quickly, l recognized my uncle
Our eyes met but he did not speak. Turn
ing his head away, he looked down at the
tarn.
why, uncle" l cried, II thought you
were at ehurchr'
Nav, lad, !" he answered, still with his
head averted; nav, lad, l were in nav
mood for to kneel and pray. came out var
on the waste land, and / sat down var,
a-thinking'
put my hand upon his shoulder.
"Uncle, you're not angry? With me,
mean?'
Nav, lad, he replied, in the same low,
listless tones Il ha' no call to be angry,
least of all WI thee. Don't zee mind nle-
gang your gait, and lea me here alawn."
But remembered my promise to my aunt,
and was dafnrTniDp1 M IN Ioax-fa him aa Go
sat down by his side, saying:
you've no reason to take ii so much to
heart; it's max 1g trouble ] think, before II
comes. l know well why you're fretting
yourself SO much. It's about Annie; bu.,
take my word for it, Annie's all right, and
will soon come back home"
He turned his face toward mine How
strangely wild and weary 1t seemed, set In iu
Iron gray hair.
Sometimes think, lad. as she'll neUer
COON back; and II she do, viii she e'er again
be the same little Annie | used to know?
But it's nawt that, my lad, it's nawt that as
Is on my mind"
Then what is it? Annie. I am sure. Is
well and happy; so what can 1t be?''
He looked at me long and steadfastly be-
fore he replied
IF my lass went away, 1t nun ha' been
because O. trouble, and IL 'twere trouble,
'twere kind that she were feared to tell
| even to her avn father. That letter my An
! ME write came from q sore heart-maybe
heart some villain had broken; and what
| think, lad. other folk think tool ha' seen
them whispering it to one anawther, and
! looking at naer'
OF course understood him well enough;
| for the same thought had often enough been
| in my own mind
| Whatever has happened / said, .be
| sure Of one thing, Annie Is not to blame!
| Uncle, do you know what have often sus-
| pected? My cousin left US only for little
while because she wished to be out of George
I Redruth's way"
What dye meang' be cried, starting, and
trembling violently.
There was something between them. he
had won her heart, perhaps Then, distrust-
ing him. and knowing the great distance be-
| tween their stations, she said to herself. i
will go away for a time till l am cured, or
| till he has left the place"
Ny uncle frowned thoughtfully, and shook
| his head
.sNaw. Hugh-there be more In t than
that; but whate'er il be, I'm sure the young
master had no hand in Z / know you never
| liked 'un, Hugh; but Master large has a
kind heart, and would never do dirty deed
| Why, ha' knawed him and sarved him ever
sin he were boy, and I'D trust 'un wi my
own life
In pity for his trouble, forbore to tell
| him all knew. Even had done so. be-
| lieve his simple faith In the master" would
have remained firm
.lt's O. summat else I'm thinking, lad, /" he
said, after pause; s'summat that were tawld
me fother day, by John Rudd- Three or
four days arter Annie went away, John
| Rudd he saw her In Falmouth, alawng VII