News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1888-11-22


the wOrld-I saw then, in an instant
what no true woman could have failed
to perceive, that Zeke was older than
his years, that he was n man, with al
the feelings, instincts and passions of 6
man. I do not think 1 overstep the
bounds of womanly modesty when 1 say
that then know, just as we'll as though
he had declared it in so many words
that Ruggles was not merely prompted
to assist me by an ordinary sense oi
chivalry, which might have led him tC
interfere in behalf of any woman pcrse
cuted by a brutal man. He was in.
fuenced by double passion; for, as IL
one instant, his eyes cleaned with &
deep and dangerous hatred of Slatt, the
next they were lighted with tenderness
which /, with my woman's instinct, fully
comprehended could possess only ono
meaning for him and for me. And IL
that instant felt sorry.
The next moment heard Zcke speak,
ing:
"He is not seriously hurt, Miss
Brooks. You go home as quickly MS
you can, and, though it is more than he
deserves, will stay and see him snfely
in his carriage"
So left them. What passed between
those two l never learned; only l do
know that during the two or three
weeks / remained at Grasshopper Cor
ners / WIS never again annoyed by SO
much as word from Job Slatt.
1t was two days after my adventure at
| the schoolhouse, and Sunday evening,
when Ruggles came up to the house
where ] boarded. He was not fire.
/ quent caller, but ON q few occasions he
had come to the house and had played
: on the old-fashioned piano for his
amusement. He always asked me to
do so, and invariably complied, much
as l would have done for any of my
scholars. But in all my acquaintance,
/ it seems to me, never failed to treat
him as a boy, forgetting that Zeke Rug
/ giles was very nearly as old as myself,
and that had passed my twentieth
/ birthday. Perhaps it was our relative
positions in the school which blinded
me; but l certainly ought to have
known, what was really the fact, that
| Rugglcs was much older and far more
thoughtful than most lads of his years.
An hour or two passed as usual, and
my visitor made no reference to what
must have been uppermost in the
/ thoughts of both of us-I mean his in
| reference in my behalf on the previous
Friday. At last he rose to take his leave.
1t was quite early, so carly that the
light of sweet and fresh June evening
had not yet quite given way to darkness.
1t was SO fair and pleasant that 1 saun-
tered down the long garden pathway to
the gate. There Ruggles stopped, the
red glow of an unusually fine sunset
/ lighting up his face, which, until that
memorable moment two days before,
had appeared so plain and ordinary to
my eyes.
"Miss Brooks" he saiJ, "I am half
sorry that was of some service to you
the other evening. Not that, either"
he stammered, as a blush suffused his
face. "Of course l am glad to have
been of ever so little use, but am sorry
the necessity arose. You see, am afraid
you will think / wish to take advantage
of Mdt. But it is not so. You arc go
ing away soop, and perhaps you will
never come back to the Corners. Well,
l cannot let you go without telling you
thIS-I love you. Ah, Miss Brooks, !
don't, please don't be angry. / know I
very we'll that am only poor, stupid |
country boy-homely and lame into the
bargain. I don't ask you for anything
in return, and don't expect it. You will
go away and be admired and loved, per-
hsps, by handsome and clever men in
the city-and you will seldom think of
the Corners and your old scholars. Yet
/ lcOuld like you sometimes to remember
that I, Zeke, love you.
1t all seemed like q strange, quaint
dream. Long minutes passed by, dur
ing which the stars came out one by one
ere 1 awoke to the consciousness of the
fact that Zeke still stood there expect
ing me to say something. Even then
could only find few words, which felt
were poor enough and ALT meager for
the warm-hearted boy.
81 am sorry, very sorry, that this is
so," 1 said. And, as 1 noticed the ex-
pression-half wistful, half disappointed
with which he eyel me, L added
quickly
"Were you n millionaire-handsome
and clever-it would make no difference
to me, Zeke. 1 am proud of our &C
quaintance, for you are good friend of
mine, and / can never repay your good
ness to me. But that you should care
for me, other than as o friend, 1 am
sorry"
And 1 acds sorry as I watched him
walk sadly and slowly down the road
until the darkness hid him from my
sight. And long afterward, in a large
city school and at my fathers quiet home,
/ never thought of the lame foot, of the
rough country clothes, or of the shy
awkwardness of the boy Zeke-but al
ways [ remembered the wistful look on
his manly face, as, lit up by the glow of
the sunset, my lover told me of his love.
And acas sorry,
At the end of the school term I left
Grasshopper Corners to take position
in one of the Rochester City schools,
though each recurring vacation spent
at my old home. But though my fathers
house was within a days drive of the
Corners, somehow never went there.
And this WAS not because l never gave
any thought to the friends of
my apprentice days. Try as would,
l could never for many consecutive mo-
ments avoid sad memories of a day
which had passed and gone for me.
Certainly made no effort to call to mind
my good friend. the cripple; whether l
would or no, his pleasant, open coun-
tenance was ever before my eyes; while
in my ears there eyermore rang the
words which once spurned: 'I don't
ask you for anything in return, but L,
Zeke, love you"
Truly in my experience 1 was proving
that sometimes, ut least, absence makes
the heart grow fonder." Always in the
heart, now, was an aching void, an al
most painful longing which nothing
could satisfy. / knew, too well, that
my hearts truest happiness l had left be-
hind on that Sabbath evening at Grass
happer Corners. | had been away from
the Corners just two years, and was
spending my summer vacation with my
parents. One lovely morning 1 arose
quite early and went out into my mothers
pretty flower garden. While there,
gathering blossoms for the breakfast Ia
BILE, I was accosted by a man, who
would not have seemed old had it not
been for the haggard expression of woe
and misery upon his face. did not
exactly recognize him, though there was
something familiar about the old gen.
tleman, who had alighted from an an
tique buggy which looked as weary and
travel stained as himself. I thought
somehow that 1 ought to know him, and
was not in the least surprised to hear
him address my by name. He approach
ed me slowly, hat in hand, and in q
voice which trembled with emotion,
said:
"Mebbe you don't remember me,
marin, but you'll not have forgot
Zeke2'
1 knew the man then; he was old
Ruggles, the Grasshopper Corners
blacksmith, my former pupils father.
Surely" replied, as 1 took the old
mans hand in nnina and led him to q