The Telegraph-courier. [volume] (Kenosha, Wis.) 1888-1946, 1888-11-01
Thought / remembered.

agow
| 1Yesn
"Had great white cotton umbrill, boz
like shoe-kit, and suthin' like pair 8
cloes-frames?"
/ Oakhurst could but smile at the description
Of his easel and artists outfit; still he con
tented himself with brief assent
| @Keeps tight as the bark to white oak
muttered Jehu to himself .Guess I'll try
him on t'other side, SEEM he's so offish.n
! Then aloud
aKnowed Square Field, I b'lievew
EYES," Numbered Oakhurst, looking furi
ously at the questioner.
The glance frightened Jehu's soul from the
| red-curtained windows, where it had beer
peeping out, back to its hiding-place, wher
ever that might be.
! well, yer needn't bite feller's head off. !
muttered he, in the same undertone as be
fore. "And if We want to keep to yerself
shet up yer darned oyster-shell, and see how
much you make by it. Not more'n four and
sixpence, guess. Maybe you'll come back
bouts wise as We come"
ThenceforWard Buffalo Coat was grim
his admonitions to the horses were trife
more emphatic; once he whistled fragment
Of a minor stave, but spoke not word till
the coach reached the tavern door,
"You can drive to Mr. Fields house. said
Oakhurst.
sWant to go where he is?n replied Jehu.
with a sardonic grin. "Wal, I'm goin' last
the meetin'us, and I'll set We down at the
graveyard"
What do you mean" asked Oakhu1st.
between anger and terror, at this brutal Jest.
"Why, he's dead, you know, and ben layin'
shere on the side hill a fortnight"
"Take me to the house, nevertheless
"Tield's house, 'Siah Stebbins, the lame
hoemaker, ne's jest moved into't Miss
stebbins she can't 'commodate ye, most
likely; got too many children; amt over an
lbove neasI, nuther."
"Where is Miss Field-Agnes daugh-
er?"
oval, can't say-gone off, b'lieve."
"She has relatives here, has she not?"
"Guess not never heerd of any,"
| With a heavy heart Oakhurst alighted at
he tavern. Mr.. Field dead Agnes left
alone without friends, and now gone! The
thought stunned, overpowered him. While
le had been treading the paths of dalliance,
iorgetful of his obligations, the poor girl had
passed through the great trial of her life, the
oss of her only parent and protector-had
net the awful hour alone. Hardly conscious
If what he did, he went to the churchy ard
ind sought for a new-made grave. The
whole scene was pictured to his Imagination
| With startling vividness He saw the fond
father on his death-bed, leaving the orphan
to the kindness of strangers to his blood-the
laughter weeping, disconsolate, the solitary
mourner at the funeral-the desolate house
ihe well-meant, but painful sympathy of the
villagers. He, meanwhile, who should have
sheered and sustained her, was afar off, neg
lectful, recreant to his vows. Could he ever
forgive himself? What would he not give
for one word from the dumb lips, for one
Iook from the eyes now closed forever?
But regrets were useless; his first duty was
to the living; he must hasten to find Agnes
But how, where? It occurred to him that
The village lawyer was probably administra-
tor OF the estate. and could tell him where
Agnes was. He went, therefore to the law
| yer's office. 1t was shut and placard in
formed him that Mr. Blank was attending
court at the county seat The lawyers
housekeeper said that "Agnes was to New
| York, with some relation OF other-a Mr..
| Jameson, she believed his name was, but
| couldn't say, for certain. The Squire could
| tell; but he wouldn't be back for three or
! four days"
/ Leaving his card, with the request that Mr..
Blank would communicate to him Agnes
address, Oakhurst hired conveyance to the
railway. He could not remain in Raston an
hour; it was tomb, and the air stifed him.
On his way, he had ample opportunity to
/ hot Ill, /, I, L. u
the girl; for he thought of the long column
of Jamiesons in the Directory" and besides,
he did not feel sure that the housekeeper had
correctly remembered the name even.
| We leave the repentant lover to follow on
the track of Agnes, assured that he will re-
ceive sufficient punishment for his folly in the
remorse and anxiety he must feel.
| 1t is quite time that our neglected heroine
should appear upon the stage. Gentle Agnes,
orphaned, deserted, lonely; it is not from any
distrust as to her talents, her manners, or
her figure, that she has been made to wait SO
long for the call-boy The curtain rises A
fair-haired girl of medium height, light of
| frame, with face in whose sad beauty is
blended the least perceptible trace of woman
ly resolution She has borne the heaviest
SOllOW LII WucLl SIG 1OIIOWou her IdUlor TO
the grave she buried the last object of her
love. The long. inexcusable silence of Oak
hurst had been explained to her; she now be-
lieved him faithless, and had mot without q
pang) striven to uproot his memory from her
heart Courageous, but with more than the
delicacy Of her sex, strong only in innocence
and great-heartedness, mature in character
and feeling, but with fresh and tender sensi-
biity, she appeals to all manly and womanly
sympathy.
When the last ties that bound her to her
native village were broken, she accepted the
hearty invitation of her cousin, Robert
Jameson, and went with him to New York.
The house at once became home to her.
Mrs. Jameson received her as though she
had been daughter. Such pretty mother
less child-so loving so sincere! How could
the kind woman repress the impulse to fold
her to her bosom? Not even her anxiety to
retain undivided possession of her sons heart
restrained her. So Agnes lived, quiet, affec-
tionate, but undemonstrative, as was natural
after the trials she had passed. Insensibly
she BECAME "the angel in the house," mother
and son felt drawn to her by an irresistible
attraction. By every delicate kindness, by
attention to every wish and whim, by glances
full of admiration and tenderness, both
showed the power which her beauty and
goodness exerted. And truly, she was worthy
of the homage. The younger men who saw