The Durham recorder. [volume] (Durham, N.C.) 1879-19??, 1889-10-30
man came back; he almost tottered,
SO feeble he looked. In an abstract


ed manner he got into the cart, took
up the reins and attempted to drive
of, leaving the horse Still hitched.
| hurried out and undid the line
The old man looked at me in a cons
fused way while | was tying it up
and said:
young man, are you looking for
work." sA 49,
"Yes, sir ~ answered.
Get in" he said.
Such was the beginning of my ac-
quaintance with old Henry Austin,
the best friend | ever had, and the
most beautiful character | ever
knew. | began work on the farm
the next morning, and the years
have added to years since then, and
| am still here, enjoying the bless
ings the dear old man bestowed up
on ae and mine.
| was just twenty-five when the
old fellow brought me home with
him to his comfortable little ranch
house-only boy, and with all Of
a boys wild, foolish recklessness
over my disappoinments, and | re-
member now the tender, gentle way
in which the old man used to help
me over my difficulties. He never
questioned me about myself, but |
told him all there was TO know. By
and by told him Of my love for
Alice, of our misunderstanding, of
our bitter, bitter parting, and the
old man took my hands in his wrin-
kled one and, looking at me so
sweetly, his eyes streaming with
tears when had finished, said:
ave must not give up, my boy;
we must wait. Maybe it will not
he for long. and it will all come
right in the end"
The influence Of his beautifullife
was my salvation. He told me Of
himself sometimes, stories of his
boyhood, Of his struggles, his VIC
tories, but never explained the my
stery Of the letter which never came.
Always in everything that he did he
seemed to be expecting something,
waiting for something. There were
little arrangements about the house
as il preparations for a woman's 5
presence, but he never explained
them. He would only say some
times:
ave must be ready, Charley, dear
always ready"
i With the passing Of tine years he
grew feebler and feebler. and | dread.
ed to see him returning on Mondays,
looking so broken and i'll, his thread.
bare cloth suit hanging loosely
about his thin figure, thatonce must
have been so straight and noble.
Often after the postmaster died
the old man would tell me Of a sweet
young girl to whom the Office had
been given, and. somehow, his trip:
to the village did not seem to tir'
him so after she came.
"She's a sweet young thing
Charley" he would say; you woult
think so il you saw her, with he
soft brown eyes and curling hair ant
her sweet, sweet voice so much lik,
one | used to know and love when
, was a boy like you, lad"
, | rarely went to the little village
Modesto was more convenient an,
: had become quite a town.
One day, | think it was Friday
r my old friend was taken very i'll
0 BY Monday he was weaker and NOR
: restless Toward noon he called m
= 10 his bedside and said:
4 "Thisis Monday, isn't il, Charley
n "Yes, sir; can ! do anything fc
|. you?" I answered.
!, "You must go for my letter, lat
= J. She said she would write. Il hs
u been thirty years since | told h,
% good-by--thirty years. It was o
$ Monday, remember, aud | alwa,
felt il would be Monday when
=, heard from her. She looked |
Iu beautiful TO me, so sweet with h,
m beautiful curls about her head ar