Shepherdstown register. [volume] (Shepherdstown, Va. [W. Va.]) 1849-1955, 1889-09-20
HER PROPOSAL.

The late March SHOWS were dissolv-
ing in delicate wreaths over the hills
the maple buds were already swell
ing against the sky like crimson dots,
and the song of the blue bird heralded
the advent of Spring over the bleak
Berkshire hills.
20, Billy, isn't it nice?' said little
Rebecca Hale, as she skipped along
the roads. 20, look, there's a dear
little striped squirrel, with a bushy
tail and such bright eyes, like black
beads. o, don't you wish we lived
out of doors always"
Becky don't jump about so" chided
the boy, an ancient philosopher of
ten years or so. There, knew it,
you've burst out that hole in your
shoe that l sewed up carefully and
one of your mittens is gone.
But it isn't cold
mo, but that's no sign that we
never shall have any cold weather
again. Besides, Aunt keziah is
dead"
well, don't care for that, said
the little one, recklessly. Aunt he
ziah was old and cross, and boxed
our ears, and said we were the plaques
of her life"
Yes" said Billy slowly, but there
is no one to take care of us now that
Aunt Keziah is dead. You should
consider that, Becky"
No one to take care Of us, " echoed
Becky standing still. 80, Billy, l
didn't think of that
Mrs. Hardwood was frying dough
nuts over the great cooking stove in
| the back kitchen. An immense blue
and white checked apron enshrouded
her spare form, and pocket hand
kerchief concealed her hair. Mrs.
Harewood was not pretty at her best;
in this uniform she was hideous.
Seventeen - eighteen nineteen,
said Mrs. Hardwood, fishing the
brown curls of paste out of the boil
ing liquid. Twenty and four makes
two dozen. Now, Michael, who is it
and what Oh earth do they want?"
Its the two little children from
Aunt Keziah Proudfoot's 81 said Michael
Hardwood, tall, browned-faced man
of thirty or thereabouts. The old
woman died last night
'Well, what of that?'' said Mrs.
Harewood, who had gone back to the
table and was cutting long strips of
dough and twisting them into spirals
ready for the pot of frizzing lard.
They'll bury her, l suppose. And
after her long sickness, the dear
knows nobody'll be very sorry"
But the little children. What is
to become of them," said Michael,
softly.
"Why, send 'em to the poor house,
of course. There's nothing else to be
done, as l know Of" snapped the
dame.
ITO the poor house, Maria? Those
pretty, delicate little children-Kate
Hale's brother-to the poor housey"
well, | don't see why not, b" said
Mrs. Harewood. "Thirty-four, thirty
five. Three dozen ought to be enough.
If Kate had cared so much about her
relations, she might stayed to hum
an looked after 'ein, instead of run
ming away with a ships captain and
going to China or India, or KAN
schatka, or the Lord knows where,
after she was engaged TO you, too.
And"
Never mind about that now,
Maria" said the brother, with slight
elevation of his eyebrows. 1T is all
thing of the past, and Kate could
not see, when she left her native
country, that her brothers little ones
would soon be alone in the world,
orphaned and without resources. So
it has chanced, at all events. The
poor little things are in the sitting
room now"
And / s'pose they've come here be-
cause my husband is poor-master,
said Mrs. Harewood, dropping in her
fresh batch of doughnuts, one by one.
'sWell, he won't be home afore noon. y
Il was not thinking of that, Maria,
said Michael Harewood, gently. III
occurred to me that, perhaps, since
you have no children of your own
THAT I'd fill my house with all the
pauper children of the neighbor
hood" said Mrs. Harewood. NO
Michael Harewood, you're mistaken
there. / wouldn't have Jim Hale's