The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1890-07-23

to see that Crummie was safe for the
night, some one came out of the dark
ness. and called to her.
"Who is that2" cried the lady, her
heart giving one great throb.
"It's Harry" said a wcll-known
voice. ooh! Mrs. Mumford, let me see
Olive"
"Harry Martini" said Mrs. Mumford.
"Oh! Harry Martin, you've made a sad
home of mine!" And she broke into
tears.
"And you all believed it at once3"
said Harry, sadly. II didn't think you
! would"
"Oh, Harry" said Mrs. Mumford,
"Satan tempts US all. I'm sorry for you,
but you can't see Olive. It's better for
her you shouldn't. She was very fond of
you, Harry"
"And she has turned against me- too,
then?" said the young man.
"You don't blame her, poor lamb, !"
said Mrs. Mumford. GA girl like that
can't have anything to do with one that
has disgraced himself"
Glove is more stedfast," said Harry.
"Evil reports could not have won me
from Olive"
Then, without another word, he went
away-and such a hold have homcly
things upon our memory sometimes, that,
rs he went, he saw the pretty household
picture he had last seen beneath the roof
that now refused to welcome him, as
plainly as we see things in dreams; his
love, with her dark curls about her face
and the needle in her hands, and the
skein of thread about her neck; bright
lamp burning upon the table, and on the
other side, himself cutting out pieces for
patchwork from a pasteboard pattern,
and laying in a little brilliant pile,
squares and triangles, on which were
rose and a butterfly upon Towering
branch, butterfly on Towering branch,
and full blown rose alternately.
A Western editor speaks of WIND
that "just sat up or its hind legs and
howled." Such wind it must have
been that was bowling through the bleak
Maine country twenty years from the
night on which Harry Martin turned
from the Munfords' door and went his
way alone.
The inn or tavern or hotel, whichever
it was, which bore the name of T. Jolli-
yer upon its signboard, was not expect
ing any guests that night, but, neverthe-
less, one came to its doors-came late,
too, as the clocks were striking ten, and
people generally thinking of bed.
The guest was man of forty, with q
sad sort of face-a face with story in it.
But he was we'll dressed, and evidently
no poor traveller. He had supper in the
best parlor, and, meanwhile, lire was
made in the best bedroom, in which,
when he made his way thither, he found
buxom, youngish woman spreading an
extra counterpart upon the bed. y
"Good evening, sir" she said, turn
ing toward him with manner that be-
spoke the laudlady. ~ thought I'd
see that you were comfortable myself. I
never leave everything to chambcrmaids.
When I married hotcl-kcepcr, I made
up my mird to help him, and there's no
such way of making guests feel dis
couraged as turning them over to help.
And I've given you my prettiest quilt,
too," said she, with laugh. "Thcre's
al honor"
The gentleman looked toward the bed.
The quilt was patchwork. 1t had wide
striped border, but in the center the
blocks were all the samc-bright chintz
alternated with white-a butterfly on q
branch, rose, butterfly on branch,
and rose again.
The man took fold of it up in his
hand, and looked at it, as men do not
often look at patchwork quilts. Tho
woman buObled on.
"We're great for patchwork in our
family. Such pile as we had of these
quilts at home. Sister Ruth had twenty
when she was married, but l had fifty.
My other sister gave me her share, seeing
that married hotel-keeper, and she
thinks she'll never marry. Oh, dear!
There's story in good many quilts, if
you did but know it; and there is a story
in this. It's the last one Olive ever
made. But I'm boring you, sir"
"No, 60 on" said the gentleman. Go
on, please
"she was engaged" said the landlady,
ssand she was but sixteen. One after
noon, she and her sweetheart cut out
these blocks, the next they parted. He
was suspected of crime-of robbery,
sir, if Imust say it-and she never saw
him again. She knew that he was in
nocent. She said tha all the angels in
heaven couldn't make her doubt it, but
no one else thought with her until year
had gone by, and then an old confden-
tial clerk, who was trusted in everything,
being caught in another theft, confessed
to that which my sisters sweetheart had
been accused Of. The story he had told
to his employers OF being knocked down
in the streets of New York, where he
went that holiday afternoon, and being
thouSnC drunk, anu PuC INTO statlon
house, and being ashamed to give his
name next morning, and too sick to come
home next day, was no doubt true. His
employers advertised for him, but in
vain. And mother owned to sending him
away from the door when he came to see
Olive. 1t is a sad story. Olive can't
seem to like any one else, and the poor
fellow was SO fond of her. So that's the
sto.y of the quilt"
The woman stopped and gave little