The Sunday morning news. [volume] (Jersey City [N.J.]) 1886-1891, 1890-06-29
THE SUNDAY MORNING NEWS JUNE %. 1890

yard and was about to turn ms oxens
noses homeward, he YVES confronted by
Annie StockweH. 1t was three miles
from the squire's house, but the walk had
not brought color to her cheeks, and the
sight Of her lover gave no brightness to
her weary eyes.
my goodness. AnnieF' exclaimed Dam
iel, s'you look sick. Here, sit down on
this log
'.No, Daniel she replied, in a low
voice; II must hurry back. Icane here
to see you."
Annie looked appealingly at the brown,
somber face before her, and the tears be-
gan to flow.
You've come to tell me bad news,
Annie Daniel said, and Annie nodded,
for her quivering lips refused to speak.
You've BEN a long time comm to ii, .
was Daniels comment, and at that the
heart sick, conscience stricken girl sank
down IN the dust and sobbed aloud. The
young man stood over her a moment,
his features working as if he suffered
from poisoned arrow, and then he
stopped and raised her to her feet, saying:
"Better not set there and cry. Ef you've
come to the pint of droppin' me, it's
cause you've found suthin' better, N
had oughter be the one to do the cryin'.
Amt that SO, Annieg'
"No, no, she exclaimed, retreating a
step, "you are SO good and ann 50 bad;
you have no cause to weep, unless be-
cause you believed in me and have
treated you SO cruelty"
Across Daniel Hardy's slowly moving
thoughts there shot terrible suspicion.
ssBad, Annie?' he whispered, ssbad.
Has that internal New Yorker
'.Oh, hushl hush!" she interrupted;
s'1et me tell you. You think l should
have told yon before. Yes, / should, but
not as long as year ago. / was honest
with you then, thought / loved you,
and it was not until the day before
came here that realized my mistake.
Do not forgive me, Daniel, my friend,
but listen. know you will, for you
have always been so good. I felt the
change coming over me months ago, and
/ resisted it, and even at the last mo-
ment turned my face away from what
/ knew to be real love because could
not be so wicked as TO make you unhap-
py without trying to love you. l thought
that If came home and saw you it
would leave me and the old love come
back. Do you understand"
mo, said Daniel, Il don't. No citi-
fed girl with fine clothes and a soft voice
could a turned my heart"
Il know she cried, II am too wicked
to be loved by anybody; but Daniel, re-
fused to listen to Mr.. Wellman at the
school, and told him he must not come
here to see me. Yet I-I-Daniel. love
him, he's good man, but when he asks
me again. shall refuse him. 1 shall not
marry him even though / cannot love
you as ought to. You believe me, don't
you, Daniel"
Daniel picked up the OK goad that he
had let fall and replied:
I'm glad you didn't listen to him at
school, Annie. don't b'lieve 'twould
ha' BEN in me to forgive you for takin'
him afore you let me drop"
but. Daniel, . she persisted, ssI shall
not marry him. You believe that?"
The yonng man busted himself a mo-
ment in getting his oxen in readiness for
a start before he faced her and said:
Il hain't had no eddication. Annie, in
book larnin' an I hain't travelled fur
from Posket; but expect you an him
will git married, an advise you to take
him fust as last. SO fur's you're con-
sarned thefell be no more trouble from
me. You'd better git on the cart an Let
me drive you home. It'll be's quick's
you kin walk, an huff sight easier"
This Annie refused to do, and without
as much as a good-by, she started rapidly
up the road. Daniel drew one long
breath as she disappeared around turn
in the road and then started his clumsy
oxen in the same direction.