The Middleburgh post. [volume] (Middleburgh, Snyder Co., Pa.) 1883-1916, 1890-07-24
Of old-fashioned, lowered

silk, and see how fine IL is. But
fancy wearing such large patterns. Look
a butterfly on a bough, and rose, sad
butterfly on bough again, aud thes an
other rose, like wall paper. The diff
Guilty will be-" said Olive, ,pausing to con-
slider, show to get the pattern into
patch without spelling it,"
"I'll help you" said Harry; and TO
work he went, and for n pleasant hour or
two he kept cutting patches. A bad and
n butterfly on one, a rose on the other,
bud and butterfly, and rose again.
"And he has not spoiled one, mamma,
said Olive, in tone of pride. "Im sure
should have cut dozen butterflies
heads of, il had tried"
So the young things laughed over their
exploits, and then slipped merrily away
to have their lovers chat where nobody
could listen.
1t was the last The next day, Harry
Martin was missing, aud with him large
sum of money from his employers safe.
The news spread through the country
town like wild-frc. Harry was an or.
phan, and the son of an old friend of the
head of the firm. 1t was understood that
,hcy would be mcrciful, but his charic.
ter was blightcd forever.
No one doubted his guilt but Olive.
She stcadfastly declared him innocent.
Weeks passed on, and there was no
news OF hlm-at least, none that reached
the Mumford ears; bat one night, when
Mrs. Mumfori went oat to the COW house
to see that Crummc was safe for the
night, some one came out Of the dark
ness. and called TO her.
"Who is thatI' cried the laly, her
heart giving one great throb.
"lt's Harry" said well-known
voice. "Oh! Mrs. Mumford, let inc sec
Olive"
"ITarry Martini said Mrs. Mumford.
''Oh! Harry Martin, you've made sad
home Of mine" And she broke into
tears.
"And you all believed it at once1"
said Harry, sadly. 'I didn't think you
would"
"Oh, Harry" said Mrs. Mumford,
"Satan tcmpts us all. I'm sorry for you,
but you cant see Olive. It's better for
her you shouldn't. She was very fond of
you, Harry"
"And she has turned against me, too,
thcni' said the young man.
"Iou don't blame her, poor lamb"
said Mrs. Mumford. "a girl like that
can't have anything to do with one that
has di,graccd himself"
"Love is more stcdfast," said Harry.
evil reports could not have won me
from Olive"
Then, without another word, he went
away-and such hold have homely
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 10 welcome him, rs
plainly MS 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 pasteboard pattern,
and laying in little brilliant pile,
squares and triangles, on which were a
rose and butterfly upon Towering
branch, butterfly on towering branch,
and full blown rose alternately.
4 Western editor speaks of wind
that "just sat up on its hind legs and
howled." Such wind it must have
bcon that was bowling through the bleak
Maine country twenty years from the
night on which Harry Martin turned
from the Munfords' door aud went his
way alone.
The inn or tavern or hotel, whichever
it was, which bore the name of 7. JoIli-
yer upon its signboard, was not expect.
ing any guests that night, but, ncverthe-
less, one came To its doors-came late,
too, AS the clocks We're striking ten, and
people generally thinking Of bed.
The guest was man of forty, with
sad sort of facc--a face with story in il.
But he was well dressed, and evidently
no poor traveller. lie had supper in the
best parlor, and. meanwhile, n lire was
made in the best bedroom, in which,
when he made his way thithcr, he found
a buXom, youngish woman spreading an
extra countcrpanc upon the bed.
"Good evening, sir" she said, turn
ing toward him with manner that be-
spoke the landlady. ~ thought I'd
see that you were comfortable myself.
never leave everything to chambermaids.
When married hotel keeper, | made
up my mird to help him, and there's no
such way of making guests feel dis
couraged rs turning them over to help.
And I've given you my prettiest quilt,
too" said she, with laugh. There
an honor"
The gentleman looked toward the bed.
The quilt was patchwork. 1t had a wide
striped border, but in the center the
blocks were all the samc-bright chint2
altcrnated with white--a butterfly on a
branch, rose, butterfly on branch,
and q rose again.
The man took fold of it up in hi,
hand, and looked at it, as men do not
often look at patchwork quilts. Tho
woman bubbled on.
"Wc're great for patchwork in oul
family. Such a pile us we had of thes,
! quilts at home. Sister Ruth had twenty
when she was married, but had fifty
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