Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-08-29
ns sat up and looked about him.

An aperture in the foliage let through a single ray of light It came from the direction of the parsonage.
 "Tony's pet hallucination is of wan dering light in the garden and orchard, a sort of will O the Wisp' affair, which it Is his duty to look after," Hester had said that evening. 'He rushes down. stairs at all hours of the evening to see who is carrying it. I told him last night that burglars were too clever to care to enter a clergyman's house, but he can not be convinced that somebody, bent upon mischief, doesn't prowl about the premises. He is half blind, you know, and has but tlfree-fourths of his wits within call"
 Recollecting this, March arose eau tiously, whispered to Thor to ''trail." and stole noiselessly up tho easy grade.
 The light was in the wing of the par sonage, and shone from the wide win dow of the pastors study on the first floor. The shutters were open; wire screen excluded insects, and just within this sat a woman at a typewriter Hettyl
 Across the shallow garden he could see that her hair was combed to the crown of her head for coolness, and coiled loosely there. Now that he was nearer to the house, he distinguished another voice, also @ woman's, dictating, or reading, as the flying fingers manip- ulated the keys. Drawing out his re- peater, he struck it. Half-past twelvel
 "I have been sorely interrupted in my pulpit-preparation, this week." MT. Wayt had informed Mrs. Gilchrist, on taking leave that night. "I fear the sunlight will extinguish my midnight argand burner. The labor we delight in physicks pain,' and, with me, takes the place of slumber, meat and drink"
 Impressed by an undeflned sense of trouble, March stood, his hand upon the gate. almost decided to go up to the house and inquire if aught were amiss. While he cast about in his mind for some form of words that might account for his intrusion, Mrs. Wayt's figure came forward, and offered, with one hand, glass of water to her sister. In the other she held 8 paper. Without taking her fingers from the typewriter Hetty raised her head, Mrs. Wayt put the glass to her lips, and, while she drank, dictated a sentence from the sheet in her hand. In the breezeless hush of the July night 8 clause was aud ible to the spectator.
 "Who has not heard the story of the drummer-boy of Gettysburg?"
 "Click-click-clack! Click-click-clack" recommended the noisy rattle.
 While Hetty's fingers flew, her sister famed her gently, but the eyes of one were riveted to the machine, those of the other never left the paper in her hand.
 March went back to his orchard camp, Thor at his heels.
 It was closely-cloudy; the purple play of ligh thing was whitening and concen- trating in less frequent lines and lances. When these came, it could be seen that thunder-heads were lifting themselves in the west. But the night remained windless, and the lucrative click still leased the ears of the watcher. It was an odd vigil, even for an anxious lover, to lie there, gazing into the black abysses of shade, seeing naught except by livid flashes that left deeper black ness, and knowing whose vital forces were expended in the unreasonable toll.
 What could it mean? Did the over laden girl add copying for pay to the list of her labors? And could the sister who seemed to love her, aid and abet the suicidal work? Where was MT. Wayt? The play of questions took the measure and beat of the type-keys, un- til he was wild with speculation and hearkening.
 At half-past two the rattle ceased suddenly. Almost beside himself with nervous restlessness, he sprang up and looked through the gap in the boughs. The light went out, and, at the same instant, the delayed storm burst in roar and rain.