The Press., 1892-03-03
THE STORY OF DORIS.
By MARY KYLE DALLAS.
LCopyright, 1891. by American Press Associa,
 tion.l

from the well and filled the watering pots, and she took the little one and he the big one and they went down the long, brick paved paths between the borders and the grass plots giving the flowers generous showering, for the weather was dry, and roses and tiger lilies, fox and gladiolas, coreopsis and portuiaca, sweet peas, peoples, lady slip pers and marigolds were all athirst. Frank had come over specially to help Doris. He had said to his grandmother one afternoon, ''It seems wrong to see 8 woman dragging up those great buck cts" And his grandmother had replied, .sThat's right, Franklin, I like tosee that spirit in boy; help her every evening.
 From that time Franklin Fairfax had regularly jumped the dividing fence be- tween the gardens when Doris Morton had appeared at the kitchen door with her watering pots, and the old lady felt that she had commanded the perform ance of this neighborly deed and was quite satisfied. 4str~ sskF t.,
 Though his grandmother considered him boy, Franklin was quite old enough to use his own discretion in such matters. But this innocent little ma neuver of his had made it easy to make the first breach in a barrier built be- tween the houses of Morton and Fairfax by neighbors' quarrel of some years standing. a
 The Fairfax pigs and piglets had once upon time broken their bonds and got into the Morton kitchen garden, and Matthias Morton-Mean Morton they called him in the village-had locked them up and presented the Widow Fair fax with bill for damages. This she had mildly and obstinately refused to pay, and the pigs were sold and the money went into Mean Morton's pocket
 On the day that the final deed was doneh his Grandma Fairfax had said to Franklin: Ts
 Franklin, my child, thee will not hold any conversation with Doris Nor ton from this time forth. Thee will have no more to do with these people, nor will l. Thee can see the impossi- bility myself" t['- the sweetest little girl alive, but he was very young and she not grown up, and he had been wrathful with Mean Nor ton and thought his grandmother very badly used. He literally obeyed her until year later. Meeting Doris in the village streets she had spoken to him of her own accord: -s @ss
 ''I should like you to know that feel that uncle was unneighborly, she said. "I want your grandma to know I feel that way. tried to drive the pigs back, and of course I knew that it was an accident, for your peop1erare always particular and careful not to do any thing that is not right. l think it was Uncle Morton's great love for money that made him do what he did. Tin sorry, for he is my fathers brother, and dearspa was so different, but he is so close that everything is uncomfortable
 I am sure he worried Aunt Sarah into the lunatic asylum, where she will end her days, suppose, and l have hard life of it, Frank, harder than any one knows"
 As she talked, Franklin noticed how soft her eyes were and how dark, and what pretty mouth she had, and yet how tired she looked.
 ..Pm very glad you told me how you feel, Doris," he said.6 ''I never supposed you had anything to do with what hap peped, and have often wished to have some of our old talks, only out of regard to grandmother's feelings, P'-- ~ "I know said Doris, "and you'll tell her how feel?f ..- > That day they walked together until the roofs of the neighboring houses were visible, and when they parted Doris of- fered her hand to Franklin. ,.
 Sweet little thrills ran up his arm to his heartas he took it, and he was alr ready in love with the girl, though he did not know it. x. He told his grandmother what had passed and the old Quakeress replied: .
 "I am glad that the child takes a proper view of the matter. But still, 1t will be best to have no more to do with Neighbor Morton's folks. Thee will see the wisdom of such course myself"
 i< Franklin was wise enough never to let his grandmother know how often he met Doris after that; how they walked to- gether in the chestnut woods on Sunday afternoons; how he rowed her about in his little flat bottomed fishing boat on the river in the-moonlight; how, day by day and hour by hour, he grew fonder of her. 4.t
 And now that he had caused the old lady to command him to help Doris water her flowers, all would be smooth and easy. He said to himself it was not as if Doris were Morton's own daughter
 She was his niece and he made her his drudge. He had driven his poor wife mad with constant little torments. He had banished his son from home by such usage as boy of any spirit must resent, and knew not, whether he were dead or alive, prosperous or in poverty.
 When his brothers little girl had been left an orphan he had taken her to his ihouse, saving thereby the expense of 8 servant and making her drudge.
 Franklin. a new fedged civil engineer with a prospect of a good appointment, knew what poor Doris had to bear, and his one great hope was to take her from all this one day and place her in home of her own, a home he would make!beau- tiful for her, and where she should reign queen. Meanwhile they had become engaged. Olt, happy moment, indelibly written on Franks memory, stamped on the heart of little Doris in characters never to be obliterated. when there in MRS. BREWSTER'S. :. QN Hair Grower and Dressing.