St. Landry democrat. (Opelousas, La.) 1878-1894, 1893-12-02
A CENTURY ride.
BY GRACE f. DENISON.

You never saw such dear little vel
low-haired, dainty featured maid as
Maude Maunering, the successful girl
graduate and medical student.
When she came forward at commence
ment, in a delightful little Greenaway
gown of white muslin, peppercd over
with tiny dots, with the very smile of
childhood in her wide blue eyes, and
Der curly hair clustering round her
brows --the learned doctors, imported to
adorn the commencement exercises,
blinked their eyes and looked twice,
and hesiIated, even then, to accept her
as an established fact. When she knclt
to receive her degree, they each and all
listened to hear the childish prayer,
CHOW | lay me -" issue from her
little rosebud mouth. A degree for that
child? Impossible! She had come to
say her prayers, and be kissed aud put
to bed. That she could be the medical
student, that she could enter a dissecting
room, carve up subject. watch a mortal
sickness, stand by dying bed-prepos-
ferrous it might rot be. And vet, it all.
and much more, had been. Maude
Mannering was an enthusiast on matters
surgical, and had cleverly sewn up the
jagged throat of would be suicide
softly rating him, as she did SO, for not
having made neat cut-on the very
day when she knelt dcmurev before
the Chancellor's footstool to receive her
degree.
The learned doctors stared, with their
unbelieving eyes, and the Chancellor
smiled as they turned to one another,
agape, and shook their heads, while
Maude trippcd smIingly back to her
seat, and the students sh!iekel and sang
to her glory.
+
"Shall I go?" were the words which
would have issued from her pretty lips,
one day, week later (lad She been in
the habit Of talking to herself, as she
finished reading long and chatty letter
inviting her tn ''cOme away North, and
spend the holidays" and concluding
with these words: Owe are fifty
miles from e. -, and our roads
are splendid had better
orlng your elocipcde, or
whatever i to the horror
and conf VI -Iun.4u. Maule turred
the letter thou. iltfuiiy over, skimmiug
from page to page. There was post
script, of course. simply four words,
"Carr is with u.s." But, whatever the
girl read, she saw only those four words,
and it was on their account that she
asked herself, "Shail | go?' Carr was
her correspondents brother, her escort
at the wedding Of that lady, and subse-
quently, her own rejected sweetheart of
last year. Last year was a long time
ago, to be sure, and Carr had not mopcd
over things; Maude was not vain. she
concluded to 60.
The STATION, away up North. was
reached by Maude on sweet June even
ing, about sunset. Never did daintcr
little figure descend from a palace car,
and stand forlornly beside a couple of
trunks and bicycle, watching the less
ening tram as it melted into the distance
in the red sunset. Half dozen houses
dotted the prairie; store, q driving
shed, small inn and the combined post
office and station clustered close together
IN the vast emptiness. Within half
mile stood the last grove of trees, mark
ing the western limit of the timber
country. 1t required some womanhood
to accept thiags, for the first view OF
the apparently boundless plain was try
ing to mortal bred in forested Onta-
rio. Maudc turned with a gasp, and
found herself confronted by Carr, who
raised his straw hat silently. She held
out her hand impulsively, too glad to see
a familiar face to resent lack of well
come in it.
my trunks and my wheel. Lam the
only passenger who got off here" she
faltered.
Carr took her shawl-strap, the boys
slowed away the boxes in the station
house, Maude walked behind pushing
her wheel, to where pair of horses and |
q light farm wagon stood waiting. AS
she climbed nimbly into her place, and |
turned to help Carr with the wheel. which |