The Bottineau pioneer. (Bottineau, N.D.) 1885-1895, 1893-07-15
"HIS VERY OWN"

an It's jest Z o'clock"
Auntie Tilford took the spoon in
her fat fingers and poured the dark
mixture out carefully, her brow gath
ering in great oreases as she let q
few drops drip over the edge.
''Don't y'pull the tablecloth, Gwen
ME, an don't " make so much noise
with that poker, Buds. Look out,
Gwen! You'll pull off the lamp"
Steadying the spoon in one hand,
the good woman loosened the little
girls fingers from the tablespread to
saw the lamp. She pushed the child
clear OF the table and then started
for the door that led into the room
whore the sick woman lay.
The DOCTORS comm again." said
Buds, at the window. II see him froo
the gum trees, an his horse is run
min fas' as fas' can be-"
BY the time the nurse had reached
the bedside the doctor had opened the
gate and was treading the gravel
walk. He came in and hung his hat
on the rack. There was great ex-
pectancy in his face.
A low moan came from the bed and
there was a rustling OF the coverlet.
"You must lie still, now-there's a
DEAR" said the nurse, softly.
II know; but l want his picture
Harry's. It's on the mantlepiece."
The tone was faint and the voice
quavered.
The picture was brought. It was
q cabinet photograph of q rather
young man with a pointed beard and
large, handsome eyes that looked
straight out and at the woman who
took the picture in her thin, white
hand.
The nurse and the doctor stepped
into the sitting room, whore they
spoke in whispers that did not go be
yond the cheap little portiere that
hung between the folding doors.
"l'm glad they have not taken
away the light" said the woman.
half-aloud. II wonder II anybody
knows that this Is our weddipg-day.
1t was just eight years ago to day, in
Sacramento. Wasn't / frightened
that morning! And at the church
door, didn't l feel queer when l saw
all those people inside! Henry seemed
nervous, too. How he fidgeted with
his gloves! l know they were a
whole size too small for him, but he
ore them that way for pride. A
proud man! Was that why he couldn't
bear to live with mep He said l was
only q little country girl once. l
never forgot that, though he begged
me to forgive him afterward, and took
IL all back and said l vas the sweetest
and incest OF all-of everybody in the
world.
but he was a city man. And he
is somewhere in the city to-day,
while I Am out in a roadside house,
under the gum trees-'only a little
country girl l told Auntie Tilford
to write. He might not want to have
me die all alone, even If he did say |
was nothing to him when he went
away"
She lifted the picture, resting her
elbow ON the coverlet. The sleeve
fell down and showed q poor white
arm.
This was taken at Fawcett's that
hot afternoon. He did not want to
have me 90 with him that day, but l
went. l wanted to have him taken
in his Prince Albert, but it was just
as good-that cutaway. There was
q little thread of red in that coat and
q sort of invisible check. But there
was never a wrinkle in it. He always
kept his clothes so smooth. How
we'll I remember the feel of that coat
sleeve. It was so woolly and soft.
Il was too quiet for him-not
lively enough; but, of course, l had
the children 10 look out for, and we
couldn't keep a girl, and pay rent
besides, and do everything else, IN
f25 q week. His clothes cost twice
as much as mine-yes, three times.
But he had to go among well-dressed
men, and OF course it vas right that
he should dress well. l never blamed
him for that-never said anything
about it. l didn't see, though, how
he could afford those seats at the
theater, and didn't want to 60 every
week. And l knew I shouldn't make
anything out OF those singing lessons
with Professor Schmidt, though he
insisted On my taking them, and they
cost IS apiece. And / wouldn't take
that trip to the Yosemite, for I knew
we couldn't afford it.
"Still, I ought to have done every
thing he told. me. Then, perhaps.
could have kept him. But he went
away-he left me and the children.
And / had to 60 away from that
house, too. couldn't live there
after he left-there was nothing to
live on, and the children were all
darns and patches. And now I'll
have to leave them for good and all.
Why can't l stay and take care oi
themp My God! why cant stay;
They'll be lonely-so lo~pely-pnless'
Her eyes Frightened. a ~ycarning
took stole over her face.
HELL come and take them when
I'm dead-apd taxe care Of them.
They'll need someone. He knows
how badly they'll need someone.
He'll take them"
Her gaze conferred on the pictured
face.
you'll take good care of them
Won't you, Harry You used to say
you loved them. You must love
them yet. They're not much care
now Gwen 10 Ave and B4dsie il
seven. They're good childrep, Harry.
and your very own"
The nurse came in and shifted the
shade Of the lamp. Then, for the