The Princeton union. [volume] (Princeton, Minn.) 1876-1976, 1893-04-06

of monsieur = 81 s4. is 4 81 If sS
When she was sound asleep in my
bed, hurried to my mothers room
and told her about our singular guests.
She warned INC against too great curl 4
osity. BIZ; ~ u
i#'' Doubtless he is the child's guard.
ian." SHE said. do not concern your
self too greatly, Nancy, about stran-
gers who cone and go. 1t is not for
us to pry into the affairs of our
guests 5''5 4.s I
remained with us for q week, and a
fine time had buying and making the
simple clothes which the little maid
was henceforth to wear. Ample money
monsieur handed me for the purchases
but again he urged that everything
must be simple and plain.
So It was in plain gingham frock
that at last Mademoiselle Amelie went
away, and her golden hair was tucked
smoothly back under a little close
bonnet, while her finer clothes We're
packed away, for what future purpose
I could not guess.
Before their departure monsieur said
to me, You have been most kind to
! mademoiselle Have you always lived
in the town? Or do you know many
good people among those on farms r
Then [ told him I was country bred,
and had lived among the farming peo-
pie until my father had taken this inn
! three years before. s&
'Then perhaps you know some good
woman, kind of heart and gentle Of
speech. with whom I can place made
money enough provided" he hurriedly
went on, ''but must find home for
her without delay
At once I thought of Cousin Prue
Withwell, the sweetest and kindest of
women, living on q farm at our old
home in Paxton Prue had only a step
son, a lad of thirteen, on whom to
bestow her motherly care, and she
still mourned with bitter grief for her
two daughters. dead in their infancy.
Her bereayed heart might open to this
! little orphaned girl. So gave Mon
sieur Francois Cousin Prue's address.
The little girl chung to me at parting,
and my own eyes were full of tears as
l saw her go. She waved her little
hand as the coach passed out of. sight
1t was near fourteen years before
saw her again. TIL,
1t was in the autumn as I said when
she left us, and twas after snow fell
we'll. Letter-writing was rarer then,
and cost more thought and effort than
in these sighting times
Cousin Prue wrote me that they
she and her husband-had adopted the
little French girl who had stopped al
our inn, and that she was called Emily
Withwell. z,@.s g zss
"'Yet I cannot strictly say it is
adoption she wrote. ''since her guard
ian made condition that she should be
bound to us by the form of indenture
to service. She must be bound as 3
servant quoth he. TO your kind hear
trust that she will be treated as :
daughter
"To this we We're fain to consent
for we had taken liking for thu
child-a timid and gentle little maid
1 with some look in her eyes like m!
own Ruth. He left a sum of none,
; for her Keeping, but twill be put asid
for her benefit
Then the letter went OH to say tina
the child had dropped at first, bu
was happier now; that she was learn
ing fast the household ways and i'm
proving in English speech; also tina
:, Philippines step-son-had take]
kindly to her, and drew her on his sle
; daily to and from the village school
house. Already I could see that tn
1 Child had brought fresh interest int
Prue's life. .-N '..--...
!. Well, for a long time after that
. heard but rarely from Prue Withwel
I Those We're stormy times that 5000
e fell upon our colony. You know th
< story of those Revolutionary days.
u I was married then, and husband an
father both joined the Continent;
e army. Later Prue's step-son, Phii]
!, was a soldier, too, though at the tim
of enlisting he was barely seventeen
Those dark days passed by at las
and the soldiers came home We WEI
q sore impoverished by war, but
times things frightened. Husband az
Z and I managed a market farm Outsi(
of Boston, which prospered fairly, al
e at last came a time when I could pay
visit, now deferred through many
L year, to Cousin Prue. -
% I was almost a middle-aged woms
then, and with worry and work al
J. care must have changed greatly fro
e the rosy lass Emily had seen at n
'e remembered my face the moment
stepped from the stage and set 70
+. upon the garden walk.
d. I am an old, old woman now, a.
1 Emily Withwell has been dead
many year. Twas over fifty yea
ID ago. but never shall I forget the ia
er that greeted me with a bright sm
e, of welcome in the old garden.
" I think I would have known IL
nd too, wherever we had met, by h
ne eyes and the fair wealth of her gold
hair It was soft and fine and iii
no and shining, waving back in ripp
ed from her forehead such hair as b
III seen on no Woman's head before, I
ever since except on Emily Wi
ne wells daughters and grandchildr
IS Your hair is somewhat like it, Chi
8 though scarce as fine and pretty. :.
N; an inheritance to the women Of "
ne family from your French great-gra
M mother-she was once Amelie d',As
neau. For the rest, she had a Gle
my pale complexion to which the &C
rarely rose. She was slender and
IS h graceful twas pleasure to wa
NY when she mo1 ed or walked.
wv. Twas plain to see how Prue. 4
Wn widowed, loved and leaned upon
r. Until vuhn v,1o !.