Butler citizen. [volume] (Butler, Pa.) 1877-1922, 1893-10-13
RECONCILIATION.
Why the Old Line Fence Was
Torn Down.

1t was close, sultry summer after
noon, with scarce breath of air STIR
ring, while the sun poured his scorching
rays from a cloudless sky. All about
| the old Burton farmhouse deathlike
| stiffness reigned. There were no sounds
| of voices from within, no creakirg foot
steps on the uncarpeted floors; while,
without, even the songs of the birds
were hushed. The dingy, forlorn-look-
ing house, with its low unpainted,
weather-stained exterior, its low doors
and its small windows, was even more
desolate and forsaken in appearance
than was its wont, and at first glance
one would have thought it completely
deserted. But a closer observation
proved that such was not the case.
Isaac Burton, old and gray, and bent
under the cares and burdens of years
of trial and toll, sat on the doorstep of
the house with his face buried in his
hands, now and then casting furtive
| glance through the open door in tie di-
rection of u bed in a corner of the room.
While he sat there the sun crawled
down the western sky, casting its
shadow obliquely through the open
door, yet he seemed unmindful of the
fact that time was passing. Rising
from the steps, finally, he stood an in
stant listening to the slow, regular
breathing that came from the bed, then
walked out across the neglected yard,
muttering half audibly:
''She sleeps well, but don't like the
'pearance of her face"
Reaching the crooked rail fence that
separated the yard from the public
highway, old Isaac stopped and for a
little while stood looking down the
hard, white road that ran through the
long, straight lane to the east. The
road was deserted, not living object
being visible on all the two miles of it
that lay within his view.
"She ort to have the DOCTOR" he NUT
tered, ''yit don't like to leave her to
go and fetch him. She looks monty
quare bout the face an eyes, an I'm
afeerd she's bad tuck" Then, after a
short silence: IF only somebody was
passin' this way, SOS 1 could send word
to the mill an git the DOCTOR"
Then Isaac cast look in the direc-
ton of the ridge, fourth of a mile to
the west, where n small log house,
similar to his own, stood, and some
thing like a sigh escaped him. Shak-
ing his head sadly, he turned away.
''Neighbors d be powerful helpin'
an comfortin' just now," he unused,
IAN I'd give heap if we had some. l
never got lonesome when Lindy was
up an about, but now she's down
feel like half the world is gone, an it
pears like hope fer somebody to keep
me company. Them people," nodding
toward the house on the opposite
ridge. "ain't no neighbors, an no
matter what comes l can't go to them
for nothin'."
For some time old Isaac walked to
and fro in the little path leading from
the gate to the door, then again he
went and leaned over the fence to look
down the road. Instantly his face
frightened and gladrlight came into
his eyes, for away down the lane he
saw a man approaching. Nearly a
quarter of an hour passed before the
latter came up, but Isaac waited for
him and accosted him at once:
"Sam, never was SO glad to see any
body as I am to see you. Are you goin'
over to the mill?"
Yes" Sam replied, after eying old
Isaac inquIringly for almost minute.
'What has happened, Ike?"
''Lindy is bad sick, SAM" Ike said, in
low tone, ''an' all night an all day
I've been stayin' with her alone.
knowed, too, that she ort to have the
doctor, but l was afeerd to leave her,
an there want nobody to send. You
kin tell him to come when you git to
the mill"
"Yes, I'll tell him, Ike, an if there's
anything else kin do fer you I'll do it,
an be glad to-"
mo; that's all Tell him to come as
quick as he kin, Sam"
''Yes, will. But you ort to have
somebody to stay with you, Ike. Some
body to help bout nussin' an 'tendin' on
Mis- Burton"
II know that" Isaac replied, with a
sigh and slow shaking of his head.
''Fd give heap to have somebody
here, but can't git nobody now"
For a moment Sam was silent, casting
| a glance first at Isaac, then at the
house on the ridge to the west Isaac
saw the action and understood.
''No, SAM" he said, half sadly. half
vindictively, 'I'll never go there for a
| favor, never!''
"In case like this things ought to
be different" Sam suggested. "People
ought to forgive and forget, Ike
"MebbY SO, Sam, mebby so; but they
wouldn't feel that way. All that's been
said an done in thirty years can't be
forgot in day"
1t was a little while before Sam
spoke again. He wished to proceed just
right in his kindly purpose-that Of
reconciling two long estranged families
and for time he was at loss how
to do it. Finally he said:
like, if Mis- Martin felt inclined tc
come you wouldn't object, would you?'
Isaac shook his head.
| 'She won't feel so inclined, Sam. II
amt natural that she should"
81 don't know" Sam replied. Mis-
Martin has a kind heart, an she is
| sympathizin' with the sick an the
needy. She's good woman, Ike"
'She may be, but amt ready to say
so. It's been thirty years since my
family an the Martins have neigh
bored, an in all that time not a word
has passed between us. It's hard tc
forget an forgive after so long, Sam,
| an l low Mis- Martin can't do it She
may be a good woman, but she ain't
| good enough to do that"
Sam said no more, but went on up
the road toward the mill, while Isaac
returned to his seat on the doorstep
Lindy still slept, and, as her husband
sat listening to her breathing, his
| thoughts ran over the conversation he
had just had with Sam Gross.
I'D be glad to have Mis- Martin here, -
he thought, but amt no right to ex.
pect her to come, even if she was Chris
tian enough to forgive an forgit. Three
months ago, when Martin lay sick, ]
heYer WENT about him. an even