The Press., 1893-07-20
Number 16.

replied the driver. Before they drove off Harry Foster came up to the side of the wagon, and touching his hat, congratul- ated her on the successful commence ment of her new career"
 {" No compliments, MT. Harry Foster, if you please" was her reply. II did it to please myself and Peggoty. But like it so much think may join the choir and if do, you. Sir, have got to join the forces"
 Indeed" said Mir Foster, laughingly adding ''Good-by! '" as the horses moved off,
 As they rolled along they passed group after group of the returning church folk, who pleasantly bowed as they passed, but Mildie seemed to be looking out for some one she missed. Suddenly, on turning 8 corner, her face frightened. Within sight were two fgures-an aged woman and 8 young man on whose arm she lean- ed, he himself limped with heavy cane.
 "Drive slower, Thomas ;" she said to the driver and as the wagon passed she
 nodded pleasantly to the two, who return
 ed her, salutation with low bows. The
 old woman seemed quite infirm, but her
 companion was a fine manly fellow, with
 burned brown face, dark hair, and eyes
 shining bright beneath heavy eyebrows.
 There was 8 peculiar expression on his
 face, too, as he bowed-a light that fash
 ed but for moment across his features,
 which, mistake not, Mildie saw, for the
 young girl colored the slightest bit in the
 world, and told Thomas it was cold for
 such slow driving!
 "You might have offered old Dame
 Graham seat, Miss Mildie," he replied. Your father would"
 "She seems we'll supported" quietly said Mildie, and they soon reached home. That same Sabbath afternoon John Graham sat, in the warmth of the sum- | light, in front of his mothers neat little l house, near the waterfall of Q Q-, enjoy | ing his afternoon reverie. Left on his own resources at about fourteen years of l age, with his mother to support, and his
 total possessions few acres of sturdy
 orchard growth and field land, he had
 now reached nearly twenty-five without | ever having asked favor from rich or
 poor. His father had been Scotchman | of good degree, and when he died had be-
 queathed to his son all his own pride of
 nature, his unconquerable will and the
 gnawing feeling innate in such natures
 allied to humble circumstances-the feel
 ing that the world had gone unjustly and
 bad with them, and they owed nothing to
 it having wrung what little they had had
 out of it by their own hard blows and toll.
 John Graham had been one of the first to l go out from his native town when the
 guns of Sumter rung through Vermont,
 and had come back only when his left
 knee, shattered and shot through by a
 treacherous bullet, had refused to carry
 him through more fighting.
 l As he now sat there, in the suns slant I light, before his mothers door, with his
 fine dark face glowing in the brightness,
 his cane lying across his lap, seemingly
 reminding you where he had been, and
 what scenes hehad been through, to make
 it needful for such strong frame to carry the poor support, you could not but feel he was no common man who sat before you. We meet such doubtless, all of us
 as we go along through life, without notic ing them, we feel conscious we have re ceived impressions that last longer thai the memories of the casual meetings o everyday experience.
 The click of the gate latch aroused ou dreamer from his reverie, and Mildi Faunce, with a little white basket on he arm, entered the garden patch. Graham } started, but held out his hand, warml, bidding her good afternoon. "How love ly all looks about here, Colonel" com
 menced Mildie, laughingly. And you chair outside. Been fighting your bat : ties over again this afternoon, suppose. II wish you would not call me Colonel even in your gay mood, Miss Mildie,
 replied Graham, reckoning You knov
 1 was but poor private with our Noun 3 tain boys, and you should not jest. abou l us"
 s "Truly, and 1 did not know your dream l ngs were so sober, MT. Graham" return l ed Mildie, with mock gravity. And il l your mother in? have brought her dow l some goodies for her good old self" l ''I know she will be glad to see you 0 She is reading there by the window ;- Walk in."
 d He resumed his chair on the greel e sward as she entered the house, and fo n some time seemed lost in thought; hi l. head leaned on his hands, clasped firml over the head of his heavy cane. A littl {, later, as Mildie came out, accompanie
 by his brother, he got up, and reaching '- down his hat from the door-post where h hung, said, quite soberly:
 @ "Miss Mildie. will keep up along tn d road with you a ways, if you have no ot l. jectionS."
 e "Indeed have none. Good-by, Mrs h Graham, and as the warmth comes or try and get up and see us-do." @ The two moved through the gate, Joh y courteously holding it wide open till hi
 companion passed out, and turned slowl n up the roadway toward Deacon Faunce' 1t house.
 If Miss Mildred" John began as the e reached the slight shade of the huge elm s that in summer threw deep shadows owe e both river and road, 'I am blunt fellow s but I want to ask even a blunter questio 1 than usual this afternoon"
 e Mildie felt strange tingling about he j. temples, for here he paused.
 1t ''I may as well out with it now" he coI d tinued. "It's the best way. Miss Mi 5, dred, are you engaged to Henry Foster r. Mildie stopped short in the road, bring ! ing her two feet together with smart ra ,r that sent two or three pebbles spinnin It into the river.
 ,r "John Graham, you have no right re ask me such question, and you know it.
 she said, between her teeth, and lookin 5s him in the face, while the color mounte of in an instant to her forehead. Id sI know it we'll, Miss Mildred but a. had to ask it. If you only knew how gls lg I would feel if you would just pardon u Id asking of it, and reply No to it." "And pray, Mir. John Graham, why al wherefore should I answer it? What
 it to you whether or no am engaged D. Mr. Foster?" II will tell you why, Mi er dred Faunce, and tell it from my hear at If offend you, can only say it will b1 at add another sorrow. Since, eight yea le ago to-day q was thinking of it this afte 10 noon), when seized your cockle-shell d- a boat on the brink of yon fall and ca 'n ried your poor little white wet face up K- your fathers house-since that sad day LIS have thought one thought and dreamt on one dream, and that thought and tn ut dream have both been you. I ha' e, thought might yet work out of my po I'd miserable place into something bette ie and larger, and nobler, and ask you It. share it with me as my right. And wh, lg left poor old mother to go and fight f Ill the flag, mingled with the feeling of rig le in so doing, was also that other thoug ne of coming home here with the poor pl