Alpena argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1893-1909, 1894-06-13


ed work, Notwithstanding she dis
likes the employment so thorough
ly."
~ am sorry, Belle, to find you
so selfish" he continued. "The
care and responsibility Of this es-
tablishment all devolves upon your
mother-by far the most trying
part of the business-but you seem
to act as though you yourself was
the only one who suffered from con-
finement and labor-the only over
taxed one. l am surprised"
"Uncle John, you are cruel! |
replied. 81 am distressed, more
than words of mine can express, to
think that mother, feeble and i'll as
she is most of the time, should be
compelled to labor so increasingly,
and heaven knows | relieve her all
that is in my power. | am sorry,
too, for brother Frank and my lit
tie sisters, that they cannot have
the advantages of education and So
ciety | possessed at their age. |
am not selfish, uncle John, but you
are an unsympathetic, cross-grained
old bachelor, and | don't like you
one single bit. Put that in your
old meerschaum, and smoke it," |
muttered, in an undertone, as |
marched with dignified air from
the apartment.
A few moments after, uncle John
took his departure. | expected to
be reprimanded very severely; but, to
my surprise, mother did not allude
to the conversation. That evening,
looking over some papers in pri-
vate box, belonging to my father, |
found a note, with the seal broken,
directed to John Moffatt, Esq. |
opened it and read:
Dear John-You wrong me.
have always loved you, and nothing
my friends can ever say or do will
be able to prejudice me against you,
or induce me to marry another.
Come to me quickly. Ever yours,
"ANNIE CREIGHTON" d"
Mother" said l, show in the
world did this note to uncle John,
from Miss Creighton, come in this
box? l have just found it among
these papers, and unsealed."
Mother read it through; but
could throw no light on the subject.
ut might possibly" she said,
shave been sent to father, for him
to deliver to your uncle John, and
he forgot to do so; but l cannot
account for it being unsealed.
Your father was dreadfully forget
full the last few years of his life"
Now, Annie Creighton was one
of my particular friends-an old
maid of about tbirty-fve-very fine
looking, but with pensive cast of
countenance, which had always
whispered little story to my i'm
agination of unrequited love, or
something else equally distressing
of the love kind; but this was the
very first intimation | had ever had
of any intimacy between my uncle
and herself. Instantly my heart
warmed toward the "cross-grained,
unsympathetic old bachelor" and !
wondered how l could bring about
a meeting between the parties.
Annie lived alone with her aged
father, his sole dependence; for the
battle of life had not only wrssted
from her her lover, but had also
stripped her of the fortune she once
possessed. Annie was splendid
musician, and supported herself and
parent by the use of this wonderful
talent.
| felt sure that he had not asked
question concerning her, for, sup
posing her Indifferent to him, OF
fond of another, his overweening
PRIDE would of course prevent any
present inquiry. The very next
day, uncle John called again. II
was in the forenoon, and Friday
and was busy sweeping the par
lar. With handkerchief tied
around my head, sleeves pinned up,
a long checked apron almost cover
ing me, and humming little tune,
| was the very picture of Biddy
entirely satisfied with her place
Not sound did l hear, until uncle
John drew my head back into his
big hands, and kissed me.
"I thought you didn't like house.
work?" he remarked. "But / find
you singing away as blithely and
contentedly as a canary"
ut would be distressing, indeed
uncle John," l replied, "if | allowed
uncongenial employment to so SAP
the joyousness and warmth of my
nature as to render me insensible tc
the cheering effects of song. Still
ne L tAlI xynr vasta~1o- II Int~.l