Arizona republican., 1894-10-07
MANDY'S TRIUMPH.
After Many Years It Was Hers
 for a Moment.


 It wss a summer afternoon. The rich, red gold of the sunshine was broken only by few futtering leaf shadows as light breeze stirred the trees A mocking-bird overhead riot ed and reveled in showers of ecstatic song. It was a day when life seemed to burn and jingle everywhere.
 Except at the little cabin near the spring. There was no sound, no sign of any occupant until the sun was low, and the long shadows almost touched the doorstep with pointing fingers. At last woman entered hurriedly, push, ing off her sum- bonnet, and showing pretty, coquettish face, flushed with excitement and ready to break into smiles. She began to get supper, kindling the fire with fat pine knots that blazed quickly. As she brought out the inevitable frying-pan of the often breaking off abruptly and glanc- ing over her shoulder at the open door. Suddenly she uttered little cry. In the shadow of the doorway stood a mana dark. rugged fgure-with a child asleep in his arms. When he saw she had noticed him he walked in and laid the child softly on a low couch, then sat down by the rough pine table He did not once look at her or speak.
 She had held out her arms to the child, but seeing him so sound asleep, went back to her cooking. Presently she looked at her husband and said timidly, but in probitiatory tone:
 Wore late tonight, Nathan" He gave her so harsh look that she drew back as if afraid, and bent over the child to see if he had awakened.
 Presently she looked again toward her husband, as if she fancied she had misunderstood him and said: "Yo' seem out O sorts, Nathan. Did the child poster yo' while yo' wur workin'? Yo'd better leave him with me nex' time"
 He laughed sneeringly. ''Yo' wanted him, didn't yo'?" He paused moment and went on as if with difficulty.
 T was plowin' on the ridge, an I seen yo' an that feller tergether. I ain't no need ter say mo-"
 Why, Nathan!" !"-her voice was raised little, as if with excitement He broke in roughly
 , both, an thet man'd been dead, but I ain't kearin' ter tell the neighborhood. Henceforward yo' ain't no wife of mine"
 T don't suppose yo' ever keared fur me, anyhow Yo' never said yo' loved me since the day we was married 3 There was a half passionate ring in her childish voice.
 "Ther' warn't no call fur me to say anything. l wus yo' husband.
 She began again eagerly, this time returning to his accusation. ."Yo don't understan', Nathan
 He stopped her, her whole face work 1 ing convulsively. II do understan' well enuf, an I don't want no ies'' Her face changed it's pink to white, | it's soft contours hardening into a curious rigidity. She made no at 1 tempt to speak again. She took the little shawl down that hung on nail, and spread it over the child's bare feet He was pretty boy of four and his long dark lashes lay without a quiver against his rosy cheeks She caught her breath quickly, but she made no appeal. Her sunbonnet had fallen on the foor-a sign pregnant with tragedy in this rude life-she picked it up, and moved toward the i door as her husband repeated huskily: "Yo' ain't no wife O mine"
 Out of doors it was very dark. The cabin stood in the clearing. and close around were the woods, black, full of strange sounds. full of moving shadows cast by one knew not what. Inside, the circle of light thrown by the pine knots, and the child's soft breathing 1 promised safety at least. For one sec ond she stood, irresolute, on the thres- hold. Her lips were set, but her mem ory conjured up distorted images, ''ha'nts" and wolves, or painters, ''- which was it cried like child?
 The man spoke sternly: ''Yo' seem ter forgit the baby and yo' duty ter him. Ifyo' ain't my wife, yo can't un- do bein' his mother"
 Mandy's head dropped, the bonnet fell from her hand, and she turned back to the hearth.
 Was it rescue? Was she guilty?