The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1895-11-30
And grandma sighed.

write or come back to vou."
mo, dearie, l don't much think so
either" said grandma, gently; Il
don't believe Bessie could forget her
father and mother. She was the last
to leave us, and there never was
better girl to her parents. Then,
Sumner Brown came to work on
Squire Hamilton's brick house. He
got acquainted with our Bessie, and
soon began paying attentions to her.
Well, as he was a nice, steady sort of
young man, we didn't think much
about it till one day he asked your
grandpa for her. Well, it was hard
enough to think of giving Bessie up,
but the worst of it was, we couldn't
feel right about it. For only few
days before one of the workmen had
told your grandpa that Sumner drank.
Your grandpa could hardly believe
it; so he asked Sumner about it, and
he confessed that he did drink &C.
casionally, as he thought it helped
him, but he did not drink to excess,
and never meant to. Oh, we'll, you
know the rest as we'll as l do; they
are gone, and we have never heard
from them since their little Bessie
was two years old. Poor child" and
grandma gave dreary sigh as she
looked out over the snowy hills that
bounded our view.
1t was nearly time for the train that
was to bring our guests, and grand
pa and Ben had started to the depot
half an hour before. Aunt Nan and
Uncle Richard and their family had
come to spend the evening and next
day. The pantry shelves were almost
groaning under their load of mince
and pumpkin pies, great mounds of
frosted cake, jar of grandma's ia
nous doughnuts, and on the top
shelf, in solemn state, where two fat
turkeys, ready for the oven on the
morrow. The rooms were all in order,
the long table in the dining-room
spread for tea, and at last, after all
the busy days, it did seem as if the
last thing was done. Suddenly there
was sound of sleigh-bells. Ben
shouted: "Here we areW and then
they crowded into the hall. My eyes
searched eagerly for certain tall,
manly form, and minute later was
clas ped in fathers arms, and he was
saying tenderly, "Pearl, my daught-
er!" After the greetings were over,
we all filed out to the supper table,
and the next hour was spent in prais
ing grandma's mullins and hot coffee,
and talking of the present and past.
Just as tea was over there was timid
rap at the kitchen door, and | opened
it to admit little Bet Brown. She
had come on an Grand. While
grandma went to attend to it, she
stood warming her hands by the
kitchen stove. Uncle John passed
through the room, and noticing her,
stopped to ask:
"Well, who is this little girl?"
"Bet Brown, sir" she answered
shyly.
"Betw repeated Uncle John, "that's
a queer name for little girl. Is it
your real name?"
mo, sir; my true name is Bessie,
that's what papa used to call me; but
he died year ago, and the folks
where l stay now call me Bet for
short"
"My dear child" said Uncle John
in strange, startled voice, "what
was your mothers name?' "The same
as mine" answered Bet, looking lit
tie surprised at his interest. 81 was
named for her, but l can't remember
when she died; l was so little"
Uncle John questioned her little
further, then went to the pantry,
where | could hear him talking in
eager but subdued tones to grandma,
and a few minutes later they came
into the kitchen, grandma with her
shawl on ready for walk.
"See here, Bessie" said Uncle
John, cts too late for little girl to
be out alone, SO grandma and l will
just step home with you"
"Oh, I'm not afraid; it isn't far"
said Bet, with wondering eyes.
But Uncle John stopped her.
"Well perhaps not, but we want to
have little talk with the people you
live with"
And SO the trio left, grandma only
stopping to explain to me that they
would not be gone long. Their alb
sence was not noticed for while
Then child ish voice piped: "Where
is grandma7" and little later Aunt
Dora said: II wonder where mother