The Somerset herald. [volume] (Somerset, Pa.) 1870-1936, 1895-08-28

|
when the wind blew, and pair of
black silk mitts.
Out beyond the village, OH lovely
hill side, with the wooded river run
ming near, WAS an old house of solid
unornamental construction, generous
in size, dignified and elegant in pro-
portion. Around it were old fashioned
flowers, and over it hung the graceful
branches of high elms. The place had
been Mr.. UptOn's home before fate
played its grim pranks on her and
hers. Whenever her amour lDropre had
received wound, she found a rein
stating comfort in walking the old
familiar road and fancying once again
that she was on the way home-the
kind of home that il written with a
small initial letter.
On the way she stopped to visit ut
almost the only house she ever entered
nova small house which was pseu-
donymed the ''Shoe," because the
mother there found her prototype in
| that other woman who had so many
children she didn't know what TO do.
This was one place where Mrs. Upton
felt herself not only welcome, but an
actual benefit, for when she amused
| the little ones there an hour she knew
their Overtired mother had that hour
| for rest, or at least for employment
without interruption. One of the sad
dest things in growing old is to lose
the feeling of being necessary to some
body the transition from caretaker
to an object of care. Mrs. Upton
never felt superfiuous at the ''Shoe."
As she left the crowded house she
lifted her head to the grand hills about
her, and felt their inspiration. She
would like to be even as they, patient,
strong, her head high in heaven, then
she would do great things for all the
world. She reveled in the feeling, for
it had been common TO her younger
days, and it made youth seem nearer
now to resume its habit of thought.
The sidewalk had lost all pretence
to "A name, and was now wavering
thread-like path by the roadside, trod
always by II solitary pilgrim, or by its
narrowness separating groups unsocia-
bly, into Indian file. Mrs. Upton trod
it in reverie, with her head lowered,
and stopped in surprise as man step
ped aside to let her pass.
She looked at him with interest. He
was stranger-she had looked on all
the village too many years not to know
its own. He was well dressed, albeit
with graceful attention to the fashion
of twenty years ago rather than to that
of the hour, and he was, like herself,
far past youth-so far beyond Ii that
even middle age was counted within
its happy compass. He raised his hat
slightly rs he waited for her to pass,
that he might step back into the path,
and she passed on, after satisfying her
self with searching glance that she
had never known him.
She unused about him idly as she
went along. Her life was so absolute
ly colorless that even the sight of a
stranger was almost an event. Then,
too, the interest was increased by his
age, for we are all most interested in
our contempories. We have odds
against us in competition with those
younger or older, but we stand on IA
level with those whose years are even
as our own.
When she had almost reached the
old house she saw in the path a large
freshfolded handkerchief. With "A
natural impulse she picked it up, then
noted that it was fine, and embroider-
ed with two initials in the corner.
al. H. she read aloud, then smiled
gentle retrospective smile, as though
that combination of initials was pleas
antly known to her. She hid the hand
kerchief lovingly in the bosom of her
dress, and stepped on her way with
more alertness than common.
"I've heard that there's rage for
antiques" Myra Marden was saying,
rs Mrs. Upton went into the general
sitting room of the Home, San if we
don't watch out some one'll be buyin'
us right under our noses an takin' us
off To the city"
Wouldn't it do just as well TO leave
us here and call this a museum of an
tiquities ?' responded Mrs. Upton, at
tempting 10 wound herself, that she
might not feel so poignantly the weap-
| on her less sensitive friend was using.
There's been some one here already
to-day tryin' for you" continued Mrs.
Marden. 'Leastways he asked for
Elizabeth Hunt, an that's the name |
first knew you by. He said he know
ed YOU was married, but he'd forgot
the name. / told him you was out,
an he's to call again.
Except from benevolent ladies of the
town, Mrs. Upton had not had visit
since she entered the Home, nor did
her pride allow her to want any.
"When did you say he was coming,
Myra ," she asked i'm agitation.
"He didn't quite say, but | think he
meant to-morrer. You're tuckered
out" she added sharply. ''Go an rest
a spell. Whatever do you want to
walk your legs off for?'' Her tenderer
feelings always irritated her, for they
were i'm contradiction of her estimate of
herself as a hard-hearted shrew.
"I'm goin' out" she continued, "to
see the new fire department that James
l.. Haight takes so much pride in. 1t
goes off at six o'clock, when the town
clock rings, an they say them horses
is ready to leave the stable In three
shakes of lambs TAIL"
Mrs. Upton climbed wearily to her
room, after Mrs. Marden and the I'M
popular Mary Bartlett had disappear
ed down the wide elm-shaded avenue.
The only other occupant of the house
was old Miss Greene, as she was call
cd even by her contemporaries. She
had never been young in spirit, and
now her body had caught up, as il
were, and there was harmony between
her physical and psychical natures.
She was silent always, and unsympa-
thetic, and knitting endless numbers oi