The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-08-29
Selected Story.
SUSAN'S HOME COMING.

HNO, Susan, I never want your
N hands to look like mine,
knotty and gnarled, like the branches
of that old apple tree, yonder."
"Why don't you call me Suzanne,
mother2 Susan is common, old
fashioned name. You know l told
you and father when l came home
that l wished to be called Suzanne
that was the name l went by at
Creighton"
at don't seem like the real name we
gave you, but if it will please you,
child, I'll try to get broke into saying
it, but l tell you now, you mustn't ex
pect father to say it. He's dead set
against people changing their names.
l s'pose, as you say, it's the same
name, only fixed up to be little
higher sounding and modernifed, but
you can't make father believe that no
how. Besides, you was named for
his mother, and he thought a sight of
his mother, father did, and he done
his duty by her, too"
The mother was watching her
daughter as she stood leaning against
the lattice at the end of the porch.
The young girl was putting vaseline
on scratch, which the thorn on the
rose she had pinned to her gown had
given her. Her hands, barring the
scratch, were without blemish-white
and shapely. The mother sat in the
doorway, and her tired hands rested
in her lap on her blue-checked apron.
"The farm at haying and harvest is
full-food time," and it had been a
day of extreme heat and extra work.
She looked with eyes of love and
pride on her daughter. 1t was good
to have her through school and home
again, but there was an undefnable
something about that reunion that
brought disappointed feeling to
the mothers heart.
"Well, l guess I'll set my sponge
and go to bed," she said in weary
tone of voice. 81 feel sort of beat
out tonight, and I got to get up early
in the morning. Your father is 60
ing to NOW down the north meadow,
and he's hired two extra hands to
help him, and they'll be here to din
ner and supper. Good night, child.
You better not stay out here much
longer, there's heavy dew a-fall-
ing"
The daughter sat down in the
chair her mother had just vacated.
Things seemed so. different to her
from what they did four years ago
when she went away to school. Be-
fore she went away to Creighton
there was no place in the world so
dear AMI sweet to her as that old
farmhouse, nobody in the world so
good and wise as father and mother.
OF course they were just as good now
as they were then, but somehow she
wished they had seen more of the
outside world, had been better edu-
Gated and were more cultivated. Her
eve fell on the diamond ring on her
finger. Clarence Dinsmore had placed
it there a few evenings before she left
Creighton. He was coming soon to
see her in her own home. She had been
happy in anticipation, but now she
shrank from having him come in con-
tact with the old farm life and ways.
She had not told father and mother
of having already made promise to
leave the old home, and them, before
very long. What would Clarence
Dinsmore think of her home and
family9 There was so much made of
ones family when matrimonial ven
lures were pending. She wondered
if her father and mother could claim
descent from any of the notables of
the world. She lost sight of the fact
that in her parentage she had the
safest stronghold and dearest pride
al any family fathers unstained,
honorable name. The round silver
moon came up over the hilltop, and
the night dews were heavy. The
thin muslin gown was not warm
enough for the damp, chill air, and
the young girl went into the house,
turned the key in the lock of the