The Dickinson press., 1896-08-22
TbQ WaDderer.

Ilere was preSaSe OF storm
Masses of bluc-black clouds hung over
the sunset. The wind walled and died,
and died and walled. In the roadway
rusty leaves leaped suddenly to the air,
eddied and swirled, and strove to unite
with the tree that had cast them shiv-
ering in the dixie. At the fringe Of the
cloud there was a star.
A stile had been fixed at the turning
Of the road. 1t had three bars and a
step to cross by. On either side the
hedge grew thickly; and there, also,
two trees, like guardians, gaunt in the
,horried light.
To the further side there stretched q
path across the meadow; 1t led to the
old house that has stood among the
beech trees through generations.
From the stilc you could see the tur-
rets above the treetops. The inheritor
of the name of Dalrymple, the squire,
lived there. If you followed the road
you would also come to the hall, and
enter by the great gate. But the path
way was nearer by far.
On the side of the pathway. in the
angle where it joined the stilc, there
lay pond. In this district there
abouts it was looked on as place OF
ill omen, and back to a time out Of
mind the children of the Dalrymples
had passed it at nightfall with speedy
steps and eyes aslant. Yet not to folk
learned in lore, but to the weirdness of
the place itself, should you so for the
reason. The trees grew close to the
margin and met overhead, save only
in the center, where the banks were
widest. If stranger should take a
stone and hurl it to that point, he
would get in return tone so deep and
resonant as we'll might make him
wonder. Now the trunks creacked and
whined. and the wind whistled in the
branches And the shadows We're
black OH the pond.
A man was seated on the stile. His
back was to the road, and his eyes
were fixed upon the turret tops above
the trees. He had come upon jour-
ney; you could tell it from his boots.
He was hungry; you could tell it from
his eyes. Such q man, indeed, as one
would pass upon the further side of
the road, and be glad to get rid of
toward evening What hangs to the
feet one vaguely calls "boots," with
him it was scraps Of leather. And how
thin lie was! Through the rents in his
garments there peered out angles so
sharp that the coldcst, if he saw them,
could scarcely withhold his pity. At
the points they were lacerated by
thorns, but the blood had CONCEALED
and lay matted thickly with the dust
of travel. His hands were like claws.
Long, sinewy toil-stained, they pro-
truded shamefully from his rags, and,
clutching the rail upon either side, kept
him fixed on his narrow perch.
There is penury that chills the
blood. 1t was the face of that man.
Coarse, tangled, thickly clothed with
dust, his hair hung loose and rank
upon his shoulders. A scanty growth
of unkcpt beard, streaked and tinged
with gray, bristled from the lower por-
tions of his face, as weeds grow
sparsely on the arid soil. His cheeks
were so hollow that the bones above
stuck out like knuckles on a mans
clenched fist. The color Of his skin
had come, though time and q same
ness of treatment, to accord with the
dull, coarse brown of his hair and his
clothes. His eyes, lusterless, deep
sunk in their sockets, wild, strained at
the margins with with blood, weary,
gazed at the turrets of the hall. have
seen such a look upon the face of q
starving dog.
The wind walled in the branches,
and the clouds massed in the west, but
the man sat still upon the stile. But
when those who were hurrying from
the storm came by he moved to let
them pass; yet ever he dropped upon
the side that was furthest from the
hall. Such as were women eyed him
i'll askance, and such as were men with
wonder. But not a soul passed him a
salutation. So the man remained, and
the birds cried out for the storm.
Then two maids returning to the hall
came to the stile, and tossed their
heads, resenting that he should soil
with his clothes the rail which their
skirts must touch.
Yet the stile was his own. Nor the
stile alone, but the grass at his feet,
and the great house at the end of the
pathway, and the broad acres that
pressed it around. There was warmth
aud good cheer at the house. Still the
man moved not. Had the journey been
long and did he linger to rest at the
stile? Or did lie wait there for some
one who tarried? M
Then there came the prattle of chill
dren's voices in the road. They bab-
bled merrily as their nurse pressed
them on from the storm. And they
passed the man by. Then their voices
ceased, and their feet sped still faster,
and many frightened glance they
cast behind them wonderingly. And
be saw laborer approach along the
pathway, returning from his work.
The pipe he smoked glowed warmly,
and the man shivered. But Mt the stile
he spoke to the laborer, and his voice
was hoarse, as one that Is seldom used.
'What children are those?"
The workman stopped abruptly, and
looked Mt the man in surprise, doubt
not, and maybe, he wondered ut the
Questioner.
"rhem? he said at last, in strong
broad accent. "Them's the squire's
bairns.'
But thought the Squire was an
old man?"
"T'owd squire? Why, bless your
life, 'e's been dead this ten years"
IHeie WAS u pduSe. Auu lueu lue
man said:
$50 these are the children of the cid.
est son?'
"Noa," said tho workman, ''it Wilma
be the eldest. e wanted 'is brothers
gal, and COS she would nowt to say
to i'm e went away T. sulks. And e
never came back no more. Aye, that
was twenty years ago."
"And what became of him?"
"Aye, bless your life, 'ow should ]
know? Els dead, they say"
"And the brother married the lady y'
"Aye, that e did,"
There was silence, for the man was
gazing at the turrets. The laborer was
about to move away. But the man
stopped him with another question.
"Arc they happy, those two?"
"Appy?" Again the workman ap
penred amazed at the question. "Why
often and often, when they pass T. til.
road wi the BARNS, a-goin' to church
mebbe, or mebbe not, the misses sht
says to ME, Jim, it's pictur,' say.
she; and says to 'er, 1T is,' says I
"AppyY and the workman smiled.
But the man at the stile was silent