The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1896-08-15

Debbie's father was hot-tempered
man, and mine an obstinate one.
They got along wonderfully with
each other for many years, and 1t
seemed to be one of those especial
bits of spite which Fate doles out to
lovers, that they should have their
first serious falling out directly after
Debbie and L were engaged.
What was it about you ask? Of
all men on earth, farmers quarrel
about the smallest things. The i'll
feeling began about bit of meadow
land, worth next to nothing, was
continued by our old pear tree, which
projected it's roots into Mr.. Doane's
cellar, and finished by one of Mr..
Doane's COWS, who trod down our
corn; and one day the two elderly
men faced each other, their faces
crimson, their eyes blazing, blotting
out the friendship of years, by their
mutual taunts and reproaches, until
at last Doane struck my father, and
my father knocked him down. He
fell with his head against bit of
wood, and cut it, and the blood
flowed all over his face and neck.
Tho women screamed; Doane lay at
length upon the grass, CORY spec
tacle. Mrs. Doane called one farm
hand to help his master in, another
to run for the doctor, and the general
impression that murder had been
committed was conveyed. 1t was a
matter for a bit of court-plaster,
after all; but life ong friendship
was over forever; and it was con-
coded on both sides that Debbie and
l must br ,ak up with each other.
Up on the mountain, where the
blueberries were to be next summer,
we met for the last time. The ashes
of the tree we had first kissed under
were all blown away, and only a grim
black stump remained to tell where
it once stood. Debbie was pale, but
very firm.
at would be an insult to father if l
should marry the son of man who
tried to kill him." she said; "and Mr..
Ashton did try, Eben."
MY father only resented a blow
as any man ought" l said.
"But how furiously," said Debbie;
chow brutality"
And then we quarreled, until at
last we parted, going by different
ways down the mountain, angry with
each other as we had never thought
to be.
The quarrel between the two fam
lilies changed everything. My father
shortly found it too unpleasant to
live in such an unfriendly fashion,
and resolved to move to the West.
My mother felt as glad to go as he.
AS for me. to pass Debbie in the road
without speaking had become unen-
durable. We left the place, and in
the Western town that grew like a
mushroom on the spot that was little
more than a wilderness when we
settled there, made my fortune in a
business which was the outgrowth of
my surroundings. With the best
luck it takes some time to make a
fortune, and by the time | was really
rich l had come to forty years, and
passed it.
MY parents were both dead, and |
had not married. l had tried to fall
in love, but could not; and, if you will
not think me puppy, | will tell you
that, being pecuniary "catch," ~ was
rather prosecuted. Anxious parents
with fine families of grown daughters
flung them at my head, and the girls
themselves were not behindhand. If
l could have believed that my person
al qualities made me appear in the
light of prize, l should have felt
fattered, and might have succumbed;
but | knew my money was the bait
which all those pretty fish were anx
ious to nibble, and l resolved to leave
the place for while. The wealth
that seemed so great from local
point of view was not an unusual
amount of money in New York, where
millionaires had grown common, and
l found the great metropolis pleas
ant, and made friends there. Among
them | soon numbered an old bache-
lor of literary tastes, who told me
that he had taken fancy to me. He
proved it by being very confidential.
"You are twenty years younger than
l." he said, "but still you are of an
age when men are usually married.