The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1897-06-19

| Inc moments passed.
SIS that you, Mis- HoltY An old
man and an elderly woman stood out
in Church Lane. The scarlet worsted
hood the woman wore brought
color almost like that of August into
the delicate spring landscape. "Is
that you, Mis- Holt?" repeated the
old man.
eyes, it is, Father" said the wo-
man.
"Why, Mis- Holt, how'd you get
back in these parts again9"
Mrs. Holt slowly approached her
gate. Il just come little while ago.
come in the STAGE"
"Just on a visit, guess" said the
other.
"No," said Mrs. Holt-"no, no.
I've come to stay. I'm never going
back to Haversham any more" Her
voice broke like child's.
81 always thought your sister Sa.
billa was good to you, Mis- Holt"
Good as gold"
The old man took step forward.
"What made you come back, Mary
Ann?"
st was things, just things" She
swept comprehensive arm around
things. Last fall when the chrYs-
anthemums were out l thought I'd
go wild for thinking of mine. l
knew they were all here, standing up
in rows, and bitter and yellow and
clear copper color. 1 used to see
them growing out in the street. And
now, when lilac time come, it just set
me to going. l said Mines OUT
and l felt as if I'd rather be dead
than not see them"
II never knew anybody as fond of
blooms as you," said the old man.
"And here l am, and here I'm
going to stay" She began to move
back to the lilac bushes.
THAT house has been shut up for
six months; you'll get your death,
Mis- Holt" said the younger woman.
There's a stove in the kitchen.
Sabilla said it was too old to take,
and there's rocking chair. Pm 60
ing to light fire in the stove tonight
and go to sleep in the chair. I'll get
along all right"
The other looked helplessly at her
father.
"Come home with us, Mis- Holt"
said the old man.
"I'm going to stay just here" said
Mrs. Holt. "You and Lizzie are real
kind, Mr.. Barton; but you needn't
worry"
1t was dusk in the garden and
turning dusk in the lane. All the
sunset was toward the roofs and the
tops of the trees. The graves seemed
to come nearer.
Il thought may beyou'd be afraid,
hazarded Lizzie Barton.
"You mean Josiah? He's been
dead six months. l buried him on
Monday, and on Tuesday packed
up and went down to Haversham to
live with my sister Sabilla. mo"
she ended solemnly, Josiah never
troubled anybody when he was living,
and he amt going to now he's dead"
She watched them going home
ward, two distinct figures under the
fading boughs, then turned and
walked slowly toward her front door.
She unlocked it; the odor of long
closed rooms reached her. She
glanced about her with an air of sat
isfaction. The floors were as white
as two days course of scrubbiDg
could make them. The little brass
handles on the cupboard drawers still
kept somewhat of their ancient polish.
There, in that space between the
mantel and the stairway, had lain
Josiah in Ais coffin. 1t was only yes
terday, and yet half year had come
and gone. She passed through the
first room and into the kitchen, set
ting the yard door there wide open.
She drew the dilapidated rocking
chair out of its corner and sat down
in it. A step sounded on the brick
walk without.
"Is that you, Sabilla9" she called,
tremblingly.
cts me, Mis- Holt" Old Mr.. Bar
ton appeared in the doorway. "Pve
get some hot tea for you, Mary Ann,
and a bowl of soup. Lizzie says she
don't want you to think you haven't
any neighbors."
"Set them things down on the
stove, said the old woman. There's
sugar and butter and most half
ham and some bread in that bandbox
yonder. Well, you can hand me the
tea; l guess I'll drink it now"
The old man stood and looked
down upon her as she sipped the