The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1898-01-27

ducing her to come with him over the
hills, he received the dread ultimatum
which he had almost expected would
fall. Molly was frank. She avowed
shyly that she did not and could not
love him and then, with a pretty, dts
dainful toss Of the head, declared that
she would be glad if he did not worry
her any more. John took the blow
quietly, but the agony of soul he suffer
ed no one but himself knew.
Then grave whispers and mods and
winks passed around from house to
house in the village. There were talks
in hated breath of secret meetings at
night, and of Molly and the young
squire being seen toyether. And John
would be questioned, but he never an
swered. His sorrow was for himself
alone-so he would tell himself it
could not be shared by the curious 1t
was his wont to go and sit by the sea,
and there find sort of melancholy sat.
isfaetion in the low wall of the pillows
as they broke in at the foot of the cliffs.
AS for Molly. after one final attempt to
reclaim her, John avoided her. To have
met her would have increased the in
convenience of both, and in his case
would have opened afresh the wounds
but hardly healed. In the months that
followed the whispers took an uglier
form, and Longville delighted its soul
at last in a village scandal.
And SO Molly went away and left her
poor old father sorrowing
There was only one who ever defend
ed the fair name of Molly when it was
made a byword with the young roughs
of the place, who loafed outside the vii
lage inn or at the roadsides John was
never known to have become so incensed
as when one evening in his hearing one
of these thoughtless youths mentioned
inappropriately Molly's name and oou.
pied it with a foul epithet. Then he
thrashed the young lout within an inch
of his life.
After awhile the sad incident was
forgotten-at least until Molly's return
to her home again. Then trouble began
anew She was very much altered, and
the roses had faded from her cheeks, In
fearful sorrow she would sit and nurse
her baby III day long.
I've last act in the tragedy came when
one day Molly's father received a note
from the hall. The steward brought it
round, and as Molly's father was grow
ing old aud feeble and his sight waning
the steward read the note aloud. 1t was
a formally worded epistle giving the
poor, old, sorrow stricken parent a
month S notice because the squire felt
that it was mot conducive to the morals
of the village that people of Molly's
stamp should be harbored' in the midst
of his cottagers Needless to say Molly's
father was almost broken hearted at
the thought of leaving the house he had
occupied for SO long, while as for Molly
herself her distress was too piteous for
words.
One morning not long after John
stepped down the old roadway, his face
haggard, but the expression firm, reso-
lutte and determined. He presented him
self at the door of Molly's cottage and
was admitted. 1t was only look they
exchanged, and the floodgates were
opened again, and, having sobbed on
his shoulder awhile, Molly gradually
recovered herself, while John, with a
choking sensation in the throat which
he tried in vain to keep down, avowed;
81 have always waited for you, Molly.
| knew you would come back to me. ="
But can't. You forget that is
his, and she pointed in her anguish
to the cot wherein the babe was slum-
bering peacefully.
John didn't turn his head to look,
but he took Molly in his arms again,
And love was consummated i'll sery-
ice London Sun.