The Worthington advance., 1898-10-13
the week was out. and Misery had.
started back to her home.


The long walk up the mountai was
hard on the girl. She felt g one fou I. =. .
She sat down often to rest. The near
ser she came. to her home, the slower
she went. Her arms ached for their,
accusto tomed burd len. She shrank from
the farm and the work, that would
now be easier, since there were fewer
to care for. Before, there had been
so much to live for and work far that
it had buoyed her up on the hardest
days.
At last she came to the house. She
wondered if her father had buried
Lion. She wished that the baby and
she and Lion might have been buried
together. It would not be so lonely
for the baby. She had been at tho
doctors long enough to know that
such a wish would be looked on as
blasphemous; but she felt that since
people had not taken any care of them
living, they had no right to interfere
with them dead. She sat in the twi-
light thinking, in a dull uncertain
way, of her mother and the baby and
Lion, until her father came in. Then
she got his supper, but while he was
eating she went out and stood by the
gate, still thinking, till the moon came
up and threw such CHASTITY shadows
about her that she shuddered nervous
ly and walked back. =
Nothing could have been more DESC
late and dreary than her life that win
ter. 1t was only when at rare inter-
walls she came to the village to "trade"
that she spoke to a soul. Her father
was doing better now, and was at
home most of the time, but they had
nothing to talk about and seldom
spoke. In the monotony of her life
she sometimes grew almost frantic
for something to happen. Anything
seemed better than this endless work
ing and thinking. For she had grown
into a habit of thinking and longing
for something better than the mere
animal existence given her. If she had
only had the baby to work for and
worry over, she would have been con-
tented and happy, but the dead still
ness in her life grew intolerable.
At last the summer came, and with
it came an epidemic in the little vii
lage and on the neighboring farms.
So many were stricken down, and the
work on the farms was so pressing,
that the sick were mostly left to get
along as well as they could. The doc
tor complained loudly of the lack of
nurses, and when Misery heard of it
she came down at once and offered to
help him. She had not responded to
his call for the sake of the good she
could do, or from any heroic impulse.
1t was something to do, something
different, something that would take
her away from the empty quiet house
that had grown hateful to her. She
was strong and qiuck, and worked
well. She knew the very people she.
nursed had allowed her, mother to
sicken and die without coming near
her. She knew, too, that if they were
well they would not even allow her to
do their work about their homes.
Once she had hated them for it, but
now she thought little about it. She
was lonely and wanted something
to do.
The doctor praised her and lost no
opportunity of telling the neighbors
about her work. They shook their
heads in an awe-struck way and
: :" lowed nobody 'ud ever "a thought
that McVicker's gal 'ud ever show
sech sperrit as that 'ere,' but no one
offered to help her, and the doctor be-
gan to feel that nothing could tire
her; so between them she was killed.
Nobody ever called it just that. They
" Flowed she'd worked pretty hard an
got run down, SO the fever got hard
hold on her" When she was buried
the people came from all around to the
funeral, but none went near the BODY:
they were afraid of contagion. They
spoke of her regretfully, though, and
agreed that if she had lived she might
have amounted to something, although
she was Misery McVicker. But their
good or bad opinion was nothing to
her now. She had gone to her mother
and the baby, who had never asked
whether she amounted to anything or
not, but had loved her because she
was Misery. 49, Lippincott's Monthly
Magazine.
TRUE TO HIS FIRST LOVE