The Dupuyer acantha. [volume] (Dupuyer, Mont.) 1894-1904, 1899-07-06

her as I saw her in my childhood, be-
fore my father went to his death-a
comedy, pretty woman.
Now, what causes me to throw my
voice in the direction of the door, and
to call out suddenly and Unexpectedly:
"Yo; heave, ho!'
My mother starts up with a scream,
and runs to the door with a frighten-
ed look. There she stands, trembling
and white, with eyes that see nothing
that is really there, and with out
stretched hands that seem to have
tongues in them, so eloquent are they,
why mother" 1 say, what are
you looking for? A ghost!"
She gives me a scared look, and let's
me lead her back to her chair, into
which she sinks, still all of a tremble,
ct was I who gave you that 'Yo.
heave, no! mother"
Really you, Amos?"
Really me, mother"
Your voice was so like your
fathers, my son." says she, almost in
a whisper; "and at that moment 1 was
looking into the fire, and thinking Of
him."
Presently she adds, II didn't know
but that he might be calling me to
come to him."
l pass my arm around her neck, and
she takes my hand and holds it in
hers, so that she has a necklet Of her
wv loving flesh and blood about her.
"Then my voice is like my father's?"
eyes, my son."
"How we'll I remember his 'Yo,
heave, no! 1t used to make me jump
for JOY"
ut was the first thing you ever
heard from him, Amos. He was in
the Indies when you were born. He
came home in the early morning when
we were abed, not expecting him. All,
deary me! deary me! When I heard
his voice I gave a scream, as I did
just now"
Then comes a long silence, during
which we both look into the FIRE again
I seeing Mabel, and my mother the
dead, with his "Yo, heave, ho!"
Father vas a fine man, mother?"
eyes, my son; you are like him."
It is the first time my attention has
ever been called to my personal ap-
pearance. Well, yes, 1 wasn't a Grip
pie, nor wry-faced. I had a fine brown
beard in those days, and 1 was tall
and STRAIGHTFORWARD.
$50 I am like my father. I am glad Of
that. 1t was a love-match, mother?'
She knows that I refer to her court
ing days, and she draws a deer
breath.
Eyes, my son. We loved each Other
true"
mo happiness without love, mother
"None, my son"
Her voice is broken by the tear!
which are running down her old face
There is no happiness without love
and she had tasted it, this little palt
old mother of mine, and she lived nov
on the memory, sucking honey out O.
the past.
And in the midst of these thoughts
comes the remembrance of a frowI
on a woman's face, and the cold touch
Of a dead hand. Vainly do I try tt
shake it off.
How old were you, mother, wher
you first saw father?'
81 was a little girl in pinafores, M
son."
Seven or eight years. maybe?"
about that, my son."
Like Mabel?" l say.
l intend only to think this, my ques.
tons being put so as to lead up tt
the point; but the words came gu
without my having anything to de
with it, as it seems. From this mo,
ment l am conscious that my mother Il
watching me in a secret way. Well
what have l to conceal?
who was at Mabel's house to
night?" she presently asks.
mo one but Mabel and her mother,
I answer
Wasn't any one else expected?"
mot that 1 know Of"
1t occurs to me that my mother hal
a purpose in turning my thoughts il
this new direction, and I question he
concerning it. She answers me in
roundabout way.
"He is often at Mabel's house, and
thought he would be sure to be Their
tonight"
"He! Who?"
"Have you not heard" she says, wit,
a quaver in her voice, that a gentle
man is keeping company with Mabel?
She keeps her face purposely turne
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