Pike County press. (Milford, Pa.) 1895-1925, 1900-02-09

"rhis bacon is not fit to eatr' lie
lifted a hit on his fork and smelled at
II suspieiously "AnJ the coffee is quite
cold. And there isn't a morsel Of toast.
Iieally. It is too had to expect man
to 20 to work with ut any breakfast"
"The charwoman didn't come this
morning. you know Everard and
Dorothy was desperately afraid that
SHE would cry, ana she was determined
not to cry, so she s'iid no more.
"Why can't you find servant,
then?' growled her husband "Such
wietched mismanHgement never
saw"
"Perhaps you were more comfortable
In lodgings" said Dorothy, taunted in
to speech.
No answer.
Perhaps you think it was a mistake
to have married me-
Silence. SO much recommended in
cases Of this kind. is sometimes the
most cruel of all Tetorts II was so
now. Yet Everal1 Payn said not
word. He knew he was behaving like
a brute, but he was cold, hungry and
haunted with cOrroding care. He
turned to the fireplace and tried to
poke the mass of coal and coal dust in
to flame. but his efforts were ill-di-
rected. aud the smoldering heap re-
mained dead He threw down the po-
ker in a passion and went out into the
hail and into the street, closing the
front door after him with a bang.
Hour after hour Dorothy sat at the
wretched breakfast table without NOV
ing She was alone in the little house
and had no one to mind but herself.
The tears came freely enough now.
They trickled through her fingers and
dropped, one by one, on the soiled Ia
bleclOth.
WAS 1t true, then" she asked her
self "Did Everard regret already the
rash step that had brought them to-
getherT' He was only a poor writer
struggling for dear life in the cruel
battlefield of London. She knew that
he was often pressed for money,
though he told her little of his mon
ey troubles. Was it not a piece of fol
ly in them to marry?
At length she rose and mechanically
began to clear away the breakfast
things. The Kitchen fire had gone out.
Everything was cold and dreary. And
if it were all a huge mistake
She went upstairs and began to put
a few of her personal belongings into
portmanteau. One volume she
thought she must have-a copy of
"'rhe Imitation of Christ" She found
it after a little search, but then she
remembered. 1t had been a gift from
Everard-how long ago it seemed!-
in the days of their courtship. The pet
name he had given her, and that no
one but he had ever called her by,
"nodie," was on the fly leaf in his
handwriting. She could not take it.
She kissed 1t and put it away in a
drawer. Then she went on putting
things together, one by one, on the
bed.
The winter afternoon had given
place to twilight when Everard put
his latchkey into the door of the little
dwelling. He had long since repented
of his had temper and lie had brought
with him a twopenny bunch of viOlets
as q peace Offering. 1t struck him. as
he opened the door, that there was an
unusual echoing in the passage. Clos
ing the door behind him, he shouted,
"DorOthyl' There was no reply.
"She can't be sulking still?' he said
to himself. '"That is not like Dodie.
Where are your" he cried again, push
ing open the door of the sitting room.
He half expected TO feel a pair of
warm arms around his neck as he did
so, but there was no sound of any
kind. The room was dark and cold.
With trembling fingers he lit the gas.
The cold light fell on a black CRATE.
Evidently the fire had not been
touched since he left In the morning.
He ran from room to room. dreading
he knew not what as he threw open
each door Dorothy was not there. Nor
did he notice that their bedroom win
dow was open and that the draught
caused by his opening the door had
sent scrap of thin paper Oh which
Dorothy had written a farewell mes
sage fiuttering to the floor He gazed
round the deserted bedroom. noting the
signs of packing. and the truth burst
on him. He felt as if she had died.
Then suddenly revulsion of feeling
came upon him.
"She can have no heart after all, to
leave me when she knew | was in such
trouble" he said, savagely. He turned
left the house and never entered il
again. A month later the landlord
seized the furniture for rent and let
the place to another tenant.
Dorothy woke next morning with a
painful sense of something dread -ul
having happened, and she instinctively
listened TO learn whether her husband
was up. Then she remembered. She
had been careful to leave her address
so that Everard might have no diff
Guilty in tracing her. and she had Nc
doa1hf fhof ho xxor1ld furr, ttr, soma fft.,o
during the day to scold her-she deter.
mined that she would submit to the
scOlding without a word-but, at any
rate, to take her home.
She did not go out all that day, lest
she should miss him, but he never
came. When night fell she would have
been glad to go back of her own ac.
cord, but her pride forbade her, and
she remained where she was. Surely
she thought, he will come tomorrow
But that day too, passed, and Dorothy
began to realize that her husband had
taken her at her word.
As a matter of fact. on the morning
Of the second day Everard had left
word where he was TO be found at the
hOnse agents office and inserted one
or two advertisements in the daily pa
pers-he could not afford maryland
then he told himself he could do nc
more, Dorothy was dead to him-losi
in the great whirlpool Of London.
A year went by. and Dorothy, pal,
and thin and shabby was slowly drag
Ring her way through one of the greai
th0rOughfares. Her heart was heavy
for there was a cradle in the poor room
she had left, and in the cradle a bab,
girl What Dorothy Payn had gone
through during the last six months on
ly she and her God knew At one tim.
she had all but starved: but one o.
thar much-sneered-at class-distrie