Hopkinsville Kentuckian., 1910-11-22
| TWO
PROMISES
By Dorothy Blackmore

scattered III the waters all was BLlll
save hammock that swung inces-
sanity to and fro on the deck Of one.
A woman half lay, half sat among
the cushions and watched the ten
der lights of the new day play shyly
on the hill crests. The low, tapping
melody of the waves seemed subtly
TO chant farewell to the gray shad-
ows that lifted, one by one, from the
green banks.
In the distance, as from the cup
Of the hills. puffs of smoke rose and
the whistle of train pierced the
air.
The woman started and clasped
the little one she held in her arms
more closely to her; she pressed her
tired cheek against the velvet Of the
infants own. She had sat thus all
through the night, rocking the in
fant in her waiting for the
dawn and the train whose blue-grsy
smoke now mingled with the lights
of early morning.
Was he on that traina She
watched it crawl from among the
hills and creep along the edge of the
bank. 1t whistled-or did it moan ?
AS it wound its tortuous way now
hidden from her sight now plainly
visible. Every turn of the wheels
brought the child's father closer.
She shivered and drew about her
the shawl that had all but slipped
from her shoulders.
The baby stirred in her arms as
if he, too, protested the arrival OF
his father-the father he never had
seen. Born on this same housebost,
he had been, all his short life, far
from the mines of Mexico where his
parent lived
He opened his eyes and looked
into the only face he knew-the face
of the woman who had taken him
from his beautiful young mother.
The woman rose and descended
the narrow stairs to the tiny cabin
below. In an hour-perhaps less
the man would come to take from
her the baby she loved. And yet
she had promised the young moother
that she would send for him, and it |
had seemed to her then to be right.
She had written the message to the
father so many miles away telling
him that his wife-whom he had
expected soon to join him-had died
when the son was born.
In the months that followed she
had kept the baby as her OVID he
was her only solace in life bereft |
strangely of its all-her lover. Now,
this baby was to be taken from her
by man who had never seen him.
She rebelled at the thought and |
clasped the little fellow jealously to |
her breast.
AT every sound of oars or every
splash of water she started and
peered through the miniature win
dows of the cabin across the harbor
to the landing nearest the railroad
station. She had written him-the
baby's father-explicit directions as
to how to reach them. She did not
want to meet him; she longed to
keep the baby for her own till the
very last minute.
Boats put out here and there
from one craft or another until the
busy little bay was alive with the
beginning of another day. Matuti-
nal fishermen appeared and dropped
anchor; enthusiastic swimmers took
their morning plunge from nearby
houseboats and yachts; saucy little
launches plowed past with noise and
hustle, and odors of breakfast cof-
fee permeated the air.
AT last from the dock a hired boat
put out and-the woman looked
closely-there was a man in the
stern. The boat headed toward the
tiny houseboat that had lain all
summer in the harbor. Yes-it was
the expected guest, and the woman
was possessed Of an almost uncon-
trollabIe impulse to lower her own
small boat and flee with the baby.
She did not even go Hospitality to
the stern to receive the stranger I;
| abe hnd nnt nnnn looked OF him nnI