Shepherdstown register. [volume] (Shepherdstown, Va. [W. Va.]) 1849-1955, 1912-07-04
THE REMEDY.

The heavy cart, loaded with corn foI
the grist-mill, had stood good half-houl
at Jonathan Murray's door. The oxen
chewing their cuds reflectively, were il
no hurry to start; but Jonathan's daughter
Mary, glancing at the sun, now high above
the reddening naples on Bluebeny Noun
tain, compressed her lips into severe
line suggestive of overtaxed patience.
Through the closed door OF the room
beyond the kitchen came the murmur o.
voices, one breaking now and then into
sobs, the other, deeper voice, gently
remonstrant. The words of the dialogue
were not audible, but Mary could guess
what was being said, the unreasonable
appeal the sturdy common-sense reioind-
er.
She had been trained to respect heI
elders, but in her heart there was con-
temptuos wonder that any one, even heI
fathers new wife, should not realize the
necessity of man getting his griSt to mill
"Perhaps she would be content to eat il
unground," Mary murmured, with slightly
curling lip. Her girlish stepmother, a
child beside Mary in all practical things,
had never shown any great readiness to
undergo privation.
The door opened at last, and Jonathan
Murray came from his wife's room with
his strong face overcast. The trip to the
mill would occupy only three days; the
third night he would be at home again
but as his wife had clung weeping round
his neck, and he had kissed the forehead
of his two-weeks' -old son, he had fell
an unwonted heaviness of heart. II was
a relief to stop for word with Mary.
The composed serenity of her face and
manner was reassuring.
"She is troubled, Mary, to have me
leave her, but | have no choice in the
matter. The corn must be ground; already
am late with it. She is unaccustomed to
our solitude. A neighbor or two would
help keep up her heart"
He looked rather wistfully about the
clearing, hemmed in by the forest, with
the mountains rising beyond. 1t had
never occurred to him before that it was
lonely. He had his home, his wife and
children, and strength to work for them.
Few pioneers asked for more.
"She will grow used to it in time" "
Mary said, but she felt again that sense OF
surprised contempt for one whose peace
of mind depended on seeing the smoke
wreaths from other peoples chimneys.
Mary knew as little OF neighborS as she
did of fashions. 1t was impossible for
her to put herself in the place of the timid
young creature, transplanted from the
hustle to a solitude almost like that of a
primevaI wilderness. The young wife
had struggled bravely against the strange
ness OF it all, but now, her power of re-
sistance lessened by physical weakness,
she had given up the effort to conceal her
apprehensions. Her husbands departure
seemed to her to leave them all at the
mercy ofinnumerable dangers.
As the oxen plodded up the slope,
Jonathan Murray turned for another look
at his home, the square, substantial house,
with its roof sloping in the rear TO within
a few feet of the ground, the wide CHM
ney, spacious enough to accommodate
the generous gith of the Christmas saint,
who must find himself sadly incommoded
in these modern days.
A girlish figure stood in the open door.
She waved her hand to him with ges-
ture oddly reassuring. Jonathan Murray
found his heart suddenly lighter. Mary
would take care of the weeping young
wife whom he had left and the little,
squirming, redfaced son. He could trust
Mary.
When he looked back again, just be-
fore he turned the bend, the watching
figure had disappeared. Mary was in
deed in her stepmother's room, sum-
moned by the baby's lusty crying. She
took the child in her arms, conscious OF
a curious tender warmth in her heart.
"LittIe brother, you mustno cry so loud"
she said in his ear, and the child stopped
with almost uncanny abruptness, and
stared at her with big round eyes.
Across the top of the baby's bald head
Mary looked rather helplessly at the
swollen, ar-stained face of the mother.
Such manifestations of weakness made
her feel awkward and i'll at ease. For
herself, she would have thrust her hands
among the blazing logs in the huge lire
place almost as soon as size would have
wept where other eyes could see her.
Yet again the tears were rolling down the
thin cheeks of her fathers wife, and two
tremulous hands were extended toward
her appealingly.
"Mary, cannot bear it! am afraid.
Oh, its terrible, this loneliness! Night