The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, November 07, 1894, Image 1
1
THE SUMTER WATCHMAN, Established April, 1 SSO.
lBe Just and Fear not-Let alache Ends thou Aims't at, he thy Country's, thy God'sjand Truth's."
THE TKUK SOUTHRON, Established June. 1266
Consolidated Aug. 2, ISSI.
SUMTER, S. C., WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1894.
New Series-Vol. XIV. So. 15.
Published Erery "Wednesday,
1>3\ Cs?r. Osteen,
SUMTER, S. C.
i TERMS I
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By ??BTBTOE F. LYNGIL ":
IC0P3T3gfat,'189i,:T^ A??rfcaii Pres^Associa
' .saws ?*m ?sss*
rJZSo- B?#^e?l afc ?st%
.':%?|?efci??? fest nighi.. B didn't seem
possible he could ever surprise 'em in
that way, they'd been lookin for it so
long, bot he did. They were eatin their
Sapper in the kitchin. Left him jes' for
? minit, and when they hurried back
there he was-^-gone. "
Mrs. Crocker straightened her sun?
bonnet, drew her shawl about her shoul?
ders and rose to depart At the door
she paused.
"What do yer suppose, Lize, that
daughter of his'n'll do?"
"Ma?ldy?"
"Yes."
"Waa!, Fve thought of that, but don't
seem to come to eny mind consarnin
her. She's so all fired queer. Perhaps
it'll onsettle her. "
. "Do yer think she'll go to Bostin?"
c1?r|puTda'tbe a bit surprised ef she
did. Sho's never be'n tho samo sence her
visit there that air time. ' '
smart's a whip. "
Aa tiiey turned to part each glanced
curiously down the hill where from
the door knocker of a small white house
a long black streamer hung in dejected
?folds to the stoop.
"Looks like new craps. "
"Waal it's about time. That old
piece's be'n in use ever sence the year
my John was born. Remember jes as
weD. Mies Edgoom' left off moomin for
her ma and put on that - sprigged mus?
lin. Sari o' neat, but tori yoong for her.
WaaL Mr. Edgoom', he jes took her
old veil, yanked out the creases and has
used it ever sence for every funeral he's
ever tended"
j In the white house lay the corpse of
Ezra Perkins. AB his neighbors had
gossiped, he had been left for a few min?
utes by his daughter and nurse, and
when they returned he had passed be?
yond their care. The hard work, the
exposure, the fever, to all of which the
?New England farmer becomes an early
inheritor, had done their work. At 50
he had been a vrora out man; at 60 he
was dead.
In the spareroom the nurse, a com?
fortable looking, middle aged woman,
was tying a black ribbon around the
stem of a goblet which held a few
sprays of ragged robin and young man's
love,- viewing her work with approval
and wondering how soon she could with
decency leave the house of mourning to
enter her term of service at the next
place, where she had seen six young
Browns into the world and was ready
and eager to help along the seventh.
Down stairs Matildy was putting
hack the disordered chairs, straighten?
ing an unruly window shade and trying
vainly to end the struggles of a huge
bluebottle fly that buzzed distractingly
about the dusty panes. The coffin stood
in the middle of the room, anet now and
then as she wandered about she would
glance at it apprehensively, as if she
feared its contents would still question
and disapprove in querulous accents.
Ezra Perinrts had been a stern parent
and hard taskmaster. Even death could
not blot that from her mind. Ker thin
frame, whose close fitting garment of
black emphasized the stcop engendered
by years of daily labor, the knotted hand
and careworn face, were each mute wit?
nesses of the bitter experience life had
been to her. She had been a slave many
years, but she was free at last-free
from the gibes and jeers, the constant
supervision, the necessity for account?
ing for trifles, the ever overhanging
dread of a daily tribunal for sins of
omission* and commissioij. There had
been no love between father and daugh?
ter, but the Puritan rigidity of principle
which showed each the straight path of
duty to the other and their little world
.gave their stern lives the empty appear?
ance of family affection.
A little time was her ovru, in which
she could enjoy the hard earned reward
iof reflection-a scanty reward, but one
which overworked body and tired brain
had ere this denied her. Her dreams
?were hot poetical' The drudgery or a
farmhouse does not produce poets, but
lin the arid soil of her prosaic mind had
been planted the seeds of an ambition
which seemed to approach fruition.
; AB if it were yesterday, she recalled
the one experience in her life which
burnished her with these materials of
future hope and present uneasiness-an
?exp?rience which caused her even now
.to be spoken of admiringly by her
?neighbors as "Ezry's daughter, the one
who went to Boston." For them, in
their monotonous existence, time was
limitless, and this event, which happen?
ed when she was but 12-she was now
,in her thirty-fifth year-was still im?
portant enough to be chronicled in daily
conversation.
! The circumstances of her visit were
The driver gaiyied, control of them,
perhaps extraordinary enough to excuse
the forcible impression it had made.
Standing ono day "by the bars of the
*'medder," swinging her empty berry
pail and digging among the briers and
stones with her bare toes, she had wit?
nessed a frightful runaway, horses and
driver alike frantic with fear, and the
only occupant of the carriage, an elder?
ly lady, powerless but brave and self
possessed in the face of present danger
and future disaster. With unchildlike
presence of mind Matildy tore off her
sunbonnet and ran into the road waving
it furiously before the eyes of the fright?
ened animals. The maneuver was suc?
cessful Tie horses reared, pranced, then
suddenly became quiet in a tremor of
ungovernable rage before the weird lit?
tle figure. Seizing his opportunity, the
driver gained control of them with no
greater damage than a bad fright. The
occupant of the carriage, a wealthy
woman, visiting amid the fashionable
element of a neighboring summer re?
sort; from which she had been drawn
by a fit of exploring curiosity, on her
return to her city home took Matildy
with her to ease her mind of its unac?
customed burden of curiosity by show?
ing the country bred child the wonders
and fascinations of a luxurious existence.
For weeks Matildy dwelt in dreamland,
her open eyes and ears drinking in the
mysteries of this new life and receiving
impressions which were destined to
tinge her whole career. Then came the
awakening. Her hostess, believing her
debt discharged, sent her. home laden
with gifts and seductive promises,
which proved chimerical, her identity
being forgotten in a month.
Soon her life assumed a new aspect,
and dreams were forced to make way
for the realities of existence. Her moth?
er's death and the subsequent burdens
which fell on her shoulders took from
her the gayety and life of youth, and
in a few years she was a prematurely
old woman, known and respected only
for her common sense, industry and
thrifty but restless and dissatisfied, ever
cherishing the secret hope of a return
some day to that paradise around which
her youthful dreams centered.
Now that her desire was so near grati?
fication she grudged every moment that
passed. The fact that she had waited
years only made the moments pass more
slowly. As she fidgeted about the front
room eying the red and yellow pattern
of the gaudy carpet and the gaunt in?
mate of the coffin the joy that she felt
at her hard won freedom was tempered
by the necessary delay she must experi?
ence before availing herself of its priv?
ileges.
Her reverie was broken into by offi?
cious offers of assistance, and soon she
was deep in the mysteries of planning
and contriving how to seat her expect?
ed guests, how to make useful the black
bombazine, which Mrs. Stoddard, who
loaned it, remarked "jest wanted a hitch
iii the back to make it fit, " and other
necessary details.
CHAPTER IL
But time passed, as time will. The
funeral services, in which nothing was
omitted or shortened, from the inter?
minable prayer and eulogy on the de?
ceased to the melancholy "airth to
airth, " were all duly rehearsed- Then
r ime the final preparations, the pack?
ing up, the goodbys, the tacking of the
sign "To Let" on the exterior of the
small house.
The last night Daniel Macquirk saun?
tered up to the door.
"Evenin, Matildy, " he remarked.
"Evenin, Dau'el, " she responded
quietly.
He removed the corncob pipe from
his stubbly lips. "So vcr really air goin,
Matildy. I didn't believe it. "
Matildy turned on him fiercely.
"Why didn't yer believe it?" she
asked.
Daniel looked helplessly. ' ' I dunno, ' '
he responded lamely, "but ain't it
raither sudden?"
"It don't take me all my life, Dan'el,
to make up my mind to do a thing,"
Matildy sarcastically rejoined.
This was a home thrust. For 15 years
Daniel Macquirk had sauntered up
every evening with his corncob pipe in
his mouth and his hands in his pockets
to see Matildy. She knew and he knew
that he intended asking her to be his
wife, but the word had never been
spoken. He had needed only an encour?
aging glance, but her proud, obstinate
nature forbade this yielding. Her New
England training had taught her that
it was the woman's privilego to hold
back, and she had held back rigidly.
Now she was glad. To be Daniel Mac
quirk's wife seemed as nothing in com?
parison with the future of which she
had been dreaming.
Daniel held her hand a moment as
they stood together on the stoop. "I
he said as the roughened palms parted.
For the first time a faint doubt assail?
ed her and a faint premonition of com?
ing homesickness, but only for a mo?
ment 'Tm sure I shan't, Dan'el, " she
answered, softened by the coming sep?
aration.
"Ef yer should ever want any help,
Matildy"-he began.
"Inever shall, Dan'el," she inter?
rupted quickly. "Hev I ever?" and vi?
sions of her unhelped childhood, youth
and womanhood again hardened her
voice.
The next day the little whitehouse at
the foot of the hill was closed.
A scanty store of money, the name of
the woman who was the innocent cause
of her exodus-this was the capital with
which she had determined to make a
new start in life, never doubting that
her future experience would be a repeti?
tion of the past. Her ignorance made
her sanguine. The expressions of life?
long obligation and epithets of affection
still lingered in her ears, as when, an
excited, happy child, she had left the
luxurious home where she had been for
weeks the source of secret amusement
and half concealed boredom.
When Matildy landed in Boston, she
experienced that peculiar feeling of help?
lessness and bewilderment which over?
powers the country bred in the presence
of the bustle and noise of a great city.
She stood looking helplessly about,
alarmed for her safety in the midst of
the incoming and outgoing trains, the
hurrying crowds, the inharmonious mur?
mur of the neighboring streets. A long
time she waited; then as the momentary
paralysis of thought and action passed
she followed the throng of new arrivals
into the street. Here a new terror as?
sailed her. A mob of haranguing driv?
ers yelling, "Cab, cab, cab!" surround?
ed her. One more enterprising than the
rest seized her large carpet bag and hur
"Why didn't yer believe itt" she asked.
ried her toward his waiting vehicle,
Matildy yielded to her persistent cava?
lier and seated herself on the comforta?
ble cushions with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Where to?" the cabman asked, after
waiting a reasonable time for directions.
"I want to go to Mis' Ellis'," Matil?
dy responded.
"Come, none of that!" the man
coarsely answered. "Where do you
mean?"
Matildy folded her hands primly in
her lap and began, "Yer see, when Heft
Mis' Ellis she told me that any time I
was able to come, to come right back,
I'd be sure of a welcome, and so I'm
goin to surprise her. "
The man, too practical to be touched
by this childlike inexperience and faith,
seized her roughly by the arm, angry,
as he saw the possibility of a fare fad?
ing into nothingness. "I haven't any
time," he ejaculated, "towaste. Come,
get out of here!"
So Matildy was again left standing
helpless and alona
She walked up and down and finally
wandered into a store, where she seated
herself on one of the vacant stools. The
crowds of busy shoppers passed her by,
the floorwalkers and clerks looked at
her curiously, but believing she was
waiting for some one did not disturb
her. The moments passed Finally she
got up and wandered again into the
street No one looked at her or paid her
the slightest attention. A great feeling
of loneliness and dread began to assail
her. She mustered up courage to ap?
proach an apple stand kept by a matron?
ly woman, whoso ruddy cheeks seemed
to have borrowed the roseate flush of
her. fruit "Can you tell me, " she haz?
arded timidly, ' 'where Mis' Ellis lives?' '
The woman, busily rubbing her ap?
ples, looked at her curiously.
"Bless my soul ! I don't know any
Miss Ellis. I guess you've made a mis?
take. " Then, with the quickness of her
class, used to all the sights and scenes
of a great city, she took in the situation.
"You're from the country, I guess?"
Matildy nodded.
Thoughts of her own country bred
childhood prompted her to offer JVIatil
dy a seat and an apple while sho listen?
ed to her story. When it was finished,
she saw her duty stretch plainly before
her. In her simple life she had no time
or place for morai wanderings or split?
ting of hairs. Things were either right
or wrong. This woman had como to her
friendless and inexperienced. Sho must
do what she could to assist her.
This she found to be considerable. It
consisted in her taking her protege home,
and, after finding the addresses of all the
Ellises that the directory afforded, in her
spare moments going with Matildy to
each house wher?~ifs?enied poss?ble~her
former protectress might reside. This
took many clays and resulted in disap?
pointment and failure. The old lady
who had unconsciously played such an
important part in Matildy Perkins' life
had long since died, her house had pass?
ed into the possession of distant rela?
tives, who were too absorbed in the
found of fashion to feel more than a
passing interest in the quaint story and
its. quaint teller.
Then came a long season of trial for
Matildy. Too proud to return to her
village home, she daily fought the bat?
tle of homesickness amid her strange
surroundings. The old apple woman
was her only solace, and she alone was
a witness of the gradual disappearance
of the little hoard of money, the inapti?
tude for a city life, the pathetic long?
ing and homesickness Matildy tried so
bravely to hide.
CHAPTER IH
A few months elapsed; then the white
house at the foot of the hill was reopen?
ed Matildy Perkins had returned.
Once more she resumed her forfeited
position, took charge of Dorcas meetings
and quilting bees and became as before
the advisor and confidante of young and
old If there was an added line of anx?
iety or despair on her countenance, no
one noticed it, so profuse had nature
been in that respect There was a stern
dignity in her bearing which prevented
the of-cious inquiries of her neighbors
from being too closely pursued That
she had failed was evident, but the de?
tails of her failure, the long dreary days
among a people who seemed an alien
tribe, so different were they from the
bright remembrances of her childhood
and her own personality. The little
stuffy room and tho ill cooked food,
which was all her meager capital could
furnish, the sense of bewilderment
which never forsook her day or night,
the shock she had received at the news
of the death of her benefactress, and,
above all, the longing for her village
home, where every face was familiar
and friendly-all this was locked se?
curely in her own breast
Little time, however, was left her for
lamenting. The realities of existence
faced her. The little farm, which in
her father's lifetime had furnished them
by his unceasing efforts with a scanty
sustenance, now lay barren and unpro?
ductive The only thing she could do
was to dispose of the land at a sacrifice,
which she did, and with the meager
sum obtained lived on frugally while
she weighed plan after plan for earning
her daily bread. To go about from house
to house sewing, nursing, eta, was re?
pugnant to her. She hated to place her?
self in a position of dependence to those
who were her inferiors, but she must
live, and day after day she sat with hands
stightly clasped waiting for inspiration.
One morning, with a smile of satis?
faction, she hung a huge square of white
pasteboard outside her front room win?
dow. On it was printed in legible
characters:
: OPINIONS BY :
: MATILDY :
: PERKINS. :
: 10 cents. :
Soon after an excited group of neigh?
bors gathered on Mrs. Stoddard's front
doorstep to discuss its advent After a
season of fruitless conjecture Mrs. Stod?
dard volunteered to investigate in per?
son.
"She'll never tell yer, " hazarded one
skeptic. "Yer know she's so sort o'
queer about tellin things. "
"Waal, I guess," said Mrs. Stoddard
aggressively, "thet I ain't skeered at a
'no,' an, what's more, I don't believe
she'll be so all fired mean as to hang that
air sign out and then refuse to splain
its meanin."
Accordingly Mrs. Stoddard, hurried
down to the foot of the hill and rapped
at Matildy's door. Matildy, having
seen the conclave, knew that the mo?
ment of explanation had come.
Her air of dignity and laconic ' 'Morn
m, Miss Stoddard" rather awed her in?
terlocutor, but the thought of the party
she represented moved her to a new
trial. After a little pause she commenc?
ed, "I thought I'd like to know, Ma?
tildy, what thet air sign means?" point?
ing as she spoke to the flapping paste?
board. Matildy's thin lips tightened,
then unclosed abruptly. "I've come to
the conclusion, Miss Stoddard," she
7f]y1 i'S"";
vii iv \ mk . t Jr m
Matildy's thin lips tightened.
said, ' 'thet ef my opinions is wuth askin
for they're wuth a-payin for. Ten cents
won't break no bones, an you know as
well as I know thet for years ef any?
body's got inter any muss or mess
they've jes put on his'n or her hat or
bonnet an run right over to me, an I've
done by 'em to the best of my ability.
Now times is changed I've got to get
my bread an butter, an I guess thet's as
good ajvay's any.. Leastwise I'm goin
to try it, an ef "yer "ever want my ad?
vice yon can get it for 10 cents. "
Mrs. Stoddard was staggered for
moment by this harangue, bat recover?
ed rapidly.
"Do yer mean to say, Matildy Per?
kins, thet ef a neighbor came in to ask
yer for a little friendly advice thet
ye'd charge far it?"
"Thet's jes' what I mean, Miss Stod?
dard. Ef I ask anybody fur anything, I
expect to pay 'em fur it, an thet's what
I want done ter me. "
Mrs. Stoddard took her way back
with excited talk and gesture. "I s'pose
thet's what she learned in Bostin," she
ended, after the dialogue had been duly
rehearsed. "I've heerd said thet yer see
an hear strange sort o' things there, an
I guess it's so ef that's a sample. "
"She'll wait a long time before she'll
get my money," said another.
"Mine neither," was ejaculated on
all sides.
For days nothing was spoken of over
hoe and rake and across currant bushes
and dilapidated rails but Matildy Per?
kins' opinions. For days Matildy sat in
her scantily furnished sitting room wait?
ing for possible customers who never
came, they being for the most part en?
gaged in querulous dissertations upon
her rapacity and egotism.
Suddenly one night Johnny Brown
was taken with the croup. Matildy was
near at hand, the doctor far, and Matil?
dy had already brought him through
the measles and whooping cough. Mrs.
Brown hesitated but a moment She
had been Matildy's most bitter opponent
in this new venture, but motherly love
carried the day, and Matildy was sum?
moned.
Thus the first step was taken, and the
rest was easy. Soon after Johnny's con?
valescence came preserves and pickling
time, and her recipes were in constant
requisition. Then came the question of
winter cloaks and hats. Her taste was
constantly required. She had been to
"Bostin." That, in her neighbors'eyes,
was the open sesame to all knowledge
and all experience.
Pretty soon it became evident in the
village that nothing could be done with?
out the sanction of Matildy's opinions.
Best rooms were furnished, children
doctored, Dorcas societies planned, car?
ried on and entertained under her su?
pervision. It was so much easier when
a difficulty presented itself to take the
requisite 10 cents or its equivalent in
"garden sass" to Matildy's and have
the question settled decisively than to
oscillate hour after hour on the horns
of a dilemma
Matildy bore her honors meekly. The
failure of "her life's ambition had been
great enough to lessen all subsequent
successes. She realized and appreciated,
the trust that was reposed in her and
never took an undue advantage of her
position.
CHAPTER IV.
No priest of the Roman Catholic faith,
restrained by the vows of silence which
protect the confessional, could have
more zealously guarded the secrets en?
trusted to him than did Matildy. Many
a time she was perplexed by the inqui?
ries of her customers, but her native wit
and shrewdness stood her in. good stead,
while her natural sympathy and practi?
cal experience made up all deficiencies.
An answer was always ready, though
no one but herself knew how wide from
the mark she often came or how much
more easily the question might have
been settled without her assistance. Her
two visits to Boston, the experience and
knowledge of life she was supposed to
have acquired and the mystery sur?
rounding her reappearance in the village
were the foundations of her success.
In her sitting room hung a motto out?
lined and worked with care by her busy
fingers. The glazed white surface formed
a striking background to tho neat black
text, irregular in form, but showing
extreme care in the precise details of
the work. "Semper Parratus"-"It's
Latin, yer know, " she explained to her
curious visitors, "an it means, 'Always
here.' Nobody talks that language
now. Yer only see it in copy books
an in the city stores. " "The city" was
always pronounced with a slight eleva?
tion of the head, at which her audience
was always duly impressed.
This slight addition to her furniture
greatly increased the reputation she had !
already secured for progress and the j
adoption of new ideas.
By and by her fame spread Visitors j
came from neighboring towns to see the
quaint woman whose originality piqued j
their curiosity and oftimes, half in I
jest, half in earnest, would ask her j
opinion in love matters or other equally I
important topics. Little by little she !
bought back the land she had been forced i
to dispose of, hired an indigent neigh- j
bor to look after her farm with his own j
and commenced to lay by for a possible i
rainy day.
In spite of her success, however, she |
was not happy. She was alone in the I
world, without kith or kin, her present j
unenlightened by the domestic joys so
dear to the feminine heart, her future
uncertain. At any moment a new proph?
et might arise and dispossess her.
Her fear was born of humility.
Scarcely a household in the village but
regarded her with affection and grati?
tude, scarcely a family but owed her
what money conld not repay. Sickness,
Highest of all in Leavening Pov
Royal
mV ^ w yggzm
sorrow and disgrace'were ali brought to
her and relieved hy her womanly care.
Across the meadow which separated
the two farms was the home of Daniel
Macquirk. He had never visited her
since the eve of her new departure. He
had resented her independence and spir?
it, had sneered unfeelingly at her paste?
board sign and been exasperated at her
success. He had even in the bitterness
of his scorn printed a sign, which on
second thoughts had been destroyed,
stating that Daniel Macquirk's opin?
ions could be obtained free. He never
omitted an opportunity of ridiculing her
and was angered that his ridicule only
acted as an incentive to the faith of the
credulous.
Of his animosity Matildy was not ig?
norant, but for a time she treated it as
the necessary accompaniment of suc?
cess. By and by she attempted to soften
his unreasonable displeasure, all to no
purpose. Finally she recognized the fu?
tility of her efforts, and irritated by
her failure assumed a like demeanor.
Many a bitter word was spoken back
and forth until at last they eyed each
other hostilely and passed by without
uttering a syllable of greeting.
Like her, he was alone in the world,
a hardworking New England farmer,
with the bitter prejudices and# deep
feelings of his class. In their hearts'
they would like the old relations to be
restored, so like were they in loneliness, .
so near in situation.
After her father's death he had braced
himself to the point of asking her to
be his wife, but the coldness of his re?
ception and the preparations for de?
parture showed him conclusively how
little thought, she had given to the mat?
ter so important to him.
The busy days glided by, grew into
weeks, months and even years. The
village life moved on in its monotonous
round of petty pleasures and petty pur?
suits. The old died, the young married,
the children were born, but through
all her opinions on matters social and
domestic were still called for and still
paid for. . Each year brought an addi?
tional wrinkle to her forehead and an
additional debt of gratitude and respect
to her exacting neighbors.
All at once rumors became rife that
she was to be married. The man for
whose sake gossip pronounced her ready
and willing to make the necessary
sacrifice after years of solitary existence
was Deacon Smith, a widower, whose
deceased wife, dead one long year, had
left him the care of six small children,
and a household disorganized and dis?
ordered. A decent season'of mourning.'
having elapsed, his intentions of seek?
ing a successor were soon apparent No.
one answered his requirements so well;
as Matildy, an* from suggestions and
hints the repr. - was soon widespread.. ,
The match was ^ ox table one. and Dea?
con Smith was not averse to its con?
summation. He realized Matildy's fit-'
ness for the position and considered he
was offering her no mean equivalent
for her future advice and companion?
ship.
His visits to her, urged forward by:
the interest of his neighbors, who seem?
ed to consider that by promoting this
marriage they were paying off their own;
long arrears of indebtedness, and hisi
own predilections, were many in num?
ber and suggestive in detail. Matildy
was not ignorant of the object of his at?
tentions, but ,with her accustomed
shrewdness and ingenuity managed to
prevent his coming to the point until
she had satisfactorily settled in her own.
mind whether it would be worth while
for th? sake of having her future decided
to exchange a life of freedom for that
of stepmother to the six young Smiths.
The question was a hard one to settle;
I it presented so many aspects, was bris
! tiing with so many pros and cons. So
I Deacon Smith's anticipatory visits were
j many in number.
Rumors of her probable consent were
wafted to Daniel Macquirk's ears and
caused him many an unpleasant quarter
of an hour as he meditatively smoked
his pipe after the evening chores were
finished and nothing interfered with the
long retrospect of memory.
One night Matildy, having escorted
Deacon Smith to the front door as usual,
stood meditatively on the stoop, lamp
in hand, the yellow rays throwing into
prominence her angular figure and
sharply cut face, on which an expression
of abstraction rested. That night the
deacon, having determined to be be
' guiled no longer by lier woman's wit
and worn out by the contentions and
problems of his exacting household, had
blurted forth his proposal.
Matildy. hesitating to the last, fear?
ful of committing herself to an irrevo?
cable step, asked a reprieve of the night
: to consider the question. No wonder she
stood there forgetful of time and situa?
tion as she watched his sturdy figure
melt into the gloom.
Daniel Macquirk came plodding along
the narrow country road, returning
home from a neighborly smoke.
As he reached the gate the long ten?
drils of yellow lamplight fell on and
softened his rugged face. The lateness
and deathlike stillness of the hour, her
isolated position and the lonely home to?
ward which he was tending moved him
to a sudden impulse.
"Evenin, Matildy!" he called out.
She, too, was softened by her envi?
ronment. "Evenin. Dan'el!" she ranr
-MM-----------U
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