Democratic Sentinel, Volume 15, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 31 July 1891 — DOUBLE AND JOE; OR The Poorhouse Waifs. [ARTICLE]

DOUBLE AND JOE; OR The Poorhouse Waifs.

BY DAVID LOWRY.

CHAPTER X. THE dancing academy. It was a chilly morning. The summer heat was not sufficient to warm the earth. The leaves were dropping in showers ■on the pavements of the city. The slightest tremor sent showers over the brick and stone pavements. They whirled into eddies round the trunks of the trees, to be swept up later by the servants. The sparrows were twittering, flitting here and there: from street to housetop, from eave to eavo. Madame Dufaur’s maid opened the door in the morning to look out, gave a little start, and uttered a cry as she beheld a girl sitting on the stone step. The girl had such a woe-begone _ expression that the maid s - heart 'was touched at once. “My goodness! What are you doing there?” The girl looked at her silently, but said nothing. The maid stepped down, and looked at her closely. “Why, your clothes are as damp! Have you—surely you haven't been here all night?” “I don’t know how long I’ve been here. ” “Who are you? Where did you come from? What are you?” Then the maid bethought herself. The girl could not answer so many questions at once. - “You look cold—and hiingry. Are you hungry?” “Yes. ” “Why don’t you go to somebody you know, then, and get warm—and something to eat?” “I don’t know anybody. ” * “You know somebody, surely,” said the maid of all work. The girl shook her head. “Don’t you know anybody? You know where you come from?” “No, I don’t ” The maid thought the girl was crazy. She went into the house, and presently a lady with bright eyes—very bright eyes, and a beaming smile appeared at the entrance. On seeing the girl she exclaimed, and threw up her pretty hands. Very fair, white hands they were. “Mercy! What are you doing there, child!” “I’m going, now.” “Going! Going where?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know! Why, you do not look like one who is—crazy. ” “I’m not crazy, ” said the girl. “And you don't know where you are going?” “How can I. ” “How strange she talks, Milly.” They both looked at the girl, whose face began to show a faint color. “How came you here? Come, tell mo all about It,” said the lady. “I came from—from the country. ” “From the country—but the country is big. ” “Is it?’ Well, I came from a farm.” “Why, there are only farms in the country. Only where theie are woods.” “I—l—they said I was a thief, and I ran away. But I’m not a thief. ” “No,” said the lady, shortly; “you do not look like a thief. A thief would be better dressed—and more comfortable looking. Were you always on a farm?” “No." “Where were you before you went to the farm?” “In the poorhouse.” “In a poorhouse! Poor child. And she is pretty—piquant. What eyes she has! And there is a air with her. She js dainty—very dainty. And how heathenish her hair! Horrible—horrible people to let her hair grow so. ” All this in a low tone as the lady looked at the poor shivering girl. “Why—vou are shivering with cold. Take her to the kitchen, Mijly, immediately. I will follow. No! Monsieur is is not in the din.ng-room—take her there at once. ” And this was the manner in which poor Joe was introduced into the house of Monsieur Dufaur. Monsieur Dufaur was an ornament to society. He cultivated the graces—in young people—and some who were not young, for a reasonable sum per quarter, ltaw young men, bony, angular misses emerged from Monsieur and Madame Dufaur’s hands with all the ease and confidence of well-bred men • and women. If Monsieur Dufaur was an ornament to society, Madame was a jewel—a brilliant of the first water. There was nothing Madame Dufaur could not do, seemingly. Ail manner of difficult lace work: all styles of painting; everything that added to the sum of accomplishments, from crocheting to turning a verse—was not these at her finger ends? She was very c.ever, people said. And as her husband was very practical, they made a powerful partnership. Everybody liked them, and they—they took the world as they found it. The house the Dufaurs occupied was very fine. They made money, they expended it wisely, and enjoyed but did not abuse the good things of this world. A very wise, happily constituted couple were Monsieur and Madame Dufaur. “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Madame Dufaur, as she helped Joe to a plate of toast, heai>ed eggs and ham on her plate and poured her a second cup of coffee. “The child is almost famished. Eat! eat, child! You must not be afraid. I do believe she has not eaten a morsel in a week. You must eat, child!” “I can’t —indeed I can’t eat any more,” said Joe at last. And it was true. Madame Dufaur had mado her eat a hearty meal. When she had completed her breakfast, Madame Dufaur took her into her own room. “Now—tell me all about it, child. What is it I will be a friend. ” “I have nothing to tell. ” “You—so young—and alone. How comes it?” “I ran away. They wanted to send me to Bill Stubbs—and another man—l uever saw him till he came to Barnesville Poorhouse ” “What was hi* name?” “Wonder—Job Wonder. But don't

tell him—don’t tell anybody I'm hero. * “No—don't fear child. Goon." “His sister —and Mrs. Wonder scolded me—and Samantha said I was a—a thief. ” Joe was in tears. “Poor child. Don’t cry, now. So you ran away. When was this?” “I don't know.” “Child—you surely know the days. ” “Oh, yes—only I forgot what day it was I left them. It was at night ” “And where have you been? Where did you sleep—where did you eat?” “I slept in a farm house two nights, and—yes, I just eat three times. * “This is Saturday. ” “I ran away Wednesday, then.” “Mercy, did you wa k all night?” “Yes. I was afraid they’d find me. ” “Poor child,” sa!d Madame Dufaur. “What can you do?” “Me?” “Yes. Can you sew—can you make this?” holding up a piece of lace. Joe shook her head. “Can you cook? Can you cook steak ? Sew your dress? Make a pie.” Joe shook her head. “What a people! to let a girl grow up like that! It is monstrous. What can you do child?” “Please ma'am,” said Joe, with a sob, “I can’t do anything. I never learned anything.” Madame Dufaur held up her hands in .amazement. “So this is the way they live in your poorhouse! Do you want to work? Do you want to learn?” “O, yes, ma’am - only try me. ’’said Joe, pitifully. “Very well—l will see. You have no friends. Nobody in the whole world?” “No. ” “You are not deceiving mo?” “Ido not tell stories,” said Joe, sobbing. She was weak, tired to death. “This poorhouse—where is it? You call it how?” “Barnesville. ” “Why, child, that is a long way— Barnesville. I know it. I had two pupils from there. Barnesville, child, that is sixty miles or more from here. ” “I am telling the truth. ” “I believe you, child. What a shame. No father, no mother—nobody in the wide world. What a pity. Very well; I wili try you. ” She looked at Joe critically now. The examination pleased her. The look of despair on poor Joe's face made madame a fast friend. “What was that bag you had?” Joe blushed fiery red now before the lire. Madame looked sharply at her. “That? That’s my banjo—and ’cordiou.” “Banjo! Accordion! How? You know how to play them?” “A man in the poorhouse showed me a little. He’s dead. ” Madame smiled at the connection. “Well—it won't kill me to teach you how to comb and put up your hair. How came you by these things?” “They're mine—he gave them to me. When I ran away 1 went to my room and brought them along. ” Madame looked at her ifi wonder. “This child has spirit.” After a silence she called to the maid to bring in the instruments. “Now play for me,” she said. Joe played the baiijo with little spirit, but Madame smiled ' “There is melody there; yes. Now, the other. ” When Joe began to play the wheezy accordion madame ' put her fingers over her shell-like ears. “No, no. Stop, child!” Then when Joe’s mortification was betrayed in tears: “It is not the execution, child It is the horrid instrument. Come! I shall make something of you. ” “Will you let me stay here?” said Joe. “Certainly, If you are a good child and obey me; but you must obey me, and I will consult Monsieur Dufaur. Monsieur Dufaur at that moment opened the door. “Ah! Who have wo here?” Madame spoke to him in a low tone. He looked at Joe. Monsieur Dufaur was not sympathetic, but he was kind, and loved his wife He shrugged Bis shoulders and said, “We shall see. That meant Madame had her own way. “There is a mine—a mine of talent — in the girl,” said Madame Dufaur. “We shall see.” “It costs us nothing to develop it. And she may live to do us honor one day. ” “We shall see. I will do my share.” “That is all I ask. ” “And you must make her presentable. ” “A trife will do that. I need buy nothing. I’ll cut down my old dresses—it will be all she needs for the present ” “You must be the judge.” And Monseur Dufaur walked away. That same evening, when he had leisure, he had Joe bring up her baujo and accordion, aud listened to her with a grave face. “She has talent,” he said to his wife in Freneh. “Was it not fortunate I found the poor child at our door?” his wife asked. They were childless, and both loved children. “We shall see,” said Monsieur Dufaur, who, as may be observed, Very seldom committed himself.

CHAPTER XL THE 01-D WOMAN’S STORY—SEARCHING FOR JOE. At the end of a month, it was Monsieur Dufaur who was interested in Joe. “What a crime to let that giri grow up like a weed,” he said to his wife. “We must repair. the mischief. You will teach her a 1 you know. I will see she is at no loss in music or deportment. Between us ” “We will make her a marvel,” said Madame, smiling. It was true. Monsieur Dufaur actually enjoyed teaching .Joe. She was so apt; her spirits were so bright; her industry was marvelous. “Mercy, child,” said Madame Dufaur, “the world was not made in a day. By and by you shall know —I can’t teach you how to knit, and make flowers, and paint, and sing in a day. ” Then she would laugh. It was at the end of the first month — think of it, only one month—that Monsieur Dufaur introduced to his lady pupils a girl plainly but neatly dressed, who could execute many steps with precision and a grace that was winning—charming to behold. He also instructed Madame to make her an example in singing, for Joe was not at all backward wheg she was asked to sing- She opened her mouth and sang with the ease and freedom that reminded one of the woods and the orchestra the birds supply when Nature is at her best. For three months Joe was in an earthly paradise. She had something to occupy her time from morning until night. When she was not learning something,

she wanted to—persisted in helping thi servants. There was nothing she did not try to do.. But all this was destined to como to a sudden, unexpected ending. To explain- how this came about, I must return to the farmhouse. Job Wonder was remorseful. He blamed himself for Joe’s flight It was not Samantha’s fault He had promised to take care of Joe. and she had run away. He could hear no word of her, and he be’ieved if she experienced misery, or her life would be ruined, it was his fault As days and weeks passed, the feeling of responsibility grew on him. Strange to sav, Samantha shared in his disquiet She felt guilty. Had it not been for her Joe would not have ran away. And Mrs. Wonder, who said nothing, felt in the wrong too. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” said Job Wonder; “Maria,” here ho hitched up his coat and trousers, “I’m going to put in an adve:tisement in the paper for Joe. ” “And the County Commissioners will see it and — “Don’t care if they do. j m going to do my duty." And that night a letter with five dollars and an advertisement was sent to the leading paper in the city Job thought the center of “these United States.” The said “center” being New York City. ’Taint in our State, but gosh! Everybody goes to New York sooner or lator, and who knows—maybe Joe might bo there. ” No response was heard for a week or more. In the meantime Job journeyed, as opportunity offered, to neighboring towns on “goose chases, ” as he termed it. “Every time I get a water-haul — nary sish —nary Joe ” “It’s all waste time and money,” said his wife. “It's like hunting will-o'-the-wisps. ” “’Zactly so. But I’m in the hunt—an’ I’m going to keep it up till I find that gal. ” Then the answers began to come to him. The mail brought him armfuls of letters, “Gosh! Why who d a thunk there was so many runaway gals in this country. Must be inor’n a million. Hy’ar I’ve got nigh on a hundred letters an’ jest put a litttle advertisement in a newspaper. ” But not one of the descriptions suited Joe. He had abandoned all hope of the advertisement helping him, when one day—six weeks or two months had elapsed—he received a letter in a strange hand. It was from New York; aud read thus: Mu. Job Wondee— l would like to meet you and compare notes. Think I know where girl you want Is at the present time. If you care to compare notes, address, yours respectfully, Jeremiah Jenks. Atty. at Law, No. street. New York. “Wants to compare notes. Expects me to go to him. Couldn't come to me. ” Job looked at the letter. “Must think I’m a tarnal fool! Me go to him. ” So he told his wife and his sister what a “tarnation fool in New York writ' him, and signed hisself at law’—didn’t even know how to s»ll, and expect him to go to the city. ” ” But the more he called the writer a fool the more he pondered, until he surprised them all by telling them to “look out for the farm a few days—l’m goin’ to New York. ” “Goodness, Job—on that fools’ errond?” said his wife. “Yes, I know I'm an old fool —you’ve kept mo in mind of it. I couldn’t forget it ” “You know I don’t mean it, Job.” “You know Ido mean it when I say Pm goin’ to compare notes with that lawyer.” And he did. He called at the poorhouse before lie went to the great city, and informed Mr. Caper of his resolve. “I don't think I’d go, if I were you,” said Mr, Caper. “You’ve done your duty ten times over. ” “But I might find her.” “Yes —and she might not come back with you. She'll give you the slip again.” “If she does. I can't help it. ” “It's not my affair.” “It’s is my affair, and I’ll go if it costs a bundled dollars. ” “That’s all right—you can do just as you please with your own mouey, Mr. Wonder. ” “I want to talk to some o’ your folks hyar. Mebbe they'd kiud o’ put me onto a plan to find her myself if my letter don’t help. ” [to be continued.]