Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 290, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 December 1912 — FOR VALUE RECEIVED [ARTICLE]

FOR VALUE RECEIVED

Mary Finds Out All About the Farnleys, Disliked By Her Aunt . By GEORGIA LOTT SELTER. Bob Fsrnley slapped the reins over the sleelc back? of his big black team, and huddled into hiß fur coat With the disappearance of the sun, the printer day seemed to gain rapidly in ohift-gtoominesa. '■ T" Glancing up, he caught the flutter of a woman's skirts at the side of the road ahead. . • “Why that,” muttered Bob, “must be, | that little Waite girl Isn’t it like old Mary Waite to send that child to town afoot a day like this.” The Waites had always been hard, close people, keeping much to themselves in their gloomy, unpainted homestead at the end of the pine lane. So when Mary Waite was left to spend -the latter part of her life, the last survivor of her family, no one wondered at her living alone and working the few cultivated acres of her farm as best she might. But when it was known that she hadsent for little Molly Waite, run-away Bud Waite’s only child, to come and live with hes, the countryside was agog with conjecture and curiosity. “She’s almost helpless with rheumatism,” declared the neighbors, “or she would never do it. She wants the girl to take care of her —you can depend upon a Waite getting ‘value received’ for all the charity they give!” “Bud has been dead over five years, and she girl has been looking out for herself as best she could. Well, maybe she will find it as comfortable here as she has been used to having.” "And probably,” they always added as a comfortable after-thought, “probably she is a Waite herself, and will be a match for Mary at her own game.” All this passed through Bob. Farnley’s mind as his team, with big strides, gained on the little figure in the road ahead.\ The girl plodded on, indifferent to his approach. Even when he drew up opposite her, she did not turn her head. “Get in and ride?” called Bob in his big cheerful voice. The girl muttered her thanks with<mt stopping. " “But this is Mlbb Waite, isn’t it? I’m Bob Farnley, your nearest neighbor. Tou can ride almost home, and it is getting dark fast.” She stopped then, and turned to look at him timidly. At sight of the sweetness of the blue eyes, the sensitiveness of the lips, Farnley shut his teeth together savagely. What could such a girl as this be doing at the old Waite place? The honesty of his face was reassuring, for she allowed him to lift her up over the high wheel and wrap her in tjbe warm robeß without a protest. “I’m afraid you will think me very stupid or very unfriendly,” she* said then, with a smile. “But you see, 1 am not used to the country. In the city we do not accept rides from strangers.” **l did hot think about that,” answered Bob, quickly. “I thought only about your long walk in the cold and dark; it is going to be dark early tonight.” j“This is much better, thank you. But I never rode so high up before. I’m not accustomed to horses.” Farnley asked questions and listened in a sort of maze. Oh, po, she was not at all lonely, with <be woods and the poor, halfstarved winter birds, and the dear, soft-muzzled calves with their gentle eyes. They didn’t seem quite so nice, however, when they had grown into cows with long horns; and she couldn’t quite help being afraid of horses, though she knew it was foolish. Yes, she took care of the stock; Aunt Mary was not able to get out. And she had to walk to town because she did not know how to hitch or drive the team; such ignorance must seem dreadful to country people? Farnley took her to the foot of the lane. "Perhaps you had better not tell your aunt about riding with me, Miss Molly,” he said when he had lifted her carefully down. “She —doesn’t care much for our family, and might torbid your riding again. Igo to town every Saturday." “Aunt Mary,” said the# girl that evening, as they sat in the dim old kitchen, “who lives in the first house beyond our lane?” “The Farnleys. And the less you have to do with them the better,” answered Mary Waite sharply, i “But why?” “It is not my habit to talk about ■people,” answered the older woman piously, “and I’m not going to begin now. But if you live long enough you’ll find there alfe honester people in the world than the Farnleys!” One morning a week later, as Molly was busy feeding the stock, she was alarmed by the sound of steps through the big barn. “Don’t be scared,” called Bob Farn!lev’s voice cautiously. “I came to tell you I’m going to town at one o’clock. You got to go, today?” “Yes,” said Molly, “sheurants me to after groceries.” ■the lane. I hate to deceive anyone, but there is no sense in your walking that live miles this kind of weather!” “It doesn’t seem quite right,” hesi- , fated Molly. 1 “Right or not, you’re not going to ■walk!”^ Molly thrilled at the note of domination fn his vpice, and rode away behind the black team. . > Many things happened which thej Ctrl neve? meaUompd.l® her old aunt J 1

After a big snow storm she always found the path to the spring, where the cattle drank, carefully opened. Hay appeared over night as if by magic upon the feeding floor so that she need not go up into the mow. When the wood began to get alarmingly low and she started for the woods with an ax over her shoulder, she found a great pile of freshly cut sticks ready for the stove. Neither did she mention any of these things to the young man on their frequent trips to town, although they talked together of many things. One afternoon, when the sun had begun to cut into the snow crust a promise of spring, and the business had been accomplished earlier than usual, Bob stopped in front of the only theater the little, town boasted. “Let’s go in,” he suggested. “We have plenty of time.” “Oh, no!” The girl’s face flushed painfully. “Why not?” “I—don’t look fit.” She glanced over her inexpensive, bedraggled at-

tire. “See here, Molly,” Bob’s voice was hoarse, “I can’t, stand this kind of thing. You’re not the right sort of girl to have to work like a man. Don’t you know 1 want to take care of you, dear?” “Ob,” cried the girl, “I cannot leave Aunt Mary, no matter how queer she seems.” : ---- - - The rode home in silence. “Molly,” said her aunt a few days later, “put on your things and go back to the sap shanty. I see smoke coming from that direction. Some of our neighbors are none too good to help themselves to our sugar bush now I can’t get around.” As she approached the low, old building, Molly distinctly did see smoke rising from the rude chimney. A sleigh with two big tin cans of sap stood beside the door, and to the sleigh was hitched the black team which had given her so many trips to town. As she crouched behind a tree, Bob Farnley came out and carried two pails of the precious sweet fluid into the Interior, of the hut. The girl staggered back to the barn, sick at heart. Could it be true? Was Aunt Mary right? “Everything was all right,” she said miserably when she went back into the house. On Saturday a big thaw had set In, so her trip to town was postponed. She did not go to the woods again though her aunt bade her keep a Bharp look-out for sugar thieves. Several nights later the girl was wakened by her aunt’s hand upon her face. “Keep still —help rue up—there la someone moving outside the kitchen door,” she whispered. Trembling with nervousness, Molly hastily wrapped the old lady In a warm shawl and half carried her to the door, outside of which could he heard muffled footsteps. Miss Mai*y fearlessly flung open the door and there upon the doorstone stood Bob Farnley, a tin sirup can in each hand. t “Oh, you’ve caught me. I might have trusted you to do that, Miss Mary! I’ve made this sirup for Molly —thought the money might come in handy for her, and It was doing you no good.” “You knew this?” Miss Mary’s voice was stern. “I —didn’t know it was for me!” “And so you shielded him!” Miss Mary’B voice held sudden laughter. “I guess you’ll do, Bob,” she said, “but you are two young fools —and I’m an old one. Help me back to my room, child, and then I guess you had better help Bob get that sirup Into the house!” (Copyright, 1912, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.)