Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 July 1884 — JUDSON’S BILL. [ARTICLE]

JUDSON’S BILL.

“Oh, here is Judson’s bill, Maria, — just thirty-fire dollars. He paid me last night;’said George Dwight, handing hie wife a roll of crisp bills as they both rose from their early, breakfast Then kissing her and leaving a good-by for his two boys, he left ■ the house to take the train for the city, find his brisk, firm tread echoed down the gravel walk. She unrolled and smoothed oat the notes with a sense of thankfulness and satisfaction. They were far from rich, and this money, hardly and honorably earned, typified to her, comforts, necessaries and charities. When she rose from the table she carried the money into the pantry, and put into one of the celery glasses on the Beoond shelf. She always had a feeling of added responsibility when she had money in charge in George’s absence. She was a brisk, pretty little body, with a deal of vim about her, and it was not long before tbe dishes were washed and the room tidied. Then she went out to feed the half-dozen white _ Leghorns. Coming back, she stopped to see how matters were progressing in the garden. The beans and peas and lettuce were doing finely, and the tomato plants began to look quite sturdy, but she noticed, with vexation, that the currant worms were destroying the bushes. “I must get,” she thought, “some hellebore today.” When she came into the house again, she heard Eddy and Larry awake up stairs, and went up to help the rosy, healthy little fellow s dress, who soon eame down to their breakfast of bread and milk, after whieb they went out into the yard to play. After airing and making beds, she thought now was a good time to slip down to Atlee’s store for the hellebore —but that thirty-five dollars! She never could leave it in the house during her absence. Supposing a tramp should happen along? There had been one there the day before, a glowing, hardfaced creature, with vile and wolfish eyes and brutal mouth, and it was not reassuring to think of him as yet in the vicinity. ‘ A lit tle round poeketbook of Eddy’s, tied with a red ribbon, lay on the win-dow-sill. She took it up, placed the hills in it and thrust it down deep in her pocket. Occasionly she gave it a furtive pat as she went down the street to convince herself of its safety. She wondered how it was that George could thrust rumpled bills so unconcernedly in his vest-pocket, and never seem to give them a single thought ! She got the hellebore, came home and prepared the mixture to sprinkle the currents. That work finished to her satisfaction, she -went in to peel some potatoes to make cream-potatoes for the children’s lunoh. She peeled them deftly; she had pretty, dimpled wrists and* taper fingers. The dark oak table and the yellow pipkin were of harmonious tints, and she made a home-like picture with the brindle cat by her side and the sunshine streaming in on her neat blue calico. She laughed merrily as she took the little poeketbook from her pocket, for the purpose of laying it for a few moments on the mantle-piece. “It’ssafe enough”’ she said; “but I’m sure if I had a thousand dqjlars in my sole charge for a day, George would come home to find me a lunatic.” She had barely finished the potatoes, when an over-grown, freckled girl walked in through the open door without ceremony, and sat down. “Hornin’, Bia,” she said. “Good morning, M«ry,” she answered, kindly. “And how are you and the rest of the folks this morning?” “Oh, everybody’s well enough. Aunt Eunice’s baby had the colic last night, but he’s all right now. Peelin’ pertaters, eh?" As this fact was sufficiently perceptible, Bia made no answer; she was secretly wishing that Mary, poor girl! had better manners. Mary was her halfsister —her father’s daughter, who, since her orphanage, had been living with her mother’s sister, an ignorant woman, who was letting her, after the manner of Topsy, grow. She was not a very lovable or agreeachild; she was rather sly, very prying and very conceited, but she had a wonderfully kind heart, and would fetch and carry for those of whom she was fond like any Spaniel. ... “It’s awful nice oat to-day,” she said, in tbe pleasant, soft voice that was one of her few agreeable characteristics. “Eve started to go up to Tollman’s meddor for strawberries. George Dunn said there were oceanß of ’em there. Don’t yron b’lievo, Rial Jennie Dnnn has a new dress—a pink-sprigged lawn. I wish I had a new dress. 1 never get nothin’ like I used to, Bence mother died.” , “Oh yes. Mary; your aunt dresses yea quite nicely, bnt she does not want to spend your money carelessly. She is very honorable about trying to save it us til yon are are grown up." “I don’t care for that, Bia; she’s aw--ful mean about lettin* me have even a penny. I just wish I could have money when I want it Say, now, haven’t you aome molasses cake you want to cut? I havo never had none sence mother died that tastes like her’n but yourn." Maria knevr Mary was a little gourmand, bnt her gentle heart was touched to think the child craved some cake like that her mother usted to make; so the potatoes being finished, she set the

pipkin on the table and threw the peelings into piggy’s pail that stood outside the door. “I guess I can find tou some,” she said, cheerily, going down T the outer cellar stairs/ She was hardly as quick about doing it as she had intended. There were some qrumbs on the floor that must be swept up, and while she was down there, she thought she had better turn back the edges of the cream in the pans that it might not get bitter. But at last she cut some.generous squares from the amber molasses cake on tbe shelf, and came with it up the inside stairs. Mary, who was standing by the mantle, started as if frightened and colored all np; then she crossed quickly to the door and took up her basket. “Here is your cake,” said Maria. “But hadn’t you better stay, dear, and lunch with as ?” “Oh no, no!” said Mary, hastily. “I couldn’t, I couldn’t! I’m goin’ strawberryin’.” She fairly darted out of the door. “Poor girl!” said Bia, with the pitying sigh with which she often spoke of her. Just then old Mrs. Gorham, with her full-moon face and wheezing from very corpulency, came into the yard and up to the house. She sank into the rocker and untied her bonnet-strings. “How de do! What’s the noos ?” she panted. ' This was her regular salutation. She could no more have omitted the second interrogation than the first. A world without news would have been to her a vast Sahara. Maria remembered Mr. Atlee had told her that old Mr. Dobbs had caught his right leg in the thresh-ing-machine yesterday afternoon, and that his ankle was badly broken. This news, bad as it was, had an enlivening influence on the old lady. It gaye her a scope for asking all manner of questions concerning the affair, until having worn the topic threadbare, she munched some cake with gusto and casually inquired the prioe of Eddy’s new hat, as she was a very cormorant in pursuit of knowledge, even the most triflings, pertaining to her neighbors, It was quite two hours before she waddled away, good-natured old busybody, and then it was Inch time. Afterwards Maria carried a pail of water to the handsome Alderney, tethered in the clover-lot south of the house, fed the pig, and then coming in, sat contentedly down to hey sewing. All at once she started up and went to the mantle-piece. “What a careless creature I am!” she said.

Then she turned pale; searched her pocket, her work-basket, the pantry; lighted a lamp and went looking carefully down the cellar, only to come up flurried and frightened. The pocketbook with “Judson’s bill” in it was missing ! Could Eddy or Larry have seen it? But no! when she called them in from their play to ask, it was plainly evident that neither of them had seen the little round poeketbook tied with the red ribbon. She went carefully over all the transactions of the morning. “I went after hellebore; 1 had it then! I went to peel potatoes; I had it then! I laid it on the mantle-piece, meaning to put it under the table-clothe on the pantry shelf. I forgot it—and it is gone!” Mrs. Gorham! It was ridiculous to think of her touching it. Mary! and then a black, ugly thought clutched Maria’s heart and left her faint and giddy. It seemed for the moment as if something snapped in her head. She looked again and again into impossible places; even lifted up the oil cloth beside the chimney, thinking it might have fallen and been somehow pushed under; but no poeketbook rowarded her search, and she could think of nothing but Mary’s startled movement from the mantle and her burning, suffusing blush! She went out and sat down on the stoop. Larry came to her, trying to be brave; he bad a splinter in his little tanned thumb;she must take it out. For a wonder she did not mind his shiver, or praise his courage. “Never mind such a little hurt,” she said. “There are hurts that are far worse.”

l hen she caught him to her with a sudden, passionate cry. “Much as I love you, Larry, I'd rather dig your grave with my own hands to-day than have you grow up to do bad, wicked things! to lie! to—to steal!” Ho whimpered as she let him go; he was not used to such sudden outbursts from his meriy, cheerful little mother. Maria’s eyes wandered to the currant bushes. She felt no solicitude about them now. She did not heed the cock and hens who were scratching in the onion-bed, bnt she mechanically marked a measuring-worm looping his odd way along the step. “My father's daughter—my sister—a thief—a thief!” was her mental cry. Mary was curious; she had seen the poeketbook, examined—and coveted—the wish had been followed by the criminal deed! Oh, if she had only never placed the money there—never pnt the temptation in Mary’s way! She herself was partly to blame. It was queer how now so many little, almostforgotten facts about the child revived and came buzzing like a swarm of bees into her brain. There was the time Mary shut herself up in the store closet to pilfer sweet rusks; that other time when she took George’s pencil-sharpener; and there was Eddy’s ten-cent piece that qfae had picked up—and kept! Maria had meant to talk to her seriously about these things, but she had somehow put it off, and now it was too late. Oh, the poor wicked, wicked child! Anger, compassion, sorrow, shame, tore Maria’s heart. The worm had looped his way across the step and vanished, and she became suddenly conscious that Eddy and Larry were clamoring for something to amuse them. “Get you basket,” she said, “ancT we will go strawberrying." She meant to follow Mary at- once and confront her with the accusation. She longed for wings to fiy, she was so impatient to meet the erring child. Eddy and Larry felt that she hurried them needlessly. They wanted to stray hither and thither, to stop at the bridge and skip gtones, or watch the Caddice flies skipping on the water, or the min-

nows disporting in the shallow depths. It was a beautiful day. The sky was a blue realm of purity; the air was as soft as an ,mfant’s breath; buttercups and daisies starred and gemmed the roadsides; but Maria was careless of it all. They came across old Mr. Slocum ditching his marshy ground. He stopped to talk with them, leaning idly on his spade. He was willing to be loquacious, for his work was not pressing, but Maria was in no mood for conversation. What did Mr. Slocum with liis easy good-nature know of her troubles ? He had never had a thief in his family—never! Whitt would he say now if she should say, “I am in a hurry; my sister Mary stole thirty-five dollars from me thk morning!” She could imagine his look of blank consternation. “Pshaw—now—you don’t mean it?” he’d say. She actually believed she was losing her wits and might say it, so he hurried on. She trembled with nervous excitement as she followed the cowpath that wound among the elder and sumach bushes, with a thin little stream of water tinkling its rhythm alongside. She actually laughed as they came out upon the broad expanse of the wild strawberry lot and saw nothing there but a dirty-faced boy, the bees humming in the clovers, and the swallows skimming overhead. “No, there hadn’t bin no girl, nor nothin’ there, sence he’d come,” the boy said in answer to her inquiry.. He seemed to resent their intrusion and looked wrathfully at the children; probably if their mother had not been with them, the pasture lot would have become a battle-ground. The afternoon was nearly -passed when the childron were willing to turn their faces homeward. Maria was miserable. She could not go to Mary’s Aunt Eunice’s now, for the chores had to be done and dinner got ready for George. • Oh, if she only needn’t tell George about Mary taking the money to-night! He was quick to condemn—bitter when roused. He would go right down and have no mercy on the poor, erring child, and he would tell Aunt Eunice, who always told everything—even her own family secrets, for she was one of those wo-men who must prattle, even if it be about herself; and Mary would be branded forever and her feet be set—who knew in what descending paths! It was- terrible! terrible! The children went gracefully about their allotted tasks. Eddy unloosened the gentle Alderney from her tether and led her into her comfortable stall. Larry ran to feed the -chickens, and Maria went to get the meal for the little porker who was grunting greedily in his pen. He was a -voracious fellow, like all of his kind, and she watched him for a moment.

“I don’t wonder,” she said, litlessly lcoking down, “that Circe transformed Ulysses’ gourmands into swine.” Then she gave a choked cry. “Larry, come here—quick! Climb over in the pen and pick up—that!” Larry obeyed readily, and fished out of the litter at the head of the trough a little round, dirty pocket-book. She caught it from him with a hysterical laugh. “That’s it 1-that’s it!” she cried. “It’s Judson’s bill!” She opened it with trembling fingers. The crisp notes seemed fairly to smile up at her. “Thank the Lord!” she said, brokenly, “Why, I never could have put it on the mantle—never ! and I was perfectly sure I did ; and Mary never even saw it I had thrown it out in the potato-peelings, and if the pig had destroyed it, I should always, ahoays have thought she had taken it. I might have rnined her life. Poor child! poor child!” “Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise.” Mary never knew with what a self-reproachful heart Maria, as a faint reparation for her unjust suspicions, baked tbe next morning a delicious molasses cake and sent it to her by Eddy. Tbe good-natured girl took it with surprised delight. “How awful good of Bia!” she said. Then she hesitated a moment as Eddy turned to go. “Eddy,” she called. “Well, Aunt Mary?” “Eddy, I want you to tell Bia that I broke the foot oft' that china matchsafe on the mantle, yesterday. I put it under again; but when she finds it out she might think you or Larry broke it. Tell her Fm sorry.” She did not add that she had meant Bia should think some one else had done it. Since she had confessed, it was not necessary to say more. Maria merely nodded when Eddy told her. She could not care much about such a trifle as a twentv-five-cent match-safe after her experience of the previous day. Still, she was glad that Mary had had honor enough to tell the truth about it—and she saw now wbat had caused her extreme confusion yesterday—and more than ever was she smitten with self-reproach. “This has been to me a lesson for a life-time,” she said.— Youth’s Companion.