Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 March 1887 — SOLD OUT BY THE SHERIFF, [ARTICLE]

SOLD OUT BY THE SHERIFF,

BY J. H. S.

•Chart**,, what do you think?" asked Byrou Trevor. ■ “What’s the matter? Yon look pale,” responded his brother, Charles Trevor. “Aunt Abby lias failed!” w •What! Byron, did you tell me that to startle me?" “It's too true. The Sheriff is to sell her out a week from to-dnv. 1 saw the notices posted up. 1 thought Aunt Abby had been ▼ery reticent about her speculations. I see it all now. They have ruined her.” “And will phe have nolhiug left?” asked Charles, turning pale. “Not a cent! Ail her property; I have learned, will not half cover her liabilities. Ah, those stock speculations! It was her cousin, Hiram Davenport, of New York. that coaxed her into it; and he has done all her business, yon know. I have repeatedly told her that she had better let him and those city brokers alone. I feared they would prove too sharp for her." “Well, it’s too bad!” exclaimed Charles Trevor, angrily. ‘‘Why did she hazard her fortune thus? Now she bus thrown away all this handsome property—the old homestead and all —which wouldTiave been ours some day. The old imbecile!" “It fairly makes me hate her!" said Byron Trevor.

They were the nephews of Miss Abicnil Davenport, a rich old lady who lived near the Connecticut, five or six miles from Hartford. They had been left orphans at an early age, and were tenderly reared by their Aunt Ably. She heaped many favors upon Charles and Byron, both of whom were married, and they were already well-to-do in the world, with expectations of quite a competence at their aunt's death. Now these expectations were suddenly dashed down, and they railed at the old lady's imprudence for hours. Notwithstanding her former kindness to them, they had not a word of pity for her now, or a thought of how she was to be .provided for. The day came, and all the property of Abigail Davenport was sold to satisfy a judgment in favor of Enos Lapham A Co., bankers and brokers, of New York. She must soon leave her old home, yet neither Charles nor Byron came to offer her a shelter. So she saw that she must go to them. “Byron,” she said, on visiting her eldest nephew, .“I must soon vacate the old place, as yon are aware. 1 have a cousin in New York who would give me a home; but I do not like to go there as a mere dependent. If you wOuid bcs’kind enough—” “Ahem ! Well, I—the fact is—” “I am still strong, and will w ork for you,” pleaded the old lady. “I will try not to be a burden to yon. ” “Well, Aunt Ably,” said Byron, “as far as I am concerned, I would not object: but then my house is small, and {-here are the children. Y'ou wonld not be comfortable.” “I w ould be willing to bear with many inconveniences.” “Tine, I am willing; but the fact is, my wife—” / “Oh, very well." And Aunt Abby left the bouse. She next visited Charles. “Well," said he, in a tone of reproach, “yon 6ee what you have done by meddling with those Wall Street sharps, against the advice of Byron and myself. What will you do now?” She replied by asking for shelter, as She had asked Byron. “I’d like to. Aunt Abby. I’m sure,” he ‘ responded, “i d like to have you here; but my house is small, and—” The old lady raised her hand. “Say no more!” she said. “I will find shelter somewhere.” And she left hint. .. . “But for her folly,” muttered- Charles Trevor, “she need not be seeking shelter.'"' Abigail Davenport reached home in a very gloomy state of mind, and found a visitor awaited her. The fact hr; I should have stated it before, but I deemed it scarcely necessary. Charles and liyron were not the only children that Miss Abigail had taken to her heart and home. They had a sister, younger than themselves, named Agnes. When Agnes was in her 18th year, shei eloped with her aunt's hired hand, a handsome young fell of twenty-four; and she had thereby incurred her aunt's displeasure, without hope of forgiveness; and the young couple had been assured, once for all, that they need expect- no share in th& old lady’s estate. Miss Abigail might have forgiven them ' but for the fact that Charles and-Byron lost no opportunity lo prejudice the old i lady against her niece. They had now been married ten years... were in comfortable circumstances, and had several little children. Neither of them had regretted their runaway marriage. “What are you doing here?” asked Miss . Abigail, for she perceived that her visitor ! was no other than William Harvey, who - had eloped with her niece, Agnes Trevor, j ten years before. 'Had Miss Abigail still been prosperous, 1 Will Harvey would probably have replied with a baughty aud independent air; but he had learned of her misfortune, and quietly responded: “Why, I heard of your bad luck. Is it as bad as reported?” “Yes, I haven’t a cent in my pocket." . * “Then you are without a home?” “Yes; but-you don't suppose Charles and Byron will see me want?* “I have talked with fhem,” replied Will, not aware that Miss Abigail had also talked j with them on the subject, “and. they seem to think they are too much hampered. I see they are not disposed—in fact. I have come to Offer you a home with me.” “But you have no room for me.” “We’ll manage that. 1 and Agnes have talked it over, and it’s all fixed. You are to take the room the children have been sleeping in, and for the present they Can sleep in the room with ns. A little addition enn be made to the house by and by.” The old lady tried to speak again, and burst into tears. “Why. what’s the matter, Aunt Abby?” asked Will, in surprise. Without replying. Hiss Abigail threw

herself into an old-fashioned arm-chair, bowed he grsv head upon her hands, tod, cried like a child. "Aunt AhJby, don’t take on so about your losses! You shall be jnst as conifortnblo with us as though you were rich. Yoq will have more cheerful company and less care than of late." . - "It isn't that, Will," said the old lady. “It’s to think that you nhd Agnes, who have so little to thank hie for, should he the only ones to offer my gray hairs a refuge. Your very faults look brighter to mo now than the steady virtues of those two favorites. Thank God, my .eyes are opened at Inst !” The end of it all was that Miss Abigail accepted Will Harvey’s offer, and in a few days went to live with him. Tho time passed pleasantly away, all. went on smoothly, and bhe found that her new friends were sincere. * Charles and Ilyion lived neareach other, and both at no great distance from the old homestead, and they never met wilbont enraing their aunt's foltv; they spoke of her nR an “old imbecile,” and a “simpleton," nud wondered how Will Harvey could afford to harbor her. It would be sad if the story ended here; but it does not. The whole truth must he told this time, by all means. One beautiful morning, Byron Treyor started to drive into Hartford. As lie neared his brother's house he appeared at the gato. I “Are you going to Hartford?"he asked. “Yes."

“1 would like to go there on an errand. Will you take me?" “Yes, come along.” « ■ And in n few minutes Charles was seated in the buggy- beside bis brother. The road to Hartford took them by the old homestead, nud as they approached they saw signs of life there. “Why, somebody's moved in ntlast!"said Charles. “That’s so. I wonder who’s takeu the place?” As they arrived opposite the house, still wondering, they .observed, rfor the first time, that a man stood by the fence, idly whittling n bit of wood with a pocket-knife. When he looked up, they f recogui/,ed—their impeennious brother-in-law. Will Harvey! “Why. Will! Is that you?” said Byron, slopping his horse. “Yes.” They now observed that several pretty children were playing on the lawn. . “ You. hay cut moved hero?” said Charles. “Yes—last Thursday,” Will replied coolly. “Why, you're not able lb rent so large a farm!’’ “1 haven't rented it.” “What then?” “It's been given to me.” “Who would give it, to j/ou?” asked Charles, turning slightly pale. “Aunt Abby.” j, And Will continued to whittle as coolv as a statue could have done, if it could have handled a pocket-knife. “What’s the use of telling us that? The place was sold.” “I thought so, too,” said Will'calmly. “And 'wasn’t it?” gasped Charles, as a fearful suspicion came athwart his brain. “No, it was all sham," replied-Will, with ineffable complacence, taking another shaving from the piece of wood. Charles and llyrou looked at each other in wonder; ami just then Miss Abigail came out into tho lawn. The house was but a short distance from the road, and she had heard the conversation. “Yes, Charles and Byron,” said she, “it was all a sham. I was not eaten up by the AY all Street sharps, and instead of,My pitiful fortune of $60,000 I have made $300,000. I am now worth $300,000, all of which, with the exception of a few dollars, I shall leave to Will and Agnes when 1 die. I have nlready given them the deed for this homestead, and made a will in their favor that shall never be changed. I ant} cousin Hiram oxen the firm-of Enos Lapham «fc Co., instead of owing them!” “Why—why have you acted so?” faltered Charles. “Twill tell you. It was not to test the sincerity of your affection, or that of Byron. I had never thought of doubting you. But I have ceased to speculate actively, and wanting something' to occupy my mind, I concluded to play a stupendous joke, and, pretend to be bankrupt. I thought it would then give me so much pleasure to find you overwhelming me with kindness—vying with each other in offering me a home, nud laying your possessions at my feet. But it turned out so differently. You were cold toward me in my supposed adversity, and it nearly broke my heart. I had expected soon to treat you to a delightful surprise by informing you of the true state of things; but now my wealth seemed barren. But a new joy came to me unexpectedly. When 1 came home, after asking both of you in vain for refuge, I found Will here—whom I had slighted and almost hated; and he — with all-his poverty, with all his struggles for existence, with no kindnesses to remember, and forgetting all his wrongs—yes, he had come to offer me a shaft? in his poor Lome-.-.to offer to toil for me. and bear the burden of my withered fife: and all with no hope of reward. I thank God I have played this practical joke. It has restored to me truer friends than those on whom I have lavished my favors.” Charles and Byron could not utter a word in reply, but drove on toward Hartford, with downcast looks, thinking of their loss, and realizing how richly they deserved it. And they have since lived through loeg years, bitterly regretting that to their kind old aunt they had not proved “Good Samaritans." —Chicago Ledger.