Rensselaer Republican, Volume 26, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 December 1893 — A NEW ENGLAND COURTIN’ [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A NEW ENGLAND COURTIN’

If any one man was better known than another for miles around the village of Conway, it was Deacon Harding, the pillar of the Methodist church and the strictest selectman the New Hampshire village had ever known. He had never married, and some folks said he was too mean,and that all he thought about was putting up a goodly share of this world’s goods to his credit in order that he might make better provision for the commodities of the next. But, then people will -talk.;_i_l Tt was, therefore, a matter of considerable speculation among the neighbors when the deacon was seen to stop occasionally at the Widow Martin's cottage, and many and varied were the conjectures about the outcome. The widow was plump, rosy cheeked, and good natured, and her dear departed having left her

more than two years before, she was. as she believeckherself, fully qualified to be considered among tho cligibles of the little world in which she lived. She had heard (what woman does not?) of .her neighbors’ talk about her, but being of that happy disposition which does not heed the stories Darne Rumor occasionally circulates, she kept on her way regardless of all the gossips said. The widow's cottage was an inviting spot when the suow lay piled up iu great masses in the roadways and on the mountain sides and the mercury was away below zero. A bright light always shone from the windows while the hickory logs crackled aiid sputtered in-the wide, open fire place. Every thing about the place was so neat, clean, and wholesome looking that one felt at home tho moment he crossed the threshold. At least that is what Deacon Harding thought on New Year’s eve as he came in sight of the cozy home of the widow while on his way to a meeting of the town board. The deacon was feeling cold and out of sorts generally, and somehow his ideas had been traveling for weeks past in a direction decidedly singular fpr such a confirmed bachelor as he. All appeared to lead up to one object, and that object was the Widow Martin. The deacon was getting on dangerous ground, but he didn’t seem to know it. He had .always said there wasn’t a woman who could catch him. He had lived so long without one that lie was not going to be taken in by any of them at his time of life. Not he; and he grew seven,l inches higher every time he hugged this consolation to his breast. But this particular New Year’s eve he was unaccountably lonely and dispirited. Everybody who was anybody in Conway was full of rest and cheer and just brimful of happiness. The spirjt of the holidays was everywhere, but the deacon was alone. There was no one to welcome him, no one to greet him with “A Happy New Year!” at his home, except perhaps his old housekeeper, who was deaf and ill-tempered enough to sour the biggest cask of cider in his cellar.

It was no wonder, then, that as he reached the Widow Martin’s cottage he determined to stop just for a chat with her and to warm himself before ; going to the meeting. That was all. If he had been told there was anything else on his mind he would have thought the suggestion ridiculous. The widow heard the deacon’s backboard stop —in fact she bod seen him coming up the road —and there had been a hasty glance over the room, and ju6t a peep in the lookingglass on the mantel to see if everything was in order, long before the deacon’s voice 'was heard on the frosty air and the wheels had ceased to revolve in front of the cottage. By the time he had blanketed and covered his hoi*se and led him tc the shed out of the cold blasts that swept down the hillsides and across the valley the widow had the door open and was waiting for her visitor. “I just thought I’d stop a minute, Mrs. Martin; to warm up, for it’s powerful cold out this afteanoon," said the deacon, stamping his feet to shake the snow from his boots before entering. • :~r~ “I’m real glad to see you, deaoon; come right in and sit down by the fire." In a few moments Deacon Harding had removed his heavy coat and thick gloves and was comfortably seated on one side of the broad fireplace, while the widow was rockipg herself gently' to an fro at the other. As his good temper increased the deacon kept looking over at the widow. •‘What a nice, pleasant 1 jttle woman she was, tu be sure, and she iras pretty, too—there was no mis-

take abofet that! He sat there enjoying his novel sensations without speaking for a long time. Surely there was something the matter With him this New Year’s eve. He was usually able to talk about something wherever—he was r but now ha, couldn’t say a word if his life depended on it, though he tried desperately several times to start a conversation. And the widow juSt sat there, apparently entirely unconscious, with her mind seemingly fixed upon some trifle she was sewing. Did she have an idea of what was passing in her visitor’s mind? Of course not; women are such dear, innocent creatures, especially widows. The •deacon grew very restless as the minutes parsed swiftly by, and finally a= if the heat was too great, he got up and moved away frojn the fire. Somehow when he settled down again his chair was much nearer the widow.but she didn’t seem to notice the change and kept on sewing. “It’s powerful cold to-day, Mrs. Martin. There'll be a heavy frost to-night, I reckon,” remarked the deacon, finding his speech at last. “Do tell, deacon,” replied the widow, shuddering; “but don’t you think you’ll get chilled if you sit so far from the fire? Do draw up closer and get warm; you’ve got quite a way to go to town and you must take care of yourself in such terrible weather.” “Yes, ma’m: it be chilly, that’s a fact. I think I will move up a piece to the fire.” “How kind she is!” the deacon kept repeating to himself as he edged nearer toward the blazing logs and at the same time drew closer to ths rocker, where the widow still sat sewing. “I saw you at church last Sunday, Mrs. Martin. The minister preached ajnighty fine sermon, didn’t he?” remarked the deacon, After another long interval. “Yes, deacon, and it did me a power of good, too.” ‘‘l’m real glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Martin,” exclaimed the deacon. His face fairly beamed with delight, while if the truth must bo known he absolutely chuckled aloud and rubbed his hands on his knees as if something had happened which immensely delighted him. “Do you recall what the parson preached about?” It must have been the heat from the burning logs that caused the widow’s cheeks to blush so. She couldn’t even look up from her sewing as she replied: “Well, come to think of it, deacon, I think it was 1 about weddings and such things. But I ain’t quite sure, for 1 didn’t-pay much -attention, I’m afraid, to that part of the discourse.” “The chairs were getting very close. “That's it, that's it," cried the deacon, briuging his hands down upon his knees with a slap that startled the canary frqm his perch and set the widow’s heart beating furiously. “That’s it. And don’t you remember where he said that it wasn't good for man to live alone? I think he told the truth, don’t you?” The chairs touched now-. The deacon was absent from the town meeting that New Year’s eve. • When the villagers assembled at church, next day, they saw a little woman sitting beside Deacon Harding. It was the Widow Martin. She was wedded to the deacon, New Year’s morning, for the parson had said it wasn’t good for man to be alone. — B. A. McDonald.