Rensselaer Standard, Volume 1, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 September 1879 — MRS. CLEMENTS’ HELP. [ARTICLE]

MRS. CLEMENTS’ HELP.

“Of ail things this is the worst! If I ever in my life expected to hear such news! Why, our George has gone and got married! D’ye, hear?" Good Mr*. Clements pushed her steel-bowed spectacles off her bright eyes, and dropped her letter in her r lap, as she turned round to her husband, the stout, clever old farmer, who was contentedly stroking at an old * white cat. “De.icou, d'ye hear?” Thiatime when she asked the < uestion there was a touch of sadness in her voice. V “Yes; what if he is married? I’m sure it’s natural euough. It kind o’ runs in the family, ’peare to me." But Mrs. Clements would take no notice of the little pleasantry. “Well, if you like it, I can tell you I don't. He needn’t think he’s coming here with his fine city-bred lady, all airs, and graces, and flounces, and ruffles. There’s plenty of good girls hereabout that wanted him. Right in the middle Of work, too! To talk of bringing a lady here in hog, killin’ time! I do declare, J think George is a fool!*’, .•♦,• • * * • A graceful, dainty little lady, in a garnet poplin and a ruffled apron, with a small, proudly-poised head, covered with short, dusky Curls, having a pair of dark blue eyes, so wistful and tender, a tiny rosebud of a mouth, an<4 a dimple in each pink cheek. That was Mrs. Marion Clements. Was it any wonder that George had fallen in love with her? She sat in the bright little parlor, close beside the lace curtain window, watching for the loved husband’s return: and then when she heard the click of the latch-key iu the hall, flew for the welcome kiss. Looking up, she aiked—“Haven’t you the letter this time, George! I’ve felt sure of it all day. Indeed, I’ve quite decided what dresses to take with me." He put his arm round her neck. “I hope they will not take it amiss that I had married their son." “And supposing such to be the case, do you think it would make auy difference with me?" v “Oh, no, no! ■ Only it would grieve me so if I knew I had alienated your own parents from you.V • “And a one-sided alienation it would be, too! They had never seen you., And when they know you they cau’t help loving you." f “Oh, George." *The exclamation was caused by the kiss aeeompayiug his owu flattery. “That’s, true as preaching. ißy-the-by, my dear, what would you say if • the Arm sent me off on a traveling tour of six weeks?" - / A little dismayed cry answered him. “You won’t stay here alone, eh? But Marion it would be SSOO clear gain to us.”

“What need-we care for mouey? I’d rather have you.” A miscbevious smile played over the young man’s lips; he was more matter-of-fact than thia romantie, tender little wife of hii. “I thiok the addition to our balance at the hunker's would be very consoling for the abeenoe. But never mind, that little pet. Let’s go down to dinner. I hope wie’li get a letter from home soon.”-’ "< And soon it was, for Marion snatched It front his pocket the very next night. Biit her husband’s face looked grave andvstern, and his eyes looked augry when she looked gleefully over the envelope. 44 My dear, .you must remember I care very little What the letter contains. Remember, I Id id not write it; that you are dearer to me than ever before. Kiss me, first, while I watch you.” A little pang of misdoubt troubled her when she glanced over the note; then tears stole “from under her lashes, and George saV her tender mouth quiver ana tremble: then, when she had finished it; she laid her head upon his shoulder and cried. “It was cruel to let you see it, my wounded birdie. Let me burn it. And doift forget darling, what our Bible says—that a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife. You are my precious wife, Marion, and to you I turn for aii the happiness my life will ever hold.” He dried her tears, and then they talked it over. “Just because T am city bred she thinks I am lazy, ai.d haughty, and dainty, aud —” “Never mind, Marion. She will find out some day. My father—” “Yes, bless the dear old man! He has added: 4 My love to my daughter Marion.” Oh, I know I should love him, and your mother, too, if she would “We will invite them down when 1 come borne. Bv the way, Marion, I will slop at the farm on my way home

and invite them down, and bring them { home with me." “George, dear, I’ve been thinking I about that trip West. I think you had better go and leave me at borne. H won’t be bo very long.” Marion was eating her egg while she spoke across the oosy little breakfast ! table. . tliil , “Hpoken like my true little Marion, : and when I come back I'll bring you a i present. What shall it be, dearest?’’ “Your father and mother from the farm. It shall be the hope that shall bear me company when you are gone.” A fortnight after that. Marlon Clements ate her breakfast alone, the traces of a tear or so on her pale cheeks; then I she dashed them away with a merry, j joyous langh. “This will never do, and now, that j George has gone for six weeks, to prepare for hia return. And I pray Heavi en that It shall be such a coming as shall delight his soul.” v • • "a • • * “I’m sure I don’t know what to say. The* land knows I need help bad I enough; but it ’pears to me that such a slender little midget as you couldn’t earn your salt. Whatdidyou say your name was?” “Mary Smith. And, indeed, if you will try me for a week. I’m sure you will keep me till the season’s over.’ Mrs. Clements looked out of the window at the great clouds that weje piling gloomily up; and then the wind gave a great wailing shriek around the corners of the house. “You can cook, ken you? or shake up feather beds—good big ones, forty pounders?” A gleeful little laugh came from Marj-'s lips. “Indeed I can. I may not cook to suit you, but 1 can learn.” | < Mrs. Clemeuts walked out to the huge open fire-place in the kitchen, where the deacon was shelling corn. “What d’ye say, deacon; keep her or not! I kind o’ like her looks, and the dear knows it ’ud be a good lift while we’re killin’, if she couldn’t do no more’n set the table or make mush for the bread.” ‘‘Take her, of course, Hannah. You are hard driv’, I know. Let her stop a week or so, anyhow.”' 8o Mrs. Clements came slowly back and sat d >wn again. “You can’t get away to-night, anyhow —there’s a snowstorm been brewin’ these three days, and it’s on us now, sure enough. Bee them ’ere flakes fine and thick. You may as well take your things up stairs to the west garret, and then come down and help me get supper. Then followed directions to the west garret, and when she was gone Mrs. Clements turned to the deacon, and said: “I never saw a girl before I'd trust up-stairs aloue. But such as her don’t steal. I can tell you that, if nothing else.” * Directly she came down iu a purple Erint dress and white apron; her hair rushed off from her face into a net, a narrow linen col'ar, fastened with a sailor’s loop of narrow ribbon. It seemed as if she had life, too, so handily she flitted in and out of the pantry, and theu down the cellar. Then, after the meal, she gathered the dishes in a neat, quiet way, that w T as perfect bliss lo old Mrs. Clement’s ears.

“Bhe’s determined to earn her bread, anyhow', and I like her turn, too." And the deacon had “taken a shine" to Mary Smith. One by one the days wore on; the hog-killing was over and done; long strings of sausages hung in fantastic rings, arranged by Mary’s deft fingers; sweet hams and shoulders were piled away in true housewifely manuer, and now Mary and Mrs. Ciements were sitting in the sunny dining-room, darning, patching, aud mending. • . “I don’t know' what I’m going to i do without you, Mary. I dread to see you pick up your clothes." Ablush of pleasure overspread Mary’s face. _ “1 am so glad you have been suited with my work. Indeed I have tried.” “It ain’t the work, altogether, though, goodness kuows, you’re the smartest gal I’ve seen this many a day. As I say, it ain’t the work, it’s you. Mary—me and the deacon —" Mary’s voice trembled at the kindness of the old lady’s voice, but she sewed rapidly on. “It’s so uncommon lonesome since the boy left the farm," she went on, “but it’s worse since he got married. It seems like deserting us altogether." “Have you a son? You never mentioned him." • No, George has £one his way, and we must go ours. Yes, he married one of those crack-headed boarding-school people, who ean’t tell the difference between a rolling-pin and a milk pan." But despite her scorn, Mrs. Clements dashed off the tears with her brown, fist.

“Is his wife pretty? I suppose you love her dearly?” “I don’t know anything about her,_ and never want to know. He’s left us for her, and us old folks will leave him for her, too. Mary, just turn them cakes around; seems as if they’re burning.” When Mary had turned the cakes, Mrs. Clements was leaning on the arm of her chair. “Mary, supposin’ you stop with us another mouth vet, anyhow. The deacon will make it all right.” "It isn’t the money I care for, Mrs. Clements. I only wish I might stay always. You don’t know how much I love you.” “Love us! do, you? Bless your heart If poor George had only picked you out, what a comfort it would be to us ail! But it can’t be helped now.” She sighed wearily, then glanced out of the window, looked a moment and then threw down her work. “Bless my soul, if there ain’t my son George coming up the lane! Deacon! deacon! George is coming!” With all her mother-love rushing to her heart she hurried out to meet him. Oh, the welcoming, the reproaches, the caresses, the determination to love him still, despite poor, innocent little Marion! Then, when the table bad been set in the next room by Mary’B deft fingers, and she hsd returned to her 44 west garret, ’’ Mrs. Clements opened her h* a-t.

“There’s no use talkin’, George, this fine, fancy lady o’ yours ’ll never suit me. Give me a smart girl like Mary Smith, and I’ll ask no more Come into supper now. Mary, Mary!” She raised her voice to call the girl, when a low voioe near supprised her. "Oh, you dressed up in honor of my

boy! ‘Well, I must confess I never knew you had such a handsome dress, and you look like a picture with your net off; and them short, bobbing curls! George, this is Mary Smith, ray-” George came through the door and glanced at the corner where the young woman stood. Theu, with a cry, sprang, with outstretched hands to meet the little figure that sprang into them. The deacon and Mrs. Clements now stood in speechless amazement. Then Marion, all blushes and tearful smiles, went over to the old pair and took them both by their bands. “I am George’s wife. I was so afraid you would never love me, so I came determined to win you if I could. Mother, father, may I be your daughter?” And a happier family, wbeu they had exhausted their powers of surprise, amazement and pride’in the beautiful .Marion, never gave thanks over a supper table.