Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 45, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 July 1875 — BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS. [ARTICLE]

BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS.

BY RUTH CHESTERFIELD.

John Mallory was returning from his day’s work, with his spade over his shoulder, when he saw a woman sitting close to the wall, weeping bitterly. John had a kind heart and was easily moved at the sight of distress, so he stopped and addressed the woman. “You seem to be in trouble” —that was what he said. The mourner lifted her face, and he saw that she was a very young woman, scarcely more than a girl, in fact. But this did not lessen his pity at all; possibly it increased it, for his , heart was human as well as kind.— “ Trouble ? All, yes; I have come such a long, long way, and am so fatigue—so much weary! I went to the people’s doors, but no one said anything only: ‘ Go ’way! we have no room for strangers. Goto the hotel, why do you not?’ “So I went to the hotel, but the landlord was worst than all the rest. Oh, how he frighten me, he was so fierce, so loud! He call me a tramp—a thief—because he found I had no money. No money, yes, that was it; and he bade me go about .any business; but I have no business, and so I came out into the woods to die alone.” “ Cheer up, then, if that is all,” said John, “ and come with me. My mother won’t drive you from her door, you may be sure.” And John spoke truly, for his mother’s heart was like his own. She only needed to know that the girl was a stranger and in distress to give her a cordial welcome. “ Take oft' your things, my dear,” said she, removing the girl’s shawl with her own hands, “ and sit here by the fire. How you shiver, poor child! You are chilled to the bone.” “You are so kind—so very kind!” said the visitor, taking the rocking-chair offered her; and then John saw that she was not only young but singularly beautiful, though thin and pale as if from recent illness. i “ You’re out of health. You’re not fit to be abroad,” said Mrs. Mallory. “ How your mother would feel to see you looking so!”

“Alas, I have no mother!” said the girl, and her tears began to flow afresh. “ I will tell you my story.” “ There, there, I’m sorry I said it—l’m such a blunderer! Never mind the story now, but after supper, when you are warm and comfortable, you shall tell us about yourself, that is, all that you wish to tell.” So, when the three had eaten their evening meal, and Mrs. Mallory had cleared away the tabic and taken out her knittingwork, the young girl told her story. She said that her name was Estelle LeRoy; that her father was a French refugee ; but that she herself was born in Canada some years after he had left his native country, he having married a Canadian. After the death of her mother he had come to Boston, hoping to be able to support himself and her by teaching his own language ; but just as he had found a situation which promised to be permanent he became very ill; in fact, the climate of this country had never agreed with him, and he was always mourning for “la belle France." He was sick a long time, and when he died he left her penniless. Of her relatives in France she knew nothing; and although since her father’s death she had written more than once to her mother’s friends in Canada no letters had ever been received in return. She believed she could And them, however, if she could get there, and that w r as now her aim. What she had suffered since she left Boston she said she could “never, never tell.”

“ It’s all over now, rpy dear,” said Mrs. Mallory, “so try to forget it, and just try to make yourself contented with us till you are better able to travel than you are now.” , For a whole week Estelle stayed with the Mallorys, gaining in health and beauty every day, and developing a careless light3 ess of spirit greatly in contrast to her first epression. That John was not insensible to her attractions may well be imagined, and what the consequences might have been I cannot his heart had not been already preoccupied. That being the case, there was no room there for the fair stranger, save in the way of friendship, and he showed his friendship by bringing Mary, his betrothed, to see her. Curious it was to see the two together —Mary, the staid New England girl, with her rosy cheeks, her calm, blue eyes and yellow hair; her plain dress, and steady Northern tongue; and Estelle, with her olive skin, her hair and eyes as dark as night, her fanciful, idiomatic speech, and her airy figure, which gave grace even to the worn garments which clothed it. It was the brown thrush and the canaiy bird

sitting side by side on an apple-tree bough. ~ — Still, they got on well together, these two, and kissed each other when they parted. But when Estelle parted from Mrs. Mallory she hung on her neck as it it had been her own dear mother she was leaving. John saw her safely on her journey, and when he took her hand to say farewell he left in it a small pinse containing a sum sufficient for her expenses. “ I shall not forget you, ever—ever —no, not till my dying day does come,” said Estelle, with tears in her eyes. “The good God bless you for your kindness to the poor stranger—you, and your mothe and the pretty Marie.” In a few weeks the Mallorys received a letter from Estelle, saying that she had reached her journey’s end in safety and was among friends. It was the only letter they ever received from her In course of time John and Mary were* married, and settled down on the Mallory farm, and there for the present we will leave them. One day a handsome traveling carriage drew up before the door of a hotel in a quiet New England village. It was an event in the history of that hotel, for never had such an establishment been seen there before. Out came the two hostlers, out came the stable-boys, out came the barkeeper, and, lastly, out came the landlord himself. A gentleman alighted from the carriage and was followed by a beautiful and rich-ly-dressed lady. Bobbing his bare head and waving aside his subordinates the obsequious landlord led the way to the parlofjHook the orders of his distinguished guests and communicated them to his servants. Then there was an opening and shutting of doors, a ringing of bells, a. rushing to and fro —in short, a tumult as if the Queen had come. When the travelers were left to themselves the lady broke into a merry laugh. “Oh, it is too droll, Sir Edward; it is the same landlord who, fifteen years ago, bade me begone for a thief and a tramp.” “ The villain! I should like to lay my cane over liis back,” said Sir Edward. “It isn’t worthwhile—such an insignificant back,” said the lady; “ only don’t take on airs, thinking all this attention is for us. It is only for our carriage and horses, and our clothes.” By and by, the landlord having made some further errand to the parlor, the lady, who was sitting by the window, remarked :

“You have a pleasant little village here.” “As pleasant and thriving a village as any in the county,” answered the delighted landlord. “Do you know if there is a family by the name of Mallory living here?” asked she. “There’s a farmer by that name, ma’am. Mr. John Mallory—if it’s him you mean.” “The same, no doubt. He’s living, then—and his mother?” “ She died some six years ago, ma’am, and it’s well, perhaps, considering the misfortune that’s come to the family.” “Misfortune?” “ Then you don’t know',” said the landlord, delighted to have some intelligence to communicate, but marveling much that this great lady could feel any interest in foe Mallory family. “ Well, 'it’s a great misfortune, and the worst of it is* it was all his own fault. If people will be so foolish, they must take the consequences. There Wasn’t a more prosperous man in town than John Mallory, and, his property being mostly in real estate, there was no reason why he shouldn’t keep it always, and his children after him, for real estate doesn’t take to itself wings and fly away as other riches do. But what does John do but sign a note for a friend, and now he’s lost everything.” “ Everything?” “ Everything—just turned himself and family out of house and home. That is to say, they’ll have to go; there’s no help for it.” “ He’s at the old place now, is he ?” “He is, ma’am; but he won’t be long; foe sale takes place to-day.” “ Thanks,” said the lady; and then, as if to herself, “ Poor John! so like him.”

“Youknow him?” queried the landlord. “ He showed me great kindness once, fifteen years ago. I was here, also, at that time. You do not remember it?” “It is very strange, but really, ma’am, it has escaped my recollection.” “ Quite likely. It was before my marriage.” And with this the landlord was forced to be satined. The sale was over, and John Mallory was wandering from room to room, taking a mute farewell of the house which he could no longer call his ow'n, when his little daughter came to say that a lady was in the parlor who had asked for him. “Very well,” said he, supposing it to be some neighbor who wished to see him on a trifling matter of business; but when he opened the door a stranger stood before him. She greeted him courteously, and then said, without any circumlocution: “1 am the purchaser of your farm, and I have brought the deed, that you may see if it is all right.” , * He took it listlessly enough,* but as he glanced over it his countenance changed. “ I don’t understand,” said he; and no wonder, for the deed was made out in ,his own name. f “ So you, too, have forgotten me, as well as the big landlord up there; but giaybe you will remember that," and she held out a queer little purse of netted silk. John Mallory fixed his startled gaze upon her face, and something in the lustrous eyes, the smiling mouth, touched a long-silent chord of memory. She saw it, and, answering his look, said: “ Yes, I am Estelle Leßoy, and the same Providence which sent you to me in my despair has sent me to you in your time of sorrow. No thanks, John Mallory. I do no more than requite your kindness to me, and hardly that ; so keep the deed, I pray you. But the little purse, with that I will never part.” She then told him that within two or three yean after returning to Canada she had married an Englishman of rank, and had been in Europe most of the time since; but that, being How on a tour through “ the States,” they had come out

of their way to visitthose who had befriended her in her need. *•* The dear mother is gone, I hear; but the pretty Marie, she is well?” “My wife is well, and will come herself and thank you for your great goodness.” “ Not to-night; not to-night; but to-mor-row Sir Edward will come with me, and we will talk it all over—the past and the present. He knows it all, ana he will say the thanks are due from ourselves, not you.” And in this she proved a true prophet.— Youth's Companion.